“No,” she had said, “I don’t think so. Please take me home.”
He had done so, and outside her front door he had said, “I don’t think I should call you again. I’m not looking for any serious involvements….”
He had missed her. She was nice to take out. She would have been the perfect girl to take home to Carrie.
He chewed on another rib and said, “You been going out a lot?”
She smiled faintly. “Enough. Something I do never seems to get me past the third or fourth date.”
He grinned. “Don’t you mean something you don’t do?”
She picked up a rib and nibbled on it delicately.
He decided she was definitely worth another try. “How about a movie next week?”
She looked at him demurely. “I’m no different, Steven. I still have the same… principles.”
“I wouldn’t want it any other way. How about Tuesday?”
Sue-Ann waddled back into the room. She was in her seventh month of pregnancy and carrying big. “Well, you two?” she inquired. “Are you going to get together again, or have I been cooking all day for nothing?”
Steven was in court on a case when he heard. The whisper went around and reached him in fragments. Bobby De Walt had been made while working on his latest assignment. He had been set upon by two men in the basement of a Harlem tenement, stabbed, and beaten badly.
He had staggered out into the street, collapsed, and was now in Emergency. Steven asked for an adjournment and rushed right over to the hospital.
Sue-Ann was there, her sweet face swollen with tears. She clung to him and whispered, “Why my Bobby? Why?”
Steven searched out the intern who had seen Bobby when he was brought in. “How bad is it?” he asked.
“Not great. He lost a lot of blood from the stab wounds—got a couple of broken ribs. If he’s strong he’ll make it.”
“Oh, he’s strong all right.”
Aileen arrived in the evening, flushed and breathless. “I came as soon as I heard. How is he?”
“Hanging on,” Steven said grimly.
Bobby hung on for two days, and then he rallied and began to recover. Seventy-six stitches patched his body together. His ribs were taped up, but he was smiling again.
The weeks and months that followed were not easy for Bobby. He was itching to get out of the hospital and back on the street. “Screw it, man, I wanna get back in action,” he complained to Steven. “I was so close—so goddamn close.”
“Too close.”
“There ain’t no such thing as too close.”
Steven spent a lot of time with the De Walts, and so did Aileen. She was a very strong and supportive person. Gradually he fell into the habit of picking her up after work if he was free, and they would go over to Sue-Ann and Bobby’s together. It was a routine he liked.
“You two should get married,” Bobby joked. “You look good together—sorta right.”
It had not occurred to Steven before, but he decided to introduce Aileen to Carrie one of these days and see what she thought.
Bobby—once on the road—made a rapid recovery. Sue-Ann gave birth to a lovely little baby girl, and Bobby felt the time had come for him to get back into action. He came into Steven’s office one day simmering with information, facts, figures, and a red hot anger that he had been so close to busting wide open one of the biggest cases of his career. “Listen,” he said. “I got enough for an investigation into the whole goddamn stinking rotten Bonnatti operation. He’s the guy at the top—he runs it all—and I think we can nail him.”
“What makes you so sure?” Steven asked, his interest aroused. Nailing the notorious Enzio Bonnatti was any prosecutor’s dream.
“Because I got street instincts,” Bobby said, roaming around the office. “I got dudes I can subpoena. I got witnesses. I got connections with a lot of people who want to see Bonnatti go down. I know I was close to hitting on the big time. Who do you think wanted me out?”
“You think it was Bonnatti’s people made you?”
“I’m sure it was. They got connections. Somebody blew my cover.”
Steven tapped on his desk thoughtfully. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying we should go for a special commission to investigate Bonnatti. If you wanted to do it—head up the commission—nobody would turn you down, not with your reputation.”
Steven realized this was true. Twice before he had been asked to head special investigative commissions on certain matters. He had turned both opportunities down because the subjects had not grabbed him. Enzio Bonnatti was the lowest of low, a violent criminal who had started off as a bootlegger in Chicago in the twenties and now controlled a very large part of New York vice. Narcotics and prostitution were his big two.
