‘Just wanted to check details.’
‘You’ve checked them a hundred times.’
‘I’m meticulous.’
She liked her talks with Matt. In a funny sort of way she almost missed him. She wondered if he still weighed himself down with gold chains, blow-dried his hair, and hit on every showgirl in town. Somehow she had thought he might visit her in LA, but he never had. ‘Too busy,’ he’d explained, when she’d asked him once.
She knew about busy. Lennie’s career kept her on the go. No time for anything else. Not even a personal life. In two years she had indulged in only one affair. A sometime actor with spectacular pectorals, amazing thighs, rock hard everything else, and the brain of a retarded teenager. Their affair lasted exactly six weeks. It was all she could take of fantastic sex and nothing much else. When they parted he suggested she become his manager. His manager! Sleeping with him was ordeal enough!
After talking to Matt she pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, checked that Lennie was asleep, and drove down the hill to Carl’s Market where she picked up groceries and the papers. She couldn’t help worrying about Lennie. Eden Antonio still had a hold on him. He wasn’t going to feel really good about anything until he put her behind him once and for all. And how was he going to do that when he wasn’t even seeing her?
Jess frowned. She had never met Eden, but she had heard enough stories to know the woman was a spoiled bitch living with some rich mafiosa hood, and ambitious as hell. A few days in her company would surely allow Lennie to see her for what she really was?
Wishful thinking.
He was hooked.
The only way he could get unhooked was to do it himself.
* * *
Eden stared at the cover of People and bit down hard on her lower lip. Sonofabitch! The bastard had actually made it. Who would have thought Lennie Golden would ever get himself on the cover of People? Not her for one. As far as she was concerned Lennie had limited talent. Oh sure, he was a great lay. But fine cocksmanship did not a cover make.
She narrowed her topaz eyes and glared at his picture. He was grinning. At her? Like – listen baby, I told you I’d make it. Now what the fuck are you doing?
What was she doing?
Not enough.
Not nearly enough.
She was living in the house Santino Bonnatti had bought her like a virtual prisoner. He kept her locked up on Blue Jay Way with a chauffeur-bodyguard to take care of her every need. That’s what Santino had said when he installed the goon as if he were doing her a favour. This is Zeko. He’s gonna look after ya, an’ drive ya around. He’s gonna take care of your every need. Okay, bunny rabbit?’
What was she supposed to say? No? It was either put up with what Santino wanted or get out of the relationship fast. And she was too smart to get out before the moment was right. Santino was the key to her future, and while it was taking time, she knew it would happen – eventually.
Now, at last, there was a decent script, an interesting director, and a legitimate producer – Ryder Wheeler. The film was titled ‘My Life as a Call Girl’, and she was to star in it. Santino was putting up most of the money, and he was also executive producer.
Eden was excited. It had taken a long time coming.
Zeko entered the room without knocking and stared at her. He had one real eye and one glass. It gave him a crazed look. He was six feet four inches tall and bald as a baby’s ass. She was sure he spied on her when she took a bath in her beautiful marble bathroom with the glass wall and thick foliage outside. She could imagine him crawling through the prickly cactus to catch a peak. Perversely she did not install window shades. Let him look if that’s what turned him on. Occasionally she would part her legs and stroke her golden pussy, give him a real show.
‘Yes?’ she asked haughtily.
‘I’m gonna get Mr Bonnatti now,’ he said.
‘Go ahead,’ she said dismissively.
It was past noon and she was not dressed. She wore silk pyjamas and high-heeled mules. Santino always visited after Sunday lunch with his family, an event which seemed to make him exceptionally horny. In a perverse way she had grown to enjoy his attentions. He was everything the other men in her life had not been. He had an attitude of being able to get anything he wanted – and this seemed to make up for his lack of physical attributes. Sometimes he was a little kinky, and a couple of times he had gotten carried away and hurt her. But ultimately she felt she was still calling the shots. Santino obviously adored her, and so he should. Where else would a man like him find a woman like her?
