Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge

  Mario’s was a noisy and colorful Italian restaurant packed with models, agents, art dealers, and writers. “It’s the happening place,” Nona informed Brigette as they pushed their way past the jammed bar to Luke’s booth, Zandino trailing behind them.

  They’d both rushed home and changed. Nona wore a bright-green satin Dolce Gabbana shirt and tight black pants, while Brigette had settled on a skimpy white Calvin Klein shift dress and strappy sandals.

  Luke was not alone. Cybil Wilde and her hair stylist were sitting in his booth. Cybil had a Christie Brinkley glow about her that automatically made her the center of attention. She was so glossily pretty that Brigette was immediately intimidated—even though they were about the same age.

  “Squeeze in, everyone,” Luke said, greeting them warmly. “I’m sure you all know Cybil, and this is the great Harvey, who makes even my hair look halfway passable.”

  Harvey reached up and touched a lock of Brigette’s honey-blond hair. “Nice, luv,” he said in a heavy cockney accent. “No coloring—none of them stupid streaks all the girls are into. Keep it this way.”

  “Thanks,” Brigette said, sliding in next to him.

  “And as for you, madame,” Harvey added, checking out Nona’s blazing red hair. “Veree au courant. An’ natural, too, I bet.”

  Brigette took a moment to study Harvey. A man of about thirty, he had a white-blond buzz cut with a side streak of green, black-leather wrist cinchers, and a small diamond embedded in the side of his nose.

  “What would you do to my hair?” she asked, curious to get his opinion.

  “Nuffin’,” he said. “You’re a little darlin’ just the way you are.”

  Talk about an ego booster! Brigette was pleased.

  Nona was more interested in getting down to business. “Can we talk here?” she asked Luke.

  “Absolutely,” he replied, waving at several friends.

  “Well?” Nona demanded impatiently. “What?”

  Luke grinned, behaving like an asshole.

  “What?” she repeated, pulling on his arm.

  “I showed the ad agency the pictures of Brigette and Zan. They took ’em to the client, and wham, bam—we got ourselves a gig!”

  “Ohmigod!” Nona exclaimed, nudging Brigette. “Did you hear that?”

  “Great.”

  “Great,” Nona shrieked. “GREAT. It’s absolutely AMAZING!”

  “I got my start modeling for a May Company catalogue,” Cybil interjected, smiling prettily. “I was sixteen.” Her smile widened, causing dimples in her cheeks. “A very well-developed sixteen!”

  “When will the photos appear?” Brigette asked Luke. “And where?”

  “We haven’t taken ’em yet,” Luke said, laughing at her naivete. “First you get your agent to make a deal. Then we shoot a proper session. After that, my sweet girl, you’ll be in every magazine from here to the moon! Rock ’n’ Roll Jeans spends money.”

  “How come I wasn’t up for this job?” Cybil asked, pouting.

  “’Cause you’re—as Nona so tastefully puts it—like dog shit. Oh, don’t worry,” Luke added quickly. “You’re in excellent company—Robertson, Nature—they all got Nona’s seal of disapproval.”

  “Guess we need an agent,” Nona said thoughtfully. “Like yesterday.”

  Brigette thought of all the agencies who’d refused to see her. The only one who’d shown any interest was Michel Guy.

  “Elite,” Cybil said, trying to be helpful. “They’re the best.”

  “No. The Ford Agency,” Luke argued. “They’ll protect her. She’s a virgin in this biz, she’ll need armored guards to keep the aging playboys from jumping her innocent little bones.”

  “Those men are so gross,” Cybil squealed, turning up her snub nose. “Total perverts! Prince this and Count that, and all they want to do is snort coke, get head, and show you off to their equally disgusting decrepit old friends.”

  “Tell us how you really feel, dear,” said Harvey, sipping a margarita through a straw.

  “Be warned!” Cybil said to Brigette. “I’ll give you a list of the worst offenders.”

  “Thanks,” Brigette responded. Cybil was so open and friendly it was impossible not to warm to her.