“He’s been indicted before,” he said slowly.
“Yeah, an’ always bought his way out. Or blown away witnesses. Or somethin’s come along to keep him on the streets.” Bobby couldn’t keep still. His skinny body was in perpetual motion. He slammed his fist angrily down on the desk. “You could get him. You got the style to do it, man. You go after someone, I ain’t never seen you lose. What d’y’say?”
“I say I’ll look into the idea. That good enough for you?”
Bobby began to laugh. “Man, you just said yes. You look into that son-of-a-bitch’s life and you won’t let go until you got him. I know you.”
“You think so?”
“Sweetheart, I would bet my left ball on it. And that I do not bet lightly!”
Lucky
1975
Spotlights shot skyward. Illuminated fountains spelled out “The Magiriano” in myriad cascades of water. A line of limousines snaked their way to the entrance. The hotel was like a big white Moorish castle. Impressive. Magnificent. Unusual.
Marco, in a new black silk dinner jacket, roamed the lobby, his sharp eyes taking in everything. She had done it. The kid had done it. It had taken her five long years of trouble and problems and graft and strikes and threats, but she had come through with one hell of a hotel.
Little Lucky. She was Gino’s daughter, all right, a true Santangelo. If Gino could see what she had achieved, he would be proud.
Of course he, Marco, had helped her. Steered her in the right directions, provided her with backup and protection, seen that she didn’t step on the wrong toes.
What a learner! She had a way of dealing with things that always turned out right. She had a computer ticking away in her head that worked out deals and percentages faster than anyone he had ever known.
He spotted Skip, the rangy-looking PR Lucky had hired, hurrying toward him. Quickly he turned his back and walked in the other direction. The guy was a deadly pain, full of smart-ass fast talk. Marco knew she had taken him to bed, and the very thought made him angry. Why was she always taking guys to bed like some two-bit tramp? What she needed in her life was a man. After all, what kind of men had she known? Craven Richmond, a real nothing. Good-looking studs who passed in the night. Tennis pros. Dumb actors. Pretty boys. He had seen them come and he had seen them go. Gino would have a blue fit if he ever got word of her activities. Still, tramp or not, Marco wanted her… had wanted her for a long time… and tonight would be the night.
Beautiful Helena had been sent, objecting, to L.A. “Have a vacation, sit around the pool at the Beverly Hills, and buy out Saks’. You deserve a break.”
“But Marco, it’s the opening. I’ve got a new dress. I can’t be away for the opening….”
“Yes, you can. I’ll be too busy to look after you anyway.”
Bye bye, Helena. Only on a temporary basis. Lucky Santangelo and I have some unfinished business to take care of.
Lucky stood under the icy needles of her shower and noted with satisfaction that today the cold water was ice cold. Yesterday it had been lukewarm. “Teething problems, Ms. Santangelo,” everyone had assured her. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fixed.” Bow. Scrape. Ass-kiss. Oh, how they catered to her! Oh, ho
w she loved it!
She stepped from the icy water into her own personal bathroom. Sumptuous by any standards. Carpeted in white llama skin, jungle murals on the walls, alabaster fixtures and fittings.
She wrapped herself in a terry-cloth robe and padded into her bedroom. Stark. Modern. Only the bed luxurious. Black silk sheets and tiger-skin covers.
She sat on the bed and called down to the switchboard. “No calls for an hour. I don’t care who it is.” Then she stood, removed her robe, turned off the lights, and slid between the decadent black silk sheets.
As soon as she closed her eyes, a million things rushed into her head, fighting her need for sleep.
She thought about what her yoga instructor had taught her. Turn off—inch by inch. First the toes, then the feet, the calves, the thighs… impossible. She was too excited.
Naked under the sensual touch of the bedclothes, she thought about who would be sharing her bed with her tonight. It didn’t matter, really. They were all the same, handsome dark givers of pleasure. Interchangeable. Transient studs.
