"My grandfather has been very good to you," she usual y said, or words to that effect. "And when he goes, we'l get everything we deserve."
"Why do we have to wait?" was Mickey's argument. "How about the lawyers going in and declaring him senile?"
Abigaile would have none of it. She knew for a fact that her grandfather had constructed an extremely complicated and ironclad wil , and any messing with it was going to cause nothing but unwanted complications.
She also knew that Abe Panther, in spite of his age, was certainly not senile. He was as smart as Mickey any day, and Mickey should think himself more than fortunate that Abe had not returned to run the studio and had al owed Abe had not returned to run the studio and had al owed Mickey to do it his way.
Of course, there were financial restrictions put into place by Abe's lawyers. These restrictions infuriated Mickey. It meant that his salary could not exceed 1 mil ion dol ars a year. That sounded like a lot, but when some asshole actor could receive 5 or 6 mil ion, plus gross points of a potential hit movie, it was hardly satisfactory.
Abigaile had her own trust fund of money inherited from her parents. But Mickey had to make do on a lousy mil ion--and when tax was taken off .. .
It didn't bear thinking about, although Mickey thought about it quite a lot--not usual y when he was humping Warner--but today was hot, and there was a fly buzzing in her apartment, and she'd just informed him she'd been promoted to Vice (that was a promotion?), and he was altogether not in the mood for their usual steamy sex session.
"What seems to be the matter, lover?" Warner asked.
He was on top of her at the time, exhibiting his lack of desire. It was hardly something he could hide. "There's a fly in here," he said lamely.
Her voice rose in surprise. "A fly?"
"Maybe a wasp." That sounded better.
Warner couldn't help herself--after al , she'd grown up in a house where rats were an everyday occurrence.
"Frightened it's gonna sting you on the ass, Mickey?" she teased, laughter in her voice.
That did it. No hiding the hot dog today. Lurching off her, he reached for his pants.
"Stop!" said Warner.
He continued to pul on his pants.
She sat up. "Stop! Or I'm gonna havta arrest and handcuff you."
His cock, searching for a life of its own, sprang to attention.
Mickey dropped his pants.
Warner reached for her handcuffs.
They were back in business.
The Polo Lounge was the perfect meeting place--at three o'clock in the afternoon relatively quiet, fairly discreet, and pleasantly air-conditioned.
Martin Z. Swanson and Mickey Stol i had never met before, although they were certainly wel aware of each other.
They shook hands in front of the dimly lit, number one comfortable leather booth.
"We could've done this in my bungalow," Martin said.
"Or at the studio," Mickey offered.
"It's better here," they both agreed.
Mickey Stol i felt fucked. Literal y.
Martin wondered what time he'd be able to meet with Venus Maria. "Let's talk business," he said. "Show business," Mickey corrected with a sly smile.
"I want you to go," Venus Maria said in a not-tobe-argued-with voice. "I've rented you an apartment on Fountain Avenue. It has a swimming pool, television, and maid service. It's furnished nicely. I'l pay your rent for six months, and after that you're on your own. I'm sure you'l be able to manage."
Her brother Emilio stared at her. They pdssessed the same eyes, big and brown and soulful. Apart from that, they did not look at al alike.
"Why?" Emilio asked plaintively.
"Because . . . because I need my privacy." "We're family,"
Emilio said, fixing her with a hurt expression, as if she'd let him down.
She was determined not to give in. "That's why I'm paying your rent for six months."
He sighed. A big sigh. A put-upon sigh. "I'l go," he said reluctantly. As if he had a choice.
Venus Maria nodded. "Good."
"When I'm ready," Emilio added.
He was pushing her. It was infuriating. But she had a temper too, and she refused to be pushed any further. "You go today," she said. "Within the hour. Or the deal is off and you can hustle your lazy ass on Santa Monica Boulevard for al I care."
"Puttana!" he muttered.
Her eyes narrowed. "What?"
"Do I get a car?"
She decided to ignore his insult. "You can borrow the station wagon," she said wearily.
