Chapter 28
Lucky lit a cigarette. Once, long ago, she'd promised herself she'd give up smoking. Impossible. It was too intrusive a habit. And besides, she enjoyed the process.
Lighting up, inhaling, al owing the smoke to drift lazily away.
Boogie didn't smoke. Boogie was into oat bran and wheat flakes and brown rice and other grains. He'd discovered health with a vengeance and kept on shooting disapproving looks at her when she gulped her coffee black, strong, and certainly not decaf, and settled into a thick, juicy steak for dinner.
It was Saturday morning and there was lots to do. No time to run off to London--maybe a day trip to Acapulco, if she wasn't supposed to be in Japan. Goddammit! She needed to be with Lennie.
She cal ed him, somewhat tentatively. From the sound of his voice on the phone when he'd talked to Mickey yesterday, he was not likely to be in the best of moods. She was right.
"Where are you?" was his first question, asked in a bel igerent tone.
"Bowing a lot and drinking tea," she replied calmly.
He was getting more aggravated by the minute. "Are you aware you have moronic idiots working for you?"
"Don't we al ?"
"C'mon, Lucky, I'm not screwing around. The people in your office are either slow-witted or total y obtuse."
Who had he spoken to? "Why do you say that?" she asked anxiously. It wouldn't do to blow it now. "Because for the last twenty-four hours I've been trying to find out exactly where in Japan you are. A phone number. An address. Anything.
'We have no idea, Mr. Golden,' they tel me. Like I'm some kind of schmuck."
Two weeks, and she was already in deep shit. "They don't know where I am," she answered blankly. "I don't know where I am. Mr. Tagaswaki is a strange and wonderful man who conducts his business in a somewhat eccentric way."
Lennie sounded disgusted. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"It's difficult to explain," she answered quickly.
"It's that kind of a deal. He's a little crazy. I'l be out of here soon."
Lennie was not to be placated. "Are you sleeping with this Japanese prick?" he asked tightly.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"No, Lucky, you're being ridiculous."
Now it was her turn to get angry. gi'm making a deal. Do I interfere with the way you do things?" "Al the time."
Oh, God! She didn't want this to develop into a ful -fledged fight. "Please understand, Lennie," she said softly. "Just this once."
"I don't understand. Get your ass back here."
His accusing tone was beginning to grate. "Lennie," she said careful y, "I do what I want."
"Wel , keep on doing it, honey, an' you'l be doing it on your own."
Honey! He was real y mad.
"This deal is important to me. Why don't you just let me pul it off my way, and then I'm al yours. We won't move for the entire summer. We'l sit in Malibu and build sand castles."
Her voice softened again. "O. K. , baby?"
He calmed down. "I was going to surprise you this weekend. Just turn up. That's if there'd been anywhere to turn up at."
"What about the movie?"
"Screw the movie. I told Mickey Stol i if they're not prepared to dump Grudge, I'm walking."
"I'l have a big surprise for you soon."
"What?"
"Be patient."
He wasn't giving up. "Since when was I patient? What's your phone number?"
"There isn't one."
"Where are you speaking from, the street?" "A hotel."
He sounded exasperated. "I don't know what game you're playing, Lucky. But do me and yourself a favor and get back here. I need you."
"I'l be with you sooner than you think."
Not the ideal phone conversation. How long was he going to believe her transparent excuses?
She tried Bobby in London next. He'd been to a James Bond movie and insisted on tel ing her the entire plot. She listened patiently, told her son she loved him, and hung up.
You're fucking up your life, Santangelo.
Only temporarily. -
Monday morning, back at the studio, she knew a lot more than she'd known when she'd left on Friday carrying a briefcase ful of papers and contracts from Mickey's locked file cabinet. She'd had plenty of time to study them over the weekend. It appeared Mickey was creaming money al over the place. The head of business affairs had to be in on it.
Major col usion. Mickey came running in late, snapping his fingers. "Get me Zeppo White on the phone. Cancel my nine o'clock with Eddie Kane. Tel Teddy Lauden to stay after the meeting. An' fix me fresh juice--grapefruit. Get your ass in here. Fast."
