"We've got a scene to do, Marisa," Lennie said patiently, trying not to notice an erect nipple thrust dangerously close to his face. "It's cal ed acting. Isn't that what you are--an actress? Remember?"
They were on location in the bedroom of a spectacular vil a perched high on a cliff.
"Darling, when I'm making love, I'm never acting," Marisa confessed, waving away her dresser, who wished to cover her undulating flesh between takes.
"Let's rol another one," Grudge Freeport said, striding over to confer with his stars. "Lennie, you're supposed to be enjoying yourself. The broad is naked. Go for it, for crissakes." He turned to spit a great gob of tobacco into a yel ow dish, handily carried by his young female assistant.
"Don't cal me a broad," Marisa scolded. "Cal me a star."
She stretched languidly and spotted Ned Magnus, who'd just arrived. "Hi, honey." She waved and blew him a few kisses.
Ned looked pleased.
"Does honey's wife know about you?" Lennie asked.
Marisa smiled. Her. teeth were big and white. Lethal teeth.
Man-biting teeth. "Wives are always the last to know," she said sweetly. "And if it's the wife who's fooling around--then it's the husband who finds out last. Didn't you know that?"
Another stretch. Another treat for the crew. "By the way, Lennie. Where is your wife? I'd heard she was joining us on location. Did something more exciting come up?"
"Action!" Grudge Freeport yel ed.
"Mrs. Wheeler, she out," a maid informed him. "You lika Mister?"
No. He would not lika Mister. He hung up.
The Beverly Wilshire held al sorts of good memories.
Afternoon trysts with Paige. Nonstop champagne and sex--
long, throbbing marathon sessions.
Gino grinned and fingered the faded scar on his cheek, a souvenir of his youth. Ah, if Paige had known him in those days, she would not have hesitated. Gino the Ram was his nickname then.
Gino Santangelo . . . the first boy in the neighborhood to discover the secret of pleasing women.
He was twenty-two and horny when he met the incredible Clementine Duke, wife of an elderly Senator. . What a lady!
She'd taken raw street material and molded him into something. She taught him how to dress, what to drink, how to make polite conversation. She real y taught him how to make love. And he al owed her to tutor him wil ingly, because he wanted to learn. More than anything else he'd had a strong desire to succeed, and Clementine and the Senator had helped him achieve every one of his goals.
Now, al these years later, he could stil remember her sensuous silk underclothes, the smoothness of her firm white thighs, and the musky scent of her hair. There had been many women, but only a few he remembered. His first love was Leonora, who turned out to be a bitch on wheels.
Next came Cindy, his first wife. Another winner. Fol owed by Bee, a woman he almost married. And then Carrie--a short one-nighter resulting in Steven. And then his second wife, Maria, the true love of his life, innocent and beautiful mother of his other two children.
When he thought about Maria and the tragic way she'd been taken from him, it was almost too much to bear. But he'd carried on without her, although there was always a deep sadness buried in his soul.
After Maria there were countless women. A fling with Marabel e Blue, the movie star, had kept him busy. The widow Rosaline had looked after him in Israel. Final y he'd married for the third time--Susan Martino, a perfect Hol ywood wife.
The only good thing about Susan was that she introduced him to Paige. Actual y he'd caught them together, enjoying each other in bed. Paige had never offered an explanation or an apology, although at the time he and she had already embarked on their affair. He understood that Paige had a voracious sexual appetite. It didn't faze him. He was no slouch himself. Now he wanted to marry her. And the sooner the better.
Grabbing the phone, he tried her number again. This time Ryder Wheeler picked up.
"Is Paige around?" Gino demanded, deciding he'd had enough game-playing. If she wasn't going to get it out in the open, he would.
"Who wants her?" Ryder asked abruptly.
"I want her, Ryder. This is Gino Santangelo. Remember me?"
Chapter 17
Lucky Santangelo knew how to kick ass; she'd had enough experience over the years. First the hotels in Vegas, then Dimitri's business empire, which she ran with steely confidence, never depending on management, always going on her own instincts, which were rarely wrong. Now, to sit back in her little corner of Panther Studios, to merely watch and have no power was driving her crazy.
