Surely he was dreaming. She must be a vision.
The woman’s hand flew to her mouth as she gasped something in Italian, a language he didn’t speak.
My God, she’s real, he thought. She’s flesh and blood. SHE’S MY SAVIOR.
“Thank God you’re here,” he shouted. “Thank God!”
She stared at him, her eyes registering fright and surprise. Then she turned and ran, vanishing from sight.
“Come back!” he screamed after her. “Come back, whoever you are. I’m not going to hurt you. Goddamn it—COME BACK!”
She was gone.
He hoped and prayed she was going for help, because without her, he was lost.
29
THE ONLY THINGS LUCKY BOTHERED TAKING WERE the silver picture frames on her desk containing photos of her children and Lennie. She snatched them up, and without another word marched from her office.
Kyoko ran alongside her as she headed for her car. “What happened?” he asked, almost as distressed as she was.
“That deceitful, lying sonofabitch sold me out!” Lucky seethed. “I’m going to bury him. Do you hear me, Kyoko? I’m going to bury that man.”
“Can I help?” Kyoko asked.
“Yes. Arrange to have all my things removed from my office immediately. I want my desk out of there, my leather chair, I want every piece of furniture that belongs to me. And if that woman gives you any trouble, call my lawyer.”
“It doesn’t seem possible that this could happen,” Kyoko fretted.
“It’s very simple,” Lucky said resolutely. “I was set up by my confidant and business advisor—Mr. Morton Sharkey. But don’t worry, Kyoko, I’ll find out why—and I’ll shred his sorry ass.”
“Should I inform Charlie Dollar you’ve left?”
“Yes, please do that,” she said, trying to control her anger and think straight. “I don’t want this going around the studio. Tell Charlie I had an emergency to deal with.”
“Certainly, Lucky.”
“You’ll work for me at home, Ky, until we get this straightened out. Is that okay with you?”
“It will be an honor.”
She sent him off to tell Charlie she wasn’t coming back, got in her car, and sat behind the wheel for a moment, placing the pile of silver frames on the passenger seat. Lennie’s image gazed up at her. Impulsively she picked up his photo, kissing his face through the glass. “I miss you, my darling sweetheart,” she murmured softly. “I miss you so very, very much.”
Oh, God, what was happening to her life? First Lennie, now this. Everything was falling to pieces…everything.
She fought off tears, and drove off the lot with nowhere to go except home. Recovering her composure, she called her personal lawyer, Bruce Grey, informing him of the situation.
Bruce was as shocked as she was. “How could Morton allow this to happen?” he said.
“Allow it,” she steamed, “somehow or other he engineered it.”
“Why?” Bruce asked, puzzled.
“Beats me,” she said bitterly. “However, I intend to find out. In the meantime, I’ll messenger all the relevant papers over to you. Get me a complete rundown on everybody who owned the stock. Let’s see if they sold, or if they merely voted in this woman’s favor.”
“That should be easy.”
“Her name’s Donna Landsman. Sound familiar?”
“Never heard of her.”
“Prepare a full profile on her. Oh, yes, and Bruce—get me this information before the end of the day.”
The children were out when she arrived home, everything peaceful and quiet. She walked over to the window and stared out at the spectacular ocean view.
On impulse she ran upstairs, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and made her way down to the beach.
She loved the sea—walking along the edge of the surf was the perfect place to get her head together and think this through.
Why was this happening to her?
What had she done to deserve it?
Wasn’t it enough that she’d lost Lennie?
It seemed that things were stacking up against her, but hadn’t it been that way all her life?
Yes.
And hadn’t she always been able to overcome?
Yes.
Okay, so this time she’d fight back and win. No question.
By the time she returned to the house, she felt better. She could deal with it. She would deal with it. There had to be a way.
She wished Boogie were here. Right now he was on vacation, fortunately due back tomorrow. At a time like this she needed the support of familiar faces around her—and there was nobody more loyal than Boogie.
The kids and Cee Cee were still out. Settling in the den, she phoned Abe Panther. “I hope you’re sitting down,” she said, wondering if he’d already heard.
“What’s your problem, girlie?” he cackled hoarsely.
Automatic response: “How many times have I told you not to call me that.” A beat. “Panther’s been taken over. And—this is the shocker—your favorite grandson-in-law, Mickey Stolli, has been rehired to run it.”
Abe began to choke on the other end of the line.
“I know it’s difficult to comprehend,” Lucky said. “Thought I’d drive over and see you, get your advice.”
“Sounds like you need it.”
“The bottom line is, I was double-crossed. I’ll tell you about it when I get there.”
She went upstairs and hurriedly dressed.
As she was leaving the house, a flower delivery van pulled up to the door. The driver got out and handed her a small arrangement of mixed flowers.
She tore open the card, quickly reading the scrawled message.
Sorry about last night.
Call you soon.
Alex
What was that all about? Ten out of ten for not being the romantic type.
Not that she wanted him to be.
Not that she needed him at all.
Throwing the card on the hall table, she left the house.
Alex got the news on the plane to Vegas. Lili informed him, via phone, that there was a rumor going around that somebody had taken over Panther Studios and dismissed Lucky Santangelo.
