Chances

by Jackie Collins

  Henry sighed ecstatically.

  Alone in his luxurious apartment, Gino read through Senator Duke’s letters again. The man might be a financial genius, but he was also a prize fool.

  Twelve letters, written over a period of twelve weeks.

  Twelve damning, compromising letters written to Zefra Kincaid while Senator Oswald languished in southern France for an extended vacation after breaking his leg on a yacht outing.

  From the letters, Gino was able to piece together the whole story. Zefra Kincaid, a young boy the Senator had found in his nighttime travels through the dark world of the homosexual community. The boy—very young. The Senator—very rich.

  A weekly relationship had developed: a meeting in an indifferent hotel on the West Side where no questions were asked. A relationship that continued for three long years, the boy being fifteen years of age when it started.

  The Senator had quite obviously kept the boy. But when Zefra began to grow from boy to man, the Senator had tired of him.

  Gino could imagine the rest. Blackmail. The Senator had called upon Gino to do him a favor. And he had done just that.

  The double killing had not received much press. After all, the victims were black, certainly not headline material. NARCOTICS DOUBLE MURDER had been the heading to the short story. Gino sighed. No great loss to the community.

  He glanced at his watch and started a slow burn. It was nine o’clock and still no Cindy. He had phoned Clemmie’s but she wasn’t there. Vera had gotten on the phone and started to harangue him again about giving Paolo a job when he got out of jail. “He’ll need support,” she had wailed.

  Yeh. He’d give him support, all right. The same sort of support he had received as a kid.

  He got out of bed and went in the bathroom to study his face. Not a pretty sight. Doc Harrison had opened up the old scar and then stitched it neatly back together again. When the black thread came out it wouldn’t look too bad. Fade back to normal in no time, the doc had said.

  The scratches all over his face were fading too, although they still made a vicious pattern. He ran his hand through his black curly hair and narrowed his eyes. Christ! Stick him in a gangster movie now and he’d sure look the part. Move over, Cagney….

  He laughed aloud. He had no regrets. He was a born survivor.

  The Senator’s letters were in a neat pile on the bed. He picked them up and locked them in the safe. No way was good old Oswald getting them back. No way. They were his insurance policy against any more favors.

  Clementine smiled at the Beckers, waved to Bernard Dimes, and urgently whispered to Oswald for the tenth time that day, “Why do you think he’s avoiding us?”

  Oswald motioned to a waiter for a refill of his brandy. “I don’t know,” he hissed back.

  They were attending the opening night of Rodgers and Hart’s Babes in Arms, a new musical comedy, and they were socializing in the bar during intermission.

  It had not been an easy ten days. Gino had done the favor but had failed to contact them.

  “He had to take an unexpected trip,” Aldo informed the Senator.

  “Mr. Santangelo is away,” the maid at his apartment said.

  “How should I know where he is? I’m only his wife,” Cindy had sniffed.

  “He’ll have to come back eventually,” Clementine mused.

  “Of course he will,” Oswald agreed.

  “How could he put us through this?”

  “I don’t know, m’dear. It’s shocking.”

  “It certainly is.”

  Clementine thought about the loss of his body. His strong hands. His bleak eyes. The way he had of bringing her to a climax so exquisite, so—

  “Hiya!” Cindy stood before them, a vision in pink crepe de chine and dyed pink fox. Cindy wearing and flashing the famous Moufflin ruby.

  “G-G-Good evening, Clementine, Senator,” stammered Henry, cheeks glowing above a tight wing collar.

  Clementine looked from one to the other. Was the girl mad? Surely Gino would never let her get away with making a public fool of him?

  “Cindy.” She nodded coldly. “Henry.”

  “Wonderful show, ain’t it?” enthused Cindy, putting her hand to her face to make sure her ring was on show.

  “Wonderful,” replied Clementine dryly. “Do you have any news about Gino’s return?”

  Cindy grinned. Stuck-up Mrs. Duke having to ask her. She shrugged casually. “You know Gino. He comes an’ goes as he pleases. He’s probably shacked up with one of his broads!” How she enjoyed watching the grand old lady squirm.

