Carlos glared at his dead brother’s wife. This broad was something else. From a dumpy, stupid hausfrau she’d turned herself into some kind of business dynamo, even learning to speak the language without that crazy accent. But did she really think she was capable of taking care of Lucky Santangelo?
No freaking way.
“Yeah. What’ll you do?” Carlos asked, barely concealing a contemptuous sneer.
“Where I come from we honor our traditions,” Donatella replied ominously, thinking he was more of a deadbeat than his brother.
“Don’t sweat it,” Carlos replied, angry that a woman would dare talk to him in such a way. What she needed was a proper man to slap the tongue right out of her plastic face. “I got plans for that Santangelo cunt.”
Donatella arched her eyebrows. “Really?” she said.
“Yeah, really,” he countered.
Carlos’s plans did not pan out. In December of 1985 he suffered an unfortunate fall from the nineteenth floor of his Century City penthouse. Nobody knew how it happened.
Donatella knew.
Lucky Santangelo was responsible.
Donatella made the decision that it was up to her to ruin Lucky permanently. And with that end in mind, she’d come up with a devastating plan to destroy her.
Every day at four o’clock, Santo arrived home from school. He made the most of the few hours of peace before his stupid mother descended and began fussing the crap out of him. Fortunately, she and his nerdy stepfather were never home before seven, so that gave him plenty of time to do whatever he liked without either of them sticking their interfering noses in.
He hated his mother. Every day he thought about how much he hated her, and how unfair it was that she was still alive while his father was dead.
Why hadn’t she been killed?
Why wasn’t her dumb ass buried ten feet beneath the ground?
The only good thing about her was that she was easy. He could usually get anything he wanted—especially since all his siblings had taken off, leaving him in position numero uno.
As for George, he hated him, too. The man was an ineffectual jerk—whom Donna kicked around good. He was no stepfather. He was nothing.
Santo considered the hours between four and seven his special time. First he smoked a couple of joints; next he stuffed himself with ice cream and candy; after that he flicked through his extensive pile of porno magazines hidden in a locked closet. If the girls turned him on, he jerked off—although mostly he saved that activity for HER.
SHE was the special one created for his pleasure.
SHE was everything a man could ever want.
Not that he was a man. He was sixteen, and being sixteen sucked.
Every morning when he got up and saw himself in the bathroom mirror, Santo wished he was older and thinner. If he was older, he might have a better chance of scoring with HER. If he was thinner, he might be able to make out with some of the more popular girls at school—the pretty ones with the Beverly Hills attitudes, nose jobs, silky skin, and long fair hair. These little tramps didn’t care that he had plenty of money and a fancy car. They were too stupid to notice. Instead, they ran after the dumb jerks who played football and worked out. Big, sweaty assholes. He hated all of them. He didn’t want them anyway. Not when he had HER.
SHE was a startlingly sexy blond with everything in the right place. And SHE didn’t mind showing it. He’d seen her tits, her ass, and her hairy pussy. He’d read her thoughts and knew what she wanted from a man.
Today he decided to concentrate on HER and forget about the other whores. After locking his bedroom door he went to his closet, reached in the back, and pulled out a suitcase filled with his collection—a collection that included early nude photos where she sat around with her legs open, exhibiting a big, black bush of pubic hair; magazine layouts reflecting her rise to fame; CDs; posters; videos of her singles; taped TV appearances and interviews.
Reading her interviews was a major head trip. She was a maniac—talked about sex like she was one of the guys.
Santo devoured every word, memorizing her preferences. She liked men who went down on her—that was in Playboy; she’d made love with a woman—Vanity Fair; she wanted sex constantly and fantasized about black men—Rolling Stone.
Yeah! She was some hot ticket. And he was rich enough to buy a ride straight up her wet pussy.
One day he knew he’d get the opportunity to do it with her.
One day Venus Maria would see him coming in more ways than one.
He leered at the thought. It made every day worth living.
6
“I CAN’T BELIEVE I HAVE AN HOUR FREE BEFORE my next meeting,” Lucky said, collapsing into the leather chair behind her desk.
