He raced out to the car. Maria was settled comfortably in the back, Nanny Camden beside her. He squashed in beside them and held onto his wife’s hand.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the front, Mr. Santangelo?” the nanny asked pointedly.
“No, no, don’t you worry about me.”
Maria gave a little grimace and clutched her stomach.
“Jesus! What’s the matter?” Gino yelled. “Red, will you move this fuckin’ car?”
Nanny Camden pursed disapproving lips.
The large green Cadillac reached the hospital in record time. Maria was immediately whisked inside and Gino suddenly found himself redundant.
“Just take it easy, sir,” a young nurse told him. “If you want to go out for coffee…”
Out for coffee! Was the girl mad? He did the traditional thing and paced the long hospital corridor.
Maria. His wife.
It had not been easy for either of them. So much opposition…. So much screaming and yelling…. And Maria whisked back to San Francisco like she was a criminal.
“I want to marry her,” he told Costa.
“Are you crazy? You don’t want her, you just think you do because she looks like Leonora.”
“That’s bullshit. I love her.”
“Come on, Gino. Be reasonable. You’re not being fair to anyone, least of all her. She doesn’t understand what all this is about. She’s just got a schoolgirl crush on you.”
“Maria is no schoolgirl, Costa. She’s twenty-one years old and I’m going to marry her.”
“Forget it. Leonora will never let that happen.”
But it turned out that Leonora had no choice. Maria was pregnant and thrilled about it. She managed to telephone him and tell him the news. He made immediate arrangements for her escape. They met in the state of Maryland a week later and were married the same day.
Leonora swore that she would never talk to her daughter again. Edward reluctantly went along with her decision.
Neither Maria nor Gino much cared. They were ecstatically happy. He bought the East Hampton house where they had fallen in love, painted it white, put in a simple natural swimming pool, and kept the gardens unbridled and wild.
For the first time in his life he knew a state of bliss that he had only ever dreamed of.
Maria was perfect. He idolized her. And he never once thought about her resemblance to her mother.
“You have a beautiful baby girl. Seven pounds five ounces. She’s gorgeous.”
“Jesus H. Christ! Jesus.”
“Mr. Santangelo. Please!”
He picked up the nurse and danced her along the corridor.
“Mr. Santangelo! Put me down!”
He dumped her unceremoniously onto her feet. “My wife? How is my wife?”
“She’s fine. The doctor is just sewing her up and—”
“What d’y’mean, sewing her up?”
“Perfectly normal procedure. A few stitches… the doctor will explain everything to you.”
“Goddamn it! I’m a father!” He whacked the nurse on the behind. “Hey, you want a cigar?”
The baby was the most exquisite creature—next to Maria—he had ever set eyes on. Small, dark, crunched up, hairy. Exquisite!
Day after day he sat in the hospital just staring, hardly able to believe that this beautiful little creation was his.
“You like her, don’t you?” Maria inquired with a smile.
“You said it!” He grinned at his young wife, who sat up in bed like a flaxen doll, her face shining with happiness, long fair hair braided.
“So,” said Maria softly, “it is about time we gave her a name. She’s six days old and I’m fed up with calling her ‘the baby.’”
“I’ve bin giving it a lot of thought.”
“Good.”
“How about Lucky?”
“Lucky what?”
“Lucky Santangelo, of course! You like it?”
“If you do.”
He bent and kissed his wife. “I like it.”
“Then Lucky she is.”
One thing they never discussed: his business life. She questioned him once and he shushed her with a finger on her lips. “Don’t ever ask, I’ll do what I think is best for us.” He didn’t need another Cindy who knew where every body was buried. Not that Maria in a million years could ever be like Cindy. She brought so much warmth into his life, just looking at her made him feel good. She had so many great qualities. The baby was just the icing on the cake.
