"The woman who was just in here--does she work at the studio?"
"No. Why?"
"Uh, because I just saw someone damage her car, and I thought I ought to tel her."
Talon Nails got off the phone and said, "What's up, Brenda?" to the other girl.
Brenda shrugged. "Something about a car accident."
"I need to reach the woman who was jut in here," Lucky said assertively. "Do you have a number I can cal ?"
Now it was Talon Nails's turn to shrug. "Dunno. Maybe Eddie does."
"Mr. Kane," Brenda interrupted with a warning look.
Talon Nails pul ed a face. "I hate cal ing anyone Mister anything," she snapped. "It's so demeaning. Like we're inferior or something. I'l cal him Eddie if I want."
"Do what you like. I'm just reminding you what he said."
"Yeah, like he's going to fire me if I forget," Talon Nails sneered. "Sure. He's lucky to have a secretary the way he carries on with his horny hands. They're everywhere.
Bending down is a hazard in this office!" Brenda couldn't help giggling.
They both suddenly remembered Lucky was standing there.
"I seem to remember her name is Smith," Talon Nails said, al business. "Let me check the Rolodex." "If you can't reach her, she'l be here next Monday," Brenda joined in helpful y.
"She comes in once a week to look after his fish."
"I'm sorry?"
"Tropical fish. He keeps them in a tank in his office."
"Real y? And what exactly does she do to them?" "Who knows?" Brenda yawned. "Feeds 'em, I guess. He is kind of obsessive about it, though. One Monday she didn't turn up, and he just about threw a fit. Screaming and yel ing like Stal one on a rampage."
"Very good, Brenda," Talon Nails said admiringly. "You should be writing scripts."
Brenda giggled and picked up Rol ing Stone again. She'd had enough conversation for one day. She was more interested in whether David Lee Roth bleached his hair or not.
"Here we are," Talon Nails said. "J. Smith, Tropical Fish."
She scribbled on a piece of paper and handed Lucky the number. "Do you work here?" "I'm Mr. Stone's temporary assistant."
"Who's he?"
"An executive."
"Of what?"
"He was around in Mr. Panther's day."
"Yeah?" Talon Nails was bored.
Lucky made her escape. Tropical fish, my ass, she thought, trudging back to Herman's quarters.
So far it had been an interesting morning. She'd observed the Sleazy Singles in action. Elicited Olive's sympathy. And come across a woman who--if her gut instinct was anything to go on--was quite obviously Eddie Kane's drug supplier.
Not bad. Not bad at al .
And now she had lunch with Olive to look forward to, and dinner with Abe and Inga. How exciting could one day get?
Chapter 18
Abigaile Stol i was entertaining, or at least preparing to do so. She marched around her Bel-Air mansion checking every little detail, closely fol owed by her two Spanish maids, Consuela and Firel a.
Abigaile was a short woman with thick shoulder-length auburn hair, snubbed features, and an abundance of designer clothes. She was not a beauty, but as Abe Panther's granddaughter, she had no need to be. Abigaile was true Hol ywood royalty.
At the age of forty she had managed to keep a girlish figure (thanks to Jane Fonda), a smooth complexion (thanks to Aida Thibiant), and a keen sense of competitiveness with every other Hol ywood wife in town. When Abigaile did something, it had to be the best. She strived to give the best big parties, the best charity premieres, and the best intimate little dinners. The food was always wonderful, the service impeccable, . but her true secret was putting together the right mix of guests.
Tonight was a perfect example. A simple dinner party for twelve people, and the mix was dynamite.
One black politician--male. One famous feminist--female. A legendary rock singer with his darkly exotic wife, who happened to be a successful model--another plus. Two movie stars--Cooper Turner and Venus Maria. A hot young director and his girlfriend. And to round out the group, the fast-talking, newly appointed head of Orpheus Studios, Zeppo White, and his eccentric and mildly stoned wife, Ida.
Zeppo--a former top agent, and Idaa so-cal ed producer who never produced anything, were mainstays of any good dinner party. Zeppo with his snobbish ways and acid conversation. Ida, chicly turned out, with al the latest outrageous gossip. Abigaile always tried to include them.
