Herman gasped another breath. "Whatever Mr. Panther requires," he said sourly, glaring baleful y at her.
Lucky nodded. "Yeah." And for the first time she realized that maybe it wasn't going to be as easy as she'd imagined.
The morning passed slowly while Herman repeated everything she'd already learned about the key executives.
Mickey Stol i was number one. Fol owed by Ford Werne, his head of production; Teddy T. Lau-den, chief of business affairs; Zev Lorenzo, head of the television division. And three senior vice presidents: Buck Graham, marketing; Eddie Kane, distribution; and Grant Wendel , worldwide production. These were the most important players, although there were other influential figures on the lot--
several producers with multipicture deals. The two most important were Frankie Lombardo and Arnie Blackwood.
And then, of course, there were Mickey Stol i's six resident stars.
"C'mon, I'm after the real dirt," Lucky pressed. "I can get al this stuff you're tel ing me from their studio bios."
"What real dirt?" Herman asked blankly, fiddling with his heavy horn-rimmed spectacles. "I've told you everything I know."
Some spy Abe had stashed on the lot. Herman was either too old or too out of touch. Probably a combination of both. Lucky realized she was going to have to figure out who was doing what to whom al by herself.
"What do you usual y do al day?" she asked. She'd been sitting in his office for two and a half hours and the phone hadn't rung once.
"I look over papers."
"What kind of papers?"
"Deal memos."
"And whose deal memos would these be?" "Various."
"I don't see any today."
"They're usual y sent over at the end of the week." "Can I look at last week's?"
"If you wish."
Herman Stone was a tired old man. It was quite obvious that he felt his nice, ordered life was being threatened. She could understand his discomfort, but she couldn't accept it.
He had to know where at least one body was buried.
The deal memos turned out to be a stack of duplicates dealing with mundane everyday affairs at the studio. None of them meant anything.
Lucky decided it was time to get started. "Cal Mickey Stol i and tel him you want to see copies of the budgets for Motherfaker, Strut, and Macho Man," she said briskly.
"Why would I do that?" Herman asked, blinking nervously.
"Because you're supposed to be looking after Abe Panther's interests at the studio, and you're entitled to see anything you want. Tel him you're sending your secretary over for the papers."
Herman Stone blanched visibly. Reluctantly he did as she requested.
Marching across the studio lot was no fun, especial y at midday. By the time Lucky reached the outer limits of Mickey Stol i's quarters she was exhausted. The dowdy clothes clung to her body, and the heavy wig didn't help.
Sweat moistened every inch of her, and she could hardly stop the thick pebble glasses from sliding off her nose.
Playing dress-up was not exactly dinner with Al Pacino.
"Oh," said Olive, the woman with the English accent and floral print dress who'd given her directions earlier. "It's you again."
Lucky attempted a pleasant expression. " 'Fraid so. Mr.
Stone sent me over to col ect some papers." "Yes." Olive appeared flustered.' "Mr. Stol i wil get them to Mr. Stone later in the week."
"Why?" Lucky wanted to ask. "What's wrong with now?"
Instead she mock-groaned. "Don't tel me I've come al the way over here for nothing."
Olive put on a suitably sympathetic face. "It is hot, isn't it?"
Noticing a watercooler in the corner, Lucky asked if she might have a drink.
"Certainly," Olive said crisply, although her eyes darted toward the door to the inner sanctum, as if she needed Mickey Stol i's approval.
Lucky approached the watercooler and took a long, refreshing drink, using the time to check out her surroundings. The outer office was painted a cool light beige, with matching wal -to-wal carpet, and a large modern window overlooked fancy landscaping. Quite a difference from Herman Stone's dreary space. On the wal s were perma-placqued pictures of Mickey Stol i with various celebrities and politicians.
A sudden commotion took place as a woman swept through the door, paused dramatical y, and said, "Olive, dear, is he here?"
Olive jumped to her feet. "Miss Rush. He's expecting you."
A tinkling, phony laugh. "Of course he is."
Susie Rush was petite and slim, with straggly yel ow hair artful y arranged in neat curls, wide pale blue eyes, porcelain skin, and thin lips. She was almost pretty, certainly petulant. She did not have the presence of a movie star. More girl next door than Marilyn Monroe.
