Lady Boss (1990)

  "Ah, but that's the problem," Lucky said. "If that's what's going on--I don't want to film it. I don't like anything you represent. So, Mr. Lombardo, I guess we are just going to have to part company." Frankie scratched his beard. "Are you tel ing us to get out?"

  "Wow!" Lucky said. "You're beginning to understand me.

  This is fun."

  "You fucking bitch," Arnie said, final y getting the message.

  "You can't treat us like shit. We're two of the biggest producers in Hol ywood. An' what's more, we have a deal with Panther."

  "You know something, Mr. Blackwood, Mr. Lombardo? I don't give a rat's ass."

  And so ended Lucky's first day on the job. How to make friends and influence people it wasn't. But it was satisfying.

  And her next project was to put together a team of people who could work together and create the kind of movies she wished to make.

  Lucky Santangelo was on a rol .

  Chapter 74

  Swanson fever hit like a hurricane--fast, furious, and al -

  encompassing. It seemed every newspaper and television program in America wanted in on this story. Adam Bobo Grant led the pack. He took everything Deena said and built it into front-page news.

  I'LL NEVER DIVORCE HIM!, screamed the headlines.

  I LOVE MY HUSBAND!

  Dennis Wal a may have started it, but Adam Bobo Grant was launching it in a big way. An important way. The front page of the New York Runner was no Truth and Fact.

  People believed the stories they read in the New York Runner.

  Bert Slocombe FAXed the story to Dennis Wal a in Los Angeles.

  Sitting in his Hol ywood office, Dennis read it with growing aggravation. He recognized some of his own quotes. Adam Bobo Grant, the faggot hack, was stealing from him! And there was absolutely nothing he could do. It never occurred to Dennis to get angry. What did occur to him was that he might be able to make money out of this.

  He picked up the phone and placed a cal to Adam Bobo Grant at his newspaper.

  An officious assistant informed him Mr. Grant was unavailable.

  "Tel him it's important," Dennis insisted.

  "I'm sorry," the assistant said, ful of his own importance. "If you have an item for Mr. Grant, I can take it."

  "Listen," Dennis said with heavy authority, his Australian accent thickening. "I'm not saying this twice. Just go tel him I'm the one who wrote the story in Truth and Fact about the Swanson divorce. And comin' up, I have an exclusive story by Venus Maria's brother. We're runnin' it next week. Now I thought he might be interested in some of this information. If he isn't, that's fine by me. Go run it by him, mate."

  The assistant left him hanging on the line for a good five minutes before Adam Bobo Grant, gossip columnist supreme, came on the line.

  "Mr. Wal a," Adam Bobo Grant said.

  "Saw your story," Dennis replied. "A nice crib." Adam Bobo Grant was offended. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I said, a nice crib. You stole half the stuff from Truth and Fact. My stuff--I wrote it."

  "Did you phone to complain?" Bobo asked with a deeply put-upon sigh.

  "Nah, I'm takin' a shot we can do business." "Business?"

  Bobo perked up.

  "Yeah, wel , you've got items I find interesting, an' you'l find my next story very juicy indeed. It's this exclusive piece running next week, an' I thought--since you're making such a meal out of the Swansons, that you might want to take a peek at my upcomin' story before it runs."

  "For a price, of course?" Bobo said crisply. "Yeah, mate.

  Whattaya think I am--a charity?" Bobo thought fast. As successful as his daily column was, it was always nice to make the front pages. "How much?" he asked tartly.

  "A bargain price," Dennis replied.

  Sure, Adam Bobo Grant thought. But he went for it anyway.

  "Photographers are camped outside my house," Venus Maria complained to Martin on the phone. "Don't think they're not trailing me everywhere, too," he said.

  Was it her imagination, or did he sound quite pleased?

  They'd talked a couple of times since Truth and Fact appeared, but they hadn't seen each other. Now they were attempting to set up a rendezvous.

  "We'd better forget about my house. And I'm sure your hotel is a definite no," she said. "But I have an idea. If I can get out without being fol owed, I can make it to the Bel-Air Hotel. What do you think?"

  He thought it was an excel ent idea and told her he would book a suite under an assumed name and they could spend the night together.