They were insurance against boredom.
Abigaile was especial y pleased that Cooper Turner had Abigaile was especial y pleased that Cooper Turner had accepted her invitation. He was known for never appearing anywhere, so it was a coup to get him. And Venus Maria was another hard-to-get guest.
Abigaile was satisfied that this was going to be a talked-about evening. She would cal George Christy personal y to inform him of the guest list. Let the town read and weep.
"Hmmm . . ." Abigaile spotted a Lalique wineglass with a tiny chip in the rim. She picked it up and turned to her two maids, glaring at them accusingly. Words were not necessary.
"So sorry, madame," gasped Consuela, immediately accepting responsibility along with the offending glass. "I wil take care of it, madame," she promised. "Yes, and perhaps you can find out who is responsible," Abigaile said testily. "These glasses cost over one hundred and fifty dol ars each. Somebody should pay. And that somebody is certainly not going to be me."
Consuela and Firel a exchanged glances. One hundred and fifty dol ars! For a glass! American women were surely crazy.
Abigaile finished her inspection without further incident and set off for the beauty salon in her cream-colored Mercedes.
Speeding down Sunset, she used her cel ular car phone to catch Mickey at the studio.
"I'm on my way to lunch," Mickey said, sounding harassed.
"What is it?"
"You were supposed to send over three dozen bottles of Cristal from your office. Where are they?" Here he was running a major studio, and his wife spoke to him like he was a goddamn liquor salesman. Wonderful! "Talk to Olive," he snapped.
"No, you talk to Olive," Abigaile snapped back. In most Hol ywood marriages the men sat in the power seat and the women danced careful y around their delicate egos. In the Stol i household, Abigaile held the real chair of authority.
She was Abe Panther's granddaughter, and let no one forget it, especial y Mickey.
"And while you're speaking to Olive," she added, "make sure she confirms the time and place with Cooper Turner and Venus Maria for tonight. I don't want any no-shows."
"Yeah, yeah," Mickey said impatiently, tagging on a sarcastic "Anything else? Maybe you'd like me to pick up your dry cleaning, or stop by Gelson's?"
"Goodbye, Mickey dear." The way Abigaile said goodbye spoke volumes.
She pul ed up to the valet parker in front of Ivana's, the hot new beauty salon, and hurried briskly inside. Abigaile Stol i was giving one of her famous intimate dinners. She had no time to waste.
Chapter 19
Olive Watson spoke glowingly of her fiance, a computer systems analyst. She'd met him on her annual vacation trip to England a year ago, and they'd corresponded ever since.
"How much time have you actual y spent with him?" Lucky asked curiously.
"Ten days," Olive replied. "It was quite the whirlwind courtship."
I bet, Lucky thought. She was mildly curious to know if they'd slept together. But there was no way demure Luce would go for an intimate question like that, so she discreetly shut up and settled for "What's his name?"
"George." Olive sounded in love. "He's an older man. Very distinguished-looking."
"How old is older?" Lucky ventured.
Olive pursed her lips. ."Fifty-something," she revealed.
"There's nothing wrong with an older man," Lucky said reassuringly, thinking of her own marriage to Dimitri Stanislopoulos when she was twenty-something and he was in his sixties.
"
You're very understanding," Olive replied, picking at a light salad. She hesitated a moment and then said, "I hope you don't mind me saying this, but actual y your hairstyle could be improved, And I'd be wil ing to take you to my hairdresser. That's if you want me to," she added hastily, anxious not to offend. "Thanks, I like it this way," Lucky said quickly, automatical y touching the hideous wig.
"Oh. I don't mean that it's not very nice. It is. Very nice,"
Olive said, obviously flustered, and lying as best she could.
For the first time Lucky felt like a fraud. Olive was genuinely concerned, and maybe it wasn't fair to be playing games with her.
No problem, she decided. When she took over the studio she'd give Olive a hefty raise and a promotion. The woman deserved it after working for Mickey Stol i al these years.
Changing the subject, she asked, "When are you planning on getting married?"
"George wants to do it at once," Olive said with a worried frown, thinking of the difficulties. "I told him it's impossible.