Olive buzzed her boss, who apparently didn't hesitate once he got the news. Throwing open the door to his office, along with his arms, he exclaimed, "Susie my pet! Come in."
Susie my pet ran straight into his welcoming gesture and nuzzled for a moment or two. Smal mewing sounds could be heard. Then the two of them, stil in ful embrace, entered his office and slammed the door shut. Olive's nostrils flared. A sign of disapproval? Lucky couldn't be sure. "Wasn't that Susie Rush?" she asked brightly.
"You must never ask for autographs," Olive admonished sternly. "It's a studio rule."
"I wasn't planning on doing so," Lucky couldn't help responding.
Olive ignored her, busying herself with a pile of papers on her desk. Susie Rush's being in her boss's office was obviously not a thril ing happening.
"Is there somewhere around here for lunch?" Lucky asked in her best polite voice, hoping to win Olive over.
"The commissary," Olive replied, without looking up.
"Maybe we can lunch together," Lucky ventured.
"I rarely eat lunch," Olive replied brusquely. "The commissary is halfway between here and your office. Do give my regards to your aunt." It was a dismissal, firm and proper.
So . . . English Olive had a thing about her boss, who was very obviously kissing Susie Rush's ass--if not other parts of her anatomy.
Veree interesting.
And Mickey Stol i did not want to hand over the budget sheets on his three big movies in production. Even more interesting.
These weren't important discoveries, but it was a start.
And at least she'd got a look at the first scum-in-law, Mickey Stol i, a bronzed bul et of a man with cobra eyes and a phony whiter-than-white smile.
Outside the gleaming structure there was a pleasant walkway lined with shady trees, banks of flowers, and in the middle, an elaborate fountain. There was also a bench, where Lucky stationed herself, al the better to catch the action as people hurried in and out of the main building.
A few secretaries came and went. A couple of executives, recognizable because of their California Casual attire. A tal woman in a tightly belted yel ow Donna Karan suit. And final y Susie Rush emerged, hiding behind large white-rimmed sunglasses.
Susie stood on the steps for only a minute before a sleek chocolate-brown limousine slid into position, and she vanished inside it.
Five minutes later Mickey Stol i appeared,
accompanied by two other men. The three set off at a brisk pace.
Lucky trailed them al the way to the commissary, where they were ushered into the private dining room. She found herself a table for two in the crowded main restaurant and sat down.
Now that she looked like a drudge, she felt almost invisible. People didn't seem to notice she existed--a good way to get a massive inferiority complex. Fortunately she knew that if she took off the disguise, things would change instantly. The power of appearance was potent indeed.
Luce and Lucky. Two different people inhabiting two different worlds.
What have I got myself into? she thought. One morning and I'm ready to rip off this stupid disguise and run back to real life. How am I going to last six goddamn weeks?
Because it's a chal enge.
Right.
"You're sitting at my table." A man. Slight, bespectacled, undernourished. He spoke in an agitated voice.
Lucky checked him out. She judged him to be
somewhere in his fifties. "I didn't see a reserved sign," she replied cool y.
He was clearly irritated. "Everyone knows this is my table."
"Then why don't you sit here? There is another chair,"
she suggested, quite reasonably.
He hesitated for a moment, then realizing he had no alternative, he pul ed out a clean handkerchief, dusted off the vacant chair, and sat down. His close-set brown eyes, covered by wire-rimmed spectacles, darted around the room looking everywhere except at her.
A plump waitress appeared at their table. "The usual, Harry?" she asked cheerful y, adjusting her diamante-tipped wing glasses.
"Yes, thank you, Myrtle," he replied, rubbing a spot on the brightly checkered tablecloth.
Myrtle turned her attention to Lucky, pad poised. "Yes, dear? Have you decided?"
"Can I try a Susie Rush salad?"
"Why not? Everyone else has." Myrtle guffawed at her own joke. Harry didn't crack a smile. "Beverage?" Myrtle asked.
"Fresh orange juice," Lucky replied.
"Canned or frozen? Take your pick."
"I'l just have water."
