Chances

by Jackie Collins

  “Yeh?” He was not about to be intimidated. “Whatcha want me t’do, go or stay?”

  “I suppose you had better stay, now that you are here.”

  “Gee! There’s nothin’ like a real hot welcome!”

  She smiled, giving a fascinating tilt to her turned-down mouth. He swaggered over to a chair and sat down.

  “Do sit down, Mr. Santangelo,” she murmured.

  “You can call me Gino.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  They regarded each other warily.

  She looked older than she had in the dim lights of Fat Larry’s, but still a knockout in a short white wraparound skirt revealing long silken legs that he could imagine wrapped around his waist. And a soft blouse with those nipples on show, pointing through for all to see….

  “Hey,” he said quickly. “Ya wanted t’see me ’bout some business?”

  She nodded, wondering who on earth had chosen the preposterous outfit he had on. It didn’t hide the fact that she had been right—he was an extremely attractive young man. “Yes, Mr. Santangelo—”

  “Gino,” he interrupted.

  “Gino. I did think that perhaps we might be able to do business together.” She crossed her legs.

  Gino’s eyes followed the movement.

  She caught him watching. He didn’t look away.

  She uncrossed her legs. “Some tea, Mr. San—Gino?”

  “Yeh.”

  She rang a bell on the table beside her chair. It was funny, really. Here she was—Clementine Duke, thirty-seven years old, experienced in the ways of the world, rich, a social lioness, married to a billionaire—here she was totally unnerved by some street kid. Good God! He couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty.

  She had thought about him on and off for weeks, returned to Fat Larry’s on countless occasions. He had never been there, damn it. At last she had swallowed her pride and told Fat Larry to have Gino Santangelo call her. “What business is he in?” she had casually inquired.

  “Bootleg,” Fat Larry replied.

  Good. They could indeed do business.

  “How is your fiancée?” she asked Gino politely.

  “She’s O.K. Why?”

  “I just wondered when you would be going to San Francisco.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Not for a while. Got too many things to take care of here. I… uh, postponed the wedding.”

  Clementine nodded. “You are much too young to get married.”

  “Y’think so?”

  “Yes. I do. Why you can’t be more than—”

  “Twenty-two. How old are you?”

  “Oh!” Ridiculous! She could feel herself blushing. “A gentleman never asks a lady’s age.”

  “Yeh? Well, I never said I was no gentleman.”

  She struggled to regain her composure. “Perhaps you should start trying to behave like one.”

  “Yeh?” His eyes held hers mockingly. “Why?”

  The butler returned at that moment with a silver tray. He placed it carefully on the table beside Mrs. Duke.

  “Davies asked me to remind you, madam, that you have a one-fifteen luncheon appointment,” he murmured respectfully.

  “Thank you, Scott.”

  The butler retreated once again, and Clementine swiveled in her chair and began to pour the tea. “I would offer you something stronger,” she said, “but isn’t that your line of business?”

  “Who told y’that?”

  “Oh, it’s quite all right, I’m not the police or FBI or anything.”

  “Funny. I had y’figured for J. Edgar Hoover under the skirt.”

  “Hmmm…. A comedian.”

  “I like to make ’em laugh.”

  “In that suit you should have no trouble at all.”

  He glared at her. “Wassamatter with this suit?”

  She realized she had hurt his feelings and said gently, “Isn’t it a little loud?”

  What did she know? Dumb broad. He laughed quickly to show her that criticism had no effect on him whatsoever. “So what if it’s loud? I like it that way. Lets people know I’m around.”

  “I should think they would know that anyway.” She handed him a cup of tea. “Now, Gino. Let’s get down to business.”

  His eyes swept over her. “That’s why I’m here—lady.” Rich bitch. She wasn’t going to get the better of him.

  “My husband and I do a lot of entertaining. Here”—she gestured vaguely around the room—”but mostly on our estate in Westchester.”

  He nodded. The dame was definitely loaded.

  “Obviously our guests like to indulge themselves.”

  Obviously. He swallowed a coarse laugh.

