Mickey preferred shooting his cheapos. A nice fast production with a guaranteed box-office bonanza at the end of it.
Of course, he had to take into account Abigaile's feelings. She was, after al , Abe Panther's granddaughter, and the reason he was where he was today.
And where was he, Mickey Stol i?
He was in an air-conditioned office bigger than the house he'd grown up in. He was forty-eight years old. He was five feet nine inches tal . He was bald and didn't wear a rug. He had a deep, permanent suntan, flashing white teeth (al his own--the teeth compensated for the lack of hair), a hard body (thanks to daily tennis--his passion), and a rough-edged voice tinged with memories of the Bronx only when he was angry.
Mickey had lived in Hol ywood for thirty years, first coming out as an eighteen-year-old would-be actor. Giving that up when he lost his hair at twenty, and becoming an agent. Giving that up when he married Abigaile eighteen years ago and becoming Abe's right-hand man. Giving that up ten years ago when Abe had his stroke and Mickey took over.
Mickey Stol i was a happy man. He had a wife, a thirteen-year-old daughter, Tabitha (nobody knew about the il egitimate son he'd fathered when he was twenty-nine, just before meeting and marrying Abigaile), a black mistress, two houses (Bel-Air and Trancas), three cars (a Rol s, a Porsche, and a Jeep), and a studio.
What more could any man ask for?
Olive, his English personal secretary, entered the office.
Olive was a slim woman of forty, cast in the Deborah Kerr mold. "Good morning, Mr. Stol i," she said crisply.
mold. "Good morning, Mr. Stol i," she said crisply.
Mickey grunted. On Monday mornings Olive presented him with a private and confidential report of al the studio activities from the previous week. She handed it to him as usual. It never bothered him that she had to work al weekend to get it ready for their 8 A. M. meeting.
He skimmed it quickly, jotting notes in the margin with a thick red pen. When he finished he handed it back to her to be retyped with his notes included. After this was done, she filed it in a locked cabinet in his office.
"Juice," Mickey snapped. "Carrot."
Olive hurried into the smal gleaming kitchen adjoining his office and prepared freshly blended carrot juice for her boss. Mickey Stol i had a health-and-cleanliness fetish. He al owed nobody but the fastidious Olive to fix his fruit and vegetable drinks.
While Olive busied herself at the blender, Mickey cal ed his head of production, Ford Werne, at home. He told Ford he wanted a private discussion before the regular Monday morning meeting of al the department heads.
Ford agreed, although he wasn't happy about having to leave his house in the Palisades an hour earlier than usual.
Mickey sipped his fresh carrot juice and studied the list of stars with current production deals at Panther. It was quite a list. There were six of them. Six superstars. And Mickey Stol i had them al tied up.
At one time Virginia Venus Maria Sierra was nothing more than a scrawny American-born Italian kid who lived in Brooklyn with her widowed father and her four older brothers. She worked like a modern-day Cinderel a, looking after them--cooking, cleaning, shopping, washing and ironing--whatever there was to do. It was her job.
Virginia Venus Maria Sierra was a conscientious girl; she devoted her young life to her family of males, and in return they took her total y for granted. As far as they were concerned, it was her mission to attend to their every need; she was a woman. So, natural y, it came as a nasty surprise and quite a shock for al of them when one day she left home and ran off with Ron Machio, the long-haired gay son of a neighbor, who danced for a living in Broadway shows.
"What kind of a whore slut have I raised?" shouted her father in an almighty rage.
"We'l beat the fag punk's brains out," screamed her brothers, equal y angry.
Virginia Venus Maria Sierra was no fool. She and Ron took to the road at once, hitching their way cross-country until they reached California--the promised land. And eventual y, after many adventures, Hol ywood.
Ah . . . Hol ywood. Nirvana. Paradise. Palm trees, sunshine, and agents. Virginia Venus Maria Sierra and Ron were at peace. They knew they'd found heaven.
Destiny hovered overhead, and al they had to do was reach up and touch.