She had found out how he made his money, and it wasn’t from importing olive oil and coffee. Santino Bonnatti dealt in pornography and drugs. She shivered and glanced once more at Lennie’s picture, then discarded the magazine and went into the bathroom to shower and dress. Santino liked her squeaky clean, in contrast to his wife, who, according to him, only took one bath a week.
After showering she inspected her closet. So many clothes, and so little opportunity to wear them. Santino only took her out in public once in a while, although he had mentioned that soon they might be having dinner with Ryder Wheeler and the new director at Chasens. She looked forward to the occasion, and planned what to wear. The sensational red Halston with the ruby necklace he had given her on her birthday. At times he was very generous. There had to be some compensations for putting up with a man like Santino Bonnatti.
Chapter Forty-Two
Vitos called. Not a moment too soon.
‘Let’s party’, Olympia said.
‘Lasta time we party you go offa weeth Flash, you leava Vitos alone. No nice for Vitos.’
‘Did I do that? I didn’t mean to.’
‘Now Vitos beeg star you want heem again. Why I shoulda?’
‘Because you’ll get your dick sucked just the way you like it.’
‘Oleeempea!’
He collected her in a white stretch limo, and they partied all over town. For once Olympia did not snub the lurking paparazzi. Instead she posed for them, one arm around Vitos’ neck.
He responded nicely. In America publicity was the name of the game. And who better to play it with than one of the richest women in the world?
Not that he considered Olympia a woman. She was girlish, like an excitable puppy. She was also a lot plumper than the last time they had been together. In bed it didn’t bother him. He had always liked females with meat on their bones. Olympia had more than meat, she had potatoes and vegetables too. Undressed she was roly-poly.
He enjoyed making love to her. He sank his teeth into rolls of sweet-smelling flesh. Buried his head between suffocating thighs. Grazed among the wonders of her very large breasts.
She liked to climax several times. She was not easy to please, and at the end of two hours they were both bathed in sweat and exhausted.
‘Why don’t we get married?’ Olympia suggested, bunching a pillow behind her and sitting up in bed.
Vitos smiled. Wonderful teeth. A matinee-idol smile. It was a shame his hair was thinning.
‘Whatta you mean, Oleee mpeea?’
She squinted at him. He was handsome, but dumb. Flash – with all his drug problems – was ten times the man Vitos was.
‘Married. M-A-R-R-I-E-D. You understand what I’m saying?’
She had figured it out. Marry Vitos. Piss Flash off. Serve the scummy bastard right. When Flash had learned his lesson she would simply divorce Vitos. So it would cost a couple of million to pay Vitos off. Cheap at the price.
‘You lika the idea marriage?’ Vitos asked, stroking her thigh and thinking what marriage to Olympia Stanislopoulos would do for his PR rating.
‘I think we make a beautiful couple. Don’t you?’
‘Mebee we do.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Tomorrow I go Vegas. Ona week the Magiriano Hotel. You come with. We talk.’
‘That’s a hell of an answer,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t ask people to marry me every day of the week.’
‘Oleee mpea,’ he said soothingly. ‘I beega star now. The American wimmen they lova me. I taka time, we do it. Whatta you say to that?’
She swallowed what she really wanted to say, and nodded understandmgly. ‘Sure, Vitos, I’ll come with you. I’ll wait, and we’ll see what happens. Right?’
He smiled happily. ‘Right, Oleee mpeea. Right, my darling.’
Chapter Forty-Three
They sat in Judge Frederick Lester’s courtroom for two days. During the luncheon recess on the second day, Carrie turned to Steven and said, ‘It’s not him. I’m sure now.’
Steven felt a chill of disappointment. Of all the candidates, Judge Frederick Lester was the one he had hoped would turn out to be his father.
‘How can you be so sure?’ he asked in a low angry voice. ‘It’s been over forty years.’
‘I am sure. I’ve stared at the man for two days.’ She was near tears, but she held them in check, not wanting Steven to see her distress.
They left the courthouse and stood on the steps outside.
Carrie gazed straight ahead and wondered what the result of Steven’s quest for his past would be. She did not want to remember . . . But it was impossible to forget . . .