The man was unbelievable. Whatever happened to "Good morning" and a little common courtesy?
She fol owed him into his office. He was already throwing off his tennis shirt, revealing an extremely hairy chest. If the shorts came next she was out of there.
He trotted into his private bathroom, took a loud pee with the door open, and dictated a terse FAX to Grudge Freeport.
The FAX read:
UNHAPPY ACTORS ARE A PAIN IN THE ASS. A PAIN
THERE MAKES ME UNHAPPY. YOU ARE
REPLACEABLE. THE STARS ARE NOT. DO
SOMETHING NICE AND MAKE EVERYONE HAPPY.
He then dictated a similar FAX to Ned Magnus, the producer of Lennie's movie. Lucky added a terse ACCOMMODATE LENNIE GOLDEN IN EVERY WAY.
ALLOW HIM TO MAKE ANY CHANGES HE WANTS.
Mickey then disappeared under the shower, while she hurried to make his phone cal s.
He emerged screaming for his fresh juice.
Lucky darted into the stainless steel kitchen, sliced a grapefruit in half, nearly taking her finger along with it, and threw it on top of the juicer.
A fit of laughter almost overcame her. This was insane!
What the hel was she doing this for? Adventure.
A studio.
Lennie.
Eddie Kane was nervous. He had urgent matters to discuss with Mickey, and the prick was giving him a runaround.
Eddie Kane smoked a joint in the men's room ten minutes before the Monday morning meeting of the major players.
He would have preferred a hit of coke, but he was al out, and Kathleen Le Paul never made her weekly visit until after lunch.
A joint took the edge off. Just about. Not real y. Fuck! He was wired to the hilt. He needed to sit down with Mickey and straighten out business. Staring in the men's room mirror he noticed he'd developed a twitch. Almost imperceptible--only it was there, if you were looking.
Who's looking, for crissakes?
Eddie "The Twitch" Kane. Former child star. Stil hot, with his "Miami Vice" attitude.
This is what Eddie was into.
Porno flicks.
Distributing them.
Hiding them along with Panther's legit products. Making a tidy pile.
Scooping it in.
He stared at himself for a long while. Who else has a wife like Leslie? he thought. She was prettier than any movie star. Sexier, too.
Ah, what wouldn't he give to see her thigh-high in diamonds. She deserved every single one. Thigh-high and bare-assed. What a sight!
"Good morning, Eddie."
Zev Lorenzo, head of the recently formed television division, snuck up on him. Zev was an elegant man in his late forties with a pencil mustache, thinning hair, and a trim build. If he had to make a guess, Eddie would have said that Zev was the only executive at Panther who wasn't in business for himself in some way or other.
"Hiya, Zev."
The older man nodded and stood in the front of the urinals.
A closet queen zipped through Eddie's mind. Someone had told Eddie Zev was a closet queen. Although why, in 1985, anybody would bother staying in the closet was beyond Eddie.
"How's everything?" he mumbled, running a hand through his long hair.
"Excel ent," replied Zev. He was into words like "supreme"
and "primacy" and "surpass." Eddi
e had never heard him swear. Not even a simple "fuck."
"That's good, that's very good," Eddie said. "Hey --one of these days ya gotta meet my wife."
"I've heard she's a stunner." Zev zipped up and exited.
Didn't even stay to wash his hands.
Eddie twitched again. He didn't feel good. He felt like shit.
He looked like shit. He'd frightened Zev off.
"Do I accompany you to the meeting, Mr. Stol i?" Lucky asked.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Take notes. Get it al down. You do fast shorthand, right?"
She nodded.
"What's wrong with your hair?"
"Uh . . ."
"Forget it. Fol ow me an' don't open your mouth." She trailed him into the conference room. Three steps behind.
Like an obedient geisha.
The boys were gathered. No girls.
Shame.
That's Hol ywood.
Quietly taking a backseat, notepad poised (shorthand was the one useful skil she'd learned at school in Switzerland), she looked around, silently identifying the players, matching them up to their photographs in the glossy Panther end-of-year financial report. Ford Werne, Head of Production.