There's so much to discuss, and I have no desire to leave my job. I'm not sure if George is prepared to live in California."
"Shouldn't you find out?"
"Yes." Olive nodded vigorously. "George is going to be in Boston for two days next week on business. It would be a perfect time to talk things over." She sighed. "He wants me to join him. Unfortunately it's impossible."
Lucky sensed an opportunity. "Why?"
"Because Mr. Stol i can't do without me. He's a very particular man. Everything has to be just so." "Real y? He won't accept a temp?"
"Certainly not."
"Or one of the girls in your building?"
"Absolutely out of the question."
"How about me?"
"You?"
This was a hard sel , but she could do it. "Yes, me. I can take over for a couple of days. You'l show me what to do, and I promise you he'l have no complaints."
"You work for Mr. Stone," Olive pointed out.
"He's off on vacation next week. Besides, even when he's around I have nothing to do. It's a boring job. To tel you the truth, I was thinking of leaving." Olive lapsed into silence for a moment. It was a tempting offer. Luce certainly seemed competent enough. "I'l have to ask Mr. Stol i," she said unsurely. "After al , it's his decision, and as I said before, he's a very particular man with cast-iron habits." "O. K.,"
Lucky said, wil ing Olive to go for the idea. "I understand."
Olive nodded. "I wil ask him," she decided. "This is such an important trip for me, and it's best to get things settled as soon as possible."
"Quite," agreed Lucky.
Olive nodded again. "I'l let you know," she said.
Lucky had Boogie run a trace on Eddie Kane's tropical fish lady's car. It was registered to one Kathleen Le Paul. J.
Smith never entered the picture. Wel , anyone with half a brain would have guessed that.
She instructed Boogie to check Ms. Le Paul out and to get her the information as soon as possible.
"It's done," Boogie assured her.
Herman immediately wanted to know what was going on.
The air-conditioning in his office had broken down, and he was feeling the heat in more ways than one. He was red in the face and stressed out.
Lucky felt sorry for him. "You're taking a vacation," she said firmly.
He became agitated. ". What?"
"A vacation. You need it. You deserve it. A week in Palm Springs. You're to get out of here so I'm free to fil in for Olive. O. K.?"
Herman wasn't about to argue. Anything to get away was welcome. "When shal I leave?" he asked stiffly.
"Stick around until Thursday. Maybe we can get to see the dailies you requested. In fact--" she grabbed the phone--
"I'm going to arrange that right now."
The screening room was comfortably decorated in plush green leather, with thick carpeting and blowups of some of Panther's biggest stars on the wal s. There was Venus Maria, clad in black leather, with a mocking expression. A ful close-up of the very handsome Cooper Turner. Susie Rush, pert and coy, hiding beneath a pink parasol. Charlie Dol ar, maniacal grin in place. Johnny Romano, surrounded by girls in low-cut dresses. Marisa Birch, standing tal with her crew-cut hair and enormous bosom. And Lennie Golden, laid back and quirky, with his longish dirty-blond hair, penetrating green eyes, and cynical smile.
Lucky lingered in front of his photograph. He looked great.
As always. She missed him with a vengeance.
Harry Browning came out of the projection booth to greet Herman Stone personal y. Ignoring Lucky, he shook Herman by the hand and said, "How very nice to see you, Mr. Stone. It's been a long time."
"What do you have I can look at?" Herman asked gruffly, playing his part, just as Lucky had instructed him to.
"I've got the latest dailies on Macho Man. And a rough cut of Motherfaker," Harry offered.
"That'l do," Herman said, making his way to the center of the back row of seats, where there was a telephone to issue orders to the projection booth and a smal cooler containing a selection of soft drinks.
"What would you like to see first?" Harry asked.
"The dailies on Macho Man," Lucky replied, adding quickly,
"Mr. Stone would like to see the Macho Man dailies first."
"That's right," agreed Herman, continuing to play his part.
"Certainly," said Harry stiffly, avoiding eye contact with Lucky.
When Lennie's presence dominated the screen, Lucky was fil ed with pride. Apart from being funny and intel igent, he was so goddamn horny-looking. And he was her husband!