It hurt him, for her sake, that her family had rejected her. She never mentioned it or complained. But when the baby was born and Jennifer was visiting he heard Maria ask, very softly, “Did you tell my mother?” And Jennifer had sighed. “Yes, of course. But you know, dear, Leonora will never forgive you….”
He wasn’t supposed to have heard. But he had. And the disappointment on his beautiful wife’s face was enought to spur him into action.
He had to make a trip to the coast to check out the Mirage. The hotel was built, a million dollars over budget, and was now in the final decorating stages. He wanted to see for himself where all the money had gone, and while he was in California he would drop in and see his mother-in-law. What a quirk of fate that was.
Maria did not want to go with him. It was too soon after the baby’s birth, and, as she said, he would only be away a few days. Jennifer was moving into the house while he was away. The nanny, a housekeeper, and two bodyguards would also be there. As Gino’s power increased, so did the number of his enemies. It was a fact of life he had learned to live with. Bonnatti had survived two assassination attempts in the last year. Unruly young mobsters climbing the hills of greed had no respect for elder statesmen. Gino remembered wryly how he used to feel about the Mustache Petes, the old-fashioned dons who used to control the rackets in the early twenties. He had regarded them as a joke with their funny looks and courtly manners. In his time he too had had no respect.
He kissed his wife and baby goodbye and set off for the Coast reluctantly.
The Boy looked even more affluent than usual. Maybe it was the sleek suntan, maybe the ready smile. In spite of Pippa Sanchez’s reassuring phone calls, Gino immediately sensed The Boy was stealing.
“Congratulations! Such wonderful news!” Jake’s greeting couldn’t be warmer. “I have a little gift for the baby. It’s nothin’—really.”
Gino opened up the expensively gift-wrapped package. It contained a solid gold brush and comb set with Lucky Santangelo inscribed on it. “Thanks, Jake,” he said.
“I told you—it’s nothin’.”
They met for dinner at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and Pippa Sanchez was by The Boy’s side.
“I’ve sent you fifteen scripts,” she husked. “Don’t you like any of them?”
“Not enough to put my money into,” he replied.
Pippa scowled.
Jake gave her a hard nudge under the table. “It’s all she thinks about—her career,” he joked. “I told her, it’s a full-time career just lookin’ after me!”
“I can believe it,” Gino said unblinkingly.
Pippa slid off to the ladies’ room, throwing them both disdainful looks.
“Broads!” exclaimed Jake. “By the way, you want one tonight? I got a real hot little number. She’s so hot that—”
“No,” Gino interrupted sharply. “I’m a married man now.”
“Oh, yeah. So you are. But still—”
“My investors are not too happy about the sudden rise in costs. In fact, they are pretty goddamn pissed off.” Gino’s hard black eyes bored into Jake’s.
The Boy was undisturbed. “Hey! Come on! We’ve built a hotel to be proud of. Wait’ll you see it. It’s got everything.”
“For the money it’s cost it should have.”
“I don’t wanna boast,” Jake said, “but just wait until y’see it. You’re really gonna flip.” He paused to wave at a movie star passing their table. “Janet, baby, y’look terrific. H
ow’s Tony? We’ll get together soon.”
Gino threw the dice. “There’s a rumor come to my ear that not every dollar has ended up in the hotel. There’s a rumor that quite a few have ended up in your pocket.”
Jake flushed angrily. “Who said that? Who the fuck said it?”
Gino shrugged, impressed with The Boy’s performance. “Just a rumor. Nothin’ to get excited about. If it ain’t true, you got no worries….”
This time Tiny Martino flew up with them, a redheaded bear of a man who had dominated film comedy for twenty-five years. He was a star in every sense of the word, but he treated Gino like visiting royalty.
“I never played a room in my life,” he said, “but for The Boy, here, and you, Gino, I’ll open up the Mirage, and what is more I’ll do a two-week stint twice a year.”
When Gino heard the salary they were paying for the privilege, he nearly had a seizure.
“He’s worth every dime,” Jake insisted.
