Lucky (16 page)

‘You’re married,’ Dimitri objected. ‘Since when do you forbid me to sleep with anyone else?’

‘Sleep with whom you like,’ spat Francesca, her smile finally slipping. ‘Because you will no longer be sharing
my
bed.’ She wrenched her wrist free, and stalked off.

‘I guess the crunch is outta the cookie,’ commented Lucky, who had not been able to help overhearing, and was feeling no pain due to several more glasses of champagne.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Dimitri glared at her.

She shrugged. ‘Francesca Fern and Norma Valentine were up for the lead in
Sirocco Sings
fifteen years ago. Norma went on to win an Oscar for the role
and
make it as a movie star. FF never did a flick. They are arch enemies – it’s Hollywood trivia. How come
you
don’t know?’

He was outraged. ‘Were you eavesdropping on our entire conversation?’

‘Couldn’t help myself.’

‘Really!’

‘Relax – you’ll give yourself a hernia.’

‘You are a very vulgar young lady.’

‘Cut the crap, Dimitri. I’m not your daughter’s little friend anymore. And I’ve had it with you ignoring me like I don’t exist.’ She rose. ‘This is
my
hotel. You have been playing at
my
tables all week – why don’t you just loosen up and we’ll go out and get drunk. Huh? How’s that for a great idea? I need to, and you
certainly
do.’

He saw her for the first time. And her smouldering beauty and vibrant youth struck him as the perfect way to erase Francesca from his thoughts. Lucky Santangelo was right. No more could he dismiss her as Olympia’s little friend.

His penetrating eyes held hers. ‘So, you require a drinking partner, is that it?’

She returned his gaze, surprised to finally get his attention. ‘Yes. And
you
have been elected.’

‘Should I be flattered?’

She glanced over at Gino and caught him in a deep whisper with Susan. ‘Be what you like, but let’s get out of here. And fast.’

*   *   *

‘I had a busy life. Did a lotta things – some good, some bad. Y’know what I mean?’ Gino rubbed the faint scar on his cheek.

‘I realize you are not Billy Graham,’ Susan replied.

‘When y’come from where I do, y’gotta learn to look after yourself. Nobody does it for you.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I started out on the streets. Never had no formal education. Kinda picked up things as I went along.’

‘You’re a true survivor. Look at where you are today.’

‘Yeh. I did okay. Like I made the great American dream come true. From nothin’ I made it big.’

‘Quite an understatement.’

‘I know Presidents, politicians, mayors, civic leaders. There’s people owe me favours you wouldn’t believe.’

‘Of course.’

‘Stick with me, kiddo. I’ll show you one hell of a good life.’

‘Is this a proposal, Gino?’

‘Y’know something I think it is.’

‘I’m . . . surprised.’

‘
You’re
surprised? How d’you figure
I
feel?’

‘It’s something I’ll have to think about.’

‘So think. Who’s stoppin’ you? Think all you want. Only I’ll need an answer before I go to sleep tonight on account of the fact that I might change my mind in the mornin’.’

Susan laughed softly. ‘Gino, you’re incorrigible.’

‘Yeh? Make the most of it.’

‘I must talk to my family, my children . . .’

‘You see me askin’ Lucky’s permission?’

‘It’s not that easy . . .’

‘Make it easy – say yes.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘What?’

‘I said yes.’

‘Hey! I’ll be damned!’

They were in Francesca’s suite enjoying an after the event private party.

Gino leapt to his feet. ‘I got an announcement to make!’ The assorted group gave him their attention. ‘This lady and I. Susan Martino and I. Jeez! What can I tell you? We’re gettin’ married!’

*   *   *

Now she had his attention, Lucky found Dimitri an enjoyable drinking companion. He wasn’t Gino, but he had that certain aura – and she liked the authority of an older man. He was also strangely attractive with his shock of thick white hair, prominent nose, and penetrating eyes. The drunker she got, the more attractive he became.

