Chapter 5
The Panther sat behind his large walnut desk, a fierce Inga positioned in the background.
Inga positioned in the background.
Lucky Santangelo entered the room, accompanied by Morton Sharkey, her West Coast lawyer.
Abe greeted Lucky with a friendly nod. They had met only once before and he'd warmed to her instantly, recognizing in her the true spirit of a maverick and an adventurer. She reminded him of himself when he was young.
"You're looking wel , Mr. Panther," Morton Sharkey said politely, stil in a mild state of shock that Lucky had been-able to get this far with her deal. When she'd first come to him with her wild proposition, he'd almost laughed in her face. "Don't you know you're asking the impossible?" he'd warned her. "Panther Studios, is control ed by. Mickey Stol i and Ben Harrison. And let me tel you, I know for a fact they'd never even consider sel ing."
"Aren't you forgetting they merely run it?" Lucky had replied cool y. "And from what I hear, they're mostly in business for themselves. Don't worry, Morton, I've had every detail checked out. Abe Panther owns the studio one hundred percent. He can do whatever he likes. And I want him to sel it to me."
"The man is a hundred and six," Morton had joked.
"The man is eighty-eight, and in ful possession of al his faculties," she'd replied, ful of confidence.
Morton Sharkey had never thought it possible. But then, Morton Sharkey had never dealt with a Santangelo before.
When Lucky put something in motion she was behind it al the way, and instinct had immediately told her Abe Panther would love to dump on his two thieving sons-in-law and pul the studio--his studio--out from under them.
Secret negotiations had taken place. At first Abe hadn't seemed interested, until Lucky had insisted on flying out to Los Angeles for a face-to-face confrontation.
Abe Panther might be an old man, but she had known they were kindred spirits the moment her black Santangelo eyes met his canny, faded blues at their first meeting.
"What the hel you know 'bout runnin' a studio an' makin'
movies?" he'd snapped at her.
"Not much," she'd replied honestly. "But I can smel garbage when I'm near it, and that's what your studio is turning out. Cheap, exploitive garbage." Her eyes burned bright. "So, I reckon I can only do a better job, right?"
"The studio's turnin' a profit," Abe had pointed out.
"Yes, but you're stil making shit movies. I want to make Panther great again, as it once was. And let me tel you something--I can do it. That, I can assure you, is a Santangelo promise. And the Santangelos do not break promises." She'd paused and stared at him, mesmerizing him with her dangerous black eyes before adding, "Bet on it."
He'd warmed to her immediately. She had spirit and bal siness, refreshing qualities in a woman.
And Lucky had guessed right--Abe would enjoy nothing more than to screw his sons-in-law out of what they took for granted as their rightful inheritance.
A deal was put into motion. Al that was needed now was Abe's signature.
"Let me talk to Lucky alone," Abe said, shifting in his chair.
They were almost there, but Morton sensed a curve bal coming. "Certainly," he said, far more easily than he felt. He glanced over at Lucky.
Imperceptibly she nodded, indicating he should leave.
Morton walked out of the room.
Inga didn't budge. She remained behind the old man's desk, a stoic Swedish monument.
"Out!" Abe commanded sharply.
A twitch of her thin lips was the only indication that she minded. Leaving the room, she slammed the door behind her, a signal of disapproval at being dismissed. Abe cackled. "Inga don't like me tel ing her what to do. Stil blames me for never makin' her a star." He shook his head.
"Not my fault. No screen presence. Movie stars gotta have two qualities--without 'em they're dead." He cocked his head on one side. "Know what they are?"
Lucky nodded. She knew Abe Panther's credo by heart.
"Likability and fuckability," she recited without hesitation.
He was impressed. "How'd you know that?" he demanded.
"Because I've read everything about you. Every press clip, studio release, three unauthorized biographies. Oh, and a few personal biographies by some very beautiful female stars who couldn't help but mention you." She grinned. "You sure got around in your time, didn't you?
You're a very famous man, Mr. Panther."