Kil er-sharp in an Armani suit and five-hundred-dol ar tinted aviator shades. He was around fifty, but he'd kept his act very much together.
Teddy T. Lauden, Head of Business Affairs, was exactly the opposite. Thin, nondescript, precise.
Zev Lorenzo, the man who ran the Television Division, impeccable and charming.
While Eddie Kane, Mister Distribution, Mister Cokehead, looked like he was ready to fal apart. Seedy was too kind a description. He was handsome in a smarmy way. But definitely in trouble.
Which left only two other senior executives--Grant Wendel , Vice President of Worldwide Production--young and sharp-eyed, wearing baggy pants with a button-down Gap shirt.
And Buck Graham--Marketing. A plump, jovial
man with ruddy cheeks and an "I'm-here-to-please" smile.
Average age of the group--early forties.
That's why there were no women execs. These guys had not experienced feminist mothers. What did they know?
Lucky grinned to herself. In her dowdy wig and glasses, her figure concealed by her baggy clothes, she was invisible to this group of--most likely--male chauvinists.
Two women appeared, ready to serve coffee and tea. One of them was Eddie Kane's black secretary, Brenda. She'd dressed for the occasion in a tight pink leather dress that ended somewhere mid-thigh. On her long legs she wore outrageous fishnet tights, more suitable for a lady of the night than an office meeting, and very high red patent heels.
Brenda fussed over the men, cal ing every one of them by name as she poured their coffee, gold-painted nails curling around the coffeepot handle.
The other woman was a ponytailed blonde, also in a miniskirt. She apparently belonged to Grant Wendel .
The men ignored the two females, although Lucky observed Eddie giving Grant's secretary a quick feel under her skimpy skirt as she passed by.
"O. K., girls. Outta here," said Mickey Stol i, Mr. Charm.
"We're not runnin' a restaurant."
Brenda shot Lucky a mean look as if to say, What the hel are you doing here? Obviously this was a fil -in job most of the other secretaries would have been only too delighted to do.
And so the meeting started.
Mickey had a mind like a machine gun, firing questions, talking fast. He wanted to know every detail of what was happening around the studio, and around the world--if it was anything to do with Panther.
Ford Werne adjusted his aviator shades and talked about a mil ion-dol ar script he thought they should buy.
Grant Wendel discussed his desire to sign Madonna or Cher to a multipic deal.
Zev Lorenzo boasted about ratings on two of his television shows and claimed to be negotiating for the television rights to a Norman Mailer book. "We'l do it as a long-form miniseries--similar to Irwin Shaw's `Rich Man, Poor Man.' "
"Too classy," Mickey interjected. "We need some-thin' with jiggle. An' talkin' of jiggle--we gotta develop a property for that seventeen-year-old ex-porn star who's goin' straight.
She's a natural."
"Natural what, Mickey?" asked Buck Graham with a barroom chuckle.
"I saw her in Under Glass," Teddy Lauden joined in, suddenly coming to life. "She was sixteen at the time. What a body!"
"Never mind the body, can she act?" asked Grant. "Who gives a shit?" demanded Mickey. "She's gonna make us a fuckin' fortune. Fresh young snatch. It brings 'em into the box office every time. Cooper's givin' her a coupla lines in his movie."
Ah, to be in the company of real men, Lucky thought. What a delightful bunch.
Eddie cornered her after the meeting. He was a jumping time bomb. "Hey--hey--lady--you."
"The name is Luce."
"Okay, Luce. Ya gotta do me a big one."
"Yes?"
"Don't keep on canceling my goddamn appointments with Mickey. I havta see him--like today. Urgent biz."
She noticed he had a twitch. It was fascinating. "I'm not canceling your appointments, Mr. Kane. Mr. Stol i does so himself. / merely do as I'm told." Holy shit! She was beginning to sound like Olive!
"Sure. So when he tel s you to cancel the next one --just forget. An' then, I'm there. Like in. Y'know what I'm sayin'?"
"Why would I do that, Mr. Kane?"
"You'l catch on. It's the only way to operate with Mickey. He flakes on everyone. Olive'l tel you. When's she comin'
back?"
"Tomorrow."
"I gotta see him today. Arrange it."
