That’s something she would have to find out, and soon.
* * *
The Martino children impressed Gino. They were so . . . upright. He had expected a few kinks here and there, it was only natural with teenagers. But these kids were perfect, just like their mother.
Nathan, at nineteen, was the youngest. He was of average height, with brownish hair, matching eyes, and a polite manner. He attended USC, and was studying law and philosophy. He was also on the football team, an excellent surfer, popular with the girls, and a straight A student.
Gemma, at twenty, had dropped out of college to pursue a career in interior design. She was an attractive girl with short honey-coloured hair and a definite leaning towards anorexia. She was engaged to a boy she had been at school with.
Both children still lived at home.
‘They like you,’ Susan announced after the first family dinner.
‘And I like them,’ Gino replied, thinking – why couldn’t Lucky and Dario have been like these two? Jeez! The troubles he’d had with his wild daughter and difficult son.
‘It’s not going to be easy for them to accept my getting married again,’ Susan explained. ‘So, if you don’t mind, I think we should wait a few days before telling them. They’ll get used to you in the meantime, and then it won’t be quite such a blow.’
‘Hey—’ he objected. ‘We came here to tell ’em.’
‘And we will,’ Susan soothed. ‘But there’s no rush, is there? Since the press don’t appear to know about us, I would sooner wait. Just a few days.’
Waiting was no hardship. Susan treated him like a king, nothing was too much trouble. He luxuriated in all the home comforts she provided. Living in a hotel with room service twenty-four hours a day was one thing. But living with a woman who catered to his every need was another. He basked in her constant attention. And although he knew Lucky was waiting for his decision on Atlantic City, he did nothing about it. Hey – surely he had his priorities straight if he put business second – for once?
* * *
‘Honestly, mother!’ complained Nathan. ‘The man is a low-life.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Gemma hotly. ‘How could you bring him here? How could you?’
Susan gestured around her impeccable living room filled with objets d’art and expensive furniture. ‘This is the way we live. And I intend to maintain our style of living . . . do you object to that?’
‘But he’s so crass and loud,’ said Gemma.
‘Well,’ Susan replied calmly, ‘your father was hardly quiet’
‘Daddy was a star!’ steamed Gemma. ‘I hope you’re not comparing him to . . . to . . . Gino Santwhateverhisnameis.’
‘Hood,’ said Nathan. ‘That’s what we’ll call him.’
Susan flushed. ‘You will not.’
‘Hood.’ Gemma tried the word slowly. ‘Hmmm, not bad, brother.’
‘Mr Santangelo is an American businessman,’ Susan said sternly. ‘He moves with the power makers. He dines with Presidents’.’
Gemma looked at Nathan. Nathan returned her stare. ‘Hood,’ they said in unison.
‘Face it, mother,’ Nathan added. ‘Because it’s the truth.’
* * *
When Gino had been away for ten days Lucky called. She had made up her mind she was not going to contact him, but the lawyers in New York were putting on the pressure. They insisted it was impossible to stall the involved parties any longer.
Furious, she placed a person-to-person call to Gino in L.A. ‘I think we’ve blown it,’ she said flatly. ‘The deal is off.’
He hardly missed a beat. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best,’ he replied. ‘At my age I don’t know if it would’ve been the right move.’
Oh, Jesus! Suddenly Gino was old – and admitting it. What was the bitch doing to him – putting bromide in his coffee?
‘I don’t believe what you’re saying. We always wanted this, it was our . . . our . . . dream,’ she stammered.
‘Yeh, kid, but dreams change. We’ll talk about it when I get back.’
‘When will that be?’ she asked, holding her breath, trying not to explode with fury. When, daddy, when?
‘Another day or two. Hang in there. We’ll come up with another scheme – somethin’ a little easier for an old man.’
She flung the receiver down with such force it smashed into two neat pieces. Old man indeed! This wasn’t the Gino she knew.