Emilio scowled. Why should he drive a lowly station wagon while his sister sat in limos and Porsches? It wasn't the way things should be, but it looked like it was inevitable. Venus Maria meant business.
He slouched off to pack his belongings.
Venus Maria experienced a frisson of triumph. Smal but satisfying. She sent her housekeeper out to buy fresh flowers and then hurried to her huge walk-in closet and tried to decide on the perfect outfit.
Martin liked her in white; he'd told her so. She preferred black. It was more sophisticated and more raunchy. It made her feel sexy.
How about white on the outside and black against her flesh?
How about nothing against her flesh?
Martin was not the greatest lover in the world. He was inhibited, fast, not into any real sensual pleasure. She was teaching him.
Slowly . . .
Very, very slowly. . . .
Venus Maria was twenty-five, and she'd had four lovers, Martin being the fourth. The press would have a field day if they ever found out she'd only had four men. After al , she was a liberated woman--a high priestess of the sexual come-on. Everything she did radiated pure sex, from her videos to her acting performances. She touched herself in secret places publicly. And even with AIDS casting its giant shadow, she should have experienced more than four men.
Lover number one: Manuel. A kil er in the sack. Black hair, black eyes, dark-olive skin. A cock to die for, and a dancer's flair for exquisite movement.
She met him a week after arriving in L. A. and he took her virginity with a sticky, hard passion she found breathtaking.
For three months they made love every day, and then he left her for a California beach bunny.
When she became famous he tried to insinuate himself back into her world.
Forget it.
Lover number two: Ryan. A sensualist. Rumpled blond hair, puppy-dog eyes, sunkissed skin. A cock to die for, and the best ass she'd ever seen.
He accompanied her on the ride, and got off when he fel in love with the bearded manager. Of an English rock group.
They'd remained friends.
Lover number three: Innes. A kil er in the sack and a sensualist. What a lethal combination.
They stayed together nearly a year until her career became more than a threat. *
Manuel, Ryan, and Innes were al in their twenties.
Martin was forty-five. He could have been their father. He could have been her father.
She loved him.
She didn't know why.
Choosing a virginal white dress, al layers and lace, she paired it with a short, tight brocade jacket, seventeen silver bracelets, dangling earrings--a different design for each ear--and skating boots without the blades. Then she cal ed Martin at his hotel and left a message: "The Wacko family wil be at home after six."
When Mickey entered his house, he was buzzing. Thirteen-year-old Tabitha greeted him with a sulky glare. "Mommy says I can't go to Vegas with Lulu and her dad. I wanna go.
Why can't I go?"
Tabitha had straight brown hair, a just-developing figure, and frightening braces on her teeth. She was hardly going to be jumped on by every guy in sight. "If your mother says so--" he began.
"I wanna go, Daddy," Tabitha wailed. "You talk to her. You fix it. You're so smart you can fix anything!" Had she been taking lessons from Warner?
"I'l try," he promised, without much enthusiasm. Tab
itha threw her arms around him, scraping his cheek with her braces.
Abigaile, as if sensing col usion, appeared in the front hal way. "Were you meeting with Martin Swanson in the Polo Lounge today?" she asked peevishly, ignoring her daughter, who was busy signaling Mickey behind her mother's back, urging him to say something.
Was nothing secret? The Beverly Hil s Bush Telegraph worked like lightning, or maybe the new girl--what was her name?--Lucy, Luce--something stupid --had too big a mouth. Olive was smart enough to be aware that if he wanted Abigaile to know anything, he'd tel her himself.
"Who told you that?" he asked, automatical y becoming defensive.
"Daddy!" complained Tabitha, panting for action. "Does it matter who told me?" bristled Abigaile. "What matters is that you never let me know you were seeing Martin Swanson. I would have liked to have had a dinner party for the Swansons."
Ah, another cozy little dinner for fifty.
"Why? You don't even know them."
"I most certainly do," Abigaile countered indignantly. "I've met Deena on more than one occasion." "S"e's not with him."
" ,gas, Daddy!" interjected Tabitha, hopping anxiously up and down.
