Chances

by Jackie Collins

  “Yeh?” Gino asked anxiously, balling up his right fist and punching it impatiently into the palm of his left hand.

  “I think…”—Mr. Pulaski felt a sharp pain and his eyes glazed over “… I thi…” The pain was wracking his frail old body. He coughed and was unaware of the blood that came dribbling unexpectedly out of his mouth and onto his chin. He gazed unseeingly at Gino and thought briefly of his dear departed wife. He began to call her name aloud, but as he did so the pain exploded across his chest and he slumped down in his chair without finishing the word.

  Gino watched in horror. “Mr. Pulaski! Pops! Wassamatter?” He grabbed him by the shoulder. “Wake up, old man! Wake up!”

  He leaned down and peered at Mr. Pulaski’s face. The eyes were open, as was the mouth. But it was the face of death.

  “Oh, no!” Gino mumbled. “Oh, Jesus Christ—no.”

  He knelt down beside the old man and cradled his head. For the first time in years he was crying. Mr. Pulaski. Nice old man. Never did anyone harm. So what if he got a few kicks out of flashing. So what?

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and stood up. He looked around the old man’s room.

  Leonora would never meet the composer of the love letters she had received every week for a year. Even more important, Mr. Pulaski would never meet Leonora.

  “Goddamn it, pops,” Gino muttered aloud, “couldn’t you have waited?”

  Breakfast was at seven o’clock in the morning in the Beekman Place household: hot Scottish oatmeal, thick sweet cocoa, and large chunks of bread.

  Costa ate frugally. Mrs. Lanza was not impressed. “A hearty breakfast sets a person on the right road for a healthy day,” she admonished. “The good doctor always tells his patients that, don’t you, dear?”

  By 8 A.M. Costa was out of the house. Free at last. He took a big deep breath as he walked along the street. New York smelled different from San Francisco. The air was crisper, more smoky. He knew the city had once been his home, but he had conveniently blanked out all memories of it. As far as he was concerned, his life had started the day Franklin Zennocotti had taken him to San Francisco. He refused to think of events before that. He only knew that he owed his life to Gino Santangelo. Without him, he would have been finished off at the Protectory.

  Protectory. That was a laugh….

  Gino slept fitfully, huddled beneath the bed covers. He usually slept well, but sometimes he dreamed all night long—and it had been one of those nights.

  The knocking on his door took some time to get through to him, and when it did, and he struggled to look at his watch, he wasn’t pleased. Eight thirty in the morning! “Yeh?” he yelled gruffly.

  Costa detected the annoyance in Gino’s voice and wondered if he should come back later. But after all, he had come all the way to New York to tell Gino something, and to go away would only be putting off the moment of truth. “It’s me, Costa Zennocotti,” he shouted through the closed door.

  “Costa? What the heck you doin’ here?”

  Gino opened up the door, slapped his friend on the shoulder, and dragged him into the small untidy room. “Hey,” he exclaimed, “anyone else I’d’ve mashed their face, wakin’ me up at this time of the mornin’. It’s good t’see ya. Whyn’t y’tell me y’was comin’?”

  Costa had thought a hundred times of the best way to tell his friend. Now all his thoughts were jumbled and he knew that the only way to give it to Gino was straight.

  “It’s about Leonora,” he blurted out quickly. “I didn’t want you to get the news in a letter.”

  “What news?” The color drained from Gino’s face.

  “She got married,” Costa said quietly. “She married someone else.”

  Wednesday, July 13, 1977

  New York and Philadelphia

  “My mouth feels like a couple of bums spent the night there,” groaned Lucky. “How long have we been here?”

  Steven brought his watch up very close to his eyes and squinted at the luminous dial. “Five hours, ten minutes, and forty-nine seconds.”

  “It seems like five months! I’ve never been so uncomfortable and disoriented in my whole goddamn life!”

  “I keep on telling you, just relax. That’s all you can do.”

  “I seem to remember,” she replied coldly, “seeing movies where people were trapped in an elevator, and they didn’t just sit there doing nothing.”

