"Your flight's running fifteen minutes late, Miz Santangelo," he said apologetical y, as if he were personal y responsible. "Can I get you a drink?"
Automatical y she glanced at her watch. It was past noon. "I'l have a Jack Daniel's on the rocks," she decided.
"Coming right up, Miz Santangelo."
Leaning back, she closed her eyes. Another lightning trip to L. A. she couldn't tel Lennie about. Only this time she hoped to close the deal that would make her husband a free man again.
This journey west would be the final clincher.
Chapter 3
Abedon Panercrimski--or as he'd been known to a world that had al but forgotten him--Abe Panther--was eighty-eight years old and looked it, even though he didn't act it. Abe stil had his bal s, although many women--
including two ex-wives and countless lovers --had tried to cut them off.
Abe arose every morning promptly at six. First he showered, then he put in his new set of bril iant white teeth, combed his few remaining strands of silver hair, swam the length of his pool ten times, and feasted on a hearty breakfast of steak, eggs, and three cups of bitter, black Turkish coffee.
Next he lit up a formidable Havana cigar and proceeded to read the daily newspapers.
Abe loved reading everything. He devoured The Wal Street Journal and the English Financial Times. With equal enthusiasm he scanned the gossip rags, enjoying every juicy item. It pleased him to acquire knowledge, however useless. From world affairs to idle chitchat, he absorbed it al .
After his marathon reading session he was ready for Inga Irving, his longtime companion, to join him on the terrace of his Mil er Drive home.
Inga was a big-boned, straight-backed Swedish woman in her early fifties. She never used makeup and had al owed her shoulder-length, club-cut hair to gray. Inga always wore loose fitting slacks and a shapeless sweater.
In spite of her indifference to fashion she was stil a striking woman who had obviously once been a great beauty.
Long ago, when Abe was the Hol ywood tycoon to beat al Hol ywood tycoons, including the Misters Goldwyn, Mayer, Zanuck, and Cohn, he'd attempted to make Inga into a star. He had not succeeded. The camera didn't like Inga Irving. The public didn't like Inga Irving. And after several tries in three big Panther Studios productions, Abe had final y given up. Every contract producer, director, and leading man on the lot had breathed freely again. Inga Irving was not destined to be the new Greta Garbo, in spite of Abe's valiant efforts.
When she so desired, Inga could be a prize bitch, moody, rude, and insulting. Those qualities might have been acceptable if she'd possessed talent and star potential. Alas, she didn't. And during her rise to nowhere she'd made many enemies.
Inga had never forgiven Abe for not persevering in promoting her career, but she'd stayed with him anyway--
companion to the once great Abe Panther was better than anything else she could think of.
When his last divorce took place he didn't marry Inga.
She refused to blackmail or beg. She was a proud woman; besides, as far as she was concerned, she was his common-law wife, and when Abe died she had every intention of claiming what was rightful y and legal y hers.
Every day around noon, Abe partook of a light snack.
He favored oysters when they were in season, accompanied by a glass of dry white wine. After lunch he had a nap, awaking refreshed after an hour, to watch two of his favorite soaps on television, fol owed by a solid dose of Phil Donahue.
Abe Panther never left his house. He hadn't done so for ten years--ever since his stroke.
Six weeks in the hospital, and he al owed his sons-inlaw to take over running the studio. Although technical y he never lost control--and was indeed stil president and owner of Panther Studios--he'd not had the inclination to return.
Making movies wasn't the same as it once was. Abe had been in the picture business since he was eighteen, and at seventy-eight he'd decided taking a break was no big deal.
The break had lasted ten years, and nobody expected him to return.
What they did expect, Abe realized, was for him to drop dead and leave everything to them.
His living relatives consisted of two granddaughters --
Abigaile and Primrose--and their offspring. Abigaile and Primrose were as unalike as two sisters could be. They couldn't stand each other. Sisterly love and affection failed to exist between them. Abigaile was pushy and grasping.
