Chances

by Jackie Collins

  His lawyers were a bunch of highly paid fuckheads. They were prepared to defend him at an exorbitant price, but they were not prepared to believe him. Somehow, being believed was the most important issue of all.

  Friends immediately dropped by the wayside. The Dukes vanished to South America, leaving instructions with their legal respresentatives to terminate all partnerships with Gino Santangelo. That suited him fine. He, in turn, instructed his lawyers to buy Oswald Duke out. It took all of his available cash flow, plus a considerable selling of assets, but he did it.

  Judges, politicians, society folk, they all vanished out of his life while he chain-smoked in jail and waited for his trial.

  His connected friends stayed true, sending in messages, arranging whatever comforts they could. Aldo… Enzio Bonnatti. They were loyal friends.

  And Bee. Visiting him weekly in spite of being hounded by the press.

  Costa Zennocotti had turned out to be the truest friend of all. He had given up a thriving legal practice in San Francisco and flown to New York with his wife, Jennifer. “I’m taking over your case,” he told Gino tersely.

  “Hey, listen.” Gino began to object. He appreciated the gesture, but what did Costa know about defense on a murder trial?

  “I’m good,” Costa said. “And what’s more, I believe you.”

  The magic words.

  Without Costa fighting for him so eloquently in the courtroom, who knew what might have happened?As it was, the murder charge was reduced to manslaughter and he received a ten-year jail sentence.

  Before Vera’s eventual death from alcoholic poisoning Costa managed to extract a written and witnessed confession from her. It was seven years too late. Gino got a pardon and a paltry offer of compensation. What amount of money could possibly compensate for seven years of a man’s life?

  As he emerged from jail on a spring morning in 1947, he was a bitter man. He had missed a war, he had missed the death of Franklin D. Roosevelt. He had missed new songs and plays and fashions. He had missed flowers and grass and just walking down Fifth Avenue.

  He had missed seven years of life.

  “What the hell you wearin’?” Gino asked.

  Bee smiled. “It’s the latest fashion,” she replied, “the New Look. Don’t you like it?”

  “What was wrong with the old look?”

  She shrugged. “You don’t want me to appear old-fashioned, do you?”

  He had been back in his apartment for fifteen minutes and felt totally disoriented. Costa had been at the jail gates with two bodyguards to push their way through the hordes of photographers and reporters. Gino had not said a word. He had ignored the flashbulbs and microphones shoved under his chin and let Costa do the talking. “He has no comment, boys, no comment. Come on, give the man a break.”

  Outside the Park Avenue penthouse more reporters waited. The same story. He had nothing to say to the fuckers. Let them print what they wanted—they did anyway.

  Costa had escorted him upstairs, and Bee had run to greet him.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Costa had said. “And Gino, can we meet early tomorrow? That’s if you’re up to it, of course.”

  “Yeh, yeh. Early tomorrow suits me fine.” If he was up to it indeed. What did they think he was, a fucking invalid, for crissakes? He was a forty-one-year-old man.

  “Shall I fix you a drink?” Bee inquired solicitously.

  “Scotch. Plenty of ice. And make sure it’s in one of those crystal glasses.” The New Look. He could hardly even see her legs. Some look.

  She fetched him the drink and stroked his cheek. The gesture almost drove him crazy. “Get out of those goddamn clothes,” he ordered. “I want you in nothing but stockings, garter belt, and high heels.”

  She laughed softly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  He closed his eyes. Just the thought of her nakedness gave him a powerful erection. Seven years of not having a woman. Some of the guys didn’t even bother to wait. Some of them picked on the weaklings as soon as they got in and jammed it up their ass before they even got their toothbrush out.

  Being Gino Santangelo meant getting immediate respect. Often he wondered if he could have taken it if he wasn’t who he was.

  Bee walked back into the room. She had followed his instructions to the letter. She had even pinned up her luxurious red hair.

  “Hey,” he said softly, “just walk around the place. I wanna watch you.”

  She had magnificent skin, smooth and white. And her large orange-tipped breasts showed no sign of sag.