* * *
It was her friend, Goldie’s, twenty-first birthday. She had a date with her boyfriend, Mel, and he was bringing along Freddy Lester. It was after show time, and the girl who had agreed to be Freddy’s date had turned her ankle and was hobbling around in agony. Goldie looked beseechingly at Carrie. ‘Please!’ she begged.
Carrie did not see how she could say no. After all, it was Goldie’s birthday. Anyway, she had to learn to trust herself sometime; she couldn’t be a recluse for the rest of her life. Nine years locked in an institution was enough. ‘Okay,’ she agreed reluctantly.
When they emerged from the theatre, Mel and Freddy – who was quite good-looking and knew it – were waiting outside the stage door. They greeted the girls with enthusiasm.
‘Hiya, fellas,’ said Goldie, in her best Mae West voice.
‘Happy birthday, gorgeous,’ replied Mel, grabbing her in a bear hug and kissing her full on the mouth.
Carrie and Freddy stared warily at each other.
‘Whoops-a-daisy!’ exclaimed Goldie, pushing him away. ‘You’re spoiling my lipstick, you big oaf She grinned at Freddy. ‘Hello, I’m Goldie, as if you didn’t know. And this is Carrie – your dream date for the night. Aren’t you the lucky one!’
Freddy’s expression did not indicate that he was the lucky one at all. He nodded curtly to Carrie as the four of them set off down the alley to Mel’s car. Once there Mel opened up the doors. Goldie climbed into the front, and Carrie got into the back while Mel and Freddy stood outside.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Carrie heard Mel ask his friend.
‘Jesus!’ Freddy replied, in what was supposed to be a whisper. ‘She’s a fucking dinge!’
‘So?’ replied Mel matter-offactly. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of black pudding?’
‘Sure,’ replied Freddy, ‘but I’ve never taken it out in public.’
Aw, c’mon,’ laughed Mel. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’ They climbed into the car.
In the back, Carrie gazed miserably out the window. Their hateful words hung in her ears: Fucking dinge. Black pudding.
Her eyes filled with salty tears which slid silently down her cheeks. She kept her head determinedly turned toward the window so that no one would observe her misery.
They started the evening off in a small jazz joint on Fifty-second Street. Neat little combo playing, champagne flowing. Goldie was in high spirits, rarin’ to go. And when Carrie stated she wanted to stick to fruit juice, she let her have it full blast. ‘Hey, listen, chickie. It’s my birthday an’ I plan to have fun. If you’re gonna moon around with a long face it’s gonna spoil everything. Now have some champagne, for God’s sake, an’ put a smile on your face!’
Carrie obliged. She had forgotten the potent taste of champagne, although when Whitejack, her former pimp, was flush, he had bought it by the bucket.
One glass turned into two, then three, and on to another club, and frothy white daiquiris which were so delicious she had at least four. After all, they were such little drinks, what harm could they do?
By the time the four of them piled into Clemmie’s nightclub they were feeling no pain. Carrie and Freddy were the best of friends, giggling, laughing, dancing. And when his hands accidentally on purpose kept brushing against her breasts she didn’t mind one bit. She felt free and alive. It was the first time in years she could honestly say she was living.
‘You are sim’ly great, y’know that?’ Freddy slurred.
She responded by locking her hands around his neck and gazing into his eyes. Fucking dinge no longer reverberated in her mind. ‘Thank you’, she murmured sincerely. It had been a long time since anyone had told her that.
‘No, I mean it’, Freddy insisted, as if he was expecting her to argue.
‘Hey’, said Goldie, nudging Carrie. ‘You see that guy over there. That’s the Gino Santangelo. He owns the joint. I met him once. He’s a real bad boy.’
Her eyes swivelled to check him out. ‘I’ve taken on a lotta bad boys in my time’, she boasted.
‘Carrie!’ exclaimed Goldie, giggling. ‘I’ve never seen you like this!’
‘Yeah. You don’t know nothin’!’
Goldie nudged Mel. ‘She’s really bombed.’
Mel grinned. ‘How’d you like to make yourself fifty bucks, Carrie?’