  “Oh?” Steven said, equally coldly. “And what did they do?”

  “Jesus! How should I know?”

  “Well, you mentioned it.”

  “I mentioned it because I thought that you might come up with an answer. I should have known better.”

  “You saw the movies, not me.”

  “Are you always this helpful?”

  He was indignant. “What the hell do you want me to do, for crissake?”

  “Naughty, naughty! Mustn’t start using bad language!”

  He could easily have strangled her. Put his big strong hands around what he firmly imagined was a chicken neck and squeezed and squeezed until all the smart-ass cracks came vomiting out of her.

  “I remember!” she said brightly. “Hotel.” An old movie on TV a few months ago. Rod something or other opened the top of the elevator and climbed up the cable?

  “Forget it,” he growled. “If you think I’m getting out of this elevator forty-something stories up, you’ve got a good case.”

  Her voice was scornful. “No balls, huh?”

  “Lady, I don’t need ’em. You’ve got enough for both of us!”

  Costa slammed the phone down. Dario. Always in trouble. Always. Such a nice-looking boy, blond and slim and clean-cut. Such a pervert.

  If Gino were to ever find out the truth about his only son…

  Costa swore softly to himself. It took a lot to make him swear, but you could guarantee on Dario’s doing it every time.

  He thought for a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed quickly. A woman’s voice answered. “Ruth, my dear,” he said smoothly, “this is Costa Zennocotti. How are you?”

  Ruth began a long complaint about the blackout. He interrupted her. “Is Sal there?”

  “Just a minute.”

  Sal got on the phone. “What can I do for you, Mr. Zennocotti?”

  Costa gave Dario’s address. “Get there pronto,” he urged. “You’ll have to break in; there’s a problem with the keys. Remove the obstruction from the premises and deal with the matter as you see fit. Call me tomorrow re payment.” He put the phone down. Dario was lucky. Sal was an expert at dealing with difficult situations. Of course, it might already be too late. But would Dario really be missed?

  Only by Gino.

  Perhaps.

  “Mothafucka!” screamed the boy triumphantly as he smashed his way through the bedroom door with a cast-iron art deco figure he had found in the bathroom. “Where are ya, mothafucka?” His face twitched as his eyes searched the gloom of the living room looking for Dario. “Where are ya, cunt?” he screamed. “Hidin’ ain’t gonna save your faggot ass!”

  Dario crouched silently in the kitchen, a carving knife held straight out in front of him.

  “Mothafucka!” screamed the boy. “I’m gonna get ya!”

  Carrie walked through the Harlem streets in a daze. It seemed that every resident on every block had come out to see what they could grab. They were smashing shop windows and hauling off anything in sight. Two men staggered past carrying an oak chest between them for all the world like a couple of moving men. A young boy staggered behind with a TV. Transistor radios and tape machines blared out rock music.

  Nobody took any notice of her now. She was just another black face, with hair hanging wildly, makeup smudged, blood dripping from her torn earlobes.

  She knew what she must look like, but it didn’t matter. Anger was surging through her body now, a hot uncontrollable anger that drove her quickly through the streets searching for the rendezvous.

  Life had been so sweet up until
two days previously. Then the phone call. The muffled voice saying that if she knew what was good for her she would be outside the meat market on West 125th Street at nine thirty Wednesday night.

  “Who is this?” she had asked, her voice no more than a nervous whisper, because Elliott was in the next room.

  “If you don’t want your past dragged up, be there,” the muffled voice insisted. Then the line had gone dead. She had been unable to ascertain whether the voice had belonged to a man or a woman.

  Wildly she hurried along the street. Somewhere, someone was waiting for her. She had to find out who it was.

  Had to….

  The large jet landed smoothly. As soon as it had taxied to a stop, the woman sitting beside Gino changed. She snatched her hand away from his as though he had some disease and snapped arrogant fingers for the stewardess. “My mink,” she demanded imperiously.