  The black garter belt cut tightly across her waist, and then the little bits and pieces came down her voluptuous thighs and held in place black silk stockings. On her feet were delightfully high-heeled strappy sandals. He loved the way the garter belt emphasized her pubic area: the soft white belly, the maze of reddish hair. “Turn around,” he instructed, his voice thick with desire.

  She did as she was told, and he admired her large white ass. He did not want to rush anything. He had waited too long to throw a five-minute fuck into her.

  “Hey,” he said, “remember the first time you stripped down for me?”

  She turned around and smiled. “How could I ever forget it? You were so angry!”

  He laughed. “What did you expect? Tellin’ me you had the clap. Very funny, I don’t think.”

  She held her arms above her head and stretched. He watched her breasts pull up and knew he wasn’t going to be able to control himself much longer.

  “Why don’t I undress you?” she suggested, as if reading his thoughts.

  “Sure.”

  She walked toward him. “Stand up.”

  He stood. She was taller than he was in the outlandish heels. Close up, he noticed little lines around her eyes which hadn’t been there before. Seven years can’t have been easy for her either. Materially he had looked after her, but what about the lonely nights?

  As she peeled his clothes off, he asked, “You have any other guys while I was away?”

  “Gino,” she replied very softly, “there are no other guys. Only you.”

  It wasn’t an answer to his question, but it satisfied him.

  She removed his shoes and socks and then she was kissing his toes, sending little shock waves through his whole system.

  “Where’d you learn this?” he asked.

  “You’re full of questions today.”

  He reached for her breasts and rolled her nipples between his fingers until they became hard. Then he pushed them together and tongued them until she started to whimper. “Gino…” she murmured, “I don’t think I can wait any more. Let’s…go…in the bedroom.”

  He was inclined to agree with her. His cock was on fire, but still his head insisted that he wait. Keeping his hands on her breasts, he began to kiss her on the mouth. She had a wonderful mouth, wide and sensual, with breath that tasted ever so faintly of peppermint. Her tongue darted out to meet his.

  With his hands cupping her big breasts and his tongue in her mouth, he felt he was in heaven. The texture of her nipples was like rough silk. He had forgotten the feel of woman. He had no plans to stop until he was as familiar as he’d ever been.

  Suddenly her whole body stiffened, and little cries of ecstasy escaped from her mouth. She was climaxing, and he hadn’t even gone for the magic button yet.

  “Hey,” he asked softly, “what’s your hurry? We got the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Well?” questioned Jennifer Zennocotti. “Did everything go all right?” Ten years of marriage had changed her from a freckle-faced girl into an attractive mature woman. She was, at thirty-nine, a few months older than her husband, but her whole demeanor was that of an even older person. She radiated warmth and kindliness.

  Costa had never regretted marrying her, even though the marriage had produced no children, a fact which greatly saddened them both. “We got him home. The reporters were everywhere, but they didn’t upset him.”

  Costa loved working. Since arrivi
ng in New York to defend Gino, he had taken exactly one week off, to fly to San Francisco and tell his father that he would be staying in the East and starting his own practice. Franklin Zennocotti had been furious.

  “You belong here,” he stormed. “Eventually you will take over my entire law firm. What more do you want?”

  Costa did not like to seem ungrateful, but what he wanted was his own identity. And besides that, he felt it his duty to continue to defend Gino. The way the newspapers had represented the case was a disgrace. Gino the Ram Santangelo. Mobster. Criminal. Even when Vera confessed, the newspapers had hinted that she was paid to do so. Costa had never paid her one red cent. But he had kept after her over the years, begging her to tell the truth.

  He had also accepted power of attorney to deal with Gino’s many business affairs. And in his capable hands the legitimate businesses had flourished. He refused to touch the more shady side of things, leaving Clemmie’s, the numbers racket, and the gambling to Aldo. When Aldo was drafted into the army and sent overseas, with Gino’s permission Enzio Bonnatti took things over.