Herman was hardly any help. If she gave him a chicken he couldn't make soup, the man was that incompetent. No wonder Mickey Stol i didn't mind having him around as Abe's spy. He knew Herman was incapable of doing any harm.
She'd told Herman to get copies of the budgets on the three big movies Panther was shooting. So far--nothing.
She'd requested that he arrange screenings of the Macho Man dailies. He hadn't even done that. They fed him an excuse and he bought it.
Arriving for her second Monday of work at Panther Studios, she was determined that this week things would be different.
Since dinner with Harry Browning--the famous salmon mousse night--he'd hardly spoken to her. A mumbled, embarrassed hel o was al she could get out of him. He'd changed his lunch hour, and he fled whenever he saw her coming. So much for Harry.
In the meantime she'd put in serious work on Olive; congratulating her on her engagement with a bottle of mediocre champagne; popping in whenever she could to see if the budgets were ready for Mr. Stone; staying to chat idly about inconsequential matters.
Olive had gradual y warmed to her. "You're different from the other secretaries around here," she confided. "Most of them are only interested in men, money, and makeup."
them are only interested in men, money, and makeup."
They had a laugh at that. "What are you interested in?"
Lucky had asked, trying to gain her confidence. "I pride myself on being the best personal assistant Mr. Stol i has ever had. We English girls are very dedicated, you know."
"How long have you worked for him?"
"Five years," Olive replied proudly. "And he appreciates me. He gave me a car for Christmas."
"A car! How wonderful!"
"Yes. Mr. Stol i is a fine boss."
Any probing as to what Mickey Stol i was like as a person got her nowhere. Olive was close-mouthed and loyal. A particularly annoying English trait.
Lucky managed to have an interesting if somewhat exhausting weekend. On Friday afternoon she flew to London, arriving at noon on Saturday. She spent the rest of the day and Sunday morning with Bobby. And then she'd taken the Concorde to New-York, where she'd made a fast connection back to L. A.
She'd needed the break, and Bobby had been thril ed to see her. They'd taken a boat out in Hyde Park, eaten hamburgers at the Hard Rock Cafe, visited Harrods toy department, and seen a movie.
Bobby was an incredible kid. At six and a half, he looked just like a smal Gino. Same black eyes and hair, with a jaunty little walk and a sharp, inquisitive personality.
"I miss you, Mommy," he'd told her, just before she left.
"You'l be with me al summer," she'd promised, hugging him. "You're coming out to California, and we'l al be together in a big house right on the beach. You, Lennie, Brigette, and me. . Okay, baby? Does that sound like fun?"
He'd nodded solemnly, and she'd left him with his nanny and two permanent bodyguards. It was sad that Bobby had to lead such a protected life, but after his kidnapping she couldn't take chances. Anyway, it wasn't so bad. He enjoyed his school, and he adored Cee Cee, his pretty Jamaican nanny who'd been with him since he was a baby.
Back in L. A. Lucky felt invigorated. She cal ed Lennie in Acapulco on Sunday night and covered herself there.
"How's the deal going?" he asked.
"Slowly," she replied, setting him up for a delay. "You know what the Japanese are like.
"
"Are you having a good time?"
"Without you? No way."
"This movie sucks."
"You've told me that seven thousand times." "Make way for seven thousand and one."
"I love you, Lennie," she said wistful y, aching to be with him.
"Prove it."
"How?"
"Dump your deal and get on the next plane." "Have you ever heard of the word patience?" "I'm trying."
"Keep trying."
When he eventual y found out she'd bought the studio, it was al going to be worth it. Oh, boy, would he regret his relentless nagging!
Now it was Monday morning, Herman was staring at her, and she was ready for action.
"Mr. Panther wishes to speak to you," he announced, as soon as she arrived.
"He does? Why?"
Herman fidgeted in his seat. "I don't know."
It was a particularly hot day. Lucky pul ed at her awful wig in disgust. Two days of freedom, and being back in disguise was a burden. She flopped into a chair and cal ed Abe.
Inga answered the phone. Clipped, unfriendly tones. "Who's this?"
"Lucky Santangelo."
"I'l see if Mr. Panther is available."
