"Engaged?" Harry had questioned blankly. They were on
"Engaged?" Harry had questioned blankly. They were on the phone at the time, arranging the hours Mr. Stol i would require the screening room that week.
"Yes," Olive confirmed happily. "My fiance proposed long distance from England last night. It's quite a surprise."
It was quite a surprise for Harry also, for he'd always imagined Olive was there for the taking whenever he decided to take.
Now this ruffle. It annoyed Harry. Al those wasted hours thinking about Olive, only to discover she was no longer available.
When Lucky Santangelo--whom Harry knew only as Luce--
sat herself down at his table in the commissary for the third consecutive day, Harry impulsively blurted out, "Would you like to go out one night?" Lucky stared at the smal , bespectacled man who'd so far told her nothing, in spite of the fact that Gino seemed to think Harry Browning held the knowledge to al of Panther Studios' secrets. Did he actual y imagine she'd go out with him? Wow--her disguise must real y be spectacular.
"Where?" she answered careful y, not wishing to offend him.
Harry hadn't expected a "Where?" He'd expected a "Yes,"
or a "No." Certainly not a "Where?"
"I don't know," he admitted honestly.
"Perhaps," Lucky replied, giving him hope.
Harry peered at her. She was certainly no Olive. In fact, she was rather strange-looking with her frumpy clothes, dowdy hairstyle, and impenetrable glasses. But stil , had she been more attractive he would not have dared to invite her out, or even have wanted to. Harry knew his limitations. Once he'd dated a pretty, redheaded extra, a date that had ended in disaster when she'd turned on him publicly, screaming in a bansheelike voice, "If you can't get me in to see Mickey Stol i, what the fuck am I doing out with a dumb creep like you anyway?"
That nasty and humiliating incident had taken place five years ago. Harry had never forgotten it.
He was wary of women. Most of the secretaries and female staff around the studio were what he termed "loose." They wore revealing clothes and slept with anybody. On four separate occasions during the last year he'd discovered couples "at it" in the screening rooms when they thought these were not in use. Each time he'd got rid of them with the same ominous words: "Mr. Stol i is due here in five minutes."
He could get away, with tel ing that to the minor players.
With the majors it was another game. They could do what they liked, and they did. Frequently.
Gino Santangelo was right. There was not much Harry hadn't seen in his years of standing in the projection booth looking out over the moguls and producers, the directors and movie stars who always seemed to forget his very existence and to do exactly whatever they pleased in the darkened screening rooms.
Harry often mused that one day he might write a book. A pleasant dream--it made his secrets very valuable. He'd never told anyone of the goings-on he'd witnessed.
Lucky drew a deep breath. She was getting nowhere. If she met with Harry away from the studio, maybe he would have stories to reveal. It was worth a shot.
Leaning across the table, she fixed him with a friendly stare. "As a matter of fact, I'm making .. .
uh--salmon mousse tonight. Why don't you come by Sheila's apartment? I know you like fish."
Sure she knew he liked fish, he'd eaten it three days in a row.
Harry considered her invitation. There was something about her he found slightly odd. However, a night away from his Sony television and three cats was a tempting prospect.
And salmon mousse . . . his favorite. "Yes," he said, nodding decisively.
"Good," Lucky replied, thinking to herself, What the hel am I doing? "Shal we say seven-thirty?" Harry looked almost eager. "Yes," he repeated, blinking rapidly.
A man of not many words. Lucky forced a smile and stood up. How the hel was she going to get hold of a salmon mousse? Why hadn't she said pizza or pasta or something sane?
Her glasses rol ed down her nose and she pushed them up in exasperation.
"Later, Harry," she said, going for the fast getaway. "I'l be expecting you."
Herman Stone was horrified. "Seeing someone away from the studio is dangerous."
Lucky raised a cynical eyebrow. "Dangerous, Herman? I'm not cocaine busting, I'm just trying to get a little insight into what's real y going on around here." "You're leading Harry Browning on. He's a decent man."
