Lady Boss (1990)

  She was furious. This intrusion was too much. Emilio was out.

  Once, a long time ago, another of her brothers had come to her bed in the middle of the night, drunk and amorous.

  She'd kicked him in the bal s so hard he'd walked with a limp for several days. A week later she'd fled the family home with Ron, her savior. Without Ron she'd never have had the courage to hitch across the country al the way to Hol ywood. She owed Ron a lot. But she didn't owe him half her money.

  With Emilio out of the room, she walked over to the door, slammed and locked it. Burning with anger, she decided five weeks was long enough. Emilio had to go, no more putting up with his shit.

  The phone rang. She snatched it up quickly. Emilio had developed a habit of picking up the phone before either she or her housekeeper could get to it, and chatting to her friends. She'd overheard him speaking to her agent one day. "Hi, I'm Emilio, Venus's brother." Pause, while her agent probably said something polite. Then Emilio again.

  "Yeah, I'm goodlookin'. Sure, I'm talented. Hey man, I got more talent than she got in her--"

  more talent than she got in her--"

  She'd removed the phone from his big fat fist. "Don't you dare pick up my cal s!"

  It had not deterred him.

  "Who's this?" she asked in her best disguised voice.

  "Hi, babe. It's Johnny. What's with the funny accent?"

  Ha! He could talk!

  Why did she have to be put in this position? Johnny Romano was a pest. He seemed incapable of accepting the fact that she had no desire to go out with him. "Johnny, I'l have to cal you back, I'm on the other line," she lied.

  "Don't give me that, babe. Hang up your other cal . It's me.

  In person."

  She tried to sound reverent. "I'm talking to Michael Jackson."

  A touch of respect. "Michael, huh? How is the home boy?"

  "I'l find out and get back to you."

  "When?"

  "Soon."

  "How soon?"

  "Sooner than you think."

  "Hey, babe. You an' I--we gotta take this further."

  "We wil ."

  "When?", "Goodbye, Johnny."

  She knew it destroyed him that she didn't jump. And why should she? Johnny Romano was not for her. He was a stud factory, nailing everything that breathed.

  She wished he'd get the message and leave her alone.

  There were too many guys like him in Hol ywood--Johnny was just a bigger star than most.

  It was time to get ready for the Stol is' dinner party. After applying an alabaster-white makeup, with darkened eyes and bright red lips, she pinned her platinum hair on top of her head and marched into her walk-in closet to survey the possibilities. Abigaile Stol i's secretary had stated ties for the men and pretty for the women. What the fuck did that mean?

  Venus Maria selected a black suit with a thin pinstripe, cut masculine style. Under it she chose a matching vest which only just covered her breasts. On her legs she wore white stockings, and on her feet granny-style lace-up black boots.

  She chose her jewelry careful y, deciding on silver hoop earrings, accompanied. By three smal diamond studs embedded in each ear, and eight thin silver-andgold bangles on each wrist. The Venus Maria look was complete.

  A. Star was ready to face the world.

  Chapter 22

  The driveway leading to Abe Panther's house was shrouded in darkness. Talk about creepy! Lucky wasn't frightened of the dark, but surely the old guy could afford a few lights?

  She'd decided against bringing Boogie; he'd only have to sit outside in the Car al night.

  From the studio she'd driven straight back to her rented house, bypassing Sheila Hervey's depressing apartment where Boogie had instal ed an answering machine with a remote so if anyone from the studio cal ed her--such as Olive or Harry Browning--she would know about it.

  Once at the house she'd thrown off the hated wig, dumped the heavy glasses, stripped off the disgusting clothes, and dived into the pool for a welcome and invigorating swim.

  She swam twenty lengths before quitting, and then she hurried to get ready for an evening with good old Abe.

  There wasn't even time to cal Gino.

  Inga answered the door of Abe's Mil er Drive house. Big-boned Trip with her cropped hair and sour expression.

  "Hel o," . Lucky said pleasantly.

  Inga merely gave a curt nod and stomped off, obviously expecting Lucky to fol ow, which she did. Abe was in the dining room sitting at one end of an elaborate oak table.

  "You're late," he snapped impatiently, indicating that she should occupy the chair next to him.

