Lady Boss

by Jackie Collins

  ‘I’m anxious for a report, girlie. I want to hear it all.’

  ‘Nothing much yet.’

  ‘Come for dinner tonight. Six o’clock.’

  ‘Just you, me, and Inga?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ she drawled sarcastically.

  As soon as she hung up, Herman couldn’t wait to ask what Abe wanted.

  ‘My body,’ Lucky replied dryly.

  Her humour was lost on poor Herman. He gazed at her blankly.

  She reached for a cigarette and lit up. ‘Have they sent the budgets over?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Pick up the phone and tell Mickey Stolli personally you want them today or else.’

  ‘Or else what?’ Herman asked, wheezing.

  ‘Good point.’ Thoughtfully she sucked on a pencil. ‘Or else you tell Mickey you’re going to have to inform Abe Panther you can’t get any cooperation, and that maybe Abe had better put a younger guy in your position. Mickey won’t like that.’

  Herman loosened his tie. He had a chicken neck etched with wrinkles. ‘It’s so warm today,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Lucky sighed, tugging at her wig again. ‘It’s only going to get hotter. Let’s make the call, Herman. Are you ready?’

  He nodded reluctantly.

  Lucky reached Olive, who told her that Mr. Stolli was in conference and could not be disturbed.

  ‘Mr. Stone needs to talk to him about the copies of the budgets he asked for a week ago. I have reminded you, Olive. When can we expect them?’

  ‘Doesn’t he have them? I was under the impression they were sent over,’ Olive said, sounding quite put out.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘I can drop by and collect them,’ Lucky offered helpfully.

  ‘Let me check with Mr. Stolli when he leaves his meeting. I’ll get back to you.’

  Lucky put down the phone. ‘You are getting what is commonly known as the royal runaround,’ she informed Herman. ‘Or, as my daddy used to say – fucked.’

  Herman winced.

  ‘But I,’ Lucky announced grandly, ‘will take care of it.’ She leaped to her feet, full of sudden energy. ‘Today we will have the budgets in our possession. Sit tight, Herman, and trust me. I’ll see you later.’

  Over at the main building there was the usual activity. People coming and going. Executives in tight jeans with open shirts. A sprinkling of gold chains. A ton of hair-spray. Tennis tans and toned bodies. And that was just the men.

  The women were divided into two categories – business and pleasure. The business ones wore suits with no-nonsense jackets, silk shirts, and determined expressions. The pleasure-seekers let it all hang out in clinging tops, and miniskirts with no visible panty line.

  It was difficult figuring out who did what. One of the secretaries – conservatively dressed – was so drop-dead gorgeous you would have sworn she was a movie star. And an expensive-looking young man, featuring all the right gold accoutrements, worked in the mail room as a runner.

  The two hottest producers on the lot – specializing in the sex/horror mega-bucks movies so dear to Mickey Stolli’s heart – resembled a couple of bums off the street. Lucky recognized them from a recent photograph in Variety as they made their way into the building.

  Frankie Lombardo and Arnie Blackwood were partners. Arnie was lean and lanky, with greasy hair pulled back in a ponytail, and mirrored shades covering watery eyes. Frankie had freaked-out brown hair, an unruly beard, small eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a rolling gut.

  Their nickname was the Sleazy Singles, and most female employees went out of their way to avoid them. ‘Sexist pigs’ was a kind description.

  Lucky kept her distance as she followed them all the way to Mickey Stolli’s office, where Olive promptly stopped them at her desk.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Olive said crisply, ‘kindly take a seat. Mr. Stolli will be with you in a moment.’

  ‘What an accent!’ Frankie exclaimed, perching on the corner of her desk, his big bulk dislodging a framed photo of her fiancé.

  ‘What class! What an ass!’ Arnie joined in. ‘I want a limey broad to do my dirty work, Frankie. How about it?’

  ‘Whatever Arnie wants – Arnie gets,’ Frankie promised, and then he noticed Lucky lurking in the doorway. ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he said in a loud, arrogant voice. ‘You ever given any thought to changing your hairdresser?’

  Arnie guffawed. ‘Looks like a wig t’me. Gives a whole new meaning to the word head, huh?’

  This broke Frankie up.

  Lucky had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from zapping these dumb assholes into the ground. She recalled Harry Browning’s reports of their scandalous activities in the screening room.

  Olive jumped to her feet, two bright red spots highlighting her very English complexion. ‘Mr. Stolli will see you now,’ she said in a strained voice. ‘Please go in.’

  Frankie removed himself from her desk and ambled towards Mickey’s office, closely followed by Arnie. When they opened the door, Mickey Stolli could be spotted behind his enormous desk, leaning back in an oversized leather chair speaking on the phone. He waved a greeting to the two producers, and then Arnie kicked the door closed with an unpolished cowboy boot.

  Olive turned to face Lucky. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, clearly embarrassed. ‘They don’t mean any harm. They’re like two big, naughty schoolboys.’

  Lucky found it hard keeping her mouth shut. She’d heard about Frankie and Arnie from Lennie. ‘A couple of major zeros,’ he’d told her. ‘They run around the lot with T-shirts emblazoned I EAT PUSSY IF IT DON’T EAT ME FIRST.’

  ‘They sound like real charmers,’ she’d replied.

  ‘Put it like this – I’d have to be dead to do a movie for ’em,’ Lennie had laughed. ‘They make Ned Magnus look classy.’

  Olive was staring at her, waiting for a response. ‘You’re upset, aren’t you? Please don’t be. Your hair looks very nice,’ she said.

  Oh, Olive, Olive. You are full of shit. Speak out. My hair – wig – is a disaster. Arnie called it like he saw it.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Lucky managed in a low voice, hoping she sounded suitably hurt.

