Hurriedly he backed away from the door. She had such a smartass mouth on her. He really should call her bluff and walk right on in and see what she would do then.
He knew what she would do then. Lucky wasn’t the kind of girl to bluff. When she said something she meant it. In their short acquaintance he had learned that much about her.
He went into his bedroom and switched on the portable radio, listening to the latest news. “The consequences were appalling. Nearly three thousand people have been arrested for looting. The arsonists had a field day. In some parts of the city fires burned so brightly that electric lights were hardly missed. In Manhattan…”
Luxuriating in lukewarm water, Lucky grinned to herself. She felt fantastically high and full of energy. Allowing herself to finally remember the truth about her and Marco did not depress her at all. In fact, after the initial tears she felt strangely euphoric. It proved that she could love, feel, care for another person. For two years it had been all short sharp one-nighters with good-looking men whom she never wanted to see again. Sex was in. Relationships were out. Marco would have wanted more for her—she knew that now.
Her mind was buzzing with plans for the future. With Gino due back in town, she had to act fast. Enzio had kindly taken over in Vegas, but the Magiriano was hers—and now was the time for her to resume control. Otherwise Big Daddy would come back… walk in… take over… and she would be the kid again. The dumb little emotional female.
Costa had been right. She should never have let the hotel slip from her grasp. But it was no problem. Enzio would understand. And now was the time to collect the money due her. Costa had been checking out the figures… but of course legitimate figures only told a fraction of the story. By Costa’s conservative reckoning, Bonnatti owed them over a million dollars, and if the investment he had made with the money on her behalf was half as good as he said it was, then that million dollars could have doubled. Not bad for sitting back and doing nothing.
Lucky’s very considerable energies over the previous two years had gone into building the Free Make-Up Company into one of the biggest cosmetic companies in America. She enjoyed playing tycoon and had really created a phenomenon in the cosmetics industry. Now she was ready to return to Vegas.
The bath water was turning uncomfortably cold. She immersed herself totally, then climbed out, shaking her wet curls like a wild mongrel.
The only towel appeared to be Steven’s damp one on the floor, so she opened up the door and put her head out. “Hey,” she shouted. “Who do you have to screw around here to get a clean towel?”
He fixed hot buttered toast and scrambled eggs mixed up with chunks of ham.
Lucky, wrapped disconcertingly in a towel, wolfed them down like she hadn’t eaten in years. “You’re really a great cook,” she said admiringly. “Any time you want a job—”
“What as? Your houseboy?”
“Whew! You’re really uptight. Are you always this tense?”
She stared at him, liking what she saw, aware of the fact that she had spent more time talking to him than with any of her one-nighters. How about a relationship? She was game if he was.
He noticed her staring and busied himself with eating.
“Did anyone every tell you—” she began.
The phone rang, cutting off her words.
Steven picked it up with a curt, “Yes?”
She watched him as he talked to someone—sounded like a girl friend from his side of the conversation. He had great skin, such a magnificent color—smooth and chocolaty, like a six-weeks-on-your-back suntan. And his black hair was even darker than hers. Tight jet curls that glistened. His eyes were ever so slightly elongated: cat eyes, glass green, deep, and sensual. She wondered what his ancestry was. He was certainly not a hundred percent black.
He covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Why don’t you go get dressed?” he hissed.
She nodded but made no attempt to move. If he thought she was climbing back into her filthy clothes he could think again. When he got off the phone she was going to borrow something of his.
“No, it’s just the radio,” he said, glaring at Lucky. “Sure, honey, sure. I’ll call you later.” He slammed down the receiver. “Thanks for the privacy.”
She widened her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think I had to spell it out.”
“I can’t get dressed anyway. My clothes stink. I thought maybe you could lend me something and I’ll jog on out of your life. I can always sit outside my apartment—I know I’m not welcome here.”
He was easy to read. As soon as she said anything negative he responded by being polite.
“I said it’s O.K. for you to stay.”
“But I don’t want to be in your way.”
Big sigh. “You’re not in my way.”
“Good.” She stood up. The towel barely covered her. He started to look, jerked his eyes away.
“Can we go check out your closet?” she asked innocently, pretending she hadn’t noticed him looking.
“I won’t have anything to fit you—”
“I don’t want a suit, for crissake! Just an old shirt, some jeans I can roll up, and a belt to keep ’em from falling down. Actually, that shirt you’ve got on would do nicely.” She grinned. “Now I’m taking the shirt off your back.”
He couldn’t help smiling. There was something about her…. He wished she’d put some clothes on. Her naked body under the skimpy towel was getting him horny…. God! what was he thinking of? Since Aileen had finally allowed him to make love to her there had been no one else. If you had a good satisfying relationship with a woman you didn’t need anyone else….
They were in the bedroom now. He found her a pair of jeans that had shrunk in the wash and a rope belt she could tie around her waist.
The shutters in the small bedroom were closed against the morning sunlight. The room was hot and stuffy. The atmosphere oppressive.
“Give me your shirt. I’ll go get dressed in the bathroom,” she said.