Lucky was outraged. Herman was such a stuffed asshole.
"I'm not planning to fuck him," she said cool y. "Merely pump his tongue a little."
Herman stood up. He was red in the face. "I can't be a party to this fol y. I'm phoning Abe. You talk like a . . . a . . ."
"Man?" she offered helpful y.
Herman sat down again. He picked up a pen and banged it on the table. For ten years he'd led a quiet life. Two hours in the office, four hours on the golf course. No pressures. No headaches. No foulmouthed woman to harass him.
"Cal Abe if you want," Lucky said. "Remember though, it's me you're going to be working for."
They both knew this wasn't true. Lucky would retire him the moment she took control. And he wouldn't work for Lucky Santangelo if she trebled his salary.
"Do what you wish," Herman muttered.
"Thank you s000 much. Your permission has made my day."
"Sherry?"
"I don't drink," Harry Browning replied.
"Never?" Lucky asked.
He hesitated. "Only if it's an occasion."
She poured him a glass of sherry and handed it to him.
"This is an occasion," she said firmly.
The occasion of Olive's engagement, Harry thought dourly as he drank the pale brown liquid. He deserved one drink.
Lucky decided Sheila Hervey's tiny apartment was the most depressing place she'd ever had to spend time in. The wal s were painted a particularly dreary shade of maroon, and the oppressive furniture was a mixture of heavy oak combined with cheap plastic modern--al of it too big for the smal apartment. Voluminous velvet drapes completed the claustrophobic effect. And an ancient record player offered only Julio Iglesias for entertainment. Lucky was fed up.
While Julio crooned something incomprehensible in broken English, Harry Browning gulped two glasses of sherry in quick succession and waited patiently for his salmon mousse.
Boogie had delivered the mousse fifteen minutes before deadline. "Now I know you can do anything," Lucky had complimented him. "It'd better be good."
Boogie had merely shaken his head in exasperation. Like Herman Stone, but for different reasons, he did not approve of his boss's adventures. But then, working for Lucky had never been dul .
"Did you bake it yourself, Boog?" she'd asked with a sly grin.
"Try the best fish restaurant in L. A. You'l get the bil ," he'd replied laconical y. "Cal me in the car when you're ready to go home."
She was ready to go home the moment Harry Browning arrived. But as she'd gone this far, she couldn't back out without giving him a chance to tel al .
Somewhere real life was going on while she was busy playacting with a mild little projectionist cal ed Harry Browning, who probably couldn't tel her anything she needed to know anyway.
Damn! And on top of everything else she was now going to have to eat salmon mousse, which she hated. What a night!
Eventual y Harry Browning started to talk. Like a hooker revealing how she first got into the business, it al came rushing out.
For two hours Lucky had babied him along, flattering and feeding, plying him with a good white wine Boogie had thoughtful y provided, and after that, brandy. Now it was paying-off time.
After his first sip of Courvoisier, quiet little Harry Browning turned into Harry the Mouth. Lucky could hardly believe it.
This was going to be worthwhile after al .
"When Abe Panther was in charge we had a decent studio," Harry said forceful y, sounding proud. "Mr. Panther was a real boss. People respected hi
m."
"Don't people respect Mickey Stol i?" Lucky murmured.
"Him!" Harry spat in disgust. "He doesn't care about making movies. Al he cares about is money." "At least he's honest. Mickey is looking after Abe Panther's interests, isn't he?" Lucky asked innocently.
"The only interests Mickey Stol i cares about are his own."
"How do you know that?"
"I see plenty," Harry said, reaching for the bottle of brandy.
"I hear plenty."
"Like what?"
Fuzzily Harry realized he might be saying too much. So what? He could talk if he wanted to. He felt pretty damned good. This woman was fascinated by everything that came out of his mouth, and it was a long time since he'd had a woman spel bound. Maybe he would impress her even more with his knowledge. "Do you know who Lionel Fricke is?"