  "Have you spoken to Deena?" she ventured tentatively.

  "No. I haven't cal ed her."

  "She must have seen it."

  "I don't intend to speak to her on the phone. I'l discuss it when I get back. I am taking over a studio, you know; I've been kind of busy."

  "Oh, yeah. And I'm just lying around doing nothing," she snapped back.

  He softened his tone. "I can't wait to see you." After she put the phone down she planned her escape. In a way it was a kick trying to fool the hovering paparazzi.

  She summoned Ron, who dashed over to her house, dying to be in on the game. They dressed one of her secretaries in a platinum wig, dark shades, and one of Venus Maria's outfits.

  When they decided she was ready, the girl ran from the house, jumped into a car, and roared off down the hil . Sure enough, the photographers fol owed. Meanwhile, Venus Maria slipped out the back into Ron's car. They giggled al the way as he drove her to the Bel-Air Hotel.

  Clad in a long coat, a floppy hat, and dark glasses, she went straight to the suite Martin had booked.

  He was waiting for her.

  The moment she was inside he jumped on her like a randy schoolboy.

  She was taken aback. "Martin!" She began to object, but he was having none of it. He kissed her frantical y, pawing at her clothes.

  She threw off her hat and her platinum hair tumbled around her face.

  He buried his hands in her curls. "God, I've missed you," he mumbled, unbuttoning her coat and groping under her sweater.

  She'd never known him to be this passionate. Headlines obviously turned him on.

  They ended up making love on the floor. It was the wildest she'd ever known Martin.

  "WoW! You're hot tonight. What happened to you?" she laughed, when they were finished.

  "Are you saying I was cool before?"

  She wasn't saying it, but she was certainly thinking it.

  "A girlfriend cal ed me from New York today," she said casual y. "We're on the front page of the New York papers.

  And last night there was a story on 'Entertainment Tonight.'

  Why al this coverage?"

  "You're a popular lady."

  "It's not just me, Martin. It's you that's captured the imagination of the public. Bil ionaire this and bil ionaire that.

  Hey, you're getting a real stud reputation!"

  "Don't be ridiculous," he said. But he didn't sound at al mad.

  She bent down and began picking up her crumpled clothes.

  "I'm going to soak in a hot tub. Shal we order room service? I'm starving!" .

  "I've already ordered caviar, steak, and ice cream. Does that sound like a feast?"

  "This is an adventure! Here we are, just the two of us. And nobody knows where we are. Exciting, huh?" "It works for me."

  She couldn't help smiling. "So I noticed."

  She drew herself a hot tub fil ed with bubbles and luxuriated in it.

  Martin strol ed into the bathroom carrying two glasses of champagne. He perched on the side of the tub and handed her one.

  She lay back. "So . . ." she said dreamily. "What's going to happen? Now that Deena knows, it's a whole different game, huh?"

  Martin wasn't about to be drawn into conversation. "We'l have to see what she says."

  "How about what you say?"

  "I've been married to Deena for ten years. It's impossible for me to pick up and go."

  "Isn't that what we wanted
?"

  "It is, but there are ways of doing things. It'l be better if Deena asks me to leave."

  "If she has any pride, she wil ."

  He nodded.

  "Martin," Venus said, "you are going to make a decision, aren't you?"

  He nodded again.

  " 'Cause if you don't," she added forceful y, "I'm not staying in this relationship. Especial y now it's out in the open."

  He trailed his hand in the bubbles, touching the tip of her left breast. "You wouldn't be threatening me, would you?"

  She smiled seductively. "Would I do a thing like that? Come here, bil ionaire stud. Get in the tub with me.

  He couldn't help laughing. "I'm not nineteen."

  She sat up, wrapping her wet arms around him. "Pretend,"

  she said. "Let's play pretend."

  And in New York, Deena raged around her apartment, angry and humiliated. It seemed she'd been deserted.

  Which wasn't exactly true, because her phone was ringing off the hook. Everyone had phoned except for Martin, and she couldn't reach him. When she'd cal ed him in California, various secretaries and assistants had told her he was in important meetings and could not be disturbed.

  Meetings, she thought to herself. Ha! He was with The Bitch.