“No way,” he said. “Who’d do that?”
“Reports are, it’s a businesswoman. Nobody seems to know who.”
“How could this happen so suddenly?”
“Apparently she ordered Lucky off the lot this afternoon.”
Alex frowned. “She did what?”
“Everybody’s talking about it.”
“See what else you can find out, Lili, and call me at the hotel.”
“Tin Lee phoned.”
“What did she want?”
“She said she’d be delighted to see you later, and to thank you for the fantastic roses and the invitation.”
“What invitation?”
“I don’t know, Alex. I can’t keep up with your love life and run your production company.”
Alex hung up, puzzled. Why would Tin Lee mention an invitation when all he’d said was, Sorry about last night. Call you soon. Alex.
Hmm…the invitation had gone to Lucky. Can I see you tonight? Call me. So had the roses.
Fuck! It was obvious there’d been a mistake. Tin Lee had gotten Lucky’s flowers and note, while Lucky must have received Tin Lee’s.
He grabbed the phone and tried reaching Lili again. The line was out due to turbulence.
Russell, his location manager, a cheerful man, moved over from the seat across the aisle, strapping himself in next to Alex.
“How did the Venus Maria reading go today?” Russell asked.
“Pretty damn good,” Alex replied, not really in the mood for conversation.
“Are we hiring her?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You should grab her,” Russell said. “My kids buy every one of her CDs. They’re first in line for her concerts. She’s got a lock on the young audience.”
Russell had worked on his last three movies, and Alex valued his opinion. “How do you think she’ll come across with Johnny Romano?” he asked.
“They’ll generate plenty of heat,” Russell said enthusiastically.
“You could be right,” Alex replied, thinking about it. “I’ll call Freddie when we get to Vegas—suggest we run a test.”
“Will she test?”
“She came in and read, didn’t she?”
Ron Machio, Venus’s best friend, arrived at Orso’s—a busy Italian restaurant on Third Street—a few minutes late. Ron was tall and lanky, with straight brown hair worn back in a ponytail, and a long, bony face. “Well, madame,” he said, scrutinizing Venus, who was already sitting out on the patio sipping white wine. “Very fifties.”
She grinned, delighted he’d known immediately what period she was going for. “Sit down,” she said. “I ordered for you. Wine and pasta. It’s my check.”
“Have we reinvented ourselves yet again?” he asked, flopping into a chair, stretching out his long legs.
“No, Ron,” she said. “This is the me that went up for a role in Alex Woods’s new movie. This is the me who’s going to win an Oscar.”
Ron’s thin eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I believe if you want something badly enough, you can get it. Look at us—we’re the perfect example. We came out to L.A. with zilch, and now I’m like Miss Superstar Big Deal and you’re this hugely successful director. It’s pretty amazing when you consider that neither of us graduated from college.”
“Very successful people never graduate college,” Ron said knowingly. “They’re all former dropouts. All these poor schmucks who sweated their youth away in college ended up slaving in the mail room.”
“Very philosophical, Ron. Major Mogul’s influence?”
“I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” Ron said irritably. “If you got to know him, you’d find he’s quite nice.”
“I’m sure Harris Von Stepp has been called a lot of things in his time, but never nice.”
“Well, he is. He’s just…”
“Uptight,” she offered. “Is that the word you’re searching for?”
“Venus,” Ron scolded, shaking a finger at her. “You can be a very mean little girl.”
The waiter delivered two plates of linguini with clam sauce.
“Anyway,” Venus said, “I read for Alex, and he seemed to like me. He’s calling Freddie.”
“Freddie?” Ron questioned, picking up his fork.
“Didn’t I mention it? Freddie Leon represents me now.”
“My, my…we are in the big leagues.”
“It was about time I changed agents,” she said, taking a mouthful of pasta.
“And naturally you had to have the best.”
“But of course!”
“Minx!”
“Did I tell you about my new assistant Anthony?”
“Noo…”
“He’s a gorgeous blond,” she teased. “Isn’t that your passion, Ron—gorgeous blonds?”
“Trying to tempt me?”
“Would I do that?” she asked, all innocence.
“Yes,” Ron said, curling pasta around his fork. “That’s exactly what you’d do.”
“How old is Major Mogul?” Venus asked, as if she didn’t know.
“What has age got to do with anything?”
“’Cause you shouldn’t get into that older man, younger man routine. It’s so passé. And you don’t need it.”
“You’re a fine one to lecture,” Ron responded crisply. “Does madame recall Cooper’s age? He’s at least twenty years your senior.”
“Yeah, and look where it got me,” she said ruefully.
“And talking of relationships,” Ron continued, “what’s happening with your masseur?”
“Ah…Rodriguez,” Venus sighed, twirling several thin silver bracelets enclosing her wrist.
“Is he what you expected?”
“Nobody’s ever what you really expect.” Venus sighed, smiling wistfully. “I guess he’s okay.”
“Just okay?”
“The thing is, Ron, after Cooper…”
“Oh, you mean Cooper’s reputation was actually true?”
She laughed softly. “Cooper was the best lover I ever had. I’ll have to go a long way to find another as good as he was.”