“The dimes don’t bother me. It’s the dollars that hurt. We could get two Sinatras for that kind of money.”
“Two Sinatras wouldn’t bring ’em in like Tiny.”
Yeh. Maybe The Boy was right.
Gino had to admit that the Mirage did look magnificent. Jake had done the job he had set out to do and more besides. The other hotels on the Strip paled beside the Mirage, with its marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and silk draperies. Workmen were still swarming around the place, putting on the finishing touches. “Well?” Jake asked proudly. “What’d’ya think?”
“I think you’ve built a fuckin’ palace,” Gino said slowly. “Maybe too much of a palace.”
“Huh?” The Boy’s eyes were bright and watchful. “What’s that supposed t’mean?”
“I mean we’re supposed to be caterin’ to people—just ordinary people. What’s with all the luxury an’ stuff?”
“You’ll see,” Jake replied sagely. “It’ll pay itself off. When the peasants come to Vegas, they’ll come here.”
“They’d better.”
“They will.”
There was plenty of time to find out if The Boy had been stealing. Gino instructed Costa to send in his best accountants to check out the books. He wanted every brick and stone accounted for. In the meantime he could afford to sit back and wait. If the Mirage took off like Jake assured him it would, then what was a few hundred thousand dollars between friends? Jake was a smart son-of-a-bitch. Gino hoped he was smart enough not to try and take from him twice.
San Francisco was hot, but there was a nice breeze blowing in from the ocean. Gino checked into the Fairmont Hotel and called Leonora.
A maid answered the phone and requested his name.
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Grazione,” he said. “Just tell her it’s a very good friend from New York.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a long silence. He drummed his nails impatiently on the table. Leonora. He could think her name, say it aloud, and it meant nothing—a total blank. Maria’s mother. That’s all she was to him now.
“Hello. Who is this?” Her voice. Unmistakable.
“Hey, Leonora. This is Gino.” He could feel the frosty, silent hate coming at him through the phone. One good thing, she didn’t hang up. “I’m only in San Francisco for a day,” he added quickly, “and I think it’s important that we meet.”
Pure ice. “Why?”
“Because… er… well, I think it’s only fair to all concerned. Don’t you?”
“Not particularly.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Would you?”
“Very much.”
A long stony silence. He waited.
Finally she said, “You have your goddamn nerve, you really do. I never thought—”
He cut her off midsentence. “Whatever you have to say, I’d sooner you said it to my face. I can come to your house or meet you. Which will it be?”
Perhaps it was the command in his voice, but unexpectedly she said, “I’ll meet you. Where are you staying?”
“The Fairmont. Will you—”
This time she cut him off. “The bar. Six o’clock.” And the phone was slammed down.
He sat in the bar drinking Jack Daniel’s and idly keeping track of the time. It was six twenty-three precisely.
She walked in at six twenty-four, wearing a long mink coat and dark glasses. Her white-blond hair was scraped back into an elegant chignon. She approached him without hesitation, slid onto the next bar-stool, clicked her fingers at the barman, and ordered. “A double martini. Very dry. No olives.” Then she turned, lifted the dark glasses, and stared at him, “You bastard,” she drawled coldly. “How I hate you.”
She reminded him of a seasoned call girl, a grotesque caricature of her former self. Gone was the simplicity and softness, replaced by eyes like blue chips and a tight, mean mouth. He estimated that she must be almost forty. She looked every minute of it.
“Nice greeting,” he said.
She threw her mink coat off her shoulders and flicked a cigarette into her mouth. Then she leaned forward for him to light it. He could see right down the cleavage of her olive green dress, and he could smell Chanel No. 5 and other womanly odors. She made him uneasy.
He lit her cigarette. She drew on it deeply, blew smoke in his face, and said, “Well? What do you want?”
This was the woman he had been in love with half his life? This was the woman he had wanted to marry? Jesus! What an escape!
“Congratulations,” he said slowly. “You’re a grandma.”
