“Get me Abe Panther,” she instructed Kyoko.
Occasionally she called Abe for advice. At ninety he was a true Hollywood legend. The old man had seen it all—done most of it—and was still as canny and quick-witted as a man half his age. Whenever she spoke to him, he was always full of encouragement and wisdom, and since the banks were coming down on her big time, she needed his assurance that with two blockbuster movies their attitude would soon change.
Once in a while she drove up to Abe’s grand old mansion overlooking the city. They would sit out on the terrace watching the sunset, while Abe regaled her with outrageous stories about Hollywood in the far-off, golden days. Abe had known everyone—from Chaplin to Monroe—and he wasn’t shy about telling fascinating tales.
She felt like visiting him today, but there simply wasn’t time. As it was, she was hardly going to see her children—two-year-old Maria and baby Gino, who was six months. Bobby, her nine-year-old son from her marriage to deceased Greek shipping billionaire Dimitri Stanislopolous, was spending the summer with relatives in Greece.
“Mr. Panther is unavailable,” Kyoko said.
“Okay, we’ll try him later.”
She glanced at her children’s photographs, proudly displayed in silver frames on her desk. Bobby—so cute and handsome; baby Gino, named for his grandfather; and Maria, with her huge green eyes and the most adorable smile in the world. She’d named Maria after her mother.
For a moment she let her mind wander, thinking about her beautiful mother. Could she ever forget the day she’d found her floating in the family swimming pool, murdered by her father’s lifelong enemy, Enzio Bonnatti? She’d been five years old, and it had seemed like her world was ending.
Twenty years later she’d taken revenge—killing the slime who’d ordered her mother’s murder, getting retribution for the Santangelo family—for it was Bonnatti who’d also masterminded a hit on her brother, Dario, and the first great love of her life, Marco.
She’d shot Enzio Bonnatti with his own gun, claiming self-defense. “He was trying to rape me,” she’d told the police, stony-faced. And she was believed because her father was Gino Santangelo and he had money and pull in all the right places. The case had never even gone to court.
Yes, she’d taken revenge for all of them and never regretted it.
“Shall we start with the phone calls?” Kyoko asked, interrupting her reverie.
She glanced at her watch. It was already past ten; the morning had flown by even though she’d been up since six. She picked up her phone list; Kyoko had arranged the names in order of importance, an order she didn’t agree with. “You know I’d sooner talk to an actor than an agent,” she chided. “Get me Charlie Dollar.”
“He wants a meeting.”
“About what?”
“He doesn’t like the poster art for River Storm in Europe.”
“Why?”
“Says they’ve made him look overweight.”
Lucky sighed. Actors and their egos. It was never ending. “Is it too late to change it?”
“I spoke to the art department. It can be done. It’ll be costly.”
“Worth keeping a superstar happy?” she asked, sounding only mildly sarcastic.
“If you say so.”
“You know my philosophy, Ky. Keep ’em smiling and they’ll work all the harder to promote the movie.”
Kyoko nodded. He knew better than to argue with Lucky.
Lennie Golden hated bullshit, and the worst thing about being a movie star was that half the time he was knee deep. People reacted to fame in such a weird fashion. They either fell all over him or insulted the hell out of him. Women were the worst. Getting laid was on their mind the moment they met him. And it didn’t have to be him—any movie star would do. Costner, Redford, Willis—women had no preference as long as the man was a celebrity.
Lennie had learned to ignore the come-ons, he didn’t need the ego boost of constantly scoring, he had Lucky, and she was the most special woman in the world.
At thirty-nine Lennie was a charismatically attractive man with an edgy style all his own. Tall, tanned, and fit, he was not conventionally handsome. He had longish dirty-blond hair and very direct ocean-green eyes, plus he worked out every day, keeping his body in excellent shape.
He’d been a movie star for several years—which surprised him more than anyone. Six years ago he’d been just another comedian looking to score a gig, a few bucks, anything going. Now he had everything he’d ever dreamed of.