She loved entertaining and big parties. She lived for shopping and glitzy social events. A true Hol ywood princess. Primrose, the younger of the two, had opted for a different kind of life in England, where she was able to raise her two children in what she considered a more wholesome atmosphere.
And then there were the sons-in-law: Abigaile's husband, Mickey Stol i, who ran the studio, and Primrose's spouse, Ben Harrison, who took care of Panther Studios'
overseas operation.
Mickey and Ben also loathed each other. For the sake of business, however, they had formed an uneasy truce. It helped that they lived on different sides of the Atlantic.
Abe considered both sons-in-law--or scums-in-law as he had christened them--to be cheating connivers who stole whenever they could.
It amused him to discuss the scums-in-law with Inga.
She hardly ever cracked a smile, although she was certainly an avid listener, missing no detail of what he imagined were the scums-in-laws' latest scurrilous activities.
Abe had a loyal employee firmly ensconced on the studio lot. His name was Herman Stone, an unassuming man with the useless title of Personal Assistant to Mr.
Panther. Herman visited Abe once a month and gave him a rundown of studio activities. Everyone knew he was Abe's spy, so therefore he was left alone and never privy to any important information. He had a comfortable office and an elderly secretary, Sheila. Herman and Sheila were both relics of the Abe Panther reign, perfectly harmless and absolutely unfirable until the day Abe Panther dropped dead.
Which would be soon, Mickey Stol i hoped. For then he would have complete control and could set about getting rid of his brother-in-law, Ben Harrison.
Yeah, soon, Ben Harrison also hoped. For then he was going to move back to Hol ywood and grab the studio from his conniving brother-in-law's grasp.
When Abe Panther dropped, Abigaile Stol i and Primrose Harrison knew they were destined to become two of the most powerful women in Hol ywood.
Abe had never gone public with Panther Studios. He owned it--al one hundred and twenty glorious acres of prime land. So the girls would inherit everything. Mickey Stol i planned to rule his inherited kingdom like the studio heads of the old days.
Ben Harrison planned to sel off parcels of the valuable land, just as 20th Century-Fox had done, and become a multibil ionaire.
The "scums-in-law": they couldn't wait, and old Abe Panther knew it.
That's why he had other ideas: ideas that if Abigaile and Mickey, Primrose and Ben knew about, they would commit hara-kiri in the middle of Chasen's on a Sunday night.
Abe planned to sel his studio.
And the sooner the better.
Chapter 4
In New York, Steven Berkeley kissed Mary Lou, patted her lovingly on the stomach, and headed for the door, pausing only to ask, "Are we in or out tonight?" "Out," she replied.
Steven groaned. "Why?" he asked plaintively.
" 'Cause when that baby starts to bulge, I ain't goin'
nowhere, man."
They both laughed. Mary Lou was a glowingly pretty black woman, a few months away from her twenty-third birthday, and two and a half months away from giving birth to their first child. They'd been married nearly two years.
Steven Berkeley had skin the color of rich milk chocolate, black curly hair, and unfathomable green eyes.
Six feet three inches tal and forty-six years of age, he kept himself in great shape, visiting the gym three times a week and swimming at an indoor pool every other day.
Mary L
ou was the star of a popular television sitcom.
And Steven was a highly successful defense attorney.
They'd met when her managers had approached his firm to represent her while she sued a low-life magazine for publishing nude photos of her taken when she was sixteen.
Steven had accepted the case, won her an award of 16
mil ion dol ars--since appealed and reduced--and married the girl. In spite of a twenty-four-year age difference, both of them had never been happier.
"And what kind of an incredible, exciting evening do you have planned for us tonight?" he asked sarcastical y.
Mary Lou grinned. Whatever it was, she knew Steven would sooner stay home. He loved to cook, watch television, and make love--not necessarily in that order.
"We were supposed to see Lucky," she said. "But her secretary phoned to say she had to go out of town. So . . . I cal ed my mother and asked her to join us."
"Your mother!"
Mary Lou shook her head in an exasperated fashion.
"You l000ve my mother. Quit giving me a hard time."