Actual y they had to do a lot more than that. They had to scrape the bottom and rise slowly, Ron as a
choreographer, and Venus Maria (the adaptation of her name she'd decided on) as a movie extra who performed in underground clubs as a singer/dancer/ actress.
Between gigs they sampled a variety of jobs. Ron attempted waitering, messengering, and chauffeuring; while Venus Maria worked in a supermarket, a bank, and final y as a nude model for an art class.
"Surely al those strange people staring at your naked body makes your flesh shrivel?" Ron shuddered.
"No way. I get off on it," Venus Maria replied confidently, shaking her newly dyed platinum-blond curls, while pursing freshly glossed lips. "I l000ve to watch 'em drool! It's a real kick."
It was at that precise moment Ron Machio knew for certain Virginia Venus Maria Sierra was going to be an enormous star.
It took a while, but sure enough it happened. Eventual y Venus Maria was discovered by a smal -time record producer who hung out at the same al -night clubs she and Ron frequented. With some heavy persuasion she got him to cut a record using her, and then she and Ron put together an outrageous, sexy, and controversial video to go with it. Venus Maria planned the look and the style, while Ron came up with al the right moves:
Overnight she scored--a lightning strike, for within six weeks the record was number one and Venus Maria was launched.
Now, three years later, at the age of twenty-five, she was a superstar, a cult figure, an icon.
Venus Maria had it made.
Caught in a seventies time warp, Charlie Dol ar was permanently stoned, a joint never far from his reach. Charlie was hardly your average matinee idol. He was overweight, with a comfortable gut, fifty years old, and balding. But when Charlie Dol ar smiled, the world lit up, and every female around got itchy pants, for Charlie possessed a particular wild, stoned charm that was irresistible to both men and women.
A Charlie Dol ar movie was a guaranteed box-office smash, thanks to his quirky presence and bril iant offbeat performances. Charlie had a way of taking on a role and bending the character until it fit him to perfection.
Some said that Charlie Dol ar was a genius. Others claimed it was just old Charlie up there on the screen jerking off over anyone who'd pay attention.
Nobody knew the real story about Charlie. He'd burst upon the scene as a burnt-out thirty-five-yearold in an underground rock-and-rol movie, playing the crazed manager of a heavy metal group. After that one bril iant, insane performance, he never looked back. And he never wanted to.
Charlie Dol ar--the hero of stoned America. He enjoyed fame, but pretended to hate it. Life was simpler that way.
After al , a guy had to look like he had some ethics.
Susie Rush came up through television. Sweetly pretty, with a neurotic girl next door quality, she'd parlayed two hit television series into an important big-screen career as a light comedienne.
Susie was an intensely competitive, driven woman who al owed no one to get in her way. She admitted to being thirty-two years old, although she was actual y nearer forty, a fact that petrified her.
Susie was into many good causes, ecology, and channeling. She believed she'd lived many previous lives, and was not shy about tel ing people so.
The public considered her to be above reproach. The folks who worked with her had christened her the bitch of the lot and loathed her. Her nickname around the studio was Rent-a-Cunt.
On-screen, Susie was sugary sweet with her delicate looks and helpless demeanor.
Off-screen she was a tyrant. Her husband had long ago hung up his bal s and lived meekly in her shadow. It suited him. He was an unsuccessful actor--where else was he going?
&nbs
p; Susie Rush was known as America's sweetheart. Poor America..
Johnny Romano was Hispanic, six feet tal , and of slender build, although he'd developed his upper body enough to boast a powerful set of muscles. He had thick, sensual lips, a sly smile, and deep-set brown eyes--
mocking eyes, chal enging eyes--but most of al , sexual y inviting eyes. Women couldn't get enough.
Johnny Romano was twenty-eight years old. He had starred in three extraordinarily successful films. Hol ywood Dick, Lover Boy, and Hol ywood Dick 2. These blockbuster movies had made him a very valuable property, and also extremely famous. In case anyone was in doubt, he traveled with an ever-present entourage consisting of two sassy female assistants, one white, one black; two formidable bodyguards whose main function was to proposition women for Johnny; a yes-man uncle; and a best friend/stand-in/ chief procurer of any young lady who caught Johnny Romano's fancy.