She laughed aloud. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”
“I figured someone should. Seeing as Maria hasn’t heard one word from you, I thought perhaps you didn’t know.”
She laughed again, a high-pitched sound that caused people to turn and look at her. “Who is Maria?” she inquired mockingly.
He was deadly angry. “Your daughter, your little girl. And you have another little girl in your life, a granddaughter named Lucky. She was born three weeks ago.”
Leonora narrowed her eyes. “I don’t have a daughter. I don’t have a granddaughter. Do you understand. Gino? They don’t exist.”
He kept his voice low. “You goddamn bitch.”
“Oh, dear. Have I upset you? The great Gino Santangelo. I am sorry.”
Now he knew why she had come. To gain a little satisfaction, to play her little game. “Maria would like to hear from you,” he said flatly. “I don’t care what you want. Name it—you got it. Just get in touch with your daughter. Let her know that she matters to you.”
“Oh, I see. Whatever I want I can have. Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“How very generous.” She finished her drink with one gulp and pushed the empty glass in front of him. “I’ll have another drink, for a start.”
He signaled the barman.
“Hmmm….” She looked thoughtful. “How far are you prepared to go with this… offer?”
“Whatever you want,” he said heavily. How he hated this woman.
“Let me see,” she mused. “A new mink… a foreign sports car… or… how about an apartment in New York? What do you think, Gino? Would that be asking too much?”
He had known that everyone had their price. “So. An apartment in New York then?” he asked tightly.
“Yes.” She hesitated. “No. Oh, goodness, it’s such a difficult decision.” She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately produced another one. She followed the same charade for him to light it, leaning forward to exhibit even more of her breasts.
He wanted to get out of the place and breathe some clean fresh air. He was getting smothered with her perfume, cigarette smoke, and human greed.
“I’ve decided,” she announced brightly.
“What?”
“Just one simple fuck.”
He stared at her, his black eyes hardening.
She smiled. “Just one, Gino. The one you’ve owed me all these years.”
He honestly could not believe what he was hearing. “You drunken bitch. Do you know what you’re sayin’?”
“You honestly believe that your money can buy anything and anyone, don’t you?” She slid off the barstool and shrugged on her mink coat. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth.” Her eyes gleamed dangerously. “When you married my daughter she ceased to exist—that’s the way it is. So get that into your moronic head.”
He stood up. “You know what I’d like to do to you.”
Her voice was loud now, a triumphant screech. “Why don’t you threaten me, Gino? Why don’t you set one of your mobsters on me. You’re just a common little criminal, and you can’t buy me. Get it? You can’t buy me.”
He breathed deeply and concentrated on Maria. Think of Maria! a voice screamed in his head. If he didn’t, he knew he would smash Leonora to pieces.
She hurled a few more insults and left. People were staring at him. He signed the check and stalked out. Maria could have anything she wanted, but she couldn’t have her mother, and he would never come begging again. Never.
Carrie
1943-1944
As she hurried along the street pushing the stroller with Steven in it, Carrie experienced many different emotions. One minute she was elated that she had had the courage to make a bolt for freedom. Then she felt fear that maybe Bonnatti would come looking for her. Never again would she sell her body. Never again would she subject herself to the perversions and humiliations of transient men. It was over. Whether Bernard Dimes helped them or not.
She hummed softly to herself, stopping to buy Steven a shiny black stick of licorice.
He accepted it quietly, huge green eyes staring as though she were the enemy. She heaped silent curses on Leroy. Hoped the loathsome scarecrow pig had got everything he deserved.
Occasionally she glanced nervously behind her, just in case she was being followed. She spotted no one, but to make extra sure she darted in and out of Macy’s, then crossed the street to Gimbels, where she rushed up and down the aisles like a whirlwind. Satisfied, she took a cab and had the driver stop a block from Bernard Dimes’s Park Avenue residence. Her step slowed, her courage faded. What was she going to say to him?
Chances Page 41