‘What didja have in mind, big boy?’
‘I betcha fifty bucks y’can’t make it with the great Mr Santangelo.’
‘Yeah?’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘You just lost yourself a bet.’
Before any of them could stop her, she was on her feet and sashaying across the crowded club.
Goldie clapped her hand to her mouth in amazement. ‘Oh, my God, Mel! What have you done? This isn’t like her at all.’
He laughed nastily. ‘C’mon, doll, she ain’t gonna do anything she hasn’t done a hundred times before.’
Freddy grimaced drunkenly. ‘Thanks a lot, old buddy,’ he complained.
Gino sat at his usual table. Cock of the walk. A constant stream of customers trailed over to pay homage.
He wore his customary three-piece dark suit, white silk shirt, tasteful tie. His black hair was slicked down. The huge diamond ring on his pinky caught the light occasionally and gleamed expensively. Only the scar on his face gave him a slightly sinister look. That and his hard black eyes, which one woman had recently compared to Rudolph Valentino’s.
He sipped his Scotch and inspected the female heading his way. Black. Exotic. And breasts that would stop traffic.
She reached his table and smiled. ‘Mr Santangelo?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hear you own this place. I just thought I’d stop by and tell you what a classy spot I think it is.’
He smiled. He liked bold women. Sometimes. ‘Sit down, have a drink.’
Carrie sat. She felt marvellous. Just drunk enough to believe she could own the world if she wanted to.
‘Champagne?’ he questioned.
‘Naturally.’
He clicked his fingers, and a waiter was instantly by his side.
A bottle of the best champagne.’
Gino studied her. A rare unusual beauty. One glass and he would take her home.
One more glass and she would go.
Later, they were together in his apartment and the love-making was good. When it was over he wanted her to go home. He got up from the bed. ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he said, ‘betcha didn’t learn to do that in school.’
The champagne was still colouring Carrie’s mind. She felt powerful and in control and oh, so good. Gino Santangelo had not used her. She had not used him. It was a mutually enjoyable experience.
Lazily she stretched. Her body felt reborn, as if someone had come along and hammered out all the tenseness.
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br /> ‘My car’s downstairs. The driver’ll take you home whenever you’re ready,’ Gino said easily. ‘Oh – and here’s a little present for you. Buy yourself something pretty.’
He handed her a hundred dollars. He always gave the women he took to bed money for a gift. It was an idiosyncrasy of his, and no one ever objected.
‘You sonofabitchl’ she screamed, leaping up from the bed. ‘You think I’m a whore?’
‘Hey, of course not . . .’
‘How dare you! How dare you!’ She struggled into her clothes like a wildcat, glaring at him and screaming.
‘Hey, listen, if I thought you was a whore I’d have given you the going rate. This money’s a present.’
‘Fuck you!’ she screamed. ‘If I was a whore, it would have cost you a hell of a lot more.’ And throwing the money in his face she stormed out of his apartment.
She ignored Gino’s car and driver waiting downstairs, and began to walk along Park Avenue. She was sobering up in a hurry. Fucking dinge was coming back to haunt her. And a red-hot fury was building inside her.
What had she been thinking of, approaching Gino Santangelo like that? Who else but a whore would go over to a man’s table, sit down, and half an hour later share his bed?
Fucking dinge. Whore. The words flew through her head. She had tried so hard to be decent, and now – after one night – she was back where she had started.
She walked seven blocks before she got a cab, and then the driver gave her a dubious look and said, ‘I ain ’t goin’ to Harlem, honey.’
‘Nor am I, honey.’
He didn’t like that. He maintained a frosty silence all the way to the Village.
She paid him off and climbed the three flights of stairs to the roomy loft she shared with Goldie. Once inside, she was dismayed to find Freddy Lester in bed. Her bed. She could not believe her eyes.
Angrily she shook him awake. ‘Get out of here,’ she insisted in a furious whisper.
‘Aw, c’mon, toots,’ he mumbled, bleary-eyed and still drunk. He had no intention of getting up and going home.
‘Will you get out of my bed?’ she hissed.
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