What was she going to do? She was trapped in Las Vegas, trapped in a business partnership with her father who obviously had a case of galloping senility. She couldn’t make a fucking move without him. She had been better off when he was in exile and she called all the shots. If he was going to go through with this marriage she wanted out.
That was a thought. And one that appealed.
Lucky Santangelo. On her own. With no one to answer to except herself.
She wondered how Gino would take the news. Especially when she told him he would have to buy her out.
Christ! He would never do that. It would mean selling the Magiriano, and splitting the money down the middle. And there was a syndicate of investors to take care of, and no more freshly laundered cash coming in every week.
But . . . he would still have the Mirage, and all his holdings, companies, and other investments. It would hardly make any difference to him.
There was no way he would sell the Magiriano. And did she really want out?
Yes, she really did. There was no point in hanging around with Susan Martino in residence.
Besides, she was entitled to a life too. And a change of scene was exactly what she had in mind.
Chapter Twenty
Rainbow did not look old, fat or ugly, even though her eyes were crinkled around the edges, deep laugh lines etched their way down each side of her mouth, and her use of make-up was excessive. A ruined beauty, true. But a spectacular ruin, with a statuesque body, magnificent breasts, and a spread of pale red hair.
Lennie figured she had to be in her late fifties at least. She made him feel like a teenager as she looked him up and down with a practised eye and drawled, ‘Foxie tells me you’re a pretty hot tamale. Gonna prove it to me tonite?’
Oh, the times he could have proved it to her!
‘I’ll try,’ he said, giving her the lopsided grin.
‘If you’re anything like your old man you’ll never stop trying!’
So it was true! Jack Golden had indulged in the pleasures of Rainbow’s fantasy-provoking flesh.
Fortunately she liked him. ‘Lennie,’ she told him magnanimously, ‘you’re about as funny as your daddy. In a different way, of course. Jack Golden had ’em splittin’ their pants. But I guess it’s a whole new world today, and you seem to capture what’s goin’ on well enough.’ She swigged on a glass of brandy and milk – her favourite drink – then continued. ‘Listen to Foxie – he knows what he’s talkin’ about. And in this business, knowledge is everythin’.’ She tossed her mane of hair, still thick and lustrous. ‘Me, I’m just an old broad who follows her gut instinct.’
He wished the old broad would quit with the low-cut dresses. Every time he saw her ample breasts his imagination ran riot. It wasn’t easy beating down the early memories.
She did have a great act. Hadn’t changed a thing in all the years. Same smile, hair, hooker shoes, and feather boas. Same sleight of hand that allowed you to see nothing while you thought you were seeing everything. Old-fashioned illusion. The girls took it all off, but Rainbow – thank God – stuck to her old routine. A peek here. A peek there. Nothing dirty. She was a relic from another age, and the audience went wild.
‘She does it once a week,’ the Oriental stripper confided to Lennie. ‘And they love her.’
‘I can tell.’
‘Sometimes, when Rainbow is on, they line up around the block to get in.’
He could believe it. Alice would be spitting blood if she knew Rainbow was still pulling them in. He phoned her on the off-chance that she might be wonde
ring what was going on in his life.
She didn’t ask what he was doing, where he was living, or anything of a personal nature. She merely said, ‘Lennie, I have a twenty-five-year-old boy mad for my body. Should I let him?’
He took a deep breath, chose not to answer her question, and said, ‘I’m working at Foxie’s. Did you know your friend Rainbow is still taking it off?’
That stopped her in her tracks. ‘What?’ she said at last. ‘At her age?’
‘What age is she?’
‘Better you shouldn’t ask. Old enough to know she should have stopped doing that years ago.’
‘They love her.’
‘Who loves her?’
‘The audience.’
‘They used to love me,’ Alice sighed wistfully. ‘And certain people still do. Lennie, darling, tell me, is twenty-five cradle pinching?’
‘Snatching.’
‘Watch your language.’
‘Foxie remembers you.’