"Sure I l000ve your mother," he imitated. "Only I l000ve my wife even better. . Why can't we spend a quiet evening at home? Just you and me?"
Mary Lou stuck out her tongue and wiggled it at him.
"That's al you ever want to do."
"Anything wrong with that?"
"Get outta here, Steven. Go to work. You're such a nag."
"Who, me?"
"Goodbye, Steven."
He continued to defend himself. "Is it a criminal offense to want to be alone with my wife?"
"Out!" Mary Lou said firmly.
"One kiss and I'm history," he promised.
"One kiss only," she said sternly.
One kiss turned into two, then three, and before either of them could help it they were back in the bedroom pul ing off each other's clothes and fal ing breathlessly on the bed.
Making love to Mary Lou was a sweet wild ride of mutual passion. Steven tried to be gentle with her. He was frightened of hurting the baby. Mary Lou didn't seem to care; she was ful of exuberant love, pul ing him close, wrapping her legs around his waist, rocking and rol ing until she climaxed with a series of little screams.
By the time they were finished he was ready for another shower and already late for an appointment. "Not my fault,"
Mary Lou said primly as he raced from the house.
"Not your fault!" he yel ed, running for his car. "Face it!
You're an uncontrol able sex machine! How am I ever expected to get any work done?"
"Wil you shut up!" Mary Lou scolded, standing at the door wrapped in a silk kimono, her pretty face alive with pleasure. "People wil hear you!"
At the office, Jerry Myerson, his closest friend and partner in the law firm of Myerson, Laker, Brandon and Berkeley, waited impatiently in the reception area. "You're late," Jerry reprimanded sharply, tapping his watch as if he were anticipating an argument.
"I know," Steven replied, straight-faced. "Had to make love to my wife."
"Very funny," Jerry snorted. He was a forty-sevenyear-old playboy bachelor with the unshakable belief that once you got married your hard-on shriveled up and died forever.
"Let's go," he said impatiently. It wasn't often that Jerry Myerson and Steven Berkeley made house cal s.
Sometimes there were exceptions. The client they were on their way to see was an extremely rich woman cal ed Deena Swanson. Deena was married to bil ionaire Martin Z. Swanson, president and owner of Swanson Industries, an al -powerful organization that owned major New York real estate, hotels, cosmetic companies, and publishing firms.
Martin Z. Swanson was Mister New York, a charismatic man of forty-five with unlimited power and an insatiable thirst for even more. Deena had parlayed her position as his wife into one of importance. Early on she had hired a press agent to make sure she was known as much more than just the wife. From social butterfly and fashion plate, she had risen to fame, lending her name to everything from perfume to her own line of designer jeans. She figureheaded Swanson Style, one of her husband's many companies. Deena made sure the name Swanson was always in the columns.
The Swansons had been married ten years. They suited each other. Deena's appetite for even more fame, money, and power was just as voracious as her husband's.
When Deena Swanson cal ed and requested their presence, Jerry was delighted. The firm had been representing her for several months on minor matters, but Jerry figured that being summoned to her home meant things were definitely looking up--maybe they were going to get her husband's account. He liked that idea a lot.
"Why do I have to come along?" Steven grumbled as they sat in the back of Jerry's chauffeured town car on their way to Deena's Park Avenue apartment, one of the Swansons' three permanent residences.
"Because we don't know what she wants," Jerry replied patiently. "It could be simple. Maybe it's complicated. Two minds are better than one." A pause, and then a sly
"Besides, the rumor is she likes her coffee black."
Steven narrowed his eyes. "What?" he said sharply.
Jerry was unperturbed. "You heard."
Shaking his head, Steven said, "You're an asshole, Jerry. Sometimes I don't think you ever took it out of col ege."
"Took what out of col ege?" Jerry asked innocently.
"Your fucking brains."
"Thank you."
The car stopped at a red light. Jerry studied two girls crossing the street. One, a bouncy redhead, real y got his attention. "Do you think she sucks c--"
"Don't even say it," Steven interrupted grimly. "Y'know, Jerry, you should get married and stop behaving like a dirty old lawyer."