  Deena had already put her plans into action. She'd activated the private detective she'd hired several months earlier in Los Angeles. His instructions were to give her a complete dossier on Venus Maria, tracking al her movements. The detective had no idea whom he was dealing with. She had set it up by phone, and he reported to a box number.

  Deena knew exactly what she had to do, although she hadn't anticipated the amount of publicity Martin's affair with Venus Maria would generate.

  She stared at her list of incoming phone cal s. Every married woman in New York had cal ed her. They al wanted the inside dish. Adam Bobo Grant had telephoned three times. Did he want more from her? Hadn't he taken enough?

  She picked up the New York Runner and reread the front-page story. It was different from Truth and Fact. Everyone knew Truth and Fact was a cheap rag. The story in the New York Runner gave it credence.

  Her eyes scanned the page.

  Deena Swanson, wanly beautiful . In a lime green Adolfo suit, refuses to discuss her rival, Venus Maria. Her only comment, "I'm sure Venus Maria is quite talented."

  At least Bobo had the good grace to put a question mark after that.

  She was not about to lose her husband. She was not about to lose anything.

  She'd planned what she had to do for the last six months, and now the inevitable was in motion.

  Chapter 75

  Nobody could operate like Mickey Stol i. He was a master at the game. He'd excel ed even his own expectations.

  First of al , he'd outsmarted Abe Panther and Lucky Santangelo by signing a predated note giving Panther the ful responsibility of owing Carlos Bonnatti a mil ion dol ars--

  supposedly legal y. And then he'd had the document filed neatly away, buried in business affairs.

  Second, he'd sat down with Martin Swanson and clinched himself a fine deal with Orpheus at double the salary he made at Panther, plus profit-sharing.

  Martin Swanson was a straight talker. "I'm only interested in making money," he'd said. "You can bring with you whomever you want. We're turning Orpheus into a money-making machine."

  Business taken care of, Mickey had then returned home to Abigaile. Dear sweet Abigaile.

  She was stewing. But what did he care? He had a whole new life ahead of him.

  One of the good things about Hol ywood was when you failed--you failed up. And being caught in a whorehouse was no big deal. He wasn't committing some heinous crime, he was merely getting laid. Abe Panther's sale of the studio had completely deflated Abigaile. She was almost studio had completely deflated Abigaile. She was almost prepared to forgive him for being arrested.

  Not quite. When he'd arrived back at the house after the meeting with Lucky Santangelo, she'd greeted him with a miserable expression--and Ben and Primrose. They were al waiting in the library.

  "We have to sit down and discuss everything," Abigaile said very matter-of-factly. "Ben has kindly offered to deal with the lawyers."

  "What's to deal with?" Mickey had fixed himself a drink. By this time he was a happy man. And he was about to be a free man.

  "Mickey," Ben said, with a long, serious face, "we can't let Abe get away with this."

  "It seems to me there's nothing we can do," Mickey replied, downing a hefty shot of scotch.

  "Oh, yes, there is," said Ben, the upright family man, who, Mickey knew for a fact, had been boffing a buxom blond starlet who'd worked on one of Panther's movies shooting in London last summer.

  "What, Ben?" Mickey said wearily.

  "First of al , Abigaile has told me of your problems and you can't walk out on her now," Ben said pompously, pacing up and down. "We're in a crisis situation. We have to present a united front. I've already spoken to my lawyer. He suggests we might be able to have Abe declared incompetent."

  "No way," Mickey said. "What's incompetent about Abe?

  He's walking and talking. This is Hol ywood, for crissakes!

  So he's old. Big deal. Look at George Burns, Bob Hope."

  "At least we should discuss it," Ben insisted. "Discuss what? My wife wants me out. So I'm out."

  Ben put his hand on Mickey's shoulder. "Think about your Tabitha."

  "Listen--I didn't ask to go, get this straight--Abby threw me out. Remember that."

  "And now she's asking you to stay."

  "Too late."

  "We'l have to work this out, Mickey," Abigaile said, her no-nonsense expression firmly in place. "There's nothing to work out." He shrugged. "I screwed around. I got caught.