Lennie Golden. Son of crusty old Jack Golden, a stand-up Vegas hack, and the unstoppable Alice. Or “Alice the Swizzle” as his mother was known in her heyday as a now-you-see-’em, now-you-don’t Vegas stripper.
He’d split for New York when he was seventeen and made it all the way without any help from his folks. His father was long dead, but Alice still caused trouble wherever she went. Sixty-seven years old and as frisky as an overbleached starlet, she’d never come to terms with getting older, and the only reason she acknowledged Lennie as her son was because of his fame. “I was a child bride,” she’d simper to anyone who’d listen, batting her fake lashes and curling her overpainted lips in a lascivious leer. “I gave birth to Lennie when I was twelve!”
He’d bought her a small house in Sherman Oaks, where she ruled the neighborhood—having decided that since she was never going to be a star, she’d become a psychic. A wise move, for now—much to Lennie’s embarrassment—she appeared on cable TV on a regular basis and sounded off about anything and everything. Quietly he’d christened her “my mother the mouth.”
Sometimes it all seemed like a fantasy—his marriage to Lucky, his successful career, everything.
Leaning back in his director’s chair he narrowed his eyes and surveyed the beach location. A blond in a bikini was busy strutting her considerable assets. She’d paraded in front of him several times with a definite yen to get noticed.
He’d noticed, all right—he was married, not dead, and spectacular blonds with bodies to die for had once been his weakness. Earlier in the day she’d asked to have her picture taken with him. He’d politely declined—photos with fans, especially attractive ones, had a nasty habit of ending up in the tabloids.
She’d gotten the message and returned a few minutes later with a strapping bodybuilder type who spoke no English. “My fiancé,” she’d explained with a dazzling smile. “Please!”
He’d obliged and had a photo taken with the two of them.
Now the blond did another turn. Long legs. Rounded butt in an almost nonexistent thong. Firm tits with erect nipples straining the flimsy material.
Looking was okay.
Taking it any further was not.
Marriage was a commitment that worked both ways. If Lucky was ever unfaithful to him, he’d never forgive her. He was confident she felt the same way.
The blond finally zoomed in for a landing. “Mr. Golden,” she purred in a Marilyn rip-off voice with a slight French accent, “I loove your movies. It is such an honor to be appearing in this one with you.” Deep breath. Nipples threatening to break through.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, wondering where the fiancé was now.
Adoring giggle. “I should be the one thanking you.” Small pink tongue darting out to lick pouty pink lips. Invitation to fuck shining in her overeager eyes.
Rescue swooped over—Jennifer, the pretty American second assistant. She wore shorts, a tight T-shirt, and a Lakers baseball cap. Temptation was everywhere.
“Mac’s ready to rehearse, Lennie,” Jennifer said, ever protective.
He shifted his lanky frame out of the director’s chair and stretched.
Jennifer raked the blond in the bikini with a condescending look. “Try and stay with the other extras, dear,” she said crisply. “You never know when you’ll be needed.”
The blond backed off, not happy.
“Talk about silicone city!” Jennifer muttered.
“How do you know?” Lennie asked, wondering why women were s
o much more knowledgeable at spotting fake tits than men.
“It’s obvious,” Jennifer replied disdainfully. “You men fall for anything.”
“Who’s falling?” he said, amused.
“Not you,” Jennifer said, flashing him a friendly smile. “It’s a pleasure to work with a star who doesn’t expect a blow job along with his morning coffee.”
Jennifer, Lennie decided, was Lucky’s kind of woman.
He couldn’t help smiling when he thought of his wife. Tough exterior. Soft interior. Drop-dead gorgeous. Strong, stubborn, sensual, street-smart, vulnerable, and crazy. The package that was Lucky was really something.
Lennie had been married once before. A quickie marriage in Las Vegas to Olympia Stanislopolous, the willful daughter of Dimitri Stanislopolous, who—at the same time—was married to Lucky.
Olympia had died tragically, overdosing in a hotel room with Flash, a drugged-out rock star.
Dimitri had suffered a fatal stroke.