  Clementine was furious. Little tramp. How would Cindy feel if she knew that the only reason Gino had married her in the first place was because she, Clementine, had insisted. Deliberately she turned her back.

  Cindy giggled and stage-whispered to Henry, “The old bag is jealous ’cause I’ve got you, toots.”

  Henry was immensely flattered. “Do you really th-th-think so?” he stammered.

  “Sure do!”

  Midnight came and went. No Cindy.

  Gino prowled around the apartment cursing. One A.M. TwoA.M. Three A.M. No Cindy.

  He fell asleep at last, his imagination running riot at the things he would do to her. No wife of his was going to get away with whoring around. He tossed and he turned, and woke occasionally to check the time. He dreamed about Leonora and Bee and Jake the Boy and Zefra Kincaid, and he awoke at seven o’clock with an ache in his gut, a pain in his shoulder, the stitches in his cheek pulling.

  The maid brought him black coffee, fresh orange juice, and the morning papers. He was lying in the lap of luxury, but he thought longingly of Bee’s shabby warm apartment, where breakfast was hot freshly baked rolls and milky tea. And reading matter was F. Scott Fitzgerald. Yeh. He had done a first at Bee’s. Read a book, The Great Gatsby, from cover to cover. And then again. Reading wasn’t half bad. He wondered why he’d never tried it before. He could identify with a guy like Gatsby, a loner, a figure of mystery.

  The telephone rang. Clementine’s voice, tight and worried. “Thank God you’re back.”

  Cindy and Henry argued.

  “But I w-w-want to come w-w-with you,” he insisted.

  “Nope.” She was firm.

  “Your h-husband doesn’t frighten me.”

  “Glad to hear it. But I can promise you he frightens a lot of people. He’s mean and rough and plays dirty.”

  “But C-C-Cindy…”

  She leaped out of bed and stretched athletically. “I can handle him, honeybunch. I can play just as dirty as he can.” Naked, she danced around the hotel bedroom, admiring her ring.

  Henry sat up in bed. “My mother can’t wait to meet you. I thought perhaps next weekend would be suitable.”

  She high-kicked, giving him a quick view of hidden glories. “Very suitable. This morning I tell Gino. This afternoon I move out. And a quick divorce will follow. I promise.”

  “G-G-Good,” he stammered. “Come back to b-bed, my darling. Just one more time before you g-go.”

  She giggled. Anyone would think a girl hadn’t dipped her head to him before. She jumped on the bed and pulled back the covers where his shaky erection awaited her. A most peculiar organ, actually. Very long and thin with no substance, no real hardness. Certainly not her fault. Lovingly she took him in her mouth.

  He groaned. “Oh C-C-Cindy…. Oh….”

  Thoughtfully Gino hung up the telephone. His black eyes burned as he picked up the newspaper and turned to the Walter Winchell gossip column.

  The item was there, just as Clementine had said it would be. In clear print. For all to see. And read. And snigger.

  Cindy Santangelo, wife of notorious club owner Gino the Ram Santangelo, was out on the town last night seeing the sights and opening night of Babes in Arms with Henry Moufflin, Jr.

  That’s all it said.

  That was enough.

  He threw the newspaper to the floor in a fury.

  At twelve noon Cindy arrived home.
She swept into the apartment tottering slightly on heels that were just that much too big for her. She was swathed in pale pink fox from head to toe.

  The maid greeted her with a nervous bob. “Mr. Santangelo is home, ma’am. He’s in the bedroom.”

  “Thank you,” Cindy said regally. “Take the rest of the day off.” She swayed into the bedroom, ready for the battle she was sure lay ahead. The sight of Gino brought her up short. “What in hell happened to you?”

  “I had a car accident.”

  “Bull!” She walked closer to the bed and peered at him. “You look horrible.”

  “You don’t look so hot yourself. Where have you been?”

  She shrugged off her fox coat. “Ha! He vanishes for ten days, and where have I been. You’ve got some nerve.” She flounced over to the dressing table, sat down, and carefully removed her fox hat.

  “Cindy,” he called, very softly, almost a whisper, “you read your daily papers?” He threw her the paper, which landed by her feet. It was folded and opened at Winchell’s column.

