"You're gorgeous," Warner, his black mistress, assured him. She was tal and skinny, with huge black nipples on generous breasts, and cropped black hair.
She straddled him, riding his erect penis as if she were taking an afternoon trot on a horse.
"You're gorgeous," she repeated, as the action heated up.
Nobody had ever told Mickey Stol i he was gorgeous before. Only Warner, who'd been his mistress for eighteen months. She was a cop. One day she'd pul ed him over for a traffic ticket, and the rest was the stuff wet dreams are made of.
The thing he liked about Warner was her uniqueness. The first time they'd slept together she'd had no idea who he was or what he did. It simply didn't matter to her.
Mickey felt the moment of truth was going to be upon him at any given moment. He let out a long, strangulated sigh.
Warner contracted the muscles that real y mattered and gave him the ride of his life.
He felt the come from the tip of his toes to the back of his head--which he thought might explode one of these days if Warner kept doing what she obviously loved to do. With him. Only him. Mickey Stol i was the only man in Warner Franklin's sex life. She had told him so, many times, and he believed her.
"Was that a trip to heaven or what?" Warner demanded, climbing off. "You get better every time, Mickey. You're the greatest lover in the world."
Nobody had ever told Mickey Stol i he was the greatest lover in the world before. Only Warner--she knew how to make him feel like he could climb the Empire State Building from the outside and jump off without breaking a bone.
Warner Franklin was thirty-five years old and not particularly pretty. She lived alone in a smal West Hol ywood apartment with a skinny mongrel dog, and much to Mickey's relief she had no aspirations to be an actress.
She didn't want his money. She didn't want his favors.*
She'd turned down his offer of a Wilshire condo and a white Mercedes. And the only gifts she'd accepted were a giant-screen color television and a video recorder. She'd taken those presents only because she was partial to "Hil Street Blues" repeats and "Hunter." "Gotta do something when I'm not working and I'm not with you," she'd explained. . He thought he might love her. But the dreaded thought lurking at the back of his mind was so scary that he'd never taken it out to inspect.
"Abby's having one of her dinner parties tonight," he said, stifling a satisfied yawn.
"I know how you l000ve them," Warner drawled, rol ing her eyes. "Don't worry, honey--you're always the smartest man in any room."
By the time Mickey Stol i left Warner Franklin's apartment he was walking ten feet tal . He was the most gorgeous, best lover, smartest man in the whole fucking world!
Screw you, Abby.
You never told me shit.
Lucky was fascinated by watching Abe eat. He picked at his food like a ravenous monkey, rarely using a knife or fork if his fingers could do the job. For a man of eighty-eight his appetite was quite extraordinary.
Inga did not eat. She did not sit. But she was around enough to eavesdrop on exactly what was said.
Lucky was curious to know if Inga and Abe discussed things later. In fact, what exactly was their relationship now?
Failed movie star and former studio head. Was there a lot to talk about?
During her research on Abe, Lucky had come across quite a few photos of Inga. There were many studio shots, and a few casual photographs of Abe and Inga together.
Twenty-five years ago, when Abe was a mere sixty-three and Inga twenty-something, she'd been a ravishing beauty.
Luminous skin, wide gray eyes, a lithe body, and a bewitching smile.
What happens to people? Lucky wondered. How come some, like Gino and Abe, are born survivors. And others, like Inga, wither away into a miserable shel ?
It's just the way the crap shoot goes, she thought. She'd told Abe everything she knew up-to-date. He'd been disappointed. He wanted more. So did she. A few petty scams were not worth getting heated over. So Mickey charged the studio for his personal supply of Cristal. Big deal. And Eddie Kane was probably a cocaine freak. So what?
Mickey pul ing a phony script scam with the agent Lionel Fricke--that was the only information worth getting excited about.
How many times had Mickey pul ed that particular stunt?
She'd have to look into it.
"Enjoyin' yourself, girlie?" Abe asked, cocking his head on one side. "You like the movie business?"
"I think I'm going to love it," she replied honestly. "When I'm in control."
