Lucky (23 page)

When she was twenty, her mother ran a light at Sunset and Fairfax, and was killed instantly in a collision with a gardener’s truck. The Mexican driver sued. Naturally Susan found someone to settle the case for her. Six months later she was smart enough to discover Tiny while doing extra work on one of his movies. He didn’t stand a chance. She knew what she wanted, and she went for it with controlled dedication. He divorced his first wife with nary a protest, married Susan, and together they rose in the hierarchy of the Hollywood social scene. She became a perfect hostess, warm confidante, and mother of his two children.

After a few years Tiny screwed anything that breathed in his direction – it wasn’t easy being married to one of the Queens of the Beverly Hills/Bel Air social set.

After a few years, Susan met a beefy Russian masseuse named Gloria, who came to the house to ease her neck tension. It turned out Gloria knew plenty of other places where tension could be eased, and Susan succumbed. She had succumbed a few other times. But for the last three years she had been having a very satisfying affair with a producer’s wife named Paige Wheeler. The women enjoyed discreet liaisons at various venues including each other’s homes when they could get rid of the servants. Unfortunately, Paige’s husband, Ryder, had recently given birth to a huge hit movie, which meant Paige’s time was taken up with a solid block of unavoidable social engagements. Plus the fact that she also dabbled in interior design. And of course, Susan had been busy in Vegas snaring Gino. The two women hadn’t seen each other in months.

Susan’s hand hovered over the phone. She deserved a treat. One little treat.

*   *   *

The morning after her confrontation with Gino, Lucky awoke sick to her stomach. She threw up, felt only slightly better, and crawled back to bed. This was not the right time to get sick. There was so much to do. She had to start packing, meet with her lawyers and get everything in order.

For a moment she wondered if she was doing the right thing. But in her heart she knew that if Gino married Susan she would be better off away from them. Maybe Susan
was
a wonderful human being. Maybe she
did
love Gino for himself.

Maybe . . .

On impulse she grabbed the phone and called Costa Zennocotti in Miami. He had retired there a year ago, and by all accounts was very happy to live the quiet life after forty years as Gino’s lawyer and best friend. He was her friend too. After all, it was Costa who had nurtured her ambition, and taught her everything about business while Gino languished in Israel.

‘Uncle Costa,’ she greeted warmly when he picked up the phone. ‘How are you?’

‘I am currently mastering the art of French toast,’ he replied, happy to hear from her. ‘At my advanced age I have finally decided I should cook.’

She laughed happily. It was so good to speak to him. ‘I thought you had droves of women around you who did that sort of thing,’ she joked. She knew he was seeing a divorcee who apparently had caused him to gain fifteen pounds.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said quickly. ‘But you know me, I hate to be dependent on anyone.’

Indeed she did know him. Uncle Costa. A quiet, well-mannered man. Married for over thirty years to Auntie Jen who had passed away several years ago. One of those rare marriages where both partners grow together and remain content and in love. No screwing around for Uncle Costa. He had been the perfect husband.

‘When did you last hear from Gino?’ she asked.

‘Not recently. Why? Is something the matter?’

‘Oh, this and that. Nothing earth-shattering. I think I might be selling my share of the Magiriano.’

‘Nothing earth-shattering she says!
That’s
earth-shattering. What’s the matter, Lucky?’

‘Can I fly in and see you? I need to talk.’

‘When?’

‘In a few days.’

‘Any time, my dear. You know I’m always here for you.’

Yeh. Uncle Costa was always reliable. But what about Gino?

‘I’ll call you again.’

‘Make it soon.’

‘Yes, I will.’

She hung up and thought that yes, it would be a nice idea to visit with Uncle Costa. Every time he talked she managed to find out a little bit more about Gino’s colourful past. Costa loved to reminisce and she loved to listen. Her mother, Maria, had been Uncle Costa’s niece. And it was rumoured that her grandmother, Maria’s mother, had also been involved with Gino.

She shivered. Costa would never talk about
that.

Feeling slightly better, she got up, dressed, and ventured downstairs. The casino was a hive of activity with early morning gamblers out in full force. She bumped into Matt who looked uncharacteristically harassed. She would have to call a meeting to let her key people know she was moving on. They all considered Gino their real boss anyway. She hadn’t allowed that thought to surface before, but now she realized it was true.

You’ll be out on your own, kid, for the first time in your life
, she thought.

It was exciting.

It was very exciting.

She grinned. And suddenly she felt
much
better. Maybe she’d go for Atlantic City anyway. Without Gino. Find another property, new investors. Hey – she could do it. She
knew
she could do it – she just had to convince everyone else.

Lennie slept like he hadn’t slept in a long time. One of those great dreamless sleeps where you feel cocooned by clouds and so comfortable and at peace you never want to wake up. But he did. And it was noon.

He leaped from bed, and threw himself under a hot shower where he sang ‘Staying Alive’ at full volume.

In the bathroom mirror he observed the scars of battle. Eden and her lethal nails. His back looked like a road map crisscrossed with thin red trails.

So what? He had her again. What were a few scars between friends?

For a moment he stopped to think. They hadn’t really talked, just enjoyed great sex and each other’s bodies. She was as hungry for him as he was for her. On the drive back she had fallen asleep curled up against him. He had driven to his car and suggested he follow her home. ‘