  “What’s your take on rock stars?” Luke asked Cybil with a sly smile.

  Cybil giggled; she’d just started dating English rock star Kris Phoenix. “I’m in love!” she cooed. “Kris is sensational!”

  Brigette remembered another English rock star, the infamous Flash. Her mother had overdosed and died while in his company—both of them drugged out of their minds in a cheap hotel room in Times Square.

  Oh, God! Nobody must find out her real identity. It was imperative she protect her anonymity. Maybe she should change her first name just to be sure.

  “I can get you in to see any agent in town,” Luke boasted. “Tell me who.”

  “Michel Guy,” Brigette said quietly, hardly believing that this was finally happening.

  “No problem,” Luke said. “He’s sitting two tables away with Robertson—only when she finds out she’s not doing the Rock ‘n’ Roll Jeans campaign, you may not be a welcome addition to Michel’s family.”

  “We’ll see,” Brigette said with a small confident smile.

  After Rodriguez left, Venus found she could not sleep, so instead she did her usual nighttime prowl around the house. It was not late enough for her to settle down. Rodriguez had satisfied her sexually, but mentally he was a blank. She must be getting old, because now she needed more than just a great body and a horny disposition. She craved a companion, someone she could talk to when the sex was over. Cooper excelled at both.

  She tried to decide who she could wake up at this time of night. Maybe Lucky, who never wanted to talk anymore unless it concerned business. Well, too bad, this might be the perfect time to reach her.

  “Miss Santangelo is in Palm Springs visiting her father,” Cee Cee informed her over the phone.

  “How’s she doing?” Venus asked.

  “She works too hard,” Cee Cee replied, sounding concerned.

  “Tell me about it! I never see her anymore, she’s always too busy.”

  After putting the phone down, she attempted to read a magazine and found she couldn’t concentrate. She was so restless it was crazy.

  Hmm…she thought, who else would be up?

  Ron, of course. Her best friend, Ron, who, since he’d been with major mogul Harris Von Stepp, was also on the missing list. She’d nicknamed Harris “Major Mogul” to get back at Ron, who’d called Martin Swanson the same thing when she and Martin had been an item.

  Ron was not amused. “Don’t ever let him hear you call him that,” he’d warned. “Harris has no sense of humor, he’ll throw a complete fit.”

  “Harris is too tight-assed,” she’d replied. “Couldn’t you have latched on to a fun faggot?”

  “Control your language, girl,” Ron had scolded. “Faggot is not a politically correct word.”

  She missed Ron. Not seeing him as much as she used to was like breaking off with a favorite lover.

  The hell with it, she decided to call him.

  “You’ll never guess who this is,” she announced when he answered the phone.

  “Oh, like quelle surprise!” Ron said, totally unsurprised. “Are we experiencing a crisis?”

  “As a matter of fact, we are. I was kind of wondering if you could come over, sit around and talk, y’know…get cozy like we used to…”

  “Certainly, popsicle,” he said crisply. “That will go down very well with Harris. I’m sure he’s simply dying for me to run into the bedroom and say, ‘Just shooting out to visit Venus.’ The man is a jealous wreck as it is. Especially of you.”

  “Why me? I’m a girl.”

  “Ohh…you’ve just answered your own question. Clever little minx!”

  “When can I see you?”

  “Seriously, poppet, if it’s urgent, I’ll risk Harris’s wrath and come over now.”


  “No, no, it can wait, but I do miss you.”

  “Miss you, too. How about lunch tomorrow?”

  “Excellent.”

  “I’m in the editing room all morning. Let’s see, we could meet, say, one-thirty?”

  “I can tell you all about Rodriguez.”

  “Ahh…you finally did it with your masseur.”

  “But of course!”

  “Then I’ll surely be there. Details are my life!”

  When she hung up, she had this insane desire to call Cooper. Come back, all is forgiven, she’d say. No, she’d learned at an early age that it was suicidal to repeat past mistakes.

  Cooper would never change. And unless she was prepared to accept his infidelities, she was better off without him.