  She screwed up her face for a moment and thought about not picking the paper up. But curiosity got the better of her, and she plucked it from the floor.

  She read slowly, laboriously. Reading had never been one of her strong points. When she saw her name mentioned in Winchell’s column, a little smile flitted across her face. She was famous. Oh, boy, oh, boy!

  She finished reading and placed the newspaper carefully on her dressing table. Maybe she should start a scrapbook.

  Gino was infuriated by her attitude. “Well?” he demanded. “How you gonna explain that? And how you gonna explain where you were all night?”

  “With Henry,” she replied calmly, “and I’m gonna be with him again tonight.”

  He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “The fuck you are!”

  “The fuck I am! And you ain’t gonna stop me.”

  “Oh, no?” He began to climb out of bed.

  “Oh, no.” She stood and faced him brazenly, hands on hips, a sneer on her lips. “Not if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Huh?” He started to laugh. This broad was nuts. Who did she think she was playing with, for crissake? Smart-ass Cindy. Don’t fuck around with the big boys.

  “I’ve got plenty on you, Gino Santangelo,” she said. “P-L-E-N-T-Y.”

  “What the fuck you talkin’ about?”

  A triumphant shadow flickered across her face. “I have had you followed by a private detective. I know everything. Ha! A ten-day trip all the way to the Village and some dumb cunt. I have it all in writing. When we get our divorce you’d better be nice to me or I’ll take everything. You hear me?”

  His voice was deathly ice. “You… had… me… followed?”

  “I sure did,” she said jauntily. “I guess that puts me in the driver’s seat.” She paused for breath, then continued, “And another thing. Those federal tax agents bin sniffin’ around while you was gone. You don’t cooperate with me, honey, I’m gonna lead ’em to every bank in town an’ show ’em your safe deposit boxes. And the copies of the books I got.” She fluffed out her platinum-blond hair. “I want a divorce, Gino. I got the goods on you, so I don’t expect you to give me no trouble.”

  Carrie

  1938

  Carrie could hardly believe her luck. She had got a job in the chorus of Bernard Dimes’s new musical. It was the second time in her life he had been there just when she needed him.

  He told the Beckers she would be leaving and personally drove her to a small apartment in the Village that he had arranged for her to share with another girl.

  “Why are you doing all this for me?” she asked.

  “Because everybody deserves a break—and I have a feeling not too many have come your way.”

  She wanted to hug him. Instead she said, “I’ll do my best not to let you down.”

  That had been in December. It was now August, the show was a success, and Carrie was happy. She was working hard at a job she liked, and Goldie, the girl she shared the apartment with, was nice. The only subject they ever argued about was boyfriends. Goldie had plenty. Carrie wanted none.

  “You’re abnormal,” Goldie would joke. “How come you never thought of being a nun?”

  “I had a boyfriend once,” Carrie lied, “but he died.”

  Goldie was immediately sympathetic and left her alone for a while. But only for a while. It seemed that most of her dates had a friend who wanted fixing up, and Goldie was always trying to get her to come along. She always said no. Nightclubbing, jazz joints, and parties were events she steered well clear of. She was sure she could resist temptation, but being sure wasn’t enough….

  Every Saturday night Bernard Dimes turned up backstage for a short visit. He usually had an elegant woman on his arm, but that didn’t stop most of the girls in the show from being absolutely mad about him.

  Goldie adored him. “He’s the most attractive man I’ve ever seen!” She sighed. “So worldly. I wish he’d ask me out.”

  Carrie considered Goldie’s usual boyfriends, brawny muscular types all in their twenties. “He doesn’t seem your type,” she ventured.

  “That’s it,” Goldie enthused. “He’s different. Why, I bet even the way he makes love is different!”

  On his weekly visits to the theater he always had a kindly word for Carrie. How was she getting along? Was everything all right? He seemed to take an interest in every member of the company; that’s how he had known that Goldie was looking for a roommate.

  He frightened Carrie, in a way. He had so much authority. He was always the master of every situation. Mr. Bernard Dimes appeared to be in total control of his life.