“Not exactly,” Kyoko said apologetically. “Charlie Dollar’s on the lot. I told him it was okay to stop by at five, and if you’d finished your interview, you’d see him.”
“Oh, great,” she groaned. “Why’d you do that?”
“He is one of Panther’s biggest stars,” Kyoko reminded her. “And I happen to know Mickey Stolli sent him a script he’s interested in. So…”
“I know, I know…you’re right, Ky. I should see him—keep him happy.”
“It would be prudent.”
She loved the way Kyoko spoke, he was always so proper.
“Okay, order two margaritas and a dish of guacamole from the Mexican place across the street. Then put on my Billie Holiday CD. I need a mind break and I suppose Charlie’s the perfect person to have it with.”
Kyoko nodded, pleased she agreed with him.
The fiftyish Charlie strolled into her office five minutes later with a shit-eating grin and a bouquet of purple roses—her favorite.
Charlie—like most actors—could be a total pain in the ass. Lucky didn’t care. She was fond of Charlie because he didn’t take himself too seriously and he had a sardonic sense of humor that made him stimulating company. In fact, if there hadn’t been Lennie, there might have been Charlie—he was certainly attractive enough in a Jack Nicholson off center kind of way.
Charlie settled down on her couch and proceeded to light up a joint. “Didja get my message?” he asked, dragging deeply.
“Couldn’t miss it,” she replied, taking in his uncombed hair, scuffed Reeboks, rumpled T-shirt, and ill-fitting pants. Somehow or other it all worked, the tramp look suited Charlie.
He patted his stomach. “We’re gonna dump the gut. Right?”
“Wouldn’t want your fans to think you’ve lost it,” she said caustically.
“Smart lady.”
“You’re so full of shit, Charlie,” she said, smiling affectionately.
He raised an indignant eyebrow. “Why? ’Cause I wanna present the movie star image everyone knows an’ loves?”
“Nope. You’re just full of shit, period. Maybe that’s why I love you.”
Charlie took another deep drag before offering the joint to her. She declined. Maybe with Lennie, but not now, not with another meeting coming up.
Charlie mock sighed. “Lucky, Lucky, Lucky—what’m I gonna do with you?”
She helped herself to some guacamole, savoring the tangy flavor. “Certainly not the same as you do with every other woman,” she said tartly.
“Hey,” Charlie objected, extravagant eyebrows shooting up again: “Can I help it if they all wanna jump my decrepit old bones? Lady, I do not encourage it. Truth is, I’m gettin’ too old to choo choo all night.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” she said sarcastically.
He ignored her sarcasm. “And I’ve definitely had it with baby chicks,” he continued. “Went out the other night with one who’d never heard of Bruce Springsteen. Get that deal.”
Lucky shook her head. “Life’s tough, Charlie, when you won’t date anyone over eighteen.”
They both laughed, enjoying their irreverent friendship.
“Word is, you’re off for a dirty weekend,” Charlie remarked, leaning back on the couch, examining
his unmanicured nails.
She observed his comfortable gut—barely hidden beneath his baggy T-shirt, and wondered if he’d ever considered working out. “Does it count as a dirty weekend if I’m spending it with my husband?” she asked.
A lopsided leer. “I sure hope so.”
She grinned, aching to see Lennie. “I’ll only be gone three days. Do me a big one, Charlie, try to save any other complaints until I get back.”
He nodded. “Gonna do my best, Mafia Princess.”
“Don’t call me that!” she protested.
He shook a knowing finger at her. “C’mon, babe, y’know you love it.”
“I do not,” she said indignantly. “My father was never into the whole mob scene. Gino was a very savvy businessman who just happened to have connected friends.”
“Sure, an’ I drive a limo in my spare time.” A crooked grin. “So, how’s Gino doin’? The old guy’s still got it goin’ for him—I admire that in a senior citizen.”
“Balls of steel,” Lucky said dryly. “Runs in the family.”
Charlie blew a lazy smoke ring. “Never got a chance to see for myself,” he drawled.