"He cal ed me, Inga. I'm sure you'l find he's available."
"I'l see."
Tight-assed dragon lady!*
A short wait, and then Abe on the phone, talkative, excited.
"What's goin' on, Lucky? What's happening? How come you haven't phoned me? Did you forget about keeping in touch?"
"Our deal is six weeks, Abe. I didn't realize you expected me to check in."
"I'm anxious for a report, girlie. I want to hear it al ."
"Nothing much yet."
"Come for dinner tonight. Six o'clock."
"Just you, me, and Inga?"
"Yes, yes," he said impatiently.
"I wouldn't miss it," she drawled sarcastical y.
As soon as she hung up, Herman couldn't wait to ask what Abe wanted.
"My body," Lucky replied dryly.
Her humor was lost on poor Herman. He gazed at her blankly.
She reached for a cigarette and lit up. "Have they sent the budgets over?"
He shook his head.
"Pick up the phone and tel Mickey Stol i personal y you want them today or else."
"Or else what?" Herman asked, wheezing.
"Good point." Thoughtful y she sucked on a pencil. "Or else you tel Mickey you're going to have to inform Abe Panther you can't get any cooperation, and that maybe Abe had better put a younger guy in your position. Mickey won't like that."
Herman loosened his tie. He had a chicken neck etched with wrinkles. "It's so warm today," he grumbled.
"Tel me about it." Lucky sighed, tugging at her wig again.
"It's only going to get hotter. Let's make the cal , Herman.
Are you ready?"
He nodded reluctantly.
Lucky reached Olive, who told her that Mr. Stol i was in conference and could not be disturbed.
"Mr. Stone needs to talk to him about the copies of the budgets he asked for a week ago. I have reminded you, Olive. When can we expect them?"
"Doesn't he have them? I was under the impression they were sent over," Olive said, sounding quite put out.
"Not yet."
"Oh, dear."
"I can drop by and col ect them," Lucky offered helpful y.
"Let me check with Mr. Stol i when he leaves his meeting. I'l get back to you."
Lucky put down the phone. "You are getting what is commonly known as the royal runaround," she informed Herman. "Or, as my daddy used to say--fucked."
Herman winced.
"But I," Lucky announced grandly, "wil take care of it." She leaped to her feet, ful of sudden energy. "Today we wil have the budgets in our possession. Sit tight, Herman, and trust me. I'l see you later."
Over at the main building there was the usual activity.
People coming and going. Executives in tight jeans with open shirts. A sprinkling of gold chains. A ton of hair spray.
Tennis tans and toned bodies. And that was just the men.
The women were divided into two categories: business and pleasure. The business ones wore suits with no-nonsense jackets, silk shirts, and determined expressions. The pleasure seekers let it al hang out in clinging tops, sexy tanks, and miniskirts, with no visible panty line.
It was sometimes difficult figuring out who did what. One of the secretaries, conservatively dressed, was so drop-dead gorgeous you would have sworn she was a movie star. And an expensive-looking young man, featuring al the right gold accoutrements, worked in the mail room as a runner.
The two hottest producers on the lot, specializing in the sex/horror megabucks movies so dear to Mickey Stol i's heart, resembled a couple of bums off the street. Lucky recognized them from a recent photograph in Variety as they made their way into the building.
Frankie Lombardo and Arnie Blackwood were partners.
Arnie was lean and lanky, with greasy hair pul ed back in a ponytail, and mirrored shades covering watery eyes.
Frankie had freaked-out brown hair, an unruly beard, smal eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a rol ing gut.
They were nicknamed "the Sleazy Singles," and most female employees went out of their way to avoid them.
"Sexist pigs" was a kind description.
Lucky kept her distance as she fol owed them al the way to Mickey Stol i's office, where Olive promptly stopped them at her desk.
her desk.
"Gentlemen," Olive said crisply, "kindly take a seat. Mr.
Stol i wil be with you in a moment." "What an accent!"
Frankie exclaimed, perching on the corner of her desk, his big bulk dislodging a framed photo of her fiance.
"What class! What an ass!" Arnie joined in. "I want a Limey broad to do my dirty work, Frankie. How about it?"