  19

  “AW, JESUS!” ALEX GROANED AS HE APPROACHED the bar and caught the action.

  “It’s okay, I promise you, it’s okay,” Lucky said quickly, jumping to her feet.

  Jed was flexing his power. “What’s with you, bitch?” he demanded belligerently, facing her right on. “Too freakin’ good for us?”

  “Back off,” Alex said with a granitelike expression as he stared Jed down.

  Jed swayed on his feet. “Don’t freakin’ tell me what to do, Grandpa!”

  “Fuck!” Alex muttered, wondering how he’d ever gotten caught up in this scene. And what was with the Grandpa shit? He should knock this snot-nosed pisshead out of the ring.

  Instead, he reached into his pocket, produced a wad of bills, threw them at the barman, and grabbed Lucky’s arm. “We’re outta here,” he said, pulling her to the door without looking back. It was a trick he’d learned in Vietnam. If you want to fight, stay eyeball to eyeball with the enemy. If you don’t, get the hell out. And do it fast.

  “Hey,” Lucky objected as they reached the door. “What about the twenty bucks I gave the bartender?”

  Alex tightened his grip. “What about getting in the car and shutting the fuck up.”

  “You’re a lot of laughs,” she complained.

  “If it’s laughs you want, you picked the wrong guy,” he said tersely.

  “Let me jog your memory, Alex, you’re the one who came running into my office asking me out for a drink.”

  “I came for a business meeting,” he reminded her. “Did I know you were going to be sitting there half ripped?”

  “Half ripped?” she said, outraged. “I’m perfectly sober.” Although even as she said it she knew she was teetering on the edge.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, hustling her over to the Porsche. Out of the corner of his eye he observed Jed emerging from the bar with a couple of his rowdy friends. He shoved Lucky in the passenger seat, bent down, and reached for his gun in the glove compartment.

  “What are you doing?” Lucky said.

  “Protecting us. Do you mind?”

  “Are you crazy? You can’t shoot the jerk just ’cause he came on to me.”

  “I’m not planning on shooting anybody. I’m buying us time to split.”

  “Gino taught me never to pull a gun unless you’re prepared to use it.”

  “He taught you well, ’cause if those punks come at me, I’m shooting ’em straight in their scrawny balls.”

  “I can see the headline now,” Lucky said, not taking him seriously in spite of the fact that his gun appeared to be the real thing. “‘Studio head an’ bad boy filmmaker. Busted!’” She broke up at her own humor.

  Jed and his friends hesitated at the entrance. Maybe they’d seen the glint of the metal, or maybe they’d changed their minds. Whatever, to Alex’s great relief, they didn’t venture farther. Which was fortunate, because he’d meant what he’d said.

  Lucky doesn’t know me, he thought grimly. She has no idea that in Vietnam I was forced to kill people more than once.

  It wasn’t something he cared to remember, only in his nightmares.

  He got behind the wheel of his Porsche, revved the engine, and took off at high speed.

  “Shame,” Lucky sighed, snuggling down in her seat, feeling no pain. “I was sooo interested in talking to Driving Miss Daisy.”

  This woman is crazy, Alex thought as he got back on the freeway. What am I doing with her? She’s crazier than me.

  They’d been driving for five minutes when Lucky realized she’d left her purse at the bar. She sat up abruptly to announce the fact.

  “We are not going back,” Alex said tersely. “No fucking way.”

  “Oh, yes we are,” Lucky retorted. “My credit cards are in it, my Filofax, driver’s license—everything. We have to go back.”

  “You’re a difficult woman,” he said sourly.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  He couldn’t believe he was doing it as he took the next exit off the freeway, making a sharp turn. “Listen to me,” he said sternly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “You stay in the car with the engine running while I go in and collect your purse. Understand?”

  “You’re not taking your gun in.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “No, don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Oh, I can see we’re going to have a fascinating time making this movie.”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  Did she always have to have the last word?

  He pulled his Porsche up outside the roadhouse and got out. In spite of Lucky’s warning, he shoved his gun down his belt, at the back of his pants. Better prepared than not; small-town hotheads were the worst kind.

