Lady Boss (2 page)

‘Don't do it,' Lucky had warned him. ‘The lawyers only just got you out of your other deal, and now you're tying yourself up again. When are you going to learn? I'm telling you – keep your options open, it's more of a challenge.'

Sure, his wife loved a challenge. The trouble was
he
couldn't resist the lure of mega-bucks – and mega-bucks put him one step nearer to his wife's unbeatable fortune.

Oh yeah, he knew he should have listened to Lucky – she had the Santangelo knack of knowing all the right moves and when to make them. Her father, Gino, had parlayed himself up from nothing. The old guy had style and Lennie admired him. But what the hell – big bucks were big bucks, and he never wanted to be the poor relation.

Fortunately, they were back in the studio shooting interiors. The week before, they'd been on location in the rugged Santa Monica mountains – a real pain. And coming right up was a five-week location shoot in Acapulco.

With a sigh he entered the fray.

Marisa puckered up luscious, swollen lips and blew him a kiss. She'd been after him from their first meeting. He'd managed to remain totally uninterested. Even if he hadn't had Lucky, he'd never been turned on by silicone.

‘Hi, Lennie, cookie,' she crooned, erect nipples straining in his direction.

Shit! Another fun day at the studio.

* * *

Lucky hurried from the tall chrome and glass building on Park Avenue that still bore the Stanislopoulos name. She had no desire to change it. One day everything would belong to her son Bobby and Dimitri's granddaughter, Brigette, so the name stayed.

Lucky was extremely fond of Brigette. The seventeen-year-old reminded her of Olympia, the girl's mother, at the same age. Olympia and Lucky had once been close friends; but that was long ago and far away and a lot had happened since their out-of-control teenage years when they'd been at boarding school in Switzerland and ended up getting expelled.

When Olympia had died so tragically young, Lucky was sad, even though Olympia's death had finally released Lennie – who was married to her at the time – from a lifetime of unwanted responsibility.

Occasionally she'd felt guilty that everything had worked out so well – but what the hell, that was life, and hers hadn't exactly been a day at the beach. At the age of five she'd discovered her mother's body floating in the family swimming pool. Then years later, Marco, her first love, was gunned down in the parking lot of the Magiriano Hotel. Shortly after, Dario, her brother, was shot to death. Three tragic murders.

Lucky had taken her revenge. She was a Santangelo, after all.
Don't fuck with a Santangelo.
The family motto.

As soon as she walked out of the building she spotted Boogie lounging against the side of the dark green Mercedes. He leapt to attention when he saw his boss striding purposefully towards him and quickly threw open the passenger door.

Boogie was her driver, bodyguard, and friend. They'd been together for many years and his loyalty was unquestioning. He was long-haired, tall, and skinny, with an uncanny ability to be there whenever she needed him. Boogie knew her better than almost anyone.

‘The airport,' she said, sliding onto the front seat.

‘Are we in a hurry?' he asked.

Lucky's black eyes flickered with amusement. ‘We're
always
in a hurry,' she replied. ‘Isn't that what life's all about?'

When Gino Santangelo took his morning constitutional he invariably followed the same route. Straight out of his apartment building on Sixty-fourth Street. Across Park to Lexington. And then a brisk walk along Lexington for several blocks.

He enjoyed his routine. At seven a.m. the streets of New York were not crowded, and in the early hours the weather was usually bearable.

He always stopped for a Danish at his favourite coffee shop, then picked up a newspaper from the corner vendor.

As far as Gino was concerned this was the most pleasurable hour of his day – except when Paige Wheeler visited from Los Angeles, which was not as often as he would have liked.

When Paige came into town his morning stroll was put on hold while he spent lazy mornings with her rolling around on his comfortable double bed. Not bad for an old man in his seventies. Suffice it to say, Paige brought out the best in him.

God damn it, he loved the woman, even though she still steadfastly refused to leave her producer husband of twenty years.

For a long time he'd been asking her to get a divorce. For some unknown reason she wouldn't do it. ‘It would destroy Ryder if I wasn't around,' she'd said simply, as if that was explanation enough.