  In her own mind she knew that she was thinking about him far too much. Was she—like all the other girls in the show—falling a little bit in love with him?

  Bernard Dimes, with his money and his style and his tall beautiful women. He would never desire her in a million years.

  Bernard Dimes was forty-five years old, unmarried, extremely successful, and a very lonely man indeed. Oh, he had many acquaintances, but few people he could term as real friends. He enjoyed the occasional sexual liaison, but his standards were exceptionally high and few women could maintain his interest.

  Beautiful women were important to him. If they were witty and intelligent that was an extra plus, because Bernard had found that having an elegant companion was a definite asset when raising money for a new production. He had a stable of females he could call upon for various events. Each one of them adored him. And marriage was on their minds. Bernard had never even considered the possibility. After all, what conceivable advantages could marriage bring him? He had the best of their services as it was.

  Then Carrie came into his life: a black waif with a face of such exotic unusualness, deep expressive eyes, and jet black silken hair that a man could imagine sweeping over his chest….

  At first he had wondered where he had seen her before. Just a casual interest. Then, on talking to her, the strangest sensation. He wanted to help her….

  And then the rush of remembrance. She was the girl from Clementine Duke’s party, the pathetic drugged creature who had collapsed in the middle of her degrading dance.

  He had not mentioned his memory of that occasion for fear of embarrassing her. But when he checked with Esther Becker’s housekeeper about where they had found her, he learned that she had been in an institution for quite a few years.

  Desperately he wanted to ask her about her life. She had such sadness in her beautiful eyes. Almost a hopelessness. He wanted to know her.

  Every Saturday, when he visited the theater, he thought, Yes, tonight I will ask her out. He never did. He smiled politely, inquired after her welfare, and wondered hopelessly what a woman like that would be like in bed.

  For the first time in his life, Bernard Dimes was in love.

  And for the first time in his life a situation had arisen that he did not know how to handle.

  One Sat
urday it was Goldie’s twenty-first birthday. She had a date with her favorite boyfriend, Mel. And he was bringing along a friend, Freddy Lester. It was after show time, and the girl who had agreed to be Freddy’s date had turned her ankle and was hobbling around in agony.

  Goldie looked beseechingly at Carrie. “Please!” she begged.

  Carrie did not see how she could reasonably say no. After all, it was Goldie’s birthday. And anyway, she had to learn to trust herself sometime; she couldn’t be a recluse for the rest of her life. “O.K.,” she agreed reluctantly.

  “We’ll have a wonderful time!” Goldie enthused. “Mel is the most fun guy I’ve ever been out with, and if he says Freddy is a hunk then you can betcha skirt he is!”

  Carrie nodded. A hunk. Goldie’s favorite description of any halfway-decent-looking male. A hunk. All the same in the dark.

  “I’d better lend you something to wear,” Goldie carried on excitedly. She turned to inspect the supply of clothes that littered the dressing room they shared with four other girls. “Susie, can Carrie borrow your skirt? Oh, and Mabel, your strappy shoes—the ones with the three-inch heels? Pleeease!”

  Goldie could be very persuasive. Carrie ended up in Susie’s tight black slit skirt, Mabel’s stiletto heels, and an off-the-shoulder white blouse of Goldie’s.

  “Hmmm.” Goldie stepped back to survey her. “Very nice. Sexy, with just a touch of class. Do you have to wear your hair all knotted back? Can’t you let it down?”

  Carrie obliged. Why not? She was actually getting quite excited at the thought of an evening out. She brushed her waist-length black hair and secured one side off her face with a white flower.

  “You look terrific!” exclaimed Goldie. “Just keep your hands off Mel!”

  A discreet tap on the dressing-room door heralded Bernard Dimes’s Saturday night arrival. He smiled and nodded around the small cramped room. Then he handed Goldie an extravagantly wrapped gift.

  She opened it with a lot of ooohing and aaahing, although she knew it would be chocolates. He never forgot a birthday, and it was always chocolates. “Umm,” she purred, “how delicious. Thank you.” She batted her spiky false eyelashes at him. “They’ll put pounds in all the wrong places.”