  “Good food, music, dancing”—she paused meaningfully—”and naturally fine liquor.”

  Naturally. What else for Mr. and Mrs. Duke?

  “I don’t mind telling you that in the past we have had some… unfortunate experiences. Bathtub gin, watered-down whiskey, and stuff that I think you would probably call bootleg hooch. God knows how we survived some of the… poison.”

  “But y’did.”

  “You can see that.” She stood up and smoothed her skirt down. “Mr. Santangelo. Gino. Would you be interested in supplying us on a permanent basis?”

  “Hey—” he began.

  “Oh, nothing petty,” she interrupted. “At least twenty-four cases a month. And naturally, if the quality is first class, top prices.” She paced around the room, and his eyes followed her legs. “I know of course that is probably a small order as far as you are concerned, but I would deem it a great favor. And I am sure if there is anything my husband can do for you in return—”

  “What does Mr. Duke do?”

  “Senator Duke. Didn’t I tell you?”

  Gino swallowed hard. Senator Duke. Jeeze. He had fallen right into it. “Hey,” he said quickly, “the booze I get is the very best—finest stuff y’can get hold of. It would be—er, my pleasure to supply you and—er, the Senator.”

  She clapped her hands together, a childlike gesture that was out of character with the rest of her demeanor. “Oh, good! I am pleased.”

  He stood up and she walked toward him. With the spiky high heels she was wearing they were about the same height. She stood a few inches away from him. “I think we can both help each other,” she said quietly, her green eyes boring into him.

  “Yeh,” he replied, unsure if she was making a pass or what. He wouldn’t have minded a bit. She was one hot classy piece.

  She turned away from him abruptly, walked back to her chair, and sat down. “This weekend,” she said, “we are having a house party. I think we will need two cases of scotch, champagne, gin, brandy—”

  “Hang on,” he interrupted. “Write down what y’want, I’ll see y’get it.”

  “Of course, I’ll do that now.” She took a pad and pencil from the table and scribbled out her requirements, then tore off the piece of paper, got up, walked toward him, and handed him the paper. “This is the address—if you could arrange delivery sometime on Saturday.”

  He checked out the paper. “You ain’t settin’ me up for a bust?”

  She laughed. “How could you even imagine such a thing?”

  “I got a good imagination. So you better imagine this. Anyone sets Gino Santangelo up gets their neck in a sling. You get my meanin’?”

  “Oh, yes, I get your meaning.”

  He had a strong suspicion she was mocking him again. “I gotta go,” he said roughly.

  She glanced at the clock. “So do I.”

  “Well”—he flexed his arms—”I guess we’re in business.”

  “Yes. I guess we are.”

  “What about payment?”

  She licked her shiny thin lips. “I thought that you might like to attend our Saturday-night party. It should be amusing. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

  Was she nuts? Asking him to her party with her old man a Senator and all?

  “Yeh. Sure. I’d like that.”


  “The Westchester house. Eight o’clock. And if you don’t feel like driving back, we have plenty of guest rooms.”

  He nodded. Jeeze! He was going to a party with a whole load of big shots. Him. Gino Santangelo.

  “By the way,” she continued, “it’s evening dress, of course. You do have a tuxedo, don’t you?”

  He nodded. Have one? He didn’t even know what it was.

  She smiled. “See you on Saturday, then.” She wrinkled her patrician nose. “Do you smell… something nasty?”

  He grinned. “Yeh. Dog shit. I stepped in it outside the house. Wassamatta? You thought it was me?”

  “Of course not.” She looked embarrassed. “I thought Scott might have been feeding the plants with a new… er, chemical.”

  His grin widened. “Naw. It’s dog shit. But y’know what they say.” He winked. “Step in shit an’ you’ll never be unlucky. I guess it’s a good sign for us, Mrs. D.”

  “Call me Clementine.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Gino went off to meet with Aldo, a bounce in his step.

  “Ya heard about the fire?” Aldo asked.

  “Where?”

  “Over on Catto’s block. His whole family got wiped out.”

  He wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “What?”

  “Yeah. They was trapped. Only Catto an’ his old man’s O.K., ’cause they was out on the garbage truck early. Terrible, ain’t it?”