Olympia’s daddy. She was having erotic thoughts about Olympia’s daddy!

He was very tall, a big man. Gino was much shorter, more wiry. Physically they couldn’t be less alike.

‘This is fun,’ Lucky said, as they roamed from bar to bar.

He was drinking ouzo, tossing it down like lemonade. But it did not seem to affect him.

He nodded. He didn’t know why, but he was enjoying himself. Francesca Fern would regret tonight. He would personally see that she regretted it for the rest of her miserable life. Nobody spurned Dimitri Stanislopoulos, least of all a cheap whore actress.

At three o’clock in the morning they found themselves in a small Greek café, surrounded by waiters coming off their shifts, and other late-night workers. Dimitri bought drinks all round, while a thin boy played the mandolin, naturally the theme from
Zorba
. Dimitri danced, balancing a plate on his head, and he laughed so loud that for a moment Lucky thought he might choke. Then he smashed twenty-three plates in a row, gave the smiling proprietor a thousand dollar bill, and with unspoken agreement they retired to Lucky’s penthouse apartment.

For a moment she was nervous, a kid again. She fluttered around, fixing him a drink, then going into her bathroom and holding a cold towel to her forehead.

I’m being ridiculous
, she thought.
What the hell is going on here?

She returned to the living room and faced him.

He said her name once, very quietly. Then without further ado he peeled the sensuous sheath of a black silk dress from her body with expert strong hands.

She felt like a swimmer about to take the plunge. Expectant, excited, ready to excel.

His hands were big, his fingers long and firm. Slowly he explored her body, brushing her skin until he hooked into her bikini panties – the only other garment she wore – and drew them down past her thighs, her calves, her ankles.

She was naked, but he remained dressed, merely loosening his bow tie.

With great care he pushed her down onto the couch, took his brandy glass, dipped his index finger into the shimmering liquid, and brought it first to the nipple of her left breast, and then to the right one.

The liquor stung, but only for a second. With hardly a pause, he started to suck it from her, making her sigh with pleasure. She threw her arms behind her head and stretched luxuriously. He cupped her breasts together and flicked his tongue across both nipples.

‘Get your clothes off,’ she murmured urgently.

He laughed. ‘Such impatience!’

‘Get ’em off, Dimitri. I mean
now
.’

Keeping both hands on her breasts he traced his tongue down her body.

She writhed with excitement. Maybe I’m drunk, she thought, but this guy certainly has a great touch. Or maybe it’s been too long between pit stops. She smiled with secret laughter.

He opened her thighs by pushing his head between them. ‘I . . . want . . . to . . . feel . . . your . . . body . . .’ she murmured. ‘Please. I’m . . . asking . . . nicely . . .’

His tongue, like his fingers, was thick, slow moving, and experienced.

‘Ooooh . . . yes . . .’ she moaned. ‘Oh yes, yes, yes.’ Her legs parted even more as she felt the tenseness of the past months building up, preparing for release, getting ready to explode.

He paused to flavour his tongue with brandy while his hands continued to work on her breasts.

She felt the sting of the alcohol, the expertise of his fingers, and the strength of his tongue.

‘Oh, God, Dimitri! Oh God! This is soooo great. So utterly fantastic.
Ohhhhh
. . .’

She hit the plateau. Hard. And it was worth waiting for.

He buried his head between her legs and enjoyed every hot throbbing moment.

Jess found out nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Oh yes. She had found out that Matt Traynor had a constant erection, talked a lot, and thought he was God’s gift.

Had he honestly believed she would fall for his very thin-on-the-ground charms? Had he really imagined she would jump between his brown striped sheets like all the rest?

She actually had to fight him off. Do battle. And she was only five feet tall against his five eleven or more. It had been some struggle. If she hadn’t resorted to slamming him in the balls with her elbow she would probably
still
be there.