Abe liked a woman who knew what she wanted.
Chapter 23
There was not much Cooper Turner didn't know about women. He'd had the best, he'd had the worst, and anything in between he could get his hands on.
Growing up in Ardmore, a smal town outside Philadelphia, Cooper had started experimenting with girls when he was thirteen. Not for Cooper the paper cutouts and other girlie magazines. Oh, no--one sniff of snatch and it became his life's pursuit. Girls, girls, girls.
"You should have been a gynecologist," his older sister joked when he was nineteen. "At least get paid for what you do."
If he hadn't become an actor he would have made a great male hooker--the kind that services only the female sex.
He moved to New York when he was twenty, lived in the Vil age and hung out at the Actors Studio. His contemporaries got themselves jobs waiting tables and pumping gas while preparing for the big break.
Cooper never had to do any of that. There was always a hot meal and a warm bed begging for his attention. Not to mention a woman.
When he final y got out to Hol ywood he met a beautiful young screen actress his first week in town. Within days he became her live-in lover. The relationship led to his picture in the papers, and his picture led him to a female agent who secured him the second lead in a smal -budget teen film.
At the age of twenty-four, Cooper Turner became a heartthrob. Over the years his career just got better and better, culminating in an Oscar nomination when he was thirty-two.
He didn't win. It soured him. He stopped doing publicity and shied away from the press. The films he decided to appear in wore few and far between.
The less Cooper made himself available, the more he was wanted. He tried to lead a private life. It was impossible.
Women came and went. Some stayed around almost long enough to drag a commitment out of him. He would have liked children, but the price of being with one woman wasn't worth it.
And then he met Venus Maria and things changed. With Venus Maria anything was possible. She was young and incredibly sexy. She had knowing eyes and a man-eating mouth. She was sharp and street smart. She had a body made to tango and the mind of an accountant. She was sensual, startling, and, above al , vital y alive.
One drawback.
Contrary to popular belief and the headlines in the supermarket tabloids, he was not fucking her and she was not fucking him. Not even the famous blow-job story was true, although he'd heard it from various sources--including Mickey Stol i, who'd laughed, punched him slyly in the ribs, and said, "I like to see my stars getting along. Makes for a happy set."
What Venus Maria was doing was fucking one of Cooper Turner's best friends. A married man. A very married man.
And Cooper found himself in the ridiculous position of being the beard.
Cooper Turner!
The beard!
What a laugh!
He looked at himself in the mirror and shook his head. He was dressed for the Stol i dinner party in a dark blue Armani suit, a white shirt, and a loosely knotted silk tie. The wel -cut suit got 'em every time. Women loved a man they thought they could rumple. Cooper ran a hand through his brownish hair. There were traces of gray along the sides, but nothing a talented hairdresser couldn't disguise. His eyes remained an intense blue. His skin was lightly sunkissed.
Cooper knew he looked good. He wasn't twenty-five, but he was stil a kil er.
Venus Maria had no idea what she
was missing.
Chapter 24
Steven Berkeley took it upon himself to visit Deena Swanson. He didn't tel Jerry. He didn't even confide in Mary Lou. He phoned Deena and told her they had to meet.
She started to object, changed her mind, and asked him to be at her house at ten o'clock the next morning.
He was there.
She greeted him in a lime-green track suit, a matching headband holding back her pale red hair, running shoes on her feet. She looked thin and attractive and not at al athletic.
She proffered a delicate hand.
He shook it.
Limp handshake. No character.
"I found our last meeting very disturbing," he informed her, getting right down to business.
She raised a thinly penciled eyebrow. "Why?" "We're talking about murder."
"Survival, Mr. Berkeley."
"Murder, Mrs. Swanson."
She clasped her hands together and lowered her eyes.
"You defend people al the time. What's the difference if you get a little warning up front?"
Her attitude was bizarre. The woman was strange. "Are you kidding me?"
"Would it make you happy to know that I didn't mean it?"
"Did you?" he persisted.