One sweet, nubile female a day was not unusual. Ever aware of the perils of AIDS, Johnny Romano protected himself with two condoms and a cavalier attitude. After al , AIDS could never happen to him. He was a megastar, for God's sake. And what's more, he was a straight megastar.
The condoms were merely a gesture in the right direction, a nod to the good Lord. Yes, Johnny Romano was a responsible human being who liked to get laid a lot. And why not? He'd worked hard for the privilege of bedding any piece he wanted.
Right now he wanted Venus Maria. But the woman didn't want him. Unheard of! Ridiculous! Nobody turned down Johnny Romano.
Oh, sure, she was riding way up there, certainly the most successful young female star around. Venus Maria left Madonna, Pfeiffer, and Basinger trailing in her wake. There was no doubt she was in demand. But to turn Johnny Romano down? The woman had to be crazy!
Wilshire high rise penthouse and had made only a few movies over the years, but was stil regarded as a major player.
Cooper's looks belied his forty-five years. He was boyishly handsome, with brownish hair, penetrating ice-blue eyes, and a wel -preserved body.
Cooper refused to give interviews. He kept his private life very private indeed, although there was always one life very private indeed, although there was always one special woman in residence, usual y a breathtaking beauty or great talent. Cooper enjoyed discovering the woman of the moment. His sexual prowess was legendary.
In spite of his attachment to women, Cooper had never married, although there'd been a few close cal s. He definitely preferred the perennial bachelor life. Cooper Turner was not the marrying kind.
Currently the tabloids were alive with news of his supposed affair with Venus Maria. He was directing and co-starring with the young superstar in Strut, and tongues were busy al over town. The latest rumor concerned a very public fight they'd had on the set, and the way they'd supposedly made up. According to Truth and Fact, one of the more scurrilous tabloids, Venus Maria had apparently quieted his anger with a somewhat public blow job on the set in front of everyone. Enough to deflate anyone's temper tantrum. Cooper would neither deny nor confirm the scandal. ous story. He liked to keep a low profile.
Also tied to Panther with a three-picture deal--the first of which he was currently shooting--was Lennie Golden.
Tabitha's favorite. She nagged Mickey con. stantly: "I wanna meet him, Daddy. Al my friends love him. What's he like? Can I marry him some day?"
Mickey couldn't understand the attraction. As far as he was concerned, Lennie Golden was just another comedian going through a hot streak. Part of the Bil y Crystal/Robin Wil iams syndrome.
But since he was so hot, Mickey had signed him. It was good business.
And if there was one thing Mickey excel ed at, it was business.
Six superstars. And as far as he was concerned, al six belonged to Mickey Stol i. He had them tied to Panther Studios with the best deals in town. They were his. Al the way.
Panther Studios. Mickey Stol i. What a team!
His brother-in-law, Ben Harrison, hardly counted. And as soon as old Abe Panther died, Mickey Stol i planned to buy Ben out, whether he wished to sel or not.
Panther Studios. Mickey Stol i. A winning combination.
And beware anyone who got in his way.
Chapter 12
Panther Studios was one of the last of the great landmark Hol ywood studios. Over the forty-five years since it was original y built, occasional modernization had taken place. There was a brand-new six-story gleaming steel-and-chrome office building that was Mickey Stol i's pride.
He regarded it as an architectural statement. Natural y, it housed his sumptuous suite of offices. And those of Ford Werne, his chief of production. Plus the offices of the heads of marketing, distribution, and international production.
Mickey Stol i's team. His A-team, as he liked to cal them.
Sometimes the A stood for Ace Achievers, other times for Asinine Assholes. The title depended on Mickey Stol i's mood and his team's performance.
Hidden behind Mickey's building was the old publicity structure, complete with photographic studios and rabbit-hole office spaces. And a long way behind that, right at the back of the lot, stood the oldest building of al --the main administrative block, nicknamed Alcatraz, because it was gloomy and depressing, and did indeed remind one of a prison. Alcatraz was sandwiched between two of the largest sound stages--massive towers that cut off al light. It was a building due for demolition. And it was also the building that housed the office for Herman Stone, Abe's faithful man on the lot. Sheila, his secretary, had been sent off on a six-week cruise. The story was--if anyone asked or even cared--that Sheila was visiting a sick relative, and that Lucky (rechristened Luce for the gig), her niece, was helping out on a temporary basis.