‘Bullshit,' Gino had exploded. ‘What about me?'

‘You're strong,' Paige had replied. ‘You can survive without me. Ryder would crumble.'

My ass he'd crumble
, Gino thought to himself as he walked along the street. Ryder Wheeler was one of the most successful independent producers in Hollywood. If Paige dumped him, he'd jump the nearest bimbo and that would be that.

What made Paige think she was so goddamn indispensable? To Gino she
was
indispensable. To Ryder she was just a wife he'd had for twenty years. The guy would probably
pay
for his freedom.

Gino had seriously thought about sending in a third party to plead his case. Offer Ryder a million bucks and goodbye schmuck.

Unfortunately, in the last eighteen months Ryder Wheeler had fathered two movie mega-hits and had no need of anyone's money. The jerk was shovelling it in.

‘Screw the son of a bitch,' Gino muttered aloud, well aware of the fact that he was not getting any younger and he wanted Paige by his side permanently.

There was a crisp breeze as he stopped at his usual newsstand and schmoozed for a moment with Mick, the dour Welshman with one glass eye and a bad set of yellowing false teeth. Mick ran his little kingdom with unfailing gloom and bad humour.

‘What's goin' on in the neighbourhood?' Gino asked casually, pulling up the collar of his windbreaker.

‘Hookers an' cab drivers. They should bloody shoot the lot of 'em,' Mick replied, a malevolent gleam in his one good eye. ‘A couple of 'em bastards nearly got me t'other day. It's a good thing I got me wits about me – I paid 'em back good.'

Gino knew better than to question further – Mick was given to telling long imaginative stories. Throwing down change, he picked up a
New York Post
and hurried on his way.

The headlines were lurid. Mob boss Vincenzio Strobbinno gunned down outside his own home. There was a picture of Vincenzio face down in a pool of his own blood.

The jerk had it coming
, Gino thought with hardly a flicker of surprise. Young Turks. Hotheads. The assholes never waited to see if they could work things out, they just blew each other away as if that was the answer to everything. Today Vincenzio – tomorrow another one. The violence now was relentless.

Gino was relieved he was out of it. Many years ago he would have been right in the middle, loving every minute.

Not now. Now he was an old man. A
rich
old man. A
powerful
old man. He could afford to say nothing – merely observe.

Gino did not look seventy-nine years old. He was amazing – easily able to pass for a man in his mid-sixties, with his energetic gait, thick mop of grey hair, and penetrating black eyes. His doctors were constantly surprised at his energy and enthusiasm for life, not to mention his remarkable physical appearance.

‘What about this AIDS problem I keep hearin' about?' he'd recently asked his personal physician.

‘You don't have to worry about that, Gino,' his doctor had replied with a hearty laugh.

‘Yeah? Says who?'

‘Well…' The doctor had cleared his throat. ‘You're not still… active… are you?'

‘Active?' Gino had roared with laughter. ‘Are you shittin' me, doc? The day I can't get it up is the day I lie down an' die.
Capisce?'

‘What's your secret?' the doctor had asked enviously. He was fifty-six and a tired man. He was also full of admiration for his feisty patient.

‘Don't take no crap from no one.' Gino grinned, most of his strong white teeth still intact. ‘Hey – 'scuse me, doc – correct that. Do not suffer fools. I read that somewhere. Sounds more like it, huh?'

Gino Santangelo had obviously led a fascinating life full of adventure. The doctor thought gloomily of his own five years in medical school, followed by over twenty years of private practice. The only adventure
he'd
experienced was when one of his patients fell in lust with him and they'd enjoyed a furtive six-week affair. Not much to get excited about.

‘Your blood pressure is perfect,' he'd assured Gino. ‘The cholesterol test turned out fine. Uh… about your sex life. Maybe you might consider investing in some condoms.'

‘Condoms, doc?' Gino began to laugh. ‘We used to call 'em rubber joy-killers. Y'know – like takin' a swim in your boots.'

‘They're much improved today. Thin latex, a smooth feel. You can even get them in different colours if you're so inclined.'

‘No kiddin'?' Gino had laughed again. He could just imagine Paige's face if he slipped a black johnny over his cock.