Soon Lucky and Lennie were together, where they belonged.
Olympia left behind a daughter from a previous marriage, Brigette, now nineteen and one of the richest girls in the world. Lennie was very fond of her although he didn’t get to see her as often as he would like.
“I want you to meet Lucky when she’s here,” he said to Jennifer. “You’ll like her, she’ll like you. It’s a done deal.”
“She won’t be interested in meeting me,” Jennifer said modestly. “She runs a studio, Lennie. I’m just a second assistant.”
“Lucky doesn’t care. She likes people for who they are, not what they do.”
“If you say so.”
“And hey,” he said, boosting her confidence, “there’s nothing wrong with being a second assistant—you’re working your way up. One day you’ll be directing. Is that the plan?”
Jennifer nodded. “I’ve arranged for a car to meet your wife at Poretta Airport tomorrow,” she said, all business.
“I’ll be in it,” Lennie said.
“You might be shooting.”
“Have them shoot around me.”
“You’re in every shot.”
“Fake it.”
“I never fake it.”
Yes. Lucky would definitely like this one.
2
ALEX WOODS HAD A SMILE LIKE A CROCODILE—wide, captivating, and ultimately deadly. His smile held him in good stead with the movie executives he was forced to deal with on a daily basis. It caught them off guard, unbalancing the delicate power structure between writer/producer/director and studio honcho who could usually make or break any filmmaker—however famous and talented. Alex was a powerful presence, capable of making a lot of people nervous.
Alex Woods and his lethal smile had written, directed, and produced six big-budget major movies over a ten-year period. Six controversial, sex and violence—drenched masterpieces. Alex called them masterpieces, not everyone agreed—although each of his movies had been nominated for an Academy Award and had never won once. It pissed him off. Alex liked recognition—a lousy nomination didn’t do it for him. He wanted the fucking gold statue on his Richard Meier-designed beach house mantelpiece so he could fucking shove it up everyone’s ass—metaphorically speaking, of course.
Alex was not married—even though he was forty-seven years old, tall, and good-looking in a darkly dangerous way, with compelling eyes, heavy eyebrows, and a strong jawline. No woman had ever managed to nail him. He didn’t go for American women, he preferred his female companions to be Asian and petite, so that when he made love to them he felt like the big, conquering hero.
The truth was that Alex had a submerged fear of women whom he might in any way consider his equal. This fear originated from his mother, Dominique, a fierce Frenchwoman who’d dispatched his father—Gordon Woods, a moderately successful film actor who’d specialized in playing best-friend roles—to an early grave when Alex was only eleven years old. They’d said it was a heart attack, but Alex knew—because he’d been a silent witness to many of their violent fights—that she’d tongue-lashed his poor father to death. His mother was a vicious, calculating woman who’d driven her husband to find solace in a bottle of booze whenever he could. Death was his cunning escape.
Shortly after his father’s funeral, Madame Woods had sent her only child off to a strict military academy. “You’re stupid—exactly like your father,” she’d said, her tone allowing no argument. “Maybe it’ll make you smart.”
The military academy had been a living nightmare. He’d hated every minute of the rigid discipline and unfair rules. It didn’t matter, because whenever he’d complained to Dominique about the beatings and solitary confinements, she’d told him to stop whining and be a man. He’d been forced to stay there for five years, spending vacation time with his grandparents in Pacific Palisades while his mother dated a variety of unsuitable men, virtually ignoring his existence. Once he’d caught her in bed with a man she’d made him call Uncle Willy. Uncle Willy was lying back with a giant hard-on while Mommy was on her knees next to the bed, completely naked. It was a scenario that stayed with him forever.
By the time he’d left the academy and tasted freedom, his anger was insurmountable. While his contemporaries had rocked and rolled their way through high school, screwing cheerleaders, getting drunk and high, he’d been shut in a windowless room on detention for some petty misdemeanor, or getting paddled on his bare ass because they didn’t like his attitude. Sometimes detention lasted ten hours with nothing to do except sit on a hard wooden bench staring blankly into space. Torture for rich kids whose parents didn’t want them around.