Lucky tried to sound suitably impressed. "The big agent?"
she asked.
"Yes, that's right." He peered at her through his wire-rimmed spectacles. Her image swam before his eyes. She wasn't Olive, but she was a woman, and if she got rid of those godawful glasses .. .
"What about Lionel Fricke?" Lucky pressed.
Harry wondered how far he could go. He took another gulp of brandy and placed his hand on her knee. "I saw the two of them together, Lionel Fricke and Mr. Stol i. I heard 'em make a deal for Johnny Romano. A big deal."
"Yes"-:-Lucky leaned toward him, eyes gleaming excitedly.
"A five-mil ion-dol ar price for Johnny Romano--only he never sees the ful payout. Lionel Fricke sel s Johnny to Panther for four mil ion. And then he sel s a script to a shel company for one hundred thousand. A month later Panther purchases the same script for one mil ion."
"And Lionel and Mickey split the mil ion minus the hundred thousand, and put it in their own pockets. Right?" Lucky finished.
Harry nodded. "I heard 'em. No mistaking what I heard."
"I'm sure you did," Lucky said matter-of-factly, removing his hand from her knee. "So tel me," she added casual y, "who else is stealing?"
"Everyone. Eddie Kane, Ford Werne, most of the producers on the lot. They al have their ways, you know."
"I bet," she said, topping his glass with more brandy.
Suddenly he sat up straighter. "Why are you so interested?"
he asked suspiciously.
"Wouldn't anyone be? You've seen so much. You should write a book." *
Harry was flattered. She had touched his secret dream, this odd-looking woman. He nodded. "Maybe . . . one day."
Reaching for his glass he took a healthy swig. "I could tel you about drugs, sex . . . the loose women and the things they do."
"What sort of things, Harry?"
"They lean on women for sex. They use them." "Who uses them?"
"Everyone," Harry said darkly. "They promise a girl a part in their movie if she'l perform certain disgusting acts."
"How do you know?"
"Because they do it in my screening room. In plain sight."
"I guess you have seen it al ."
He mumbled on some more, complaining about the quality of the films Panther produced and the low level of management. He particularly loathed Arnie Blackwood and Frankie Lombardo. The two producers were apparently the worst offenders when it came to sex in the screening room.
After a while his eyes began to rol .
"Do you feel al right, Harry?" she asked anxiously.
"Not so good."
Helping him to his feet she said, "Maybe it's time to put you in a cab. There's no way you can drive your car."
"They sit in my screening room an' I see everything," Harry repeated. "Some people have no shame."
Putting her arm around him, she steered him toward the door.
"Drugs," he mumbled, "an' sex. That's al they think about."
He hiccoughed loudly. "Don' feel so good."
"Can we talk another time?"
"We'l see." He hiccoughed again and stumbled. She managed to get him outside, hailed a passing cab and bundled him in. There was no point in letting him pass out on her floor. If he did, she'd have to stay the night and look _after him--and that was the last thing she needed.
Harry Browning had given her enough for one session. At least it was a promising beginning.
Chapter 16
Two more weeks and she would be out of school! Brigette was marking the days. Two weeks ago she'd been counting seconds. Now it was O. K. She had a friend, and what a difference it made.
Her newfound friend, Nona Webster, was the funny, vivacious daughter of a New York publisher and his fashion-designer wife. Nona had long natural y red hair, slanted eyes, and an interesting face covered with freckles.
She was slender and quite tal . Like Brigette, she'd seen plenty of the fast life, and once they got to talking they soon found out they had lots in common. Nona had lived in Europe, had met many famous people, slept with a man ten years older, and tried cocaine on more than one occasion.
Brigette confided about her own troubled past, including the kidnapping and her mother's death from a drug overdose.
They'd both decided drugs were useless, causing nothing but heartache and trouble.
"We're cosmic twins," Nona explained excitedly when she found out their birthdays fel in the same month. "It's amazing we didn't get to talking before. I never bothered, because everyone told me you were such an unbearable snob. And let's face it--you don't exactly encourage friendships, do you?"