  The girl bobbed her head. “Coming right away, ma’am.” She leaned across. “Do you have transportation to New York, Mr. Santangelo?”

  “Nope,” Gino replied. “I hardly expected to land up in Philly.” The girl giggled. “I know. Would you believe it?”

  He unfastened his seat belt. “Can you arrange a car for me?”

  “Sure. Although if you’re staying in a hotel in New York, you might be better off spending the night in Philadelphia—apparently the whole of New York City is without power, and they just don’t know how long it will last.”

  He thought for a moment. He had a suite booked at the Pierre, but the stewardess was right; if the city had no electricity, it would be foolish to go there. “Can you recommend a hotel?”

  The girl smiled. “Certainly, Mr. Santangelo. I might even stay over myself.”

  Lucky had fallen into a light sleep. Steven was relieved. Without her constant complaints, being suspended in the black womblike box wasn’t that bad. Rather relaxing, really. Some people even paid for this kind of therapy.

  Lucky mumbled something incoherent in her sleep.

  He shouldn’t really blame her for being rude and unpleasant. She was probably frightened.

  Ha! He could not imagine a woman with a mouth like hers being frightened of anything.

  “Wassamatta?” she gurgled, awakening with a start and rubbing her eyes. “Jesus H. Christ. We’re not still here, are we?”

  “We sure are.”

  “I’m really starting to get pissed off.”

  She was getting pissed off. As though it was his fault.

  “I gotta pee.” She added sourly, “Like now.”

  “I’m sorry,” he replied sarcastically, “but when they designed this elevator they seemed to have forgotten about supplying toilet facilities.”

  “You’re such a fucking smart-ass.”

  He shut up. Let her ramble on to herself. The heat was becoming unbearable. The air conditioning had shut off when the power went, and now—hours later—the elevator was like a furnace. He had stripped down to his shorts, but even so his body was covered with a thick film of sweat as though he had been sitting in a sauna.

  He remembered a sauna with Zizi on their honeymoon. Foxy little Zizi. Five foot two inches of dynamic bad woman. His mother had certainly been right about her.

  “Oooops!” exclaimed Lucky. “I haven’t peed my pants since I was two years old!”

  “Christ!”

  “Don’t get uptight, it’ll be your turn next!”

  Dario could hear the boy rampaging through the apartment, screaming obscenities and smashing the furniture as he searched.

  His heart was beating wildly. What had he done that was so terrible? He was gay. So what? It wasn’t a crime, was it? He had always treated his pickups well. Always paid them if they looked like they wanted money.

  Jesus! Just because he was Gino fucking Santangelo’s son, his whole adult life had been one big lie. He shuddered and closed his eyes tight. Any second the boy would find him, and then maybe it would be all over.

  Carrie could not locate the meat market on West 125th Street. She wandered up and down with the crowd as they surged about, allowing herself to be pushed and jostled. If only she knew who she was looking for.

  “It’s Christmastime, it’s Christmastime!” screeched a scraggy woman as she rushed past.

  Carrie stepped into the gutter to avoid two boys intent on wrenching the steel grilles from the front of a jewelry store. Next to them kids smashed the plate-glass windows of an appliance store, and people rushed in through the shattered windows scooping up everything in sight. “Let’s burn the place down,” shrieked a teenage girl to her boyfriend. The crowd took up the chant. “Burn! Burn! Burn!”

  Carrie hurried on. In fifty years nothing had changed. Harlem was still crawling with rats.

  She saw a meat market then. Surely she must have passed it before? The place was jammed with people filling their shopping bags with steaks, chickens, anything they could lay their hands on.

  She looked around. There was nobody standing outside waiting for her. Again she thought, Who am I looking for?

  There was only one way to find out. Wait. And see who turned up.

  “How old are you, Jill?” Gino inquired.

  “Twenty-two,” the pretty stewardess replied, standing beside the bed minus her clothes.

  “Twenty-two, huh?”

  “Twenty-two and vereeee experienced.” She giggled.