“Is that a come-on?”
“Hey—balls of steel—my big turn-on.”
“Gee, I never knew you cared.”
“Sure I care.” A perfectly timed pause. “Change my poster and I’ll care even more.”
Actors! They always had an agenda. And somehow or other it always managed to put them in first position. “Okay, Charlie,” she said with a small sigh, “it’s done. Now can we relax for five minutes?”
A very big Charlie Dollar grin. “Whatever you say, babe.”
“Brigette?”
“Nona? Wow—Nona! How are you? When did you get back? And how did you find me?”
“Called your grandmother. After a brief interrogation she gave me your number. Radical security, babe. I could’ve been anyone.”
Nona Webster, ex-best friend whom she hadn’t seen in two years on account of the fact they’d drifted apart when Nona’s rich, bohemian parents, Effie and Yul, had sent their only daughter off on a world tour. They’d attended boarding school together, and shared many an escapade.
“It’s so great to hear from you!” Brigette exclaimed animatedly. “Where are you staying?”
“Big downer, I’m stuck at home ’cause I haven’t had a chance to scope out my own place. At least I’ve got a job—researcher at MONDO.”
Brigette was impressed. “Wow! Cool magazine.”
“Yeah—Effie scored me the job. So…what are you doing in New York? Didn’t you tell me L.A. was the only place?”
“It was, for a while. Then I, like, changed my mind.”
“I get it—you met someone.”
“I wish,” Brigette said wistfully.
“Listen—we’ve gotta get together. I’ve sooo much stuff to fill you in on.”
“How about lunch?” Brigette suggested, anxious to fill Nona in on a few things herself.
“Perfect,” Nona replied. “Can’t wait to see you!”
They met at Serendipity, devouring foot-long hot dogs while catching up on each other’s news. Nona was more interesting-looking than pretty. She had startlingly natural red hair, slanted eyes, and a freckle-covered face. She dressed in a funky-stylish way, and her personality was disarmingly direct. As soon as they sat down, she confessed to three current boyfriends—each living in a different country.
“I can’t decide which one’s the best for me, so I made a daring escape,” she said with a wicked grin. “They all wanna do the marriage thing. I feel like such a slut!”
“You are a slut,” Brigette retorted crisply. “What else is new?”
“Thanks!” Nona exclaimed.
“You always were the biggest flirt around,” Brigette pointed out. “Made me look like an amateur.”
“That’s true,” Nona agreed. “But enough about me. What’s going on with you?”
“Trying to be a model,” Brigette confessed.
“A model! Get outta here!”
“What’s so funny about that?”
“I dunno…it’s such a shitty profession. All looks, no brains.”
“I can do it, Nona. All I need is a chance to get started.”
“Okay, so you’re goin’ for it, that’s cool. I mean, you look amazing—still got those fantastic tits, and I must say you lost weight in all the right places.”
“So did you.”
“Ugh!” Nona said, pulling a face. “The food in some of the countries I visited—pigs’ ears, snake bile, buffalos’ balls. Who could eat!”
“Tell me about your three would-be husbands,” Brigette said, dying to hear every detail.
Nona rubbed her freckled nose. “All very cute. One of ’em’s black—my parents will freak—or maybe not, you know how liberal they are. Oh—by the way, they’re throwing one of their parties tonight, you’re invited.”
“How’s Paul?” Brigette asked casually.
Paul Webster, Nona’s handsome artist brother. Brigette had harbored a big crush on him—unreturned for a long time, until she’d gotten engaged. Only then had Paul stepped forward and declared his love for her. Too late. By that time she was over him.
“Married, with a baby!” Nona exclaimed. “Amazing what happens to people.”
“Is he still painting?” Brigette asked, recalling Paul’s ferocious talent.
“Nooo. He’s a stockbroker on Wall Street. Very straight. Isn’t that the funniest thing you ever heard?”
“I can’t imagine Paul with a proper job and a family. He must’ve really changed.”
“Yeah—but I got a sneaky feeling he’s still a bad boy underneath.”