  Now I have to take the consequences. I suggest you see a lawyer."

  "Mickey, you don't seem to understand," Primrose joined in, speaking firmly. "Abe has sold the studio. Things are different."

  "Stay out of it, Primrose," he warned. "What goes on between me and my wife has nothing to do with you."

  "We're al involved." Ben was determined to make his presence felt.

  "Not in my private affairs," Mickey said forceful y. "What we do about our marriage concerns me and Abby. It's nobody else's business." He wanted to add, "Get fucked," but didn't deem it appropriate.

  Without further discussion he went upstairs to his dressing room and packed a smal suitcase. Then he got in his Porsche and drove straight to the Beverly Hil s Hotel, where he checked into a bungalow.

  Mickey Stol i was back in action.

  Forty-eight hours later the news of Mickey's new appointment was al over town. It hadn't actual y hit the trades--after al , the deal wasn't even signed. But everybody in the know was aware of it.

  Eddie tracked him down at the studio, where Mickey was packing up his personal papers and effects.

  "What's happening, Mickey?" he asked feverishly. "Did you hear from Bonnatti?"

  "I've taken care of it," Mickey said. "Like I take care of al your fuck-ups."

  "Hey." Eddie refused to feel guilty. "It was just one of those things."

  "Yeah. One of those things you always seem to get involved in."

  "So . . . how did you take care of it?" Eddie asked, trying to sound casual.

  "Never mind, and keep your mouth closed. It's no longer your responsibility--there's a deal memo says it's the studio's."

  "Real y? You fixed it?"

  "Forget about it, Eddie. Al right?"

  "I heard about you and Orpheus." Eddie hesitated before making a pitch. "How about bringing me along for the ride?

  Am I your good-luck charm or what?"

  "Are you shitting me, Eddie?"

  "No, Mickey. I need a job."

  "You've already got a job."

  "Word is Lucky Santangelo is cleaning house." He picked up a script, stared at it blankly, then put it down again.

  "Take me with you, huh?"

  Mickey sighed. Wh
en was Eddie going to stop with the favors? "Get clean and I'l see what I can do." "Clean?"

  Eddie looked hurt. "I got no problem." Sure. "I'm tel ing you, Eddie. You're hooked. Check yourself into some kind of drug rehab and then we'l talk." He took a beat. "By the way, was that your wife I saw at Madame Loretta's?"

  Eddie glowered. "Are you crazy?"

  "And if it was her, what was she doing there?" Now he was real y furious. "You need glasses, Mickey."

  "And you need to straighten out."

  "Bul shit."

  "Panther's going down when I leave," Mickey boasted.

  "Everybody's gonna fol ow me. Johnny Romano, Arnie and Frankie, Susie--they'l al come over to Orpheus."

  Eddie scowled. "Yeah. You'l take everybody except me.

  Right?"

  "I told you--clean up your act and you're in." Clean up his act. Easier said than put into operation. When he was high he felt like he owned the world. And when he was straight he felt like the world wasn't even worth living in.

  Why couldn't he carry on the way he was? Why was everyone on his case?

  He left Mickey and drove home.

  Leslie was showing a realtor around their house. He stared edgily at the two women.

  Leslie attempted to introduce him.

  "Forget it," he said rudely. "We're not sel ing." The realtor looked shocked. "What do you mean, Mr. Kane? I was under the impression we had an arrangement."

  "No deal, baby. We've decided not to sel ." "Eddie?" Leslie questioned, her face flushing.

  The realtor saw her fat commission fading away. "I feel you should reconsider your decision, Mr. Kane," she said anxiously. "Once you've decided to sel a house, it's never a good idea to stay."

  "Scram," Eddie said.

  "Mr. Kane--"

  "Out!"

  The realtor departed.

  "What happened, Eddie?" Leslie asked.

  "Things got taken care of. I'm off the dime." "Yes?"

  "That's right. C'mon, baby, we're goin' out." "Where?"

  "I'm about to surprise you."

  Mickey was emptying his desk drawers into a briefcase when Lucky entered the office. He glanced up and their eyes met. She leaned against the door and stared at him.

  "Wel , Mr. Stol i," she said, "so you're moving on."