Myrtle * glanced from Lucky to Harry. "You two make a fine pair. The last of the big spenders!" "She's friendly,"
Lucky remarked, as Myrtle departed.
"Myrtle's not the best waitress here," Harry confided.
"Leona is. She would never have let my table go.
Unfortunately she's in the hospital at this time attending to her varicose veins. I hope she'l return soon."
He was definitely a strange one. "Can't wait," Lucky said flippantly.
He peered across the table, final y looking at her. "I beg your pardon?" he said.
Stop being smart, Santangelo. Shape up and act the way you look.
"Do you work here?" she asked nicely.
Harry considered her question before answering. "I have been at Panther Studios for thirty-three years," he announced at last. "Panther Studios is my home." "Your home?"
"It seems I have spent more time here than in my own house. My wife left me because of it."
"Real y?" She tried to look interested. "And what do you do around here?"
If Harry had been standing he would have pul ed himself up to his ful height. As. it was, he squared his shoulders and answered proudly, "I am the chief projectionist."
Oh, yeah. Like he was going to tel her a lot. "How interesting."
"I worked for Mr. Abe Panther himself when he was here," Harry continued with dignity. "This studio was different then, I can tel you." Realizing that this might sound like a complaint, he stopped himself from saying more.
"I bet you miss the good old days, huh?" Lucky encouraged.
Harry found a new spot on the tablecloth and began to rub it vigorously. "Things change. I understand," he said in a noncommittal voice. "Are you visiting? Or are you employed here?"
"Sort of both," Lucky replied. "I'm Luce, Sheila Hervey's niece. Y'know, Sheila, Mr. Stone's secretary? Wel , she's off sick, and I'm kind of fil ing in for her."
"Sheila doesn't have a niece," Harry said, blinking rapidly several times.
Sonofabitch! "You're looking at her," Lucky replied without losing a beat.
"She has one sister, childless. And no other living relatives," Harry said, adjusting his spectacles. "I make it my business to find out about people."
"I guess Sheila kept secrets," she said lightly. Harry shook his head as if he stil didn't believe her, but he didn't question further. In fact, he lapsed into silence.
Myrtle brought two glasses of ice water, placed them on the table, and pointed out Johnny Romano as the flamboyant star made his way into the private dining room, flanked by his ever attentive entourage.
"Isn't he a big hunk of real man? And s000 sexy," Myrtle gushed, nudging Lucky. "I can tel you this, honey. I wouldn't mind crawling into his tent one long dark night. How about you?"
"Where's my fish?" Harry demanded testily.
"Stil swimming." Cackling heartily, Myrtle hurried off.
An hour later, Lucky sat in front of Herman's desk again.
"Why doesn't Mickey want to send you the budgets?" she asked.
Herman tapped a heavy glass paperweight. "I have no idea," he admitted.
She reached for a cigarette and lit up. "You'l just have to keep on pressuring him."
Herman didn't like her tone, but he said nothing. "Oh, and by the way, who's this projectionist guy, Harry something or other?"
Herman thought for a moment and then said, "Do you mean Harry Browning?"
"I guess so." She exhaled a thin stream of smoke.
"Skinny man in his fifties--maybe heading ful tilt for sixty.
Finicky little guy."
Herman coughed, letting her know the smoke bothered him. "Yes, that's Harry Browning. He's one of the oldest employees on the lot. Why do you ask?"
"Because when I told him who I was, he couldn't wait to tel me that Sheila doesn't have a niece."
Herman clucked nervously. "Harry thinks he knows everything. Ignore him, he's a strange one."
"Shit, Herman. If Harry knows everything, maybe he can give me some info on Mickey Stol i. What do you think?"
"I'm not sure exactly what you're looking for," Herman said tightly, offended not only by her smoking but also by her unladylike language.
"Al the things you missed," she replied pointedly.
In six weeks she was going to have to put this old guy out to gaze at the stars. His days as a studio executive were definitely numbered.
"O. K., Herman, I'l tel you what to do; cal Harry whatsit.
If he asks you, assure him I'm Sheila's niece --make up a
'long-lost' story or something. And while you're at it, arrange for a screening of al the dailies on Macho Man. I want to see what it's like."