Except Marco, of course. Dear married Marco. Son-of-a-bitch Marco. She desired him as much as ever, but for keeps, and he still showed no signs of dumping the gorgeous Helena.
Goddamn it! She couldn’t possibly sleep. She got out of bed and walked into her living room. Huge plate-glass windows led out onto a terrace. One press of a button and they slid open. She strolled outside, still naked. It was only seven o’clock, and the Vegas air was hot after the coolness of an air-conditioned room.
What a triumphant evening it was for her. The opening of Gino’s dream hotel, the Magiriano, and she alone had made it happen.
She pushed her hands into her long dark hair, piling it on top of her head. Then she let it fall and sighed deeply. Lucky Santangelo. Yeh. They had thought they were dealing with pussy. They had learned—the hard way—they were dealing with a Santangelo.
Costa had arrived the previous week. He could hardly believe that the day had finally come. Christ! The problems of getting the hotel built had been monumental. Lucky had dealt with them all. Seeing the hotel completed had become her life.
She had surrounded herself with the best—Marco, who had learned personally from Gino. He had run the Mirage for nine years, a tight foolproof operation. He was all set to do the same at the new hotel. And of course he had his people around him, who had become Lucky’s people too. They were all in the same family. All looking after Gino’s interests.
And then Lucky had a powerful patron in Enzio Bonnatti, her godfather, who counseled and advised her.
She had learned to be careful. She never moved without the personal attendance of her driver, Boogie Patterson. Boogie was very low key. Thin to the point of emaciation. Long-haired. Always dressed in scruffy chinos and an old army jacket. He was twenty-eight years old, a Vietnam veteran, and a crack shot.
Lucky liked him because he never talked. It was bad enough that she had to have a bodyguard; a talkative one would have been impossible.
Yes, Costa reflected, Lucky certainly knew what she was doing. Not like Dario the pervert, as Costa secretly called him. What was going to happen to the boy? What was going to happen when Gino found out?
If he ever did. The prospects of getting him back to America were gloomy. Costa had moved every way he could, tried everything. But with the upheaval in Washington due to the Watergate scandal—and then Nixon resigning—nobody felt secure any more. Legal maneuvers. Bribery. Threats. He had talked to powerful friends of Gino’s, people who owed him big favors—judges, politicians, high-up connections in the police department. Nobody wanted to get involved. The Gino Santangelo tax case was still hot. The IRS wanted him back, all right. They wanted him back so they could fry him.
The whole system was corrupt, yet Costa could not find a way. Five years was a long time to keep trying. If it took him forever he would do it. Gino depended on him. He would do it.
A cut in his lifestyle infuriated Dario, but not enough to spur him into any sort of action. He had continued his existence to please himself. The parties were a little less wild, the drugs did not flow quite so freely, but he still did more or less what he liked, ignoring Lucky and Costa’s occasional lectures. Who the fuck did they think they were anyway? He didn’t have to answer to them.
One day he had landed up getting himself arrested. Stupid, really. Some dumb kid had issued a complaint about being tied up, beaten, and raped by a group of men. The incident had taken place at Dario’s apartment. He remembered it vaguely. Eric had brought the kid home, a sixteen-year-old freak who had loved every minute of it. Dario hadn’t even joined in, he had been busy in the bedroom with a straight married man who came out of the closet once a month with a vengeance.
Shit! Getting hauled in for something he hadn’t even done.
Costa straightened it all out. White-faced and angry, he had told Dario, “Enough. No more. You will respect the Santangelo name.” Then he and bitch sister had cut his allowance down to a pittance and told Eric to get the fuck out of town. Not that Dario minded that. Eric’s going was a relief, in a way.
When he received an invitation to the opening of the Magiriano, he couldn’t make up his mind whether to go or not.
Costa phoned and said, “You have to attend, it’s expected.”
By whom exactly? Bitch sister? “I can’t make it,” he had said shortly. Then he began to think about it and decided that his not going was probably exactly what Lucky wanted. He decided he would go. Maybe he could think of a way to ruin her evening. Why not? She deserved it.