Alex often thought about the lost years of his youth and it filled him with rage. He hadn’t even gotten laid until college, and that had been no memorable experience—a fat, greasy whore in Tijuana who’d smelled of stale tacos and worse. In fact, he’d hated it so much he hadn’t tried sex again for a year.
The second time was better—he was a film student at USC, and a serious blond who’d admired his budding talent had given him head twice daily for six months. Very nice, but not enough to keep him satisfied. Eventually, he’d gotten restless and one drunken night he’d enlisted in the army. They’d sent him to Vietnam, where he’d spent a shattering two years—experiencing things that would haunt him forever.
When he’d returned to L.A. he was a different man, unsettled and edgy, ready to explode. He’d left town after two weeks—hitching his way to New York, leaving a short note for his mother that he’d be in touch.
Ah…revenge…He didn’t call her for five years, and as far as he knew she’d never sent anyone looking for him. When he finally called, she acted as if she’d spoken to him the week before. No sentimental bullshit for Madame Woods.
“I hope you’re working,” she’d said, her voice as cold as cracked ice. “Because you’ll get no handouts from me.”
Big surprise.
Yeah, Mom, I’ve been working. Hustled my ass for a couple of months so I could eat. Guarded the door at a low-class strip joint. Ran interference for a busy hooker. Cut up carcasses in a meat factory. Drove a cab. Chauffeured a car for a degenerate theater director. Bodyguarded a criminal. Lived with a rich older woman who reminded me of you. Procured drugs for her friends. Managed an after-hours gambling club. Worked as an assistant editor on a series of cheapo slash/horror stories. And finally, the big break—wrote and directed a porno movie for a lecherous old Mafia capo. Tight pussies. Big cocks. Erotic porno. The kind that really turns people on. And a story. Next thing, Hollywood beckons. They know good pornography when they see it.
“I’m on my way to the Coast,” he’d said. “Universal has signed me to write and direct a movie for them.”
She was unimpressed. Naturally. A long pause. “Call me when you’re here.” And that was it.
Some broad, his mother. No wonder he didn’t trust women.
That had been eighteen years ago. Things were different now. Madame Woods was older and wiser. So was he. They main
tained a love/hate relationship. He loved her because she was his mother. Hated her because she was still a mean bitch. Occasionally he dined with her. Severe punishment.
In those eighteen years his career had soared. From one low-budget no-brainer he’d risen to the top, gradually gaining a reputation as an innovative, risk-taking, original moviemaker. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it, and he was proud of his success.
It would be nice if his mother was, too. She never praised him, although criticism still fell easily from her thin scarlet lips. Alex knew if his father had lived he would have been happy and supportive of everything he’d achieved.
Now he had a meeting with Lucky Santangelo, the current head of Panther Studios, and it did not please him that he had to go to a female to try and keep his latest project—a movie called Gangsters—in a go position. He was Alex Woods, for crissakes—he didn’t have to kiss anyone’s ass, especially some broad who had a reputation for doing things her way.
Nobody did things their way on an Alex Woods movie.
All he needed was for her studio to put up the money on account of the fact that Paramount had dropped out at the final hour. Their excuse was that Gangsters was too graphically violent. He was making a movie about Vegas in the fifties, for crissakes. Hoodlums, hookers, and gambling. Violence was a way of life back then.
The trouble with the studios was that they were running scared because of criticism from all those do-good politicians who were busy screwing whores on the side while their wives stood beside them with fixed smiles and dry pussies. Some freaking double standard!
Alex hated hypocrisy. “Tell the real truth and nothing but” was his motto, and that’s exactly what he did in each of his movies. He was a controversial filmmaker—garnering either bitter criticism or brilliant reviews. His movies made people think, and that could sometimes be dangerous.
When Paramount folded, his agent, Freddie Leon, had suggested taking Gangsters to Panther. “Lucky Santangelo will do it,” Freddie had assured him. “I know Lucky, it’s her kind of story. Plus, she needs a hit.”