  “You seen Catto?”

  “Naw.”

  “I’m goin’ over there.” Gino sloped off down the street, thinking of Catto. He hadn’t seen him in nearly a year, but what did that matter when something like this happened?

  The fire engines were still in the street outside the smoking houses. The sidewalk was awash with water and broken glass. People sat around in doorways, on steps, in their nightclothes. The women sobbed silently, the men blankly tried to comfort them.

  Gino dug his hands deep into the pockets of his camel’s-hair coat and looked around awkwardly for Catto.

  “Mr. Santangelo. ’Scuse me, Mr. Santangelo.” Someone was pulling excitedly on his arm. He turned to confront Jacob Cohen, the boy he had seen about Mr. Pulaski.

  “Yeh? What?” He shook his arm free.

  “Ya shoulda seen the flames!” Jacob exclaimed, screwing up his dirt-blackened face. “They was shootin’ so high up in the sky I thought the whole city’d burn.”

  “How’d you get out?”

  “I jumped.”

  “Your family?”

  “All gone.”

  The boy didn’t seem too wiped out. He scratched his nose. “I’ll be fifteen next week. I don’t want ’em sendin’ me to no home. I can look after myself.”

  Gino sighed. The boy reminded him of himself at that age. Sharp as a rat. “Whatcha want, Jacob?”

  “Fifty bucks. Enough so I can get out of here an’ get myself set up in a room. I’ll be all right alone. I don’t need no one.”

  “You’ll be looked after in a home. They’ll let you out when you’re sixteen.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Mr. Santangelo. Y’know I ain’t ready for no boys school. Lend me the money an’ I’ll pay ya back good. Give me a coupla months—you’ll get it back with interest.”

  Gino frowned. “I don’t know…. ”

  Jacob cocked his head to one side. “Mr. Santangelo. A nice Jewish boy like myself. Would I ever let ya down?”

  Gino dug in his pocket, found his bankroll, and peeled off five twenties. “Here’s a hundred. I’ll give you six months. Don’t forget the interest.”

  Jacob could not believe his luck. He grabbed the money and was about to run when Gino stopped him. “You know the Bonnio family?”

  “Sure.”

  “You seen Catto?”

  “Yeah. His old man hadda heart attack when he heard. They took him over to the hospital. Catto went too.”

  Gino flicked another twenty off his bankroll and tucked it into Jacob’s belt. “For you, kid. No interest.”

  “Gee, thanks!”

  Gino watched him rush off and wondered what would happen to him. But it wasn’t his problem. He turned on his heel and headed for the hospital.

  Cindy was bored. She had cleaned and tidied the small apartment—not too thoroughly, true. But what was she, a maid? Then she had passed the time by trying on an outfit or two and admiring herself in the mirror.

  She had no false modesty. She was exceptionally pretty, and men had always gone for her. All she had to do was give them the look. Wide baby-blue eyes. Pouty rosebud lips. Stick those bouncing little titties straight out in front, and—voilà!—she was away and running.

  Men were chumps. Girls were smart.

  Cindy knew a thing or two about life.

  She pirouetted in front of the mirror and decided she should be a movie star. She was certainly as pretty as most of them.

  Bored with her image, she flopped down on the bed. She wouldn’t mind being a spy, a glamorous seductive spy hopping from one hot bed to another. Anything that involved screwing, really.

  She giggled aloud. Oh how she lovvvved to make love.

  She began to feel sexy, a hot warm feeling that started in her toes and worked its way up to the top of her marcelled head. When she put her hand between her legs, the feeling intensified.

  She knew what she wanted to do next, and there was no one around to stop her. When she had lived with Pinky, satisfying herself had become a daily event. He had never cared about a woman’s feelings. He had just got it out and shoved it in.

  Laughter convulsed her body as she quickly took off her clothes. Briefly she wished Gino was home. He was the best. He really knew what to do with every bit of his equipment.

  Sucker! Where was he when she needed him? This was the first time she had had to resort to her little game since being with him.