And when she got home at some ungodly hour, she found Wayland entertaining a group of scruffy friends who were eating
her
food, smoking
her
grass, and messing up
her
house. She really let fly, and when roused she had some temper.

Wayland got excited – unusual for him, and left with his friends, only to return at seven a.m. so stoned he couldn’t even speak.

They were all the same. And why hadn’t Lennie phoned? Didn’t he think she was worried about him? Didn’t he think she
cared?
.

In the morning she took the baby out beside the pool, and lay with him in the long grass. Having Simon was the only positive thing she had done in her entire life. He gave her a reason to keep on going, to get through each day and make it to that weekly pay cheque.

Wayland staggered outside. ‘There’s no milk,’ he complained.

‘Go to the market and get some,’ she said patiently.

‘I don’t have any money.’

Reluctantly she fished a twenty from her jeans pocket and threw it at him.

He nodded wisely. ‘I’ll stock up.’

‘Sure you will,’ she muttered. ‘Five bucks on food and the rest on whatever you can score.’

He didn’t hear her. She couldn’t care less. Quietly she rocked Simon in her arms and crooned a soothing lullaby. Soon it would be time to visit her mother in the hospital.

*   *   *

Foxie was eighty-five years old, small as an elf, bald, with sharp darting cross-eyes, and ears that stuck up like something out of
Star Trek
.

Foxie was canny, cheap, insulting, a good friend and a mean enemy.

He was also a Hollywood legend – although only to people in the know.

Foxie had a keen ear, a cruel wit, limitless energy, and no ailments.

For a man of eighty-five he was remarkable.

Lennie had never met him, but the stories he had heard could fill volumes. He was looking forward to the experience.

Foxie’s place – named after the man himself – was located on Hollywood Boulevard, and boasted a mixed clientele. People came to Foxie’s to hang out and have fun. All kinds of people. From local pimps and hookers to Beverly Hills name-droppers to Sam Schmuck from the Valley and an occasional movie star or two, Foxie’s was
the
place. The food was terrible, the drinks generous, and the entertainment hilarious. A mixture of new talent, strippers, working comics, and a ‘discovery’ night that was better than the Gong Show. Once a month was ‘take it off night’ – an evening where ordinary females leaped on the stage and couldn’t wait to show everyone what they had. To get into Foxie’s that night you had to book weeks in advance.

Joey Firello suggested they stop by. ‘It’s where
I
started out,’ he explained to Lennie. ‘Six weeks in and I got me the TV show. Now I’m signing autographs and turning down pussy!’

Joey looked like a handsome monkey. He was thin, short, and wiry, with Rod Stewart hair and Mick Jagger lips. He was, at twenty-six, four years younger than Lennie.

‘Look,’ Joey said, ‘if Foxie don’t like you we’ll go to the Improv or the Comedy Store. You’ll get connected.’

‘Sure. I know,’ Lennie said. He felt ridiculous. Joey the Kid giving
him
advice and help. Joey the Kid who had arrived in New York three years earlier with twenty-eight bucks, some corny gags, and a lot of hustle. For nine weeks he had slept on Lennie’s floor. His hustle had paid off. Now he was wearing cashmere sweaters and driving a second-hand Jaguar. Foxie greeted him like a brother.

‘I want you to meet a friend of mine,’ Joey said. ‘Lennie Golden. Remember the name. He’s funny.’

‘As funny as you?’ snapped Foxie.

‘Give him a shot. See for yourself.’

Foxie picked at his teeth with a wooden toothpick and cocked his head to one side. ‘You wanna try out tonight?’

‘I wasn’t planning on trying out,’ Lennie said quickly. ‘I’ve got a video of my work – I thought if you liked it we could do business.’

‘You East Coast
momsers
– you’re all the same,’ Foxie snorted. ‘Don’t want to try out. Want me to waste my time lookin’ at tape shit.’ He bit the toothpick in half and began to eat it. ‘At Foxie’s you either try out or get out. I can fit you in at ten o’clock. Take it or leave it.’