  When he walked in, another stripper was busily working the stage, grabbing everyone’s attention. Chinese this time. They certainly went in for variety.

  Alex hurried over to the bar. “My companion left her purse,” he said.

  The grizzled old barman fished under the bar, silently handing over Lucky’s purse. “We don’t want no trouble in these parts,” the man said sourly. “You L.A. people with your money and flashy cars. Stay away.”

  “Listen, buddy, it’s a free country,” Alex pointed out, putting Lucky’s purse under his arm and walking out.

  His Porsche was exactly where he’d left it. There was only one problem. Lucky was not in it.

  He stood by his car, totally pissed off. He’d told her to stay in the goddamn car—was that so difficult? Too independent. That was the problem with Lucky Santangelo. One thing was sure. He’d never met a woman like her.

  He considered teaching her a lesson, driving away and leaving her stranded. Then he decided he couldn’t do that, nobody deserved to be left in this pisshole; besides, her studio was financing his movie. He went back inside, looking for her.

  The bartender was busy shifting heavy crates of beer; he shook his finger when he saw Alex—as if to say, Not you again.

  “Did you see the lady I was with?” Alex asked.

  “I told you,” the bartender repeated, “your kind ain’t welcome here.”

  Alex was fast running out of patience. “Where’s the ladies’ room?” he asked.

  “Out in the parking lot,” the bartender said. “An’ don’t come back.”

  Like he would ever want to.

  The outdoor ladies’ room doubled as a dressing room for the strippers. They scurried in with their plastic makeup cases and see-through carryalls, changing clothes in the cramped space. When Lucky entered, Driving Miss Daisy had just finished getting dressed in an alarmingly tight, scarlet catsuit.

  “Hi,” Lucky said. “My friend and I wanted to buy you a drink, only it didn’t seem like we were welcome here.”

  The stripper peered at her reflection in the cracked mirror over the once white basin. “Girl, this place is two-tone shit,” she remarked, busily rubbing lipstick off her teeth. “Why’re you here?”

  “I’m with Alex Woods, the film director,” Lucky explained. “And we’re both kind of curious to know why you’re wasting the best body we’ve ever seen in this dump?”

  Driving Miss Daisy adjusted what appeared to be a long red wig.
“Listen, girl, there’s times a person don’t have no choice. I work plenny a places—private parties, ole boys’ reunions, crap clubs, an’ dives like this. Thing is, girl—that’s what pays the rent.”

  “We’d pay you—”

  “Oh, no, no no,” Driving Miss Daisy said, shaking her finger at Lucky. “I ain’t into any of them kinky scenes, so don’ go gettin’ no fancy ideas jest ’cause I take my clothes off.”

  “Absolutely no kinky scenes,” Lucky assured her. “All we want is to hear your story. Alex is interested in putting you in his new movie.”

  “His movie, huh?”

  “Would a hundred bucks give us twenty minutes of your time?”

  “This is too weird,” the stripper said, shaking her long red wig.

  “What’s weird about it? It’s an opportunity. Seize it.”

  The woman pursed her lips. “Never had no opportunities,” she said thoughtfully.

  “So take it,” Lucky urged.

  “I got another gig t’go to.”

  “We’ll come with you.”

  “I dunno…”

  “Where is it?”

  “A pool hall…’bout twenny minutes from here.”

  “A deal,” Lucky said quickly, before the stripper changed her mind.

  They walked outside, running straight into an irate Alex.

  “I told you to stay in the car,” he said, glaring.

  “I don’t take instructions well.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  “Alex, this is Driving Miss Daisy…or, uh…” She turned to the stripper. “I guess you’ve got a name, right?”

  “Why y’ wanna know my name?” the woman asked suspiciously.

  “’Cause I feel a little foolish when I have to keep saying Driving Miss Daisy. It’s not like I’m turning you in to Social Security or anything.”

  The stripper narrowed her eyes. “Jest ’cause I’m black, y’ think I’m on welfare? That’s shit!”

  “Did I say that?”