He started to undo the buttons, aware of the fact that there were a dozen other shirts he could have lent her. She moved close to take it, and without either of them uttering a word they began to kiss, at first tentatively—then, as they both realized it was a mutual act, more passionately.
Steven forgot about Aileen, forgot about everything except a strong unbeatable need for this beautiful wild woman with the black opal eyes. Slowly he began to back her toward the bed.
She felt lightheaded and unreal. So much had happened in such a short time. Memories of Marco… and now this…. Somehow she knew that no way was Steven going to be just another one-nighter.
She fell back on the bed willingly, allowing the towel to slip from her body. He was struggling with the zipper on his Levi’s. She reached up to help him.
The phone rang.
It was as though an alien presence had entered the room. Steven froze.
“Ignore it,” she whispered.
“I can’t.” He reached for the receiver. “Who is it?” he asked, his voice husky.
Aileen, dressed and ready for a brisk walk to the UN building, said, “Steven? You sound busy. I thought I might stop by and fix you some breakfast. You must be starving after your ordeal.”
Guilt swept over him like a giant wave. What was he doing? He jumped quickly off the bed. “I’m not hungry. Got a lot of papers to check.”
“Are you all right?”
Aileen knew him well. Too well. “Sure. Just tired and overworked.”
“Then a good breakfast is just what you need. I’ll go by the market and be there in half an hour.” She hung up before he could object further.
Lucky sensed that for now it was over. She rolled onto her stomach. “Girl friend?”
“Fiancée.”
“I didn’t know people still did things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Get engaged.”
He pulled the zipper up on his Levi�
�s and walked to the closet, where he selected another shirt. “She’s coming over,” he said.
“I heard.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” She wondered if he really was, or if he was just saying it to be polite. Goddamn it! Why had the phone interrupted them anyway. She got off the bed, covering herself with a sheet. “I guess I’ll get dressed and hit the road. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”
“Hey, Lucky.” He went to her and held her by the shoulders, staring into her eyes intently. “I don’t know what’s going on. Something’s happening. I don’t know what, but I do know that I want to see you again. Can I?”
“I hate men who ask for things.” She snatched up the borrowed clothes and slammed into the bathroom.
He frowned. He didn’t need any complications in his private life, and yet he knew that he had to see her again. She was unfinished business, and all his life Steven had never left any loose ends.
He wandered into the kitchen and fixed two mugs of coffee. She emerged from the bathroom, grinning. “You like?”
“I like.”
“Think I could start a new fashion?”
“Why not?”
“Maybe I’ll market it. Call it the Big Baggy Look.”
He watched her seriously, trying to read her, wondering how she really felt under the flippant facade. “Here.” He handed her a mug. “I made coffee.”
“No, thanks, gotta split. Gotta hot date with a Danish pastry. I’ll probably stack on five pounds just waiting to get into my apartment!” She picked up her Gucci bag. “Why don’t I just stuff my old clothes in here and get out of your life. It’s really been… interesting.”
“What’s your phone number?” he asked impulsively.
“Why?”
“Because I want to see you again.”
She laughed. “You just want to make sure you get your clothes back, right?”
“I want your phone number,” he repeated.
She looked at him quizzically. “I got your number—I’ll call you. If a woman answers I promise I’ll hang up!”
“What’s your last name?”
“So you can look me up in the book? Forget it. I’m not listed.” She touched his cheek lightly, “but I will call—honest.”
“I want you to.” He paused and stared at her meaningfully. “I really do.”
“I know,” she murmured softly. “After the time we’ve had together, how could you possibly resist me?”
Her phone was ringing when she finally got into her apartment. Problems at one of the Free Make-Up Company production plants. The emergency generator had gone out and there was a panic going on. She barely had time to take a shower and slip into fresh clothes when one of her managing directors picked her up and drove her over to the plant.
She had wanted to relax, contact Enzio, sleep, but by the time she got home again it was already five in the afternoon. She was exhausted—too exhausted to do anything about anything except collapse on top of her bed and fall into an immediate sleep.
She dreamed about Marco, which was pleasing, and Steven, which was confusing, and Gino—which brought her awake with a heart-thumping jolt. Gino. Coming back. Taking over. Christ! She had to get back to Vegas fast.
She consulted her watch. It was just before seven. She had fallen asleep fully dressed. Quickly she changed into a short cotton shift, fixed herself some iced tea, and phoned Enzio.
“He’s out,” a surly maid informed her. “Won’t be back till late.”
She tried Costa, but there was no reply. She contemplated phoning Steven but then decided it was too soon. Too soon for what? She shivered slightly and grinned. Steven was something else. Steven was special. She didn’t want to blow it.
The phone rang and she snatched it up, hoping it was Enzio returning her call. It wasn’t. It was Boogie Patterson, her ex-bodyguard driver, dear quiet Boogie who had wanted to come with her to New York but whom she had discouraged because Boogie spelled Las Vegas and blood and memories. He had stayed in Vegas and started his own limo service, bankrolled by her. They were rarely in contact but they were friends.
“Hey, Boog. How are you? What’s happening?”
“Lucky,” he said, his voice straining in a call box, the sound of slot machines heavy in the background, “I have to talk to you.”