"Right," Brigette admitted. "It's not easy being who I am."
She looked embarrassed. "Y'know, with the money thing and al ."
"God! I wish I was going to inherit a fortune," Nona said enviously.
"Your family has money," Brigette pointed out.
"Compared to you we're bloody paupers!" Nona complained. "And my parents don't believe in passing it on to their kids. They spend everything they make. It's not fair.
My brother is furious. He's threatened to murder them both before they get rid of it al !"
Brigette giggled. "How old is your brother?" "Twenty-three and much too cool-looking for his own good. He's into rich older women and money. In that order. I'm trying to save his soul. Trust me, it's a pitiful battle."
Brigette was immediately intrigued. "Save his soul from what?"
"Booze, coke, and women. He's a real loser, but I love him."
"I wish I had a brother," Brigette sighed wistful y. "I'l let you share mine if you promise to help me save him," Nona offered.
"How can I do that?"
"Marry him. Al your money wil surely make him a very happy man!"
They both giggled. Ridiculous conversations could be fun.
The other girls did not change their attitude toward Brigette.
"You gotta ignore them, they're just jealous," Nona said one afternoon as they took off for town.
"Why?" Brigette asked. She couldn't understand how anyone could possibly be jealous of her.
" 'Cause you're pretty, and you've got big boobs!" Nona joked. "That's quite a combination."
Brigette was glad Nona thought she was pretty. But they both knew it wasn't that. It was the money. The money was an impenetrable barrier separating her from the rest of the world.
"What are you doing this summer?" Nona asked, as they trudged along the country lane on their way to the bus stop.
"Some of the time I have to spend with my grandmother.
Then I'm joining my ex-stepfather and his wife in California.
They're renting a house in Malibu. How about you?"
Nona kicked a pebble. "Montauk some of the time. We've got a place there. It's real y boring. Malibu sounds more like it."
"Hey-1've got a sensational idea. Why don't you come with me?" Brigette suggested impulsively. "Lennie and Lucky won't mind--real y--they're terrific."
"Lennie, as in Lennie Golden?" Nona asked, raising her eyebrows. "Lucky, as in Lucky Santangelo?"
"She's Lucky Golden now," Brigette pointed out. "Wow!
&nb
sp; That makes al the difference."
Brigette laughed. "Wel ?"
"Wel , how can I possibly turn down an invitation to meet a real live movie star?" Nona said. "Lennie Golden is gorgeous."
Brigette smiled. "He's O. K."
Nona looked pleased. "It sounds like a cool idea. But only if you come stay with us first. You'l meet Paul, my brother.
What a thril ! Maybe even marry him. Can you do me that smal favor? Get him off my case forever."
Brigette went along with the joke. "Yeah, sure. Why not?
Anything to oblige a friend."
They both laughed.
"I'l cal Lennie tomorrow," she promised.
And for the first time in ages she felt she real y had something to look forward to.
"Oooh, Lennie, you're s000 cold. Why are you so icy to me? What have I done to upset you?"
Marisa was al over him, and she was big. Long legs and arms, huge breasts, thick gooey lips, and an overly active tongue that slid into his mouth every time they had to kiss for the camera.
Love scenes were the worst, especial y with someone you didn't like, and there was a Berlin Wal between Marisa Birch and Lennie Golden. He didn't respect what he considered she represented--the phony glitz and so-cal ed glamour of show business. And he also thought she was an abysmal actress. Not to mention that she was screwing Ned Magnus, and managing to put in time with her stand-in, Hyldaanother amazon with large knockers.
The crew were in pussy heaven. Marisa wore nothing except a flesh-colored G-string as she thrashed around under a sheet with Lennie. She got off on giving the boys a show, and it annoyed her that she couldn't turn Lennie on too. Marisa was used to instant drool. She felt insecure when a man didn't react to her al too obvious charms. '
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