Oh boy, not such a bad idea – Paige loved variety. Maybe he'd try it. Maybe…

* * *

The airport was a mob scene as usual. Lucky was met by an efficient young man in a three-piece business suit who escorted her from her car to the private TWA lounge.

‘Your flight's running fifteen minutes late, Ms. Santangelo,' he said apologetically, as if he were personally responsible. ‘Can I get you a drink?'

Automatically she glanced at her watch. It was past noon. ‘I'll have a J & B on the rocks,' she decided.

‘Coming right up, Ms. Santangelo.'

Leaning back, she closed her eyes. Another lightning trip to L.A. she couldn't tell Lennie about. Only this time she hoped to close the deal that would make her husband a free man again.

This journey west was the final clincher.

Abedon Panercrimski – or as he'd been known to a world that had all but forgotten him, Abe Panther – was eighty-eight years old and looked it, even though he didn't act it. Abe still had his balls, although many – including two ex-wives and countless lovers – had tried to cut them off.

Abe rose every morning promptly at six. First he showered, then he put in his new set of brilliant white teeth, combed his few remaining strands of silver hair, swam the length of his pool ten times, and feasted on a hearty breakfast of steak, eggs, and three cups of bitter black Turkish coffee.

Next he lit up a formidable Havana cigar and proceeded to read the daily newspapers.

Abe loved reading anything. He devoured the
Wall Street Journal
and the English
Financial Times.
With equal enthusiasm he scanned the gossip rags, enjoyed every juicy item. It pleased him to have knowledge, however useless. From world affairs to idle chitchat, he absorbed it all.

After his marathon reading session it was time for Inga Irving, his long-time companion, to join him on the terrace of his Miller Drive home.

Inga was a big-boned, straight-backed Swedish woman in her early fifties. She never used makeup and had allowed her shoulder-length club-cut hair to grey naturally. Inga always wore loose-fitting slacks and a shapeless sweater. In spite of her lack of decoration she was still a striking-looking woman who had obviously once been a great beauty.

Long ago, when Abe was
the
Hollywood tycoon to beat all Hollywood tycoons – including Messrs. Goldwyn, Mayer, Zanuck, and Cohn – he'd attempted to make Inga into a star. He had not succeeded. The camera didn't like Inga Irving, the public didn't like Inga Irving, and after several tries in three big Panther Studios productions Abe had finally given up. Every contract producer, director, and leading man on the lot had breathed freely again. Inga Irving was not destined to be the new Greta Garbo, in spite of Abe's valiant efforts.

When she so desired, Inga could be a prize bitch, moody, rude, and insulting. Those qualities might have been acceptable if she'd possessed talent and star potential. Alas, she didn't. And during her rise to nowhere she'd made many enemies.

Inga had never forgiven Abe for not persevering on her career. She'd stayed with him anyway: being the companion of the once great Abe Panther was better than anything else she could think of.

When his last divorce had taken place he didn't marry her. Inga refused to blackmail or beg. She was a proud woman. Besides, as far as she was concerned, she was his common-law wife, and when Abe died she had every intention of claiming what was rightfully and legally hers.

Every day around noon, Abe partook of a light snack. He favoured oysters when they were in season, accompanied by a glass of dry white wine. After lunch he had a nap, awaking refreshed after an hour to watch two of his favourite soaps on television, followed by a solid dose of Phil Donahue.

Abe Panther never left his house. He hadn't done so for ten years – ever since his stroke.

Six weeks in the hospital and he allowed them to wrest the studio from his grasp. Although technically he never lost control – and was indeed still President and owner of Panther Studios – he had not had any inclination to return. Making movies wasn't the same as it once was. Abe had been in the picture business since he was eighteen, and at seventy-eight he'd decided taking a break was no big deal.

The break had lasted ten years, and nobody expected him to return.

What they did expect, Abe realized, was for him to drop dead and leave everything to them.

His living relatives consisted of two granddaughters – Abigaile and Primrose – and their offspring.

Abigaile and Primrose were as unalike as two sisters could be. They couldn't stand each other. Sisterly love and affection failed to exist between them.