“Do me a favor,” Brigette said earnestly. “Impress upon your parents that I don’t want anyone knowing who I am. Right now I’m Brigette Brown. After all the past scandal, it’s better this way.”
“Fine with me,” Nona said, looking at her watch and letting out a shriek. “I gotta get back to work,” she said, grabbing the check. “I’ll see you tonight. Nine o’clock. Wear something outrageous!”
Brigette nodded. “I’ll be there.”
Cooper Turner was a connoisseur of women, and Leslie Kane was irresistibly gorgeous. It was no surprise that in a short period of time, America had fallen in love with this vision of clean-cut American beauty with her flowing red hair, full, luscious lips, and gorgeous body. She’d appeared in two movies, becoming an instant star. Currently she was shooting a film with Cooper, and even though he was forty-seven and Leslie only twenty-three, they were an on-screen love match. Hollywood liked its leading ladies young; it didn’t matter how old the guys were.
Leslie was in bed with Cooper on-screen and off. He’d only had to look at her with his knowing ice-blue eyes and she’d turned to mush.
When she was fourteen, she’d had his picture taped to the wall above her bed. Cooper Turner. Hunk. How she’d hated all the women she’d read about him dating in the fan magazines she’d so avidly collected. Didn’t he know he was supposed to wait for her?
Whenever her stepfather had staggered into her bedroom late at night with beer on his breath and a swollen gut, she’d always clung to Cooper’s image hovering above her rickety bed, watching over her, while her obese stepfather grunted and groaned on top of her. She’d yearned to kick him in his rancid balls and run. But she couldn’t go, not while her mother lay sick in bed with a terrible cancer eating away at her.
The day her mother died she’d taken off with a thousand bucks stolen from her stepfather in her pocket and plenty of ambition to fuel her journey.
Good-bye, Florida.
Hello, L.A.
She was eighteen and quite stunning, so it hadn’t taken long for her to be discovered by Madame Loretta, a woman who recognized a moneymaker when she saw one. For many years Madame Loretta had been supplying exquisite young girls to all Hollywood. She required them fresh and unused, so as soon as she’d spotted Leslie, she’d
lured her from the Rodeo Drive boutique she was working at, and set her up in a luxurious apartment.
Leslie was a natural. With her glowing looks, and small-town charm, she soon beguiled all her clients, who, much to Madame Loretta’s delight, became instant regulars.
Leslie had harbored no intention of remaining a call girl forever. Servicing rich, jaded men was not her life’s ambition. She’d wanted more. She’d wanted true love, and one day—while waiting for her car at the Santa Palm car wash—she’d found it with Eddie Kane, a former child star who was then the head of distribution at Panther Studios.
Eddie Kane was a true Hollywood character and no slouch when it came to women. One look at Leslie and he’d mentally burned his fat black book. At first he’d had no idea she’d once been one of Madame Loretta’s high earners, and although she’d gone to great lengths to make sure he never found out, eventually he’d discovered the truth, causing an immediate split between them.
It was an unhappy time for Leslie, but she’d been determined not to return to her old life. Instead, she’d taken a job as a receptionist at a fashionable beauty salon, where several weeks later she’d been discovered by Mickey Stolli’s wife, Abigaile. Abigaile had insisted Mickey screen-test this incandescent beauty. In the meantime, a coked-out Eddie had smashed his precious Maserati into a concrete wall, leaving Leslie a very young widow.
The very young widow’s screen test was a big success.
A year later she was a star.
Leslie often reflected that it was true—in Hollywood—if you wished hard enough, anything could happen.
Now she was in bed with Cooper Turner, and he was everything she’d ever imagined and more. He was her fantasy come to life.
She leaned over, softly trailing her manicured nails up and down his smooth, bare back. It was lunch break and they were in a motel near the studio. Cooper’s idea of lunch was eating her pussy for a solid half hour. She’d come so many times she’d lost count. This man was an unbelievable lover.
Cooper lay beside her, asleep, a satisfied smile spread across his still boyishly handsome face.
Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge Page 6