  “That’s fine with me,” Gino said from his jail cell. “At least I know things’ll get taken care of, an’ when I get out I can take over again.”

  Clemmie’s was closed down a year later by the narcotics squad. Bonnatti sent his apologies through the prison grapevine. Gino was pissed off, but he was hardly in a position to do anything about it.

  About that time Aldo came limping back from the war in Europe. He had shot himself in the leg to avoid any more active duty. “An y’know somethin’?” he said to Gino, on a visit. “It was worth it! Now I’m a friggin’ hero!”

  Costa was never drafted because of a severe asthma condition. Enzio avoided the problem by passing large amounts of money in all the right places. “I got flat feet” was his only comment if anyone ever asked him. And not many dared.

  “Was Bee there to greet him?” Jennifer asked.

  “All dressed up and happy as a lark.”

  “I should think so. That woman is a saint! To wait for a man all that time, when he’s not even her husband.”

  Costa couldn’t help laughing. “I’d hardly call Bee a saint.”

  “Your ass has gotten bigger.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “Bigger and better.”

  “You’re only saying that because you’ve been deprived.”

  “Yeh. That’s what you think!”

  He grabbed her by the cheeks of her ass as they lolled in bed.

  “Gino! Not again!”

  He grunted and eased himself in from behind.

  She raised her big white bottom and he pumped easily in and out. It was the third time, but the pleasure was still as sharp.

  They had stayed in bed all afternoon in the silent apartment, only the constant ringing of the phone disturbing them. Eventually he had taken it off the hook.

  “You know what?” he said, when they were finished. “Maybe we should think about getting married.”

  Bee was silent.

  “Hey,” he said, “where’s the gasps of amazement and the ‘Oh, Gino, it’s what I always wanted’?”

  She spoke very slowly. “It is what I’ve always wanted. You know that.”

  “So—what’s the problem?”

  “Love.”

  “Love!”

  “Yes. I love you. I say it. You never have.”

  “Aw, c’mon, kid. I just fucked you three times. If that isn’t love, what is?”

  She sighed. “You don’t understand. Fucking isn’t loving.”

  “Listen. We bin together quite a few years. I give you everything you want, right?”

  “Yes. Of course you do, but—”

  “I paid for Marco to go to a swell school. He must be some kid now. What he needs is a brother or sister. You get my drift?”

  “You want us to get married and have children?”

  He jumped out of bed and paced the room excitedly. “You got it! Why not? We’re neither of us gettin’ any younger. I thought about it a lot in the can. I want kids, Bee. We’d make great kids together.”

  She propped herself up on her elbow and began to smile. “Yes….”

  “Of course, yes! I can see ’em now. Cute little fuckers with red hair and fat asses!”

  She began to laugh.

  “You can have more kids, can’t you? It hasn’t been too long?”

  “I’m thirty-two years old. Once I stop taking precautions they’ll pop out like rabbits!”

  Now they were both laughing.

  “We’ll do it properly,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll take you to Tiffany’s and buy you the biggest flashiest diamond ring you ever seen. We’ll get engaged. You like it? Then, when I get you knocked up, we’ll get the license an’ do it.”

  “You mean I’ve got to get pregnant first?” she complained.

  “Yeh. But I promise you one thing—we’ll have a lot of fun makin’ sure that you do!”

  Gino bounded into his office the next morning full of energy. He was in such a good mood that he even had a smile and a wave for the press boys gathered outside his apartment and office building.

  Costa had reached him very late the previous evening to tell him of a phone call from San Francisco. “Franklin had a heart attack. I’m flying to the coast.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find my own way around,” Gino assured him.

  Miss Marchmont, Costa’s extremely efficient personal secretary, was on hand to greet him and show him any papers or books he might wish to look at. He skimmed through a few things. Buying out Oswald Duke had been the best move he had ever made. All the ventures they had been involved in together were going great.

  It made him restless, sitting in an office with seventeen secretaries trying to catch a glimpse of him. Costa had a good system going. All the various businesses had their own key personnel; he just kept an overall eye on things.