The first scene was a brief setup between Lennie and Joey Firel o. They worked wel together. Their dialogue played fast and snappy. Lucky recognized Lennie's beat on the material. Why was he complaining? This was good stuff.
And then Marisa Birch took over the screen in more ways than one, and Lucky knew exactly what Lennie was bitching about. Marisa's physical appearance was overpowering, but there was not an ounce of talent to back it up. Her acting, such as it was, seemed to be a giant put-on.
The scene where she was in bed with Lennie was a joke.
Grudge Freeport had obviously got his rocks off directing it.
Marisa's huge tits were the only focus he was interested in.
They managed to take over every shot--great big bouncy things, large enough to do serious damage.
Lennie was not happy, and it showed. Talk about no chemistry! Marisa and Lennie did not create sparks. There was no sizzle--merely fizzle.
Watching the five takes Grudge had ordered printed, Lucky began to feel acutely embarrassed. No wonder Lennie was complaining al the time--this was worse than she'd imagined.
"What kind of films are they making now?" Herman said, looking distressed. "I'm watching pornography."
"When did you last see one of Panther's movies?" Lucky asked curiously.
Herman failed to reply.
He probably hasn't seen a movie since" Gone With the Wind, she thought. Poor old Herman. What a shock he's in for if he ever gets out into the real world. The rough cut of Motherfaker hit the screen with an opening shot of a tough, leather-jacketed Johnny Romano strutting down a rain-slicked street and practicing the old familiar cock-thrust swagger.
Suddenly a man steps in his path, blocking him. "Whattya want, mothafucker?" Johnny Romano asks.
"I want what's mine, shithead," the other actor replies.
"Man, whyn't you take your dick an' shove it up your ass,
'cause you ain't gettin' shit from me, prick-face."
"What ya cal me, fuckhead?"
"Prickface, mothafucker. You want I spel it out for you?"
"You're fuckin' with the wrong dude, spic." "Yeah?"
"Yeah, ya dumb cocksucker."
A tight close-up on Johnny Romano. His eyes hold the screen. Deep-set and brown, they draw you into the character. His eyes register anger and a lurking danger.
His eyes are lethal weapons
.
The camera pans back to show the other character reaching for a gun.
Johnny kicks the gun from the man's hand, produces a weapon of his own and blows him away. Loud rap music blares and the credits begin to rol . "This is appal ing!"
Herman gasped.
"Welcome to the eighties," Lucky said dryly.
Chapter 20
Ivana's was a den of gossip. Everyone knew something that nobody else knew. "I can tel you this only if you promise not to tel anyone else," was the battle cry.
Natural y everyone promised, and everyone told. The story about Venus Maria giving Cooper Turner a blow job on the set was stil circulating. Only now the tale was embel ished.
It wasn't just Cooper she'd attended to--it was half the crew she'd obliged at the same time.
"Nonsense!" snapped Abigaile, when the skinny black girl who shampooed her hair recounted the story.
"Oh, it's true, Abigaile," the girl assured her, nodding solemnly.
"Kindly address me as Mrs. Stol i," Abigaile said grandly.
"And, dear, please be aware that my husband is the head of Panther Studios, where this event is supposed to have taken place. And, if you continue to spread malicious gossip, you wil be sued."
Wide-eyed, the girl wrapped a towel around Abigaile's wet hair and fled.
When Saxon, the owner of Ivana's, came over to style her hair, Abigaile complained.
Saxon did not kiss ass. Saxon was tal and muscular with shoulder-length blond curls. He had the body of a weight lifter and the look of a heavy metal rock star.
Having arrived from New York and opened his salon a mere ten months ago, he was now, at age thirty, the most popular hair stylist in town.
"Stop bitching, Abby, I hate it when you whine," Saxon said in a deep, gruff voice. Nobody had managed to figure out whether he was gay or straight. And nobody dared ask.
"I'm not whining," Abigaile replied tartly. "And I don't think it's too much to ask for your transient staff to address me with some respect. I am Mrs. Stol i to them. Mrs."
"Yes, dear," Saxon said, with a notable lack of respect.
"Thank you." Her eyes dropped to his crotch. Saxon wore the tightest jeans known to man.
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