“Ah…” Ron said. “If only he’d kept it in his pants.”
“Yeah,” Venus agreed, going for the joke. “Every time he unzipped ’em—his brains fell out!”
They broke up laughing.
“About this Anthony…” Ron ventured.
Venus grinned. “You’re such a slut!”
“Takes one to know one.”
“I think it’s coffee at my house, right?”
“Well…if you insist.”
30
ABE PANTHER HAD NOT LEFT HIS CRUMBLING old mansion for over ten years, ever since a major stroke had forced him out of the day-to-day machinations of the film business. When he’d sold his studio to Lucky, he’d been convinced it would be hers until his death, and long after that. The news of somebody else taking over Panther had infuriated him, especially if it was true that his thieving grandson-in-law, Mickey Stolli, was being reinstated as studio head.
Before Lucky arrived, he’d called up his granddaughter, Abigaile, to find out what was going on. Abigaile was a true Hollywood princess, pushy and grasping; she lived for entertaining and huge parties.
After Abe had sold his studio to Lucky, a bitter Abigaile hadn’t spoken to him for a while. It was only when Mickey was appointed the head of Orpheus that Abigaile had finally made peace with her grandfather.
Now he was on the phone, attempting to elicit information.
Abigaile was uncooperative. “There’ll be an announcement in the trades,” she said crisply, unwilling to reveal more.
“I’m sure there will,” Abe replied sternly. “However, I wish to know what’s taking place now.”
“It’s confidential information,” Abigaile said, still miffed with her grandfather for marrying his longtime companion, the obscure Swedish actress Inga Irving. “Mickey will kill me if I tell anybody.”
“I’m not anybody,” Abe reminded her gruffly. “I’m your grandfather.”
“I’ll speak to Mickey and call you later.”
Abe was sitting out on his terrace, puffing on a large Havana cigar, when Lucky arrived. She kissed him on both cheeks, marveling at the tenacity of the old man.
“Sit down, girlie,” he said, repeating his conversation with Abigaile.
“Typical,” Lucky said, lighting a cigarette.
“Who betrayed you?” Abe asked, leaning toward her, his less-than-white dentures clenched tightly together.
“Morton Sharkey,” she said, expelling a thin stream of smoke. “I intend to find out why.”
“It seems inconceivable this could have happened without your knowing,” Abe said, unclenching his teeth to puff on his cigar. Their smoke intermingled mid-air.
“Not really,” Lucky said. “It was all done secretly. They called a board meeting, and failed to notify me.”
“Nobody alerted you?”
“They wanted me out, Abe,” she said forcefully. “The last thing they’d do is warn me.”
“Right, right,” he muttered.
“Why did I allow Morton to talk me into selling off so much of my stock?” she fretted. “What’s wrong with me? I should have kept fifty-one percent to protect myself.”
“Why didn’t you?” Abe asked, squinting at her.
“Because I needed the cash flow, and I trusted Morton.”
“Never trust a lawyer.”
“Don’t make it worse,” she snapped. “I’m burning up.”
“Do you have a plan, girlie?”
She got up, pacing around the flower-bordered terrace. “I’m getting Panther back. You’ll see. I’m doing it for both of us.”
Abe cackled. “That’s
the spirit,” he said, puffing on his large Havana. “If anyone can get ’em, my buck’s on you!”
Inga Irving emerged from the house, greeting Lucky curtly. Inga—once a great beauty—was a big-boned woman in her late fifties, with a broad face of discontent. Long ago, when Abe was the Hollywood tycoon to beat all Hollywood tycoons, he’d brought her to Hollywood from her native Sweden in the hope of making her a movie star. It hadn’t happened. Inga remained forever sour about her lack of success. Two years ago Abe had finally married her. It had not put a smile on her face.
“Lucky,” Inga said, nodding in her usual haughty manner.
“Inga,” Lucky responded, used to the Swedish woman’s moody demeanor.
“Time for your nap, Abe,” Inga announced in a no-nonsense voice.
“Can’t you see I’m visiting with Lucky?” Abe said crossly, stabbing his cigar in her direction.
“She’ll have to come back another time,” Inga said with a stern expression.
Abe continued to object, but Inga was having none of it. His ninety-year-old balls were firmly in her pocket, and that’s exactly where they were staying.
“It’s okay, Abe,” Lucky said, kissing him on the cheek. “I’ve got to go anyway.”
A flicker of triumph crossed Inga’s face. She’d finally found a role she could excel at. Keeper of the once great Abe Panther.
Lucky got in her car and drove home. She had work to do.
“How stupid can you get!” Alex yelled over the phone.
“I’m sorry,” France said, apologizing for the third time.
“Sorry? How could the wrong fucking note and the wrong fucking flowers go to the wrong person?” he screamed. “I went to the trouble of writing that note myself, France. What are you—a moron?”
“I’m sorry, Alex,” she repeated yet again, holding the phone away from her ear.
He wondered if she’d done it purposely—even though their romance was long past, Alex knew that both she and Lili were still very possessive of him. They’d obviously assumed he’d spent the night with Lucky, and now they’d plotted to make sure she received the wrong message. Loyalty and jealousy did not mix.