On Monday morning Lucky reported for work at the gates of Panther Studios at exactly ten o'clock. She wore a long, shapeless dress, a loose cardigan, and flat shoes.
Her jet hair was hidden beneath a badly styled mousy-brown wig with heavy bangs, and very thick pebble glasses covered her eyes, causing her to squint. She was driving Sheila's car, of which she had temporary possession, along with Sheila's apartment, a depressing two rooms in West Hol ywood that she'd used to change in after she'd left Lennie early in the morning, supposedly to fly to New York, and then on to Japan.
Lennie had kissed her long and hard. "Don't forget what you promised me, sweetheart," he'd said.
How could she forget? She'd promised him a baby, but she hadn't said when. A couple of years down the line--
maybe. Right now she had a studio to think about. *
Lucky felt a shiver of delight as she stopped Sheila's modest Chevrolet by the security guard's window and stated her business.
Entering Panther Studios was a Hol ywood historian's dream. Huge arched gates, intricately carved in stone, with fancy Art Deco iron railings. And on top of the gates perched a sleek, black granite panther, just about to take flight. MGM had its lion--but Panther Studios had the real power symbol.
One of these days al of this was going to be hers--a stimulating thought.
The guard was rude. He questioned her brusquely, giving her vague directions about where to park her car.
"Wel , buddy, we know what's going to happen to you in six weeks," she muttered under her breath, when, after driving around the vast studio twice, she realized she was completely lost.
Stopping the car on what seemed to be the main street, she asked a slim woman in a floral print dress where the parking for Herman Stone's office was.
"Isn't this Sheila's car?" the woman asked. She spoke with a strong English accent.
Test number one. "Yes," Lucky replied without losing a beat. "Sheila had to go and care for a sick relative. I'm Luce, her niece. I'm helping out for a couple of weeks."
"I do hope it's nothing serious," the woman in the floral print dress said, looking concerned.
"I don't think so."
"Good." The woman then proceeded to give her directions before entering a nearby building.
Lucky found the
parking lot, left the car, and walked quite a distance. It seemed that secretaries were not al owed the privilege of parking their cars close to their bosses' offices.
Hm . . . better start making notes, Santangelo. Trekking briskly past a group of bare-chested workmen, she couldn't help noticing that none of them whistled or catcal ed. There were no anguished cries of "Give it to me, baby. C'mon, sweet stuff, give it up! I waaant your fine ass!! I neeed to taste pussy!" This was a first. Her disguise was better than she'd anticipated. She real y had managed to turn herself into a dowdy, nondescript drone. Even Lennie would fail to recognize her if they came face to face. Not that it was likely, for he was due to leave for the Acapulco location that very afternoon, and would be away five weeks. At least her timing was impeccable.
She quickened her step and headed for adventure.
Herman Stone was a nervous wreck. He hustled Lucky into his dark office, arms flailing, muttering to himself, practical y pushing her into a chair in front of his desk.
"You're late," he fussed.
"I had to walk ten miles to get here," she complained.
"Why can't I park outside the office?" "Executive parking only," Herman explained. "My ass," Lucky muttered.
"Excuse me?"
Herman Stone was in on the scam, and Lucky
wondered if he'd last the six weeks. A smal , wizened man, he looked older than Abe and frightened out of his shiny blue suit.
She wanted to give him a shot of brandy and tel him to calm down. Instead she leaned back in her chair and spoke slowly and reassuringly. "Mr. Stone --al I need from you is information. Everything you have on everyone who works here. And then, after I familiarize myself with the players, you're to send me out into the field to play. O. K.?"
Herman breathed sharply--short, jerky gasps, as if at any moment someone was going to shut off his air supply.
"Don't worry," Lucky continued reassuringly. "This entire exercise is going to be easy. And since your job is total y secure, let's just relax."
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