"Whatever Arnie wants--Arnie gets," Frankie promised, and then he noticed Lucky lurking in the doorway. "Hel o, gorgeous," he said in a loud, arrogant voice. "You ever given any thought to changing your hairdresser?"
Arnie guffawed. "Looks like a wig t'me. Gives a whole new meaning to the word head--huh?"
This broke Frankie up.
Lucky had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from zapping these dumb assholes into the ground. She recal ed Harry Browning's reports of their scurrilous activities in the screening room.
Olive jumped to her feet, two bright red spots high-lighting her very English complexion. "Mr. Stol i wil see you now," she said in a strained voice. "Please go in."
Frankie removed himself from her desk and ambled toward Mickey's office, closely fol owed by Arnie. When they opened the door, Mickey Stol i could be spotted behind his enormous desk, leaning back in an oversized leather chair speaking on the phone. He waved a greeting to his two out-of-control producers, and then Arnie kicked the door closed with an unpolished cowboy boot.
Olive turned to face Lucky. "I'm so sorry," she said, obviously embarrassed. "They don't mean any harm.
They're like two big naughty schoolboys." Lucky found it hard to keep her mouth shut. She'd heard about Frankie and Arnie from Lennie. "A couple of major zeros," he'd told her. "They run around the lot with T-shirts emblazoned 'I Eat Pussy if It Don't Eat Me First.' "
"They sound like real charmers," she'd replied. "Put it like this--I'd have to be dead to do a movie for 'em," Lennie had said, laughing. "They make Ned Magnus look classy."
Olive was staring at her, waiting for a response. "You're upset, aren't you? Please don't be. Your hair looks very nice."
Oh, Olive, Olive. You are ful of shit. Speak out. My hair--
wig--is a disaster. Arnie cal ed it like he saw it. "That's al right," Lucky managed in a low voice, hoping she sounded suitably hurt.
"How abOut lunch?" Olive said brightly. "One o'clock. My treat."
"You said you didn't eat lunch."
"Certainly not every day. I don't get engaged every week, either. We'l
cal it a celebration. Yes?"
Lucky agreed, deciding not to bother Olive about the budgets. If she didn't mention them now, it would give her an excuse to come back tomorrow. They arranged to meet in the commissary, and Lucky departed.
Outside she observed the tal , striking woman she'd seen entering the building the week before. Last Monday the woman had been wearing Donna Karan. This Monday it was Yves Saint Laurent. There was something about her that didn't quite jel .
Instinct made Lucky turn around and fol ow her back inside.
The woman walked fast and knew exactly where she was going. High heels clicked their way down the marble hal way, stopping in front of a door marked "Eddie Kane, Senior Vice President of Distribution." She entered and vanished.
Lucky waited a few minutes before pushing open the door.
Two secretaries were carrying on a conversation about Tom Sel eck. One of them glanced up. She had blood-red talon nails and lips to match. "Can I help you?" she asked tartly.
"I think I'm in the wrong place. I'm looking for Mr. Stol i's office."
"One floor up," Talon Nails said, generously adding, "you can take the elevator if you like."
As she spoke, the tal woman emerged from Eddie Kane's private office. Close up she had a face carved in granite, decorated with perfect makeup. Her eyes were hard and unrelenting. Lucky recognized the look --she'd seen it on hookers and gamblers and druggies. Vegas was ful of expensive whores; Lucky had grown up observing them.
"Thanks," she said to the secretary, and fol owed the woman outside.
Johnny Romano was on his way toward the building. He walked with a pelvic thrust. Cock first, everything else trailing behind, including his entourage.
The woman didn't even glance in his direction. She hurried over to a gray Cadil ac Sevil e, climbed inside, and took off.
Feeling like a detective, Lucky made a note of the license plate before hurrying back to Eddie's office. Talon Nails was now on the phone, while the other secretary, a pretty black girl, flicked through a copy of Rol ing Stone.
"Excuse me," Lucky said. This playing meek and mild was getting her down, and the fucking wig stuck on top of her head was driving her insane, especial y on this exceptional y hot and humid Monday morning. The girl reading Rol ing Stone lowered the magazine and managed a desultory "Yes?"
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