  "I wasn't aware we were running on a strict timetable,"

  Lucky remarked.

  Gnarled fingers beat out a rhythm on the table. "I always eat at six o'clock."

  She glanced at her watch. "It's only twelve past." "That means I've been sitting here for twelve minutes," he said crossly.

  "C'mon, Abe, lighten up." Lucky attempted to put him in a better mood. "Eating dinner a few minutes late is hardly a disaster. And frankly, I wouldn't mind being offered a drink."

  "What do you drink, girlie?"

  "Jack Daniel's. What do you drink?" she replied, chal enging him.

  He admired her attitude. "Whatever I goddamn feel like."

  "And what do you feel like tonight?"

  "I'l join you. Two Jack Daniel's, on the rocks. Pronto!

  Pronto!" He issued these instructions to an uptight Inga, who stormed off without saying a word. "Used to have a houseful of servants," Abe offered. "Hated it! Couldn't take a crap without somebody smel in' it."

  Lucky laughed. It felt good to laugh. She realized she'd been taking the whole Panther Studios deal too seriously. It was time to lie back and relax. Not too much, just enough to let it al go for a night.

  "Y'know, my father, Gino, is in town. I'd love to bring him up here one day," she said, thinking to herself how wel the two old men would get along.

  "Why?" Abe snapped. "He and I acquainted or somethin'?"

  "Maybe. He built one of the first hotels in Las Vegas, the Mirage."

  "I remember the Mirage," Abe said gruffly. "Lost ten thousand big ones at the crap tables. That was way back when ten thousand meant somethin'. Today you can't buy nothin' for ten thousand bucks."

  "You wouldn't want to buy anything anyway, you never leave the house."

  "Why should I?" he demanded excitedly. "You think I'm crazy? I know al about what goes on out on the streets today. You think I want t'get mugged an' shot at? No thank you, girlie. No thank you very much."

  Inga appeared, carrying the drinks. She placed them on the table with a disapproving thump.

  Abe cackled. "She don't like me to drink," he said, taking a hearty swig. "Thinks I'm too old. Thinks the old ticktock can't take it. Ain't that right, Inga?"

  "You do whatever pleases you," Inga replied dourly. "I can't stop you."

  "Don't even try," he warned, shaking a bony finger in her direction.

  "You're only as old as you feel," Lucky said cheerful y.

  "That's what my father says. He's decided to stick at forty-five--he's actual y seventy-nine, you'd never believe it. The man is amazing. *

  "Seventy-nine's not old," Abe scoffed. "I was stil runnin' the studio in my seventies." Realizing Inga had remained standing beside him, he waved her away with his birdlike arms. "Shoo! Shoo! Go get the food. I'm a hungry old dinosaur, an' I want to eat now Hurry, woman."

  Once more Inga departed to do his bidding.

  "Uh . . . how does she feel about our deal?" Lucky asked curiously.

  Abe shrugged. "What do I care?"

  "You must care," Lucky insisted. "Inga's been with you a long time. She looks after you. Surely you depend on her? I don't see anyone else around taking care of your needs."

  "I employ two gardeners, a pool man who comes in twice a week, an' two maids," Abe said grandly.

  "Inga sits on her big Swedish bottom al day doin' not
hin'.

  She should kiss my ass to have such a life." Lucky got to the point. "I'm sure. But can you trust her? I mean we don't want her blowing my cover. She's not exactly friendly toward me, you know." Abe began to laugh. "Inga does what's good for her," he cackled. "She's a smart one. She's thought it out, an' she knows it's better for her if I sel the studio before I die, that way she gets a stash of cash. If I don't sel the studio, she's going to have a fight on her hands with my granddaughters. Those two'l tie her up in court forever."

  "Why?"

  "Because they're greedy. It runs in the family. They'l want everything I've got. No sharing."

  "But they'l stil inherit al your money."

  He cocked his head on one side--a canny old man with a plan. "Maybe. Maybe not. I could move to Bora Bora an'

  give it al away to a cats' home before I go."

  "Then you'd real y have a fight on your hands." "Not me, girlie. I'l be ten foot under. I could care less." He tapped his gnarled fingers on the table. "Now, let's get down to business. I want to hear everything you've got. Every goddamn detail."