  “I bet,” he said. They had been in the hotel bedroom exactly five minutes, and already she was stripped and ready for action as though it was the most natural thing in the world. For her it probably was. But where had all the romance gone?

  He was tired, his belly was full, his ulcer was acting up, and sleep was all he desired.

  The whole thing had been her idea. “I’ll come upstairs and check out your room,” she had insisted after dinner.

  As soon as they entered the suite, she had darted into the bedroom and emerged totally naked. Not a bad body. He had seen better, he had seen worse. Slightly too skinny for his tastes. “Why does a nice young girl like you want to go to bed with an old man like me, huh?” he stalled.

  “Mr. Santangelo! What a question! Why, you’re famous!”

  He wondered how insulted she’d be if he told her he didn’t want her.

  “Now come along,” she said, in her best stewardess voice. “Let’s get your pants off.”

  “I’m sixty-nine years old,” he said, hoping to stall her, and also knocking two years off his age because he couldn’t willingly admit to being over seventy.

  “My favorite number!” she exclaimed, fiddling with his pants, pulling the zipper down, and easing them off.

  He achieved a halfhearted erection. He hadn’t gotten laid in weeks. Somehow, at seventy-one, it didn’t seem to matter that much any more. Not that he couldn’t get it up whenever he wanted. It was just that it took someone special to make him really feel like sex nowadays.

  “Wow!” she exclaimed. “You’re big!”

  He glanced down. Who was she kidding? It wasn’t even at half mast.

  “Shall I suck you?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  What was he catering to this bimbo for? He pulled his pants back up.

  “Why are you doing that?” she asked, alarmed.

  “Because I want to.”

  “Oh, come on. Of course you don’t. Just give me five minutes and I’ll see you’re flying!”

  “I have a daughter five years older than you.”

  “So what?”

  “So I don’t want to do it. All right?”

  She couldn’t quite make up her mind whether to be hurt or angry. Flouncing into the bathroom, she emerged in less than a minute fully dressed in her uniform. “Mr. Santangelo,” she informed him coldly, “you are a cunt tease!” And with that she marched to the door and let herself out.

  Gino reached for a cigar. Couldn’t win ’em all.

  Gino

  1928

  Gino took the news of Leonora’s marriage badly. He could not bring himself to b
elieve it. Refused to believe it. Costa had to repeat the facts over and over until gradually the news began to sink in.

  When he realized it was true he went screaming mad. Costa had never seen anything like it before. His friend turned into a wild animal, pacing the room, cursing, pounding the walls with his fists, and finally sobbing with such a ferocity that Costa felt embarrassed to be witnessing it.

  He wondered if he should leave. Gino was quite oblivious to any other presence, but Costa somehow felt it would be best to stay. It was almost as if he’d told him Leonora was dead.

  And that was exactly how Gino felt. Leonora had betrayed him—his Leonora. It would be better if she had been hit by a trolley car, or drowned, or been stricken with some deadly disease. That he could have understood. But this? It was beyond belief.

  It took him an hour before he could even begin to pull himself together. Then, gradually, he managed to calm down. He felt empty, used—as if he had received a deadening blow to the stomach.

  Costa sat quietly in the corner regarding him solemnly.

  Now it was Gino’s turn to be embarrassed. “Hey, kid,” he managed to say, “you came all this way just to tell me?”

  Costa nodded and produced the two letters he had saved from his pocket. “I took the liberty of opening these and keeping them. They arrived after she got married. I didn’t think—in the circumstances—you would want them delivered. I hope I did the right thing.”

  “Oh, yeh. You did the right thing.” He stuffed the letters in a drawer and with his back to Costa mumbled, “I guess y’must have read them.”

  “No.”

  He sighed. “Listen, I don’t care. Better you should have read Them….” His voice became hard. “Jeeze! I feel so fuckin’ dumb!” He rounded on Costa, his deadly black eyes wild again. “Who the fuck is the guy she married? Some rich prick your father found her?”

  “You’re right,” Costa lied. “His family has money. My parents are pleased with the match.”

  “And Leonora?”

  “She does what she is told to do.”