Lucky walked to the very edge of her terrace and leaned over. The view was staggering—a shimmering city of lights, a neon paradise. Soon she must get dressed and go downstairs to greet her guests. They were coming from all over for the opening. It was an event worthy of the stars putting on their glad rags and making the trek to Vegas.
Costa had told her so many times about the night the Mirage had opened. “It was wonderful. Gino was like a king,” he had reminisced, eyes gleaming.
Well, tonight she would be like a queen. In a black Halston dress with diamond and emerald jewelry she had gifted herself with. She didn’t need men to give her presents. She didn’t need men, period. Well, only occasionally… for medicinal purposes. She laughed softly to herself and walked back inside.
After completing an elaborate makeup she slid her naked body into the black Halston. It was perfect, a sensuous river of silk jersey, clinging and erotic.
She brushed her long jet hair and held it back on each side with ebony combs.
She was twenty-five years old. She had power, she had control, she had everything she had always wanted.
Except Marco.
One day she would have him—and maybe when it finally happened she wouldn’t want him any more. Maybe….
Marco greeted Enzio Bonnatti personally with a warm clasped handshake. The old man was accompanied by his son Carlo and a vacuous blonde whom nobody bothered to introduce. Two bodyguards hovered in the background.
“Lucky’s thrilled you made the trip,” Marco said respectfully. “I’ll buzz her, let her know you’ve arrived.”
Enzio nodded. “Yes. I wanna see her. Wanna sit down with both of you.”
His voice had got old along with his body, and Marco had to strain to hear what he was saying. He remembered Gino’s taking him to see Enzio Bonnatti for the first time. He had been seven and a half, but he could still recall how impressed he had been.
He escorted Enzio and his party to the best table in the room. Three bottles of his favorite scotch were already in place, and dishes of smoked roe, pistachio nuts, and cold chicken livers stood at the ready.
Enzio smiled. “You got my favorite things. Lucky arrange it?”
Marco nodded. “Of course.”
Enzio was beaming now. “The kid never forgets anything, that’s why she’s a winner. Not like her brother—whatshisname. I keep on hearing things. What you think, Marco? Is the kid a fairy? Is it tru
e what I hear?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, I never see him.”
“Gino. He’d beat the bones from his body. Any man would do the same if a son of his…” Enzio’s words trailed off as a very stacked blonde passed by. “Who’s the one with the tits?” he asked, ignoring a sharp glare from his girl friend.
Marco grinned. The old guy never stopped looking. “I don’t know. If you like, I can find out.”
“So find out. Maybe an old man can do her a favor or two.”
Dario took a cab from the airport. No car to meet him. Why should there be? He was only the son, what did he matter? He conveniently forgot that he had not told anyone he was coming.
The cabdriver said, “I heard this joint cost more money than Caesar’s and the Hilton put together. What d’ya think of that?”
Dario said nothing. He stared out the window and considered his position. He received a lousy allowance of two hundred and fifty bucks a week. His Porsche was five years old now. The rent on his apartment and a couple of charge cards were paid by the office. But that was it. That was fucking it.
“I like Circus Circus myself,” the cabdriver continued, unperturbed by his passenger’s silence. “Y’can have a good time there—take the kids—nobody bothers ya.”
It was true, Dario thought, that nobody bothered him. As long as he stayed quietly out of the way, he was free to pursue the lifestyle that he wished. Since Eric there had been nobody permanent. He enjoyed sex with casual pickups. No involvements. Just fresh street sex with dark-haired boys. Since Eric there had been no more blondes. He didn’t want to screw or be screwed by a mirror image of himself. There had been no more wild parties, either. He didn’t want to be cut off completely—and that’s what both Costa and Lucky had warned if there was any more trouble.
“You wanna get out here?” the cabdriver asked when they reached the sidewalk outside the long driveway. “If I get in that line of cars we’ll still be sittin’ here tomorra.”
Chances Page 61