  Mickey Stol i prepared to leave the studio early. "If my wife cal s, tel her I'm in an important meeting and cannot be disturbed," he instructed Olive. "Whatever you do, don't let her know I've left."

  "Yes, Mr. Stol i."

  Mickey was not in a good mood, and he was wise enough to realize he had to do something about it before going home to Abigaile's perfect little dinner party. Christ! How he hated her parties. Phony conversations. Too much rich food. And everyone as secretly bored as he was.

  Why did she have to do it to him? Just so she could see her name in George Christy's column? Big deal. He worked like a slave at the studio al week. Wouldn't it be nice to come home to much needed rest and relaxation?

  Tonight Cooper Turner would corner him about the movie.

  Venus Maria would do the same. They both wanted to complain about something or other.

  How did he know?

  Movie stars. They were al the same. Their part was never big enough. Their percentage didn't satisfy. And their close-ups were too far and few between.

  Zeppo White would also want to talk business. Fucking social-climbing ex-agent snob. Zeppo thought he was running Orpheus Studios. He couldn't run an errand! Mickey running Orpheus Studios. He couldn't run an errand! Mickey missed the days when Howard Solomon was in charge.

  Howard was a goer, a little wacked out maybe, especial y when he had the coke pioblem, but a real studio man.

  Howard knew what it was al about. And it was about making money; not hosting lousy dinner parties.

  Just as he was about to leave the building, Eddie Kane grabbed him.

  "Gotta talk to you, Mickey," Eddie said urgently, hanging on to his arm. "It's important."

  "Not now," Mickey replied, freeing himself with a quick shake. He didn't like being touched unless he instigated it.

  "When?" Eddie demanded. He was a sandy-haired attractive man in his early forties, with a Don Johnson stubble, transparent blue eyes, and a penchant for crumpled sports clothes. A former child star, he'd once been famous for an innocence that had now settled into a kind of bemused adulthood.

  Eddie and Mickey went way back--almost twenty-five years.

  For a while Mickey had been his agent, nailing his once hot career right into the ground. When Eddie had given up acting--or rather when acting had given up him--Mickey had found him a job at his agency. Too mundane for Eddie--

  after a while he got bored and took off for Hawaii, where he became a production manager on a private eye television series. The drugs were plentiful and good, but eventual y they got him into trouble, and once again he was on the move. Back in L. A. Mickey helped him out. He used a little influence and fixed Eddie up with a job at Panther.

  As Mickey rose to power, he took Eddie along with him.

  Mickey knew the wisdom of surrounding himself with grateful people.

  Now Eddie Kane had plenty of clout; a gorgeous wife; a simple little 2-mil ion-dol ar Malibu beach house; and an out-of-control cocaine habit.

  "Speak to Olive. She'l set it up," Mickey said, already on his way.

  "Tomorrow?" Eddie asked anxiously. " 'Cause we gotta talk, man. This is serious shit."

  "Check with Olive."

  Mickey ducked out of the building and hurried to his car. He could, if he so desired, have a limousine and a chauffeur on twenty-four-hour cal . But there were occasions for formality and times for privacy. Today he needed privacy. What he didn't need was Eddie Kane driving him crazy. Eddie was an asset who at any moment could turn into a major liability.

  Drug users were bad news. Mickey had given quite a lot of thought to cutting him loose.

  A dream. Eddie knew too much.

  Mickey made a mental note to cal Leslie, Eddie's wife, and talk to her about getting her husband into drug rehab. Lately he looked stoned al the time, and that wasn't good for business.

  Behind the wheel of his Porsche, Mickey felt in complete control. He had his stereo equipment, a C. D. player, a telephone, and emergency supplies in the trunk should he ever get caught in an earthquake. Mickey thought about earthquakes quite a lot. He fantasied al sorts of scenarios.

  His favorite was the one where Abigaile was shopping at Magnin or Saks, buying just another little five-thousand-dol ar evening purse, when the big one hit, and poor Abby was buried beneath a mountain of designer goods and suffocated by a rare two-hundred-thousand-dol ar sable coat. Fortunately, in his fantasy the earthquake bypassed the studio and both his houses. Tabitha was safe, and so were his cars. Only Abby got it.