"Uh . . . why can't Tabitha go to Vegas?"
Abigaile withered him with a look. She was good at reducing grown men to ashes. Raising an imperious eyebrow she said, "Are you serious?"
"Yes, I'm serious.. She wants to go with her friend Lulu and Lulu's father. That sounds al right to me." "Are you aware who Lulu's father is?"
"Uh . . . he's a singer. Right?"
"He's a rock singer." Abigaile spat the words out. "And not a very famous one at that--unless you count his time spent in A. A. and drug rehab. My daughter is not going anywhere with that family."
My daughter. It was always my this and my that. Sometimes Mickey felt Abigaile went out of her way to prove he didn't exist.
He was stil buzzing, but now he decided to keep the buzz to himself.
Screw Abby. If things went the way he hoped they'd go, she'd find out soon enough.
Chapter 30
Olive Watson broke her leg. As far as Lucky was concerned this was great news. Although she
commiserated with Olive over the phone, she stil felt guilty about being so pleased.
Mickey did not take it wel . He summoned Lucky into his office screaming and yel ing as if it was her fault.
"We'l manage, Mr. Stol i," she said calmly, the perfect secretary.
"You'l manage," he screamed. "My life is a fuck-up!"
It certainly is, she replied silently.
Eddie Kane arrived for his newly scheduled appointment.
Mickey had attempted to cancel it, but Lucky told him she hadn't been able to reach Mr. Kane.
Eddie looked like a good night's sleep might be a fine idea. He winked at Lucky, whispered, "You're a good girl,"
patted her on the ass, and entered Mickey Stol i's lair.
Sitting outside, Lucky pressed the office intercom enabling her to listen in.
"What's going on, Eddie? I warned you if we went into this I wasn't to be bothered." Mickey sounded weary.
"Yeah," Eddie said. "Only I didn't reckon on a coupla. Bent-nose fuckheads breathin' down my pants for a bigger piece of the action."
"Whaddya mean?"
"It's simple. We take their porno product, bury it al the way outta the country with the legit Panther stuff. Split the proceeds--an' there ya go--they've got clean money. We've got us a nice healthy score with no problems."
"So?"
"So they're claimin' we ain't splittin' fair." Mickey's tone was ominous. "And are we?"
The lie was in Eddie's voice, plain to hear. "Would I try t'fuck the big boys?"
"You'd try to fuck a skunk if it pissed in the right direction."
Lucky heard someone approaching. She slammed off the intercom, quickly picking up a pile of letters. "Workin' hard, dol ?"
It was the Sleazy Singles themselves. If they were a singing group, Eddie Kane would have made a perfect third partner.
"Mr. Lombardo. Mr. Blackwood," Lucky said primly, emulating Olive. "Can I help you?"
Arnie leaned across her desk, and before she could stop him he flicked off her thick glasses. "Ya got nice eyes, babe. Get yourself contacts."
She attempted to grab her glagses. He waved them at her, keeping them just out of reach.
"Mr. Blackwood, I can't see," she said sternly.
"I get off on babes who can't see," leered Frankie. "Yeah, al the better not to notice your one-and-ahalf-inch dick!"
said Arnie.
This remark broke them both up. Lucky took the opportunity to snatch her glasses and put them back on. What a couple of major jerks!
"What's he doin'?" questioned Frankie, gesturing toward Mickey's office.
"Mr. Stol i is in a meeting with Mr. Kane."
"Then I guess he's ready for the light relief brigade," Arnie said with a hearty chuckle.
"You can't--"
Before she could finish, they were on their way into Mickey's office.
She quickly buzzed Mickey. "Mr. Stol i. I'm sorry, they just barged past me.
Mickey's familiar "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Order up coffee."
"And banana cake," yel ed Frankie in the background.
Al the better to enlarge your fat ass, Lucky thought.
The boys are having a meeting.
Let them eat cake.
Acapulco sunshine could be boring. Every day the same thing--blue skies, blazing sun, and a picture postcard setting.