"Married?" Jerry's voice fil ed with undisguised horror.
"What makes you think I'd ever be that stupid?"
Every so often Steven wondered how their friendship had endured since col ege. They were both so different, and yet he couldn't imagine a more loyal and supportive friend than Jerry Myerson. Jerry had seen him through so much--including a disastrous marriage to a wild Puerto Rican dancer named Zizi, his many years as a crusading assistant D. A., and final y the long, painstaking years trying to find out the identity of his father. When he final y discovered his father was the infamous Gino Santangelo, Jerry had congratulated him.
"Hey--now you've got one white bal and one black,"
he'd joked. "The man can play in both courts. Not bad, Steven. There's a little larceny in you after al ."
The discovery was a shock, but life went on, and Steven weathered the revelation. With Jerry's help he threw himself into his work, deciding to specialize in criminal law. He'd discovered his vocation and loved it. Soon he developed quite a reputation as one of the best defense attorneys in New York. He was the first to admit that without Jerry he certainly wouldn't be a partner in one of the most successful law firms in New York. Jerry had supported him al the way.
So what if he conducted his personal life like the ideal Playboy subscriber? Beneath al his sexist front the man had heart, and that was what real y counted.
Deena Swanson was a cool y attractive woman with chiseled features, dead blue eyes, and very pale red hair cropped in a thirties bob. She was one of those women of indeterminate age--taut white skin without a line in sight, perfect makeup, and a slim figure beneath a tailored gray skirt and an expensive silk shirt. Steven figured her to be anywhere between thirty and forty--it was impossible to tel .
What he could tel was that she didn't look happy.
She greeted them with a limp handshake, receiving them in a spacious living room fil ed with African artifacts, sculpture, and fine paintings. Above the mantel hung an impressive oil painting of Mr. and Mrs. Swanson. In it, she wore a pink bal gown and her husband sported a white tuxedo; both held the same expression--bland indifference.
A Lebanese houseman hovered, waiting to take their order for coffee before backing respectful y from the room.
Deena indicated that they were to sit on a
n overstuffed couch, and when they were settled, she said in a slightly accented voice, "The meeting we are about to have must be absolutely confidential. Am I assured of this?"
"Of course," Jerry replied quickly, offended that she might think otherwise.
"My husband is not to know of this conversation either."
"Mrs. Swanson, you are a valued client. Whatever you say to us is strictly for our ears only."
"Good." She crossed impressive silk-clad legs and reached for a thin black cigarette in a silver box.
Jerry leaped to attention with his lighter.
Deena drew deeply on her cigarette, stared first at Jerry, then at Steven, and said, "I don't believe in wasting time. Do you?"
"Couldn't agree more," replied Jerry, ever obliging, and quite attracted to this cool, expensive-looking woman, even though she wasn't his usual type.
Deena silenced him with a look. "Kindly hear me out,"
she said imperiously. "No interruptions." Jerry's back stiffened. He wasn't used to being spoken to as if he were hired help.
Deena spoke again, oblivious to his hurt feelings.
"Gentlemen," she said calmly, "it has recently come to my attention that one of these days I might be obliged to commit the perfect murder."
A heavy silence hung over the room while Deena paused for a long moment, al owing her words to register.
When she was satisfied. they had, she continued, "If this situation ever arose, and I failed in my attempt to make it perfect, I would natural y expect you--as my attorneys--to do everything in your power to defend me." A long white finger decorated with a huge diamond ring pointed straight at Steven. "You. I would want you to defend me. I understand you're the best."
"Now wait a minute," Steven interrupted heatedly. "I can't--"
"No. You wait a minute," she snapped, a woman used to getting her own way. "Al ow me to finish." She glared at them both, cold blue eyes daring either of them to interrupt again. "A retainer of one mil ion dol ars was transferred into your company's account today. Al you have to do, Mr.
Myerson, Mr. Berkeley, is to be there when and if--and I emphasize the if --I need you." She gave a brittle laugh, before adding with slow deliberation, "For. al our sakes, we should hope that day never comes."
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