He nodded, pleased at her assessment of his standing.
"Yup. I'm the last of 'em," he said proudly. "The last of the movie dinosaurs."
"I wouldn't cal you a dinosaur."
"Don't need your flattery, girlie. You've almost got your deal."
"I know." Her black eyes shone brightly. "I'm ready to meet your price. You're ready to sel to me. So come on, Mr. P. What exactly is holding us up?"
"Just a little something I need from you."
She tried to suppress the impatience in her voice.
When Lucky wanted something she wanted it immediately.
"What?" she asked edgily?
"Retribution."
"Huh?"
"The scums-in-law an' al the bloodsuckers around 'em."
"Yes?"
"I want you to nail 'em, girlie. Nail 'em good." "I plan to."
"My way."
She continued to check her impatience. "What's your way?"
"Before you gain control, you take a job at the studio.
You'l be assistant to Herman Stone, he's my man." Abe sparkled as he felt excitement creeping back into his life.
"An' when you're there--right in the thick of it--you'l catch
'em al doin' what they shouldn't be doin'." He cackled with delight. "Six weeks on the inside, an' then whammo, girlie, you're the new boss, an' you can dump 'em al . Some good plan, huh?"
Lucky could hardly believe what she was hearing. It was an insane idea. How could she vanish for six weeks and assume another identity? She headed an empire; there was no way she could just disappear. What about Lennie?
And Bobby and Brigette? Not to mention al her numerous business commitments? "Impossible," she said, shaking her head regretful y.
"If you want my studio you'l do it," Abe retorted, clicking his false teeth. "If you real y want it."
She brushed a hand through her dark hair, stood up and began pacing around the room.
Sure, she wanted the studio, but she wasn't about to jump hoops to meet the whims of a demanding old man. Or was she?
Hmm . . . Maybe it wasn't such an insane idea. Maybe it was quite a tempting proposition--a chal enge. And there was nothing Lucky enjoyed more than a chal enge.
Undercover she could catch everyone doing what they weren't supposed to be doing.
Abe watched her careful y, crinkling his shrewd eyes as he reached for a glass of prune juice on his desk. `No undercover . . . no sale," he said, just to make quite sure she understood his rules.
Lucky spun around and stared at him. "You mean you'd blow this deal?" she asked incredulously. "Al that money?"
Abe smiled, clicking his teeth into a neat porcelain row.
They didn't fit his leathery, lined old face. They looked too new. "I'm eighty-eight years old, girlie, what am I gonna do with the money? It ain't gonna buy me a hard-on, huh? Huh?
It ain't gonna raise my schnickel."
Lucky grinned. "Who knows?"
"I know, girlie."
"Nothing in life is a certainty."
Abe clicked his false teeth in and out of his mouth one more time--not exactly an endearing habit. "Six weeks," he said with surprising firmness. "Or we got no deal."
Chapter 6
Brigette Stanislopoulos was just seventeen years old and undeniably pretty. She had long, natural y blond hair and a rounded, wel -developed figure. She was also an heiress, due to inherit half the Stanislopoulos fortune left to her by her grandfather Dimitri. She already had her mother's vast estate in trust, and when she reached .
/> Twenty-one she was destined to become one of the richest women in the world. A sobering thought--for Brigette, although stil a teenager, had already lived a life fil ed with pain and confusion, and instinctively she knew her huge inheritance was only going to add further complications.
Money had failed to bring her mother happiness. Poor Olympia--discovered in a seedy New York hotel with the famous rock star Flash, both of them drugged out and dead. Not a very fitting end for Olympia, the girl who should have had everything.
Brigette was determined her life would be different. She had no intention of fol owing her mother's treacherous path to unhappiness: three husbands, and an excess of selfish pleasures.
Brigette was thirteen when Olympia died. She'd never known her real father, an Italian businessman whom her grandfather had always referred to as "the fortune hunter."