  Seven years in jail, Gino thought, and now I am richer than ever. It certainly beat working.

  Miss Marchmont made him uneasy. She had an expression on her face that indicated a bad smell under her nose.

  “Uh—I’ve seen all I want,” he said, after a couple of hours. “You need me, I’ll be at Riccaddi’s.”

  He fled. He didn’t enjoy sitting around in offices. Besides, he couldn’t wait to get together with Aldo.

  His old chauffeur and bodyguard, Red, drove him to the restaurant. Red had been working for Enzio Bonnatti, but as soon as he had heard of Gino’s release he asked for his old job back. He was a fine driver. Within six blocks he had shaken the following reporters.

  “You done good!” laughed Gino.

  “Can’t stand those fleabags,” muttered Red. “Writin’ lies an’ per-secutin’ honest men.”

  “Yeh,” agreed Gino. He made a mental note to check out how much he was paying Red and give him a bonus.

  Riccaddi’s was a small unassuming Italian restaurant tucked between a dry-cleaning business and an undertaker’s. Aldo had purchased the place for Barbara in 1945. It was the perfect front for him to carry on his business activities. Barbara did the cooking and baking, and her brother tended bar and managed the restaurant. This was Gino’s first visit.

  Aldo came to the door to greet him. The two men embraced. It was an emotional reunion. Then Barbara came running forward, her strong face creased with tears. “Gino! So good to have you back, so very very good.”

  They led him inside the restaurant, and all around were friends and acquaintances standing back and smiling. Enzio Bonnatti was there… Jennifer… Bee… and Marco, a good-looking seventeen-year-old.

  “Jesus! What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Barbara insisted.

  A banner on the wall proclaimed, WELCOME BACK GINO.

  He felt delighted, foolish, embarrassed. He walked around shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and drinking wine, while Italian opera issued from the jukebox. He cornered Bee. “Why didn’t you warn me?”


  She smiled and squeezed his hand.

  Aldo and Barbara’s four children ran about singing and waiting table. Aldo had scored with a matched set, two girls and two boys. They were all Gino’s godchildren, nice kids, kept in line by a very strict Barbara. They served their mother’s home-made lasagna, then hot rich spaghetti with meat balls—Gino’s favorite—followed by delicious creamy zabaglione.

  Gino sat at a table with Enzio, Aldo, and other male friends. He smacked his lips. “Barbara, you’re the best cook in the world!” Everyone agreed.

  Later in the afternoon, when cigars were lit and small potent glasses of Sambuca tossed down, the men discussed business. Matters that concerned them all. Of course Gino knew what had been going on in his absence; the prison grapevine gave out more information than the Sunday New York Times. But all the same, it was good to be back in a position of power where his opinion was sought out and respected.

  Enzio and Aldo had attended a recent meeting in Havana where Lucky Luciano, now released from jail, presided over a gathering of major underworld chiefs from all across the States. The talk had been of cooperation with each other, an end to the rivalries, feuds, and gangland killings that generated so much bad publicity.

  “You shoulda seen Pinky Banana,” Aldo recalled. “He was wearin’ more diamonds than a jewelry shop!”

  Pinky Banana was now a powerful force in Philadelphia, an overlord of narcotics, prostitution, and murder for hire.

  “Yeh?” Gino’s interest in Pinky was minimal.

  The talk drifted on to other matters, and it was evening when they parted company.

  Gino finally left Riccaddi’s at nine. He was stuffed with pasta and relaxed. The talk had been stimulating, and Aldo and Enzio had certainly done a fine job of looking after his interests while he was away. He took with him several satchels jammed full of cash—over three hundred thousand dollars—and there was a lot more to come.

  Bee clung to his arm lovingly. “It’s so good to have you home, Gino,” she said warmly.

  Yeh. He was kind of enjoying it too.

  Thursday, July 14, 1977

  New York and Philadelphia

  Steven tied the ropes under Lucky’s arms and held his hands as a step for her to climb onto to reach the opening in the top of the elevator.