  Both her hands were between her legs now, and she stopped thinking about Pinky and Gino and the whole damn lot of them. Who needed men anyway? Who needed the suckers…?

  Gino bumped into Catto leaving the hospital and ran toward him. He attempted to hug his friend, but Catto shrugged him away.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Your pop gonna make it?”

  Catto’s face was impassive. “He died,” he said vacantly.

  “Died?” Gino echoed in disbelief. “But your old man was strong as an ox.”

  Catto started to walk. Gino bobbed along beside him. He didn’t know what to say.

  They made a strange couple: Catto, tall and thin in his patched Levi’s and shabby jacket; Gino, street sharp in his expensive coat.

  “Whatcha gonna do?” he asked anxiously.

  Catto didn’t reply.

  “You got money?” Stupid question. How could Catto have any money when he was still working the garbage trucks? Christ! He still stunk, too. “Tell ya what, whyn’t ya come back to my place? I got a nice little apartment in the Forties.”

  Catto shook his head.

  “Why not? You got nowhere else t’go.”

  “How do you know that?” Catto said sharply. “I ain’t seen you in months. How do you know anything about me?”

  “’Cause we’re friends—” Gino began.

  “Friends, shit! You hang around with Pinky, you ain’t no friend of mine.”

  “I’m through with Pinky. You was right about him.”

  “Sure. Now you got other hired killers to work for you.”

  Gino laughed. “Hired killers! Your’re talkin’ through your ass.”

  “Guy my sister was gonna marry got shot up by a gang bringin’ booze inta the city. What difference whether it was your gang or not? You all carry. I don’t want any part of you.”

  Gino was hurt. “Hey,” he began.

  “You got a gun on you? You carryin’ under that nice smart overcoat?”

  “Yeh. I got a piece, but I ain’t never used it….” And then he remembered that he had. Chicago. And why the hell was he trying to explain himself to Catto anyway? “Jeeze!” he excl
aimed roughly. “I came to find you ’cause I heard what happened. I don’t need your fuckin’ insults. I thought we was friends from way back. I’m sorry I bothered.” He stopped in the street, pulled the collar of his coat up, smoothed down his hair, and turned in the other direction.

  “Hey, Gino… I’m sorry.” Catto came after him. “I ’preciate your comin’ to find me.”

  They stood in the street and faced each other.

  “Yeh, well….” Gino kicked at the pavement. “What are y’gonna do?”

  “Get on a train. Get out of here. I’m goin’ the first place the train takes me.”

  “You need money?”

  “Naw.” Catto patted his pocket. “I got enough.” He had exactly fifteen dollars and twenty-two cents.

  “Nothin’ I can do, then?”

  “There is somethin’….”

  “Name it.”

  “If you could arrange for them to be buried properly…”

  “It’s done.”

  “Thanks, Gino.”

  “Aw, forget it.” He shuffled his feet and got a whiff of dog shit. “Well, I’ll be seein’ you….”

  “Sure thing.” Catto turned and hurried off down the street.

  Gino watched him go, and when his friend was out of sight he made his way over to Fat Larry’s, sat in the front, and ordered a double dish of chocolate ice cream with butterscotch sauce.

  He felt a shadow loom over him. Slowly he glanced up. Pinky Banana stood there, flanked on either side by greasy henchmen.

  “How y’doin’, Pinky?” he asked easily.

  “Like you should friggin’ care.” Pinky scowled. “I hear ya got my cunt shacked up with ya.”

  Gino grinned. “Didn’t know y’had one. But if y’say so…”

  Pinky colored angrily. “Prick! Ya think y’so goddamn friggin’ smart. But y’ain’t gonna get away with it.”

  Gino stood up. “Who’s gonna stop me?” he said coldly.

  Pinky narrowed his eyes. “One dark night—”

  “Yeh. I’m shakin’ in my boots.” He pushed his way past Pinky and his henchmen. What the fuck was he doing in the old neighborhood anyway? It stunk.

  “Honey?” said Cindy, primping at her hair in the mirror.

  “Yeh,” replied Gino, struggling with his wing collar and bow tie.