Olympia had divorced him shortly after Brigette was born, and several months later he'd been blown to pieces by a terrorist car bomb in Paris. Losing her mother and natural father at such an early age had been bad enough; more tragedies, however, loomed ahead. Several months later she and Lucky's son, Bobby, were victims of a kidnapping.
Santino Bonnatti--an infamous crime czar and a lifetime enemy of the Santangelo family--had the two children trapped in the house of his girlfriend, Eden Antonio, and was intent on sexual y molesting them. Before he was able to succeed, Brigette managed to grab his gun and fire three times, just as Lucky arrived to the rescue. Almost immediately the police were at the front door, but by that time Lucky had made sure Brigette and Bobby were hustled out the back, and taken safely home. Lucky had then proceeded to accept responsibility for Santino's death.
Months later at Lucky's trial, Brigette had gathered al her courage, jumped to her feet, and publicly confessed. It was a brave thing to do, but she had been unable to sit back any longer and al ow Lucky to take the blame.
Fortunately, there had been a videotape proving Bonnatti's death to be a clear case of self-defense.
Brigette was placed on probation for a year and sent to live with her grandmother Charlotte, Dimitri's first wife.
Charlotte was no comfortable grandmother figure. She was an elegant society matron, now married to her fourth husband, an English stage actor ten years her junior. They divided their time between a house in London's Eaton Square and a New York brownstone.
Looking after Brigette's welfare was not exactly Charlotte's dream come true. She had immediately enrol ed her granddaughter in a strict private boarding school an hour's drive from New York.
Al Brigette wanted was to be left alone. She felt like the original poor little rich girl with a scandalous past.
She kept to herself, shunning any offers of friendship, for above al , Brigette had learned the true secret of survival--
and that was never to trust anyone.
"Hey, Stanislob--it's the phone for you."
Stanislob was one of the better names they cal ed her.
Brigette didn't care. She knew who she was. She was Brigette Stanislopoulos. Person. Human being. Not the spoiled brat some of the tabloids liked to make her out to be.
They never left her in peace, the gutter press. There was always someone around lurking, spying. A photographer hiding in the bushes, an insolent reporter tracking her every.
move. They watched her relentlessly.
The tabloids had their favorites. Lisa Marie Presley, Princess Stephanie of Monaco, and Brigette
Stanislopoulos. Three young heiresses. Always good for a story.
Ignoring the stupid nickname, Brigette took the phone from a tal girl" with frizzed hair and an abundance of freckles. Maybe they could've been friends --another time, another life. - .
"Yes?" She spoke hesitantly into the receiver. Her cal s were supposed to be monitored, but nobody ever bothered.
"Hey, pretty girl, it's Lennie. As usual I've come up with a sensational idea. What are your plans for the summer?"
"No plans."
"I like it. I'm gonna speak to Lucky about you coming out here and spending time with us in Malibu. We've rented a sensational house. How about it?"
Brigette was delighted. Lennie Golden and Lucky were the only two people she real y cared about--Lennie, her ex-stepfather, now married to Lucky, who had once been married to her grandfather. What a tangled web of relationships! The Stanislopoulos clan made the Onassis family tree seem simple.
"I'd love that," she said excitedly.
"Great. I'l have Lucky persuade Charlotte to let you go for a few weeks."
"God! The last thing Charlotte needs is persuading. Just tel her. She'l be thril ed to get rid of me." "Now, now, don't be nasty, little girl," he teased. "It's true, Lennie!"
"And then, when I finish the movie, maybe we'l al take off for Europe."
"Bril iant!"
"Tough. No enthusiasm, huh?"
"C'mon! I'd kil for this trip."
"You don't have to. It's almost settled."
"I can't wait!"
"Good."
"How come you're not working? Isn't it the middle of the day in L. A.?"
"What about you?" he countered.
"It's five-thirty. I'm a free person."
"So get out an' run riot."
She giggled. "I can't. It's a weekday. We're not al owed out on weekdays."
"Break a rule or two, live dangerously."