  Natural y he arranged a magnificent funeral. Abe Panther would have attended, but the shock of the earthquake was too much for him, and the feisty son of a bitch final y expired.

  At last Mickey Stol i was a free man. And Panther Studios was legal y his. When Primrose and Ben Harrison arrived in L. A. to claim their share, a freeway overpass col apsed on their limo and crushed them out of his life.

  What a fantasy! The best!

  Mickey waved to the studio guard as he shot out of the gates.

  The man saluted him. They al loved him at the studio--he was their king, their ruler. He was Mickey Stol i, and they al wanted to be him.

  Everything was in place--the china, the glassware, the finest linens and silver.

  Clad in a sweeping silk robe, Abigaile prowled around her pristine mansion checking details.

  An army of servants were al present. Her perma, nent staff-

  -Jeffries, her English butler, and Mrs. Jeffries, his plump wife, who acted as housekeeper; Jacko, a young Australian who cleaned their cars and did driving duties for Tabitha--

  tonight he would be assisting Jeffries; and Consuela and Firel a, her two Spanish maids.

  Hired for the evening were three valet parkers, two bartenders, a cook with two assistants, and a special dessert chef.

  The total was a staff of fourteen to look after twelve guests.

  Abigaile liked to do things right. She was Hol ywood royalty, after al . She was Abe Panther's granddaughter, and people expected a certain level of style. Her own mother, long dead--kil ed along with her father in a boating accident--had been a fine hostess who entertained lavishly.

  When Abigaile and Primrose were children they'd been al owed to peek in at some of the extravagant parties.

  Grandfather Abe was always present, surrounded by the great movie stars of the time, often with a dazzling beauty on each arm.

  Abigaile had always been in awe of her grandfather. It wasn't until after his stroke that she'd been able to deal with him at al . Now she visited him as little as possible and secretly wished he would fade quietly away so she could take center stage.

  She loathed Inga, and Inga loathed her. They barely spoke when Abigaile arrived at the house with Abe's grandchild, Tabitha, a precocious thirteen. It was difficult for Abigaile to persuade Tabitha to accompany her, but a touch of bribery usual y did it, for she refused to go alo
ne.

  "Why do I have to come every time?" Tabitha whined.

  "Because one of these days- you're going to be a very rich little girl indeed. And you'd better remember where the money is coming from."

  "Daddy's got money, I'l take his."

  Daddy couldn't take a piss in the moonlight if it wasn't for your great-grandfather, Abigaile wanted to say--but she always stopped herself just in time.

  "Is everything to your satisfaction, Mrs. Stol i?"

  Jeffries was dogging her footsteps, the old fool. The fact that he was English was a plus. He was also unutterably nosy, and so was his wife. Abigaile suspected that if the opportunity ever arose they would sel her secrets to the gossip rags without so much as a twinge of regret.

  Not that they knew any of her secrets.

  Not that she had any.

  Wel . . . maybe a few .. .

  "No, Jeffries," she said tartly, spying a dead branch on an elaborate orchid arrangement. She plucked at the offending twig, pul ing it out and scattering earth on the expensive Chinese rug. "What exactly is this?" she asked accusingly.

  Jeffries had been waiting for this moment. "If you do recal , Mrs. Stol i, you gave the entire staff instructions we were never to touch the house plants or floral arrangements."

  "Why would I do that?" she asked testily.

  A smal moment of triumph. "Because, Mrs. Stol i, you said that only the plant man was to tend them." Aggravation. "I did?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Stol i."

  "And where is the plant man?"

  "He only comes on Fridays."

  God! Servants! Especial y English ones. "Thank you, Jeffries. In the meantime, have someone clean up the mess before Mr. Stol i gets home."

  When he gets home, she added silently. For Mickey had this bad habit of always being late for his own dinner parties.

  It drove Abigaile crazy.

  Mickey Stol i wore his socks, pale gray Italian silk. And nothing else. He had a thing about his feet--he thought they were ugly and never al owed anyone to see them.

  Surprisingly enough, even though he was devoid of hair on his head, his body was covered with tufts of black hair. A patch here, a patch there--strange little outbreaks of hairiness.