She looked up at him. Dead blue eyes in a pale face. "I'm considering writing a book, Mr. Berkeley. I needed a genuine reaction. I'm sorry if it disturbed you."
"So you're not planning to kil someone?"
A low throaty laugh. "Do I seem like the kind of woman who would plan such a thing?"
"How about the mil ion bucks you deposited in our company account?"
"Now that the game is over, I'l expect it back. Natural y I'l pay a handsome fee for your time and trouble."
Steven was angry. "Your game is not funny, Mrs. Swanson. I don't appreciate being used for research." He got up to leave.
She watched him go. A lawyer with principles, quite unusual. No wonder he was so good.
She waited a few minutes then picked up the phone.
"Jerry?"
"Who else?"
How sensible of Jerry Myerson to have a direct line. "I said what you told me to."
"Did he believe you?"
"I think so."
"Sorry about this, Mrs. Swanson. The trouble with Steven is that he has a. Conscience."
"And you don't?"
"I abide by a rule I never break."
"And that is?"
"The client always comes first."
"I'm delighted to hear it." She paused for a moment, and then added casual y, "Oh, and by the way, if anything was to happen . . ."
"Steven wil defend you."
"Can I count on that . . . Jerry?"
"Absolutely."
Jerry Myerson replaced the receiver of his private line and considered what he'd just done. He'd jol ied along an eccentric woman and saved the firm a mil ion bucks. Not bad for a morning's work.
Later that night Steven regaled Mary Lou with the story of his visit to Deena Swanson.
Mary Lou was engrossed in watching a television movie starring Ted Danson. She was eating a Haagen-Dazs ice-cream bar. She was contented and pregnant and getting larger every week.
"One of these days you'l learn to listen to me, Steven Berkeley," she scolded. "I told you that woman was putting you on al along. And you've been worrying about it. What a stiff!"
He felt relieved, and yet .. .
"Yeah," he said, not ful y convinced.
"Did you tel Jerry?"
"I sure did."
"And what was his comment?"
"He hated to lose a mil ion big ones. You know Jerry."'
Mary Lou licked her ice-cream bar. "Sure, who doesn't know Jerry. He must have been very disappointed."
Steven walked to the bedroom door. "I'm hungry," he said, lingering, hoping she'd offer to fix him something to eat.
"That's a good sign," she replied, not getting the hint.
He came right out with it. "Make me a sandwich?" "Honey,"
she said patiently. "We ate dinner two hours ago. You had steak and fries. You had cake. You had ice cream. I'l make you a sandwich when I've had the baby!"
"I don't think I can wait that long."
She grinned. "Try, Steven. Try."
"I have to fly out to the Coast for a few days." Martin Swanson walked into the bedroom to make the
announcement. Deena stared at her husband. Mr.
Handsome if you were partial to weak chins and watery eyes. Mr. New York if you could stomach the self-promoting charm. Mr. unfaithful, lying, cheating son of a bitch. But he was her son of a bitch, and she loved him. She had no intention of losing him.
Deena smiled. She had very nice, even teeth, al her own--
no Hol ywood movie-star caps for Deena. "Perhaps I'l come with you," she suggested.
"Too hectic," Martin replied, cool and control ed. "I've got meetings on that studio takeover deal I told you about."
Oh, yes, the studio deal. The studio Martin wished to control so he could make movies starring his little tramp.
Martin didn't think she knew. It was better this way. Keep him in a fog. Confuse him with kindness. "When wil you go?" she asked.
"Thought I'd fly out tomorrow."
"Are you sure you don't want me to come?" "I'l manage."
Oh, yes, he'd manage al right, with a hard cock and The Bitch waiting for him with her legs spread.
"You're going to throw half the hostesses in New York into a panic. There's the opera tomorrow night. A lunch for the mayor on Thursday. Gloria's party. Diana's dinner."
Martin could care less. "You'l go without me. They love you."
They love you better, Deena thought. How many of them have you slept with? Only the famous ones, or do money and position count too?
"I suppose so. If I feel like it."