“Good timing. I was going to call you. I’ll be in Vegas—maybe tomorrow—and I’ll need you to meet the plane.”
“You’re coming here?” His voice hardly spelled out welcome.
“Sure. It’s been long enough. I’m coming back.”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“I’m headin’ for the airport now. There’s things you should know. Things I only just found out—”
Aggravation crept into her tone. “What things?”
“Lucky… I know you’ll find this difficult to believe, but Enzio Bonnatti is not the friend you think he is.”
“Boogie, what’s the matter with you? Are you stoned? Do you realize what you’re saying?”
“Yes. I realize.” He paused meaningfully. “And you should realize this. No way did Mortimer Sauris put the hit on Marco—no way at all. Bonnatti burned the wrong man. And that’s only the beginning.”
“What?” she gasped, sudden cold chills shivering down her spine.
“I’ll see you soon—no more on the phone. There’s a can of worms opening up, and they stink. Don’t say a word to anyone until we talk—you understand? Not to anyone.”
“I understand. Wire me your flight number.” Dully she hung up the phone.
Marco… Marco.… Baby, I’ll get them. Whoever it was, I’ll personally get them. I promise you that.
Thursday, July 14, 1977
New York
A six-million-dollar payout to the Internal Revenue bought Gino Santangelo the right to return to America. Everything nice and legal. And so it should be. It had taken long enough to work out. Long delicate negotiations that had gone on forever, with Gino screaming long-distance to Costa, “Pay ’em—I don’t care what it costs. Pay the bastards whatever it takes to get me back.” It had cost, but paying the money was no real problem. After all, as long as it kept on flowing… and it did.
Now he was back, and Costa was waiting for him in his suite at the Pierre. The two old friends embraced affectionately.
“It’s good t’see you—bum!” Gino exclaimed. “Lost a little hair, I notice, but you still look like you could go a round or two.”
Costa smiled. “And you. Always the same. You never alter.”
“Why should I change, my friend? When I go I plan to take my teeth, my hair—everything. Why not?”
Costa nodded. Gino had not changed at all. He still looked exactly the same. Dark and suntanned, his hair as thick and black as ever, no gut protruding over his trousers. Unconsciously Costa pulled his own stomach in.
“I wanna eat,” Gino said. “Why don’t you order room service while I get outa my clothes and into something comfortable.” He headed toward the bedroom. “I want a big fat juicy American steak. And french fries. And some red wine. You order—I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Costa nodded and went to the phone while Gino checked out the bedroom. It was nice. But it was not home. Now that he was back he wanted a home. No more hotels. He was too old for them. He thought about his friend, Costa. Contrary to what he had said, the man did not look good. He looked his age and more: gray-skinned, weary-eyed, fatigued. Gino had left everything in his control. Perhaps it had been too much. For all of his seven-year exile, Gino had purposefully avoided becoming involved in what was happening in America. He knew that he couldn’t handle the frustration of hearing about what was going on and not being in a position to do anything about it. “You take care of things,” he had told Costa. “You need anything—go to Enzio.” As long as the money continued to arrive, he was satisfied. A different courier made a deposit in one of his numbered Swiss bank accounts weekly—and things progressed
smoothly. Then Marco was hit, and the money had stopped coming. It was the worst time. There he was, trapped in a foreign country, powerless to do anything, filled with rage and a helpless fury. Marco had been like a son to him—like a son—and he could do nothing to avenge his murder. He had sent instant word to Enzio. He wanted justice. Immediately. Within days, word filtered through that justice had been done, and the money began to flow again. Gino felt he owed a great debt to Bonnatti.
Of course, even in Israel, rumors reached him about Lucky. He was aware of the fact that she had become a part of his business empire. He was not aware of the extent of her involvement.
Quickly he changed his clothes, swapping his dark suit for a cashmere sweater and comfortable slacks. The sooner he heard everything the better. He was back and rarin’ to go.
Sal regarded the sleeping form of Dario Santangelo. He certainly was a pretty one, with his pale blond hair and perfect features. Pretty and valuable. And why shouldn’t she pick up a nice chunk of bread for something that was thrown in her lap?
She had been working hard since giving him the two turquoise capsules—capsules that would guarantee a straight twelve hours’ solid sleep. First she had removed the body of the dark-haired boy from the apartment, lugging him down the service stairs slung over her shoulders like a sack of flour. In the underground garage she threw him on the back seat of her old Chrysler and covered him with a blanket. The power cut was making her job easy. Everyone was busy doing their own thing. She drove fifteen blocks and dumped him in an alley. Then she returned to Dario’s apartment, cleaned up the mess, and slung him over her shoulders.
Sal had the strength of two men. By the time she put Dario in the back seat of her car, she was scarcely out of breath. She hummed softly to herself as she drove all the way out to Queens.
Ruth was up and waiting for her. Gorgeous Ruth, ex-showgirl, ex-hooker—with one side of her face so badly scarred by acid that no man would look at her. Who needed men when Sal was around?
“Everything O.K., hon?” Ruth asked anxiously.
“Peachy,” Sal replied, kissing her gently on the bad side of her face. “We got a guest. Make up a bed an’ I’ll tell you the scam.”
Chances Page 66