A coquettish tone entered her voice. ‘That old bubkes. He was crazy for me. He had a schnickel like a ten cent piece. Used to flash it at all the girls. But I never let him . . . do anything. You get what I’m saying, darling? Never.’
Which meant of course that she had screwed his brains out.
‘I thought you might like to see the show one night,’ he suggested. ‘I could drive out to get you, and take you home later.’
‘I hate freeways.’
‘We don’t have to go on the freeway.’
‘I hate driving.’
‘I’ll drive.’
‘You know what I mean. Besides, who wants to see Rainbow and Foxie? I never liked either of ’em.’
‘Come on, she was your best friend. Besides, I was inviting you to see me.’
‘You!’ She laughed rudely. ‘You, with your filthy language and dirty talk. Once was enough, thank you. If your father was alive he’d disown you.’
Disown him for what?
‘Forget it,’ he said shortly, hanging up.
Why did he bother? Alice Golden did not give a damn about anyone except herself.
* * *
Hardly anyone came to the funeral. A couple of her mother’s canasta-playing friends; an elderly cousin who lived in Tahoe; and three neighbours. Not a majestic turn out, but Jess did the best she could, and invited them all back to the house for Kentucky Fried Chicken, potato chips, and cheap red wine.
Wayland made a marvellous host. He greeted them with a casual wave, handed Jess the baby, then sat under a tree cleaning his fingernails and staring blankly at the sky.
Jess curbed her anger, entertained her guests, fed Simon, cleaned up, put Simon to sleep for the night, and headed for work. She had not requested time off. Who needed extra hours with Wayland for company?
Matt hit on her almost immediately. He sidled up to her empty blackjack table, sat himself down, and said, ‘When is the most gorgeous chick in Vegas going to give me a second chance?’
‘Go away,’ she said hollowly.
‘Are you still mad about the other night?’
‘Get lost.’
‘You should be flattered that I came onto you. What did you think we were going to do in my apartment – play tag?’
‘I thought,’ she said slowly, ‘that we would have dinner and discuss why you fired Lennie Golden.’
‘Firing your friend was not my idea. If you want to meet me later I’ll tell you exactly what happened.’
‘Sure, just like the last time.’
He smoothed back a lock of silver hair escaping from an invisible cage of hair spray, and tried to figure out what was so different about this one. Why did he want her so much? A lowly blackjack dealer – and short too.
‘Jess,’ he said sincerely. ‘Trust me. I’ll take you out to dinner. How’s that?’
Even dinner with Matt was better than going home to Wayland.
Two would-be gamblers climbed on to stools and thrust money at her. Big spenders. One proffered a twenty, the other slid across three ten dollar bills. Automatically she stacked the chips and spun the neat piles in the right direction.
Matt stood up. ‘Same time. The parking lot,’ he said.
She nodded. She needed to talk. Like it or not, Matt Traynor would just have to listen.
* * *
‘It’s lovely,’ Eden said.
‘I told ya I’d get ya the right place,’ Santino crowed, strutting around the marble terrace of the small empty house perched high on Blue Jay Way in the Hollywood Hills.
‘I’ll have to hire an interior designer,’ she mused.
‘Sure.’ He puffed on a very large Cuban cigar. ‘I gotta decorator broad owes me a favour.’
‘It seems you have a lot of people who owe you favours.’
‘It’s the only way t’go.’ He scattered ash on the ground.
Eden walked toward the gleaming blue pool, with the fountain at one end, and the two stone cupids at the other. ‘I adore it!’ she exclaimed.
Santino was pleased. The sooner he moved her in, the better. He wanted her under his control.
He took off his jacket and settled himself on a patio chair. This whole set-up was going to work out fine.
‘Why doncha take a swim,’ he suggested. ‘Christen the joint.’
She looked at him. He was sweating. He was always sweating. Well anybody would sweat if they togged themselves out in a three piece suit every day.