"I'l try."
"Good girl."
"The name is Luce."
"I'd change it if I was you."
Back in the office there was a stack of messages. Mickey Stol i was a popular man.
She flicked through his appointment book. It was ful for a month. Olive's neat script had jotted down every detail.
Knocking on the door to his office, she waited for him to cal out his customary "Yeah," and went in. "Mr. Kane would like to reschedule," she said, al business.
"I can't stand the sight of that bum," Mickey said. "When shal I reschedule it for? He says it's urgent."
"Taking a dump is urgent. Eddie can wait." "Are you sure?".
"Don't give me grief. Who's on next?"
"You have lunch with Frankie Lombardo and Arnie Blackwood, and then a three o'clock meeting at the Beverly Hil s Hotel with Martin Swanson."
"Cancel lunch. I gotta go somewhere."
"Cancel lunch. I gotta go somewhere."
"May I ask where?"
"No."
"Thank you, Mr. Stol i."
way to a modest West Hol ywood apartment house, where he observed Mickey park his Porsche in an underground space reserved for apartment four.
Checking the listings on the front entrance, Boogie discovered apartment four belonged to a Warner Franklin.
Did Mickey Stol i have an afternoon boyfriend? Obviously.
Boogie cal ed Lucky from the car and gave her the information.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"It certainly looks that way."
"Hang around. Maybe they'l come out together." "I doubt it.
They're not likely to be seen in public, are they?" *
"Who knows? Mickey's hardly the smartest guy in the world."
"I'l see what I can find out."
"Nobody does it better."
Spurred by Lucky's praise, Boogie found out plenty. The mailman, an inquisitive neighbor, and a bored nine-year-old out of school with the flu supplied the story.
The facts. Warner Franklin. Black. Female. A cop. Boogie smel ed graft.
Chapter 29
Martin Swanson had an army of lawyers. He cal ed. They came running.
His lawyers had an army of top connections. They'd put the word out Martin Swanson was interested in acquiring a control ing interest in a major studio, and al possib
ilities fel into position.
Martin had examined every option, reading confidential reports on United Artists, Columbia, Fox, et cetera, and final y coming to the conclusion that Orpheus and Panther were the two most viable propositions.
Orpheus was ripe for a takeover. And Panther, stil privately owned by the reclusive Abe Panther, was possibly available if the price was right. Or so his lawyers had led him to believe.
"If I want Panther, who do I talk to?" Martin had asked.
Mickey Stol i, he was told.
Martin had his people run an immediate check on Mickey, and while he might be chairman and chief executive officer of Panther, he was certainly not in a position to sel without his father-in-law's say-so.
Interesting. For Mickey had done an excel ent job at Panther since taking over. The studio was turning a healthy profit.
Martin had been pursuing the idea of acquiring a large stake in a film studio long before Venus Maria entered his life. Hol ywood was the lure. Money was the merry-go-round. And the film business as a potential money-maker was irresistible.
Orpheus Studios was in trouble. Owned by a parent company whose main concern was making airplane parts, it had been consistently losing money for the past three years. With Zeppo White, the former agent, in charge, things had gotten worse.
Right now they had five movies in production. Four were already mil ions of dol ars over budget and had very little chance of showing a profit unless a miracle occurred.
Martin Swanson did not believe in miracles. Orpheus could be bought. At a price.
Maybe Panther could--maybe not. But Martin was certain that Mickey Stol i was buyable. And if Martin's purchase turned out to be Orpheus, why not bring Mickey over to run things? He certainly had the right track record.
Hence Martin's planned meeting with Mickey. One way or the other they could do business.
Mickey had no idea what Martin Swanson wanted. He'd heard rumors that Martin was looking to gain control of a studio. But surely the guy was savvy enough to investigate?
And if he did, he'd find out what everybody in town knew--
that Mickey Stol i was just a paid employee, and could no more sel him Panther than take a flying dive in Macy's window. It pissed Mickey off. It pissed Mickey off enough to trigger a twice-a-year furious fight with Abigaile, who didn't understand at al . She looked down at him like a mother who'd just caught her son jacking off over a naked picture of Hitler.
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