"You're not supposed to tel me to do things like that,"
she said, remembering the one time she had broken the rules and suffered the consequences.
"No shit? If I were you I'd go for it."
Go for what? She had no friends. No one to cut school with. Besides, she was not like her mother--she had no desire to break loose. The price, she'd discovered, was far too high.
"How's the movie going?" she asked, hurriedly changing the subject.
He groaned. "Don't ruin my day."
"Is Lucky in L. A. with you?"
He feigned exasperation. "What is it with the questions?
Are you needlin' me because you've nothing better to do, or what?"
She smiled. "Don't you know? I live to piss you off."
Laughing, he said, "Wel , keep on livin', and I'l cal you next week with more plans. Okay, bait?" "Okay, dirty old man."
Lennie always made her feel terrific. Especial y when he cal ed her "bait," an abbreviation of "jail bait"--his pet name for her. She always retaliated with "dirty old man." It was their private game. Their way of saying the past meant nothing. "You gotta laugh about something an' it'l go away,"
Lennie had often told her.
Maybe he was right, but it didn't mean she had to let her guard down. She was Brigette Stanislopoulos. Person.
Heiress. Always an heiress. No getting away from that.
With a deep sigh she returned to the dormitory room --a prison shared with three other girls. There was a stack of homework piled on the table next to her bed, and on her side of the wal hung a single poster of Boy George, smiling shyly, wearing ful makeup and ringlets. She liked his music, and she liked the fact that he didn't seem to give a damn.
Her kind of person.
The other girls had posters and pictures of everyone from Rob Lowe to an almost naked Richard Gere. So what? Romantic involvements were something Brigette never wanted to experience again.
For a moment she al owed her mind to drift back in time. First there was Santino Bonnatti's face--always there-
-that evil, sneering face. And then there was Tim Wealth.
Handsome and young. A would-be-
famous actor who'd had the bad luck to try and pul a scam with Bobby and her as the central characters. The newspapers had never connected the murder of the young actor with the Bonnatti events.
Thank goodness, Brigette thought with a shudder. She'd loved Tim, and he'd tricked her. Unfortunately he had paid with his life. No fault of hers. Bonnatti's men had done what they were told, and they were told Tim Wealth was in the way.
Don't think abou
t it, she scolded herself silently. For two months they'd made her see psychiatrists. "Don't think about it," the last one had told her. The only good advice she'd received. Al that talk about her real father being dead and then her mother leaving her, causing her to feel like an abandoned child, meant nothing.
She wasn't abandoned--she was strong. A survivor: Brigette Stanislopoulos didn't need anyone.
Chapter 7
Sitting stil for an interview had never been Lennie's favorite pastime. Especial y when the interviewer insisted on intruding on the set, watching everything, eavesdropping, and making copious notes.
Shorty Rawlings, the P. R. on the movie, had talked Lennie into it against his better judgment. It was a cover story for People or Us--he couldn't remember which--and the interviewer was a horse-faced woman who kept skirting dangerously around his private life --a subject he never discussed, a fact always made very clear up front.
Not that his private life was a secret. Marrying Olympia Stanislopoulos and then Lucky Santangelo did not exactly help him maintain a low profile. What the hel --he refused to fuel the gossip; better to keep quiet.
Lucky was paranoid about staying out of the press. She refused to give interviews, and like her father, Gino, she went to a great deal of trouble to avoid being photographed. "I'm not a public person," she'd warned Lennie before they were married. "And I intend to keep it that way."
Not that easy when you marry a movie star, he'd wanted to say. Especial y when your previous husband was one of the richest men in the world and your father made plenty of headlines in his day.
Despite everything, Lucky had somehow succeeded in holding on to a certain amount of anonymity. Not many people knew what she looked like--her name was better known than her face.
"How's your wife?" the horse-faced reporter threw in casual y, tracking his thoughts. "Is it true you're separated?"
Lennie fixed her with his disconcertingly green eyes. "I gotta get back to work," he said, rising from his canvas chair. He'd had enough.
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