"But--"
She stubbed out her cigarette. Smoking was a bad habit she had to give up. "Don't even fight it, Herman.
You're supposed to have the clout, use it for once. Let us not forget you are Abe Panther's representative, and it's about time you started kicking ass, because if you don't, I'm going to be awful y tempted." Herman twitched.
"Right now I'm out of here," she continued. "I am hot. I am tired. And tomorrow I'l start again. I'l see you in the morning."
Sheila's car broke down on Hol ywood Boulevard. Lucky got out, gave it a vicious kick, hurting her foot in the process, and strode into the porno theater the car had chosen to die in front of.
"Can I use your phone?" she asked the gum-chewing blonde behind the ticket counter.
"Out on the street," lisped blondie. "Two blocks down."
"You don't have a phone here?"
"S' private."
Lucky pul ed off the hideous glasses that were driving her crazy and stared at the woman with her deadly black eyes. "Wil ten bucks make it public?"
The woman didn't hesitate. "Gimme the money." Lucky waved a ten in the air. The woman grabbed, stuffed it down mottled cleavage, and produced a filthy white phone hidden on the floor.
A customer buying a ticket for Hot Tight Lust, the current movie on show, nudged closer to Lucky as she punched out a number. "Wanna come in with me?" he offered suggestively. "I'l spring fer ya ticket, cutie."
She smiled a cold smile. "Take your ticket and mine.
Rol them tightly, then shove them up your dumb ass. Okay, cutie?"
He snatched his ticket and ran.
Lucky spoke into the receiver, a plaintive cry for help.
"Boogie? Come get me. School's out and I've had it."
Chapter 13
Where is Lucky?" Steven asked impatiently. "I've been trying to reach her for days, and nobody seems able to give me an intel igent answer." "Japan," Gino lied with a straight face. "You know how she likes to make the
big deals herself. And I understand this one is some kil er."
The two men sat companionably next to each other in a steak house with sawdust on the floor and autographed photographs of boxers on the wal s.
The more time Gino spent with Steven the more he enjoyed his company. Steven was a no-bul shit guy, like himself. They didn't share the same set of morals, but that was O. K. too.
When Gino had first learned of Steven's existence it had been a tremendous shock. Not only did he get the news,
"You have a son," but "Your son is black" real y sent him reeling.
Lucky couldn't have been more thril ed. "I always wanted another brother," she'd said. "And now I've got a black brother. Hey, thank you, Gino. You real y come up with wild surprises. You're the best!"
He'd searched his memory for the one time he'd slept with Steven's mother, Carrie, and final y he'd remembered.
A few hours of pleasure, and--forty-five years later--a son.
The revelation had been a year earlier. Now he was over the shock. Steven had arranged a reunion with him and Carrie before she died. She'd turned out to be an elegant woman in her sixties who bore no resemblance to the young teenage girl he'd once made love to. They'd gotten along just fine.
Gino had reconciled himself to the fact that while Steven could * never replace Dario--the son he'd lost to the Bonnatti family's murdering hands--he was certainly a true comfort to have around. Not to mention Mary Lou, his pretty and talented wife, who made the best pasta this side of Little Italy.
"Why do you need to reach Lucky?" Gino asked.
"Nothing important. I like to talk to her every so often.
Usual y she cal s me back."
"I may be speaking to her in the next few days. Shal I give her a message from you?"
Steven shook his head. "It can wait. When is she expected back?"
"A week. Maybe longer, maybe sooner." Gino attacked his steak. "So, tel me, how's the pregnancy going? Is Mary Lou bad-tempered? Good-tempered? What?"
Steven grinned. "It ain't easy," he said.
Gino nodded knowingly. "When my Maria was pregnant with Lucky, she drove me insane! Al the time it was somethin'--I could hardly keep up. And that's when I was young and strong!"
"C'mon, you'l always be young and strong," Steven said affectionately. "And by the way, isn't it about time you handed over the family secret of your sex life? From what I hear, you're unbelievable!" "Words of advice," Gino said sagely. "A hard-on keeps you young, an' I don't ever intend to get old!" Mary Lou was in bed when Steven arrived home. She was propped up against several lace pil ows watching a "Taxi" rerun while devouring a box of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
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