He walked over and kised her. More a peck, real y, an unaffectionate peck on the cheek to say goodbye. "I'l be leaving early in the morning."
Deena stood up and with one fluid movement unzipped her dress. Underneath she wore a black lace garter belt, silk stockings, and a half bra.
Martin took a step back.
Deena could remember their early days together. Once upon a time she'd always been able to excite him.
"You won't be here on Sunday," she said pointedly, walking slowly toward him.
Chapter 25
The dinner-table conversation was going nicely. Abigaile glanced around at her guests. They al seemed to be enjoying themselves. The black politician was in deep conversation with the famous feminist. The hot young director had zeroed in on Venus Maria, while his girlfriend enjoyed the attention of Cooper Turner. Ida White chatted in her stoned way to the rock star and his exotic-looking wife, while Zeppo and Mickey were head to head.
Abigaile breathed deeply. She could relax.
"CUNT!"
The forbidden word, said loudly and with great venom, shocked the entire table into silence.
"What did you cal me, you black prick?" screamed the feminist, clearly in a fury.
"I cal ed you a cunt, and that's what you are," the black politician yel ed back.
It was quite obvious that neither of them gave a damn about the rest of the guests, let alone their host and hostess.
Witnessing a calamity about to happen, and a speechless Mickey sitting there with his mouth hanging open, Abigaile leaped to her feet. "Now, now," she said, in what she hoped was a conciliatory tone, "let's quiet our tempers down."
"Fuck you!" from the feminist, shoving her chair away from the table. She had alabaster skin, sixties straight hair, and a direct gaze. She was fifty, but looked ten years younger.
"I've had it with this phony, ful -of-shit, skirt-chasing bum!"
Mickey forced himself into action. "Mona," he said, taking the feminist's arm, "if you've got a problem here, let's go in the other room and discuss it." Mona Sykes withered him with a look. "A problem, Mickey," she said sarcastical y,
"why
would I have a problem? I love being cal ed a cunt by this womanizing piece of excrement." She pointed accusingly at the black politician, whose name was Andrew J. Burnley. Andrew J. did not take her latest remark wel . He too rose to his feet. He was six feet three, with a semi-Afro hairstyle, a round face, protruding eyes, and a honeyed voice. He was fifty-two years old and had a wife and five children who resided in Chicago and never came with him on his frequent trips to L. A. "You girls are al the same, baby. If you're not gettin' fucked you're lookin' to fuck everyone around you."
That did it. Mona picked up a ful glass of red wine and hurled it across the table at him, glass and al . The glass fel to the Italian limestone floor and shattered. Unfortunately most of the wine landed on Ida White, sitting there pleasantly stoned, minding her own business as she waited to be taken home.
Now it was Zeppo's turn to jump to his feet. "Can't you people behave like human beings?" he snapped, waving his short arms in the air. He directed his scolding at Andrew J., who immediately took it as some sort of hidden racial slur and retaliated accordingly. "I don' need this crap," he shouted, stalking toward the door.
"Neither do I," snarled an angry Mona, fol owing him.
And before anyone could say another word they were both out the door.
Abigaile rose to the occasion magnificently. "Civilians!"
she sniffed. "Never did like 'em!"
Venus Maria felt as if she'd been watching a particularly fast tennis match. And it was certainly more entertaining than the rest of the evening so far, although the young director on her left was kind of cute, and she'd been leaning toward him as opposed to her host, Mickey Stol i, who bored her into cross-eyedom. "What was that al about?"
the rock star asked quizzical y, as Firel a and Consuela mopped Ida White down.
"Peasants!" snapped Zeppo. "Hol ywood used On a place where people had manners and knew how to entertain."
Abigaile wasn't going to take that kind of typical Zeppo White remark without a fight. The man was the most appal ing snob. "My grandfather told me you started your career sel ing fish from a cart in Brooklyn," she said sweetly. "Is that true? I find it a most fascinating story, Zeppo. Do tel us al about it. I'm sure we'd love to hear."