  ‘How about lunch?’ Olive said brightly. ‘One o’clock. My treat.’

  ‘You said you didn’t eat lunch.’

  ‘Certainly not every day. I don’t get engaged every week either. We’ll call it a celebration. Yes?’

  Lucky agreed, deciding not to bother Olive about the budgets. If she didn’t mention them now it would give her an excuse to come back tomorrow. They arranged to meet in the commissary and Lucky departed.

  Outside she observed the tall, striking woman she’d seen entering the building the week before. Last Monday the woman had been wearing Donna Karan. This Monday it was Yves Saint Laurent. There was something about her that didn’t quite gel.

  Instinct made Lucky turn around and follow her back inside. The woman walked fast and knew exactly where she was going. High heels clicked their way down the marble hallway, stopping in front of a door marked EDDIE KANE, SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT OF DISTRIBUTION. She entered and vanished.

  Lucky waited a few minutes before pushing open the door. Two secretaries were carrying on a conversation about Tom Selleck. One of them glanced up. She had blood-red talon nails and lips to match. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked tartly.

  ‘I think I’m in the wrong place. I’m looking for Mr. Stolli’s office.’

  ‘One floor up,’ Talon Nails said, generously adding, ‘You can take the elevator if you like.’

  Just as she spoke, the tall woman emerged from Eddie Kane’s private office. Close up she had a face carved in granite, decorated with perfect makeup. Her eyes were hard and unrelenting. Lucky recognized the look – she’d seen it on hookers and gamblers and druggies. Vegas was full of expensive whores; Lucky had grown up observing them.

  ‘Thanks,’ she sa
id to the secretary, and followed the woman outside.

  Johnny Romano was on his way towards the building. He walked with a pelvic thrust, cock first, everything else trailing behind, including his entourage.

  The woman didn’t even glance in his direction. She hurried over to a grey Cadillac Seville, climbed inside, and took off.

  Feeling like a detective, Lucky made a note of the licence plate before hurrying back to Eddie’s office.

  Talon Nails was now on the phone, while the other secretary, a pretty, black girl, flicked through a copy of Rolling Stone.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Lucky said. This playing meek and mild was getting her down, and the fucking wig stuck on top of her head was driving her insane, especially on this exceptionally hot and humid Monday morning.

  The girl reading Rolling Stone lowered the magazine and managed a desultory ‘Yes?’

  ‘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 tell 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 just in here,’ Lucky said assertively. ‘Do you have a number I can call?’

  Now it was Talon Nails’ turn to shrug. ‘Dunno. Maybe Eddie does.’

  ‘Mr. Kane,’ Brenda interrupted with a warning look.

  Talon Nails pulled a face. ‘I hate calling anyone Mister anything,’ she snapped. ‘It’s so demeaning. Like we’re inferior or something. I’ll call 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, all business. ‘Let me check the Rolodex.’

  ‘If you can’t reach her she’ll be here next Monday,’ Brenda chimed in helpfully. ‘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.’

  ‘Really? 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 yelling like Stallone on a rampage.’

  ‘Very good, Brenda,’ Talon Nails said admiringly. ‘You should be writing scripts.’

  Brenda giggled and picked up Rolling 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 all.

  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 Stolli was entertaining, or at least preparing to. She marched around her Bel Air mansion checking every little detail, closely followed by her two Spanish maids, Consuela and Firella.

  Abigaile was a short woman with thick, shoulder-length auburn hair, snub 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 Hollywood 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 Hollywood wife in town.

  When Abigaile did something it had to be the best. She strove to give the best big parties, the best charity premières, 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 – an added plus. Two movie stars – Cooper Turner and Venus Maria. A hot young director and his girlfriend. And to round out the group, fast-talking, newly appointed head of Orpheus Studios, Zeppo White, and his mildly stoned wife, Ida.

  Zeppo (a former top agent) and Ida (a so-called 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 all the latest outrageous gossip. Abigaile always tried to include them. They were insurance against boredom.

  Abigaile was especially pleased Cooper Turner had accepted her invitation. He was notorious for never appearing anywhere, so it was a coup to get him. And Venus Maria was another hard-to-get guest.

  Abigaile was satisfied this was going to be a talked-about evening. She would call George Christy personally to inform him of the guest list. Let the town read and weep.

  ‘Hmmm…’ Abigaile spotted a Lalique wine glass 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 will 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 dollars each. Somebody should pay. And that somebody is certainly not going to be me.’

  Consuela and Firella exchanged glances. One hundred and fifty dollars! 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-coloured Mercedes.

  Speeding down Sunset, she used her cellular 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 Hollywood marriages the men sat in the power seat and the women danced carefully around their delicate egos. In the Stolli household, Abigaile held the real chair of authority. She was Abe Panther’s granddaughter and let no one forget it, especially 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 the market?’

  ‘Goodbye, Mickey dear.’ The way Abigaile said goodbye spoke volumes.

  She pulled up to the valet parker in front of Ivana’s – the hot new beauty salon – and hurri
ed briskly inside.

  Abigaile Stolli was giving one of her famous intimate dinners. She had no time to waste.

  Chapter 19

  Olive Watson spoke glowingly of her fiancé – a computer expert. 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 actually spent with him?’ Lucky asked curiously.

  ‘Ten days,’ Olive replied. ‘It was quite the whirlwind courtship.’

  I bet, Lucky thought. She was dying to ask 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 disclosed.

  ‘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 actually your hairstyle could be improved, and I’d be willing 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, automatically 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 Stolli all these years.

  Changing the subject she asked, ‘When are you planning to get 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.’