Two friends of Lennie's arrived to stay for a few days--Jess and Matt Traynor. less was Lennie's oldest friend; they'd grown up together in Las Vegas, attended the same high school, and remained close ever since.
Only five feet tal , and very pretty, Jess was a supercharged package. She had wide eyes, a mop of orange hair, freckles, and a great body.
Matt, her second husband (the first was a drugged-out bum who'd run out on her), was, at sixty-something, almost thirty years older. He didn't look it, with his close-cropped silver hair and wel -dressed, foxy style.
Lennie was happy to have visitors. How many nights could he spend with Joey Firel o? Joey's continual pursuit of the female form was exhausting.
Nights spent alone were not much fun either, and he had no intention of socializing with either Grudge, Marisa, or Ned--
the fun trio, he'd christened them.
Jess and Matt were a welcome relief. They arrived armed with photos of their sixteen-month-old twins, a boy and a girl.
Your godchildren," Jess __told Lennie proudly. "When are you going to have a few of your own?"
Trust Jess to come right out with it. She sounded like Gino, who was always dropping not-so-subtle hints.
"When Lucky decides to fit me in between deals," he said wryly.
"What does that mean?"
"She's busy."
"Ah, that's what happens when you marry a working woman."
"Tel me about it."
Jess had stopped work several months before her twins were born. She'd once been Lennie's personal manager. In fact, it was Jess who'd been responsible for getting his career off the ground in the first place. He owed her plenty.
They'd certainly come a long way together.
"I miss you, monkey face," he said dejectedly. "Don't cal me that!" she shrieked; she stil hated her nickname from their school days.
"Why not?"
"Because you know I hate it."
"But it suits you."
"Get fucked."
"I wish I could!"
"Very funny."
He flopped into a chair and stared at her. "Wel , are you coming back to work with me or what? If you were stil my manager I wouldn't be stuck in this piece of shit movie."
"When Matt divorces me," Jess replied matter-of-factly.
"What wil that be?"
She grinned. "Never! I'm a very happy person!"
"Nice to know somebody is," he said rueful y. Jess sat on t
he arm of his chair. "I may be slow, but do I detect a note of dissatisfaction here?"
He mugged for her. "Are you kidding? Why would I be dissatisfied? I'm making a movie I hate. I'm stuck in Mexico.
And my wife is probably shacked up with Mr. Japan so she can add another mil ion or four to her bank account. Things couldn't be better, Jess. Tel me about your life."
Jess ruffled the back of his hair. "Oooh, baby, baby. You want me to talk to Lucky?"
"If you can find her."
"Give me her number."
He sounded disgusted. "If I had it, I would." "Where is she?"
"Who the fuck knows?"
Jess didn't question further. With Lennie you could only push so far.
Later she said to Matt, "A marriage counselor I'm not. But I have a feeling I should give this one a whirl. Lennie's about ready to blow."
"Don't interfere," warned Matt.
What did he know?
Mickey spent the week on the run, expecting Lucky to keep up with him at al times. He dodged from meeting to screening, and in between he stopped for another shower or fresh juice or a screaming fit about something or other.
Occasional y he had Lucky accompany him to the dailies on what he cal ed his bread-and-soup movies, instructing her to take notes of everything he said while sitting in the darkened screening room. His comments ran from "Nice tits" to "Fat ass" to "She's too old" to "Get a close-up on her face when he sticks her with the knife."
He rarely had anything to say about the male actors.
who al managed to stay ful y dressed in spite of the gore and sex taking place around them.
Lucky discovered the Hol ywood difference between hard-core pornography and so-cal ed soft. In hard-core, the men took their clothes off too. In soft, as far as the women were concerned, anything seemed to go. They were forever stripping off their clothes, simulating orgasm, or getting their throats slit. Real classy stuff. With plenty of rape thrown in for good measure.
It was a sorry situation, and one that Lucky had no intention of continuing once she took control.
The three cheapo movies currently in production were al produced by the exciting team of Blackwood and Lombardo. It figures, Lucky thought grimly.
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