She remembered the first time they went to bed. Under the suit he wore patterned boxer shorts, socks with suspenders, and a shoulder holster with an ominous-looking gun nestled within. For one moment she had imagined he was a cop. A cop couldn’t get her into the movies. She had almost dressed and left.
Her Swedish friend, Ulla, had told her that Santino Bonnatti had more money than brains. All her life Eden had been looking for a man with just such qualities. He would finance a movie for her to appear in. She would become a star. And then she would move on. In the meantime he was fortunate to have her.
‘Go on, swim,’ he urged.
She knew what he wanted and she didn’t mind one bit. His desire gave her power, and she liked the feeling.
With studied sensuality she peeled off her dress. There was nothing underneath except pure perfection. Some men considered her on the slender side. Santino liked her that way. His wife, she had found out, was a heavy woman.
She kept her shoes on, strappy white sandals which emphasized her blood-red toenails.
Santino stood up. ‘Come here,’ he said thickly. ‘I just thought of another way to christen the joint.’
* * *
‘There’s someone from the Merv Griffin Show out front,’ one of the strippers confided just before Lennie went on.
He didn’t drop dead with excitement. There was always someone in the audience. An agent, a talent scout, a producer. Once it was rumoured Burt Reynolds was sipping champagne at table number two. The Swedish stripper had been so unnerved by the rumour she ripped off her clothes five minutes before her grand finale.
Burt Reynolds turned out to be a look-alike fresh from a television contest. Miss Sweden was so furious she refused to talk to anyone for a week.
Lennie had been around long enough to know it didn’t matter who was watching. When you went on you did your best. If your best wasn’t good enough – fuck ’em.
He had some new material he wanted to try out. Some mother/son schtick, with Alice as the role model. Wouldn’t that be a laugh if the Griffin Show saw him, liked him, and insisted he use the new stuff on their show. Alice would love that. She probably wouldn’t even recognize herself, although he was painting a ruthlessly cruel but truthful picture.
He was restless after the show. Nobody came running backstage to tell him how great he was. Nobody from the Griffin Show materialized.
He had a drink at the bar and went home to the emptiness of his hotel room. It was after two in the morning, but fuck it, he needed her. Expecting the same male voice to pick up or the answerin
g service, he dialled Eden’s number.
She answered the phone herself. That strange, throaty voice, which sounded like she was recovering from terminal bronchitis. ‘Hello.’ A sleepy pause, then stronger, ‘Hello.’
He waited for the curse words. As if on cue, she let forth a volley of obscenities.
He timed her perfectly. You didn’t live with a woman for three years without knowing every move she made.
Just before she was about to slam the phone down, he spoke. Softly. Slowly.
‘Eden. This is Lennie. Prepare yourself. I’m back in your life.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Olympia knew the moment her father walked into his New York apartment that she had made a mistake staying there. Why should she, Olympia Stanislopoulos, one of the richest young women in the world, feel like a lodger? She immediately called a friend of her mother’s who dabbled in real estate and requested she find her an apartment tout suite.
‘Yes,’ the woman told her, ‘I know the perfect place.’
‘Show it to me at once,’ Olympia said. She had decided New York was very much to her liking and she should have her own home there. Hotels were so boring, and staying at her father’s again was definitely out. It was acceptable to share his plane, his yacht, even his private island when the need arose, but in New York it was surely time to buy her own place.
Dimitri immediately spotted the cigar burn on one of his precious antique tables. He roared with fury and summoned his butler. Olympia allowed the stupid man to take the blame. It constantly amazed her that her father was so into his possessions. He was aware of everything. If one book was out of place in any of his homes, he knew it.
Brigette greeted gran-pop, as she called him, with a vigorous hug and a kiss on the lips.
He picked the child up in his arms. ‘How’s my baby?’ he sang.
‘Very bad,’ said Olympia ominously. ‘She’s been a very bad girl. She ruined mama’s wedding.’
He ignored that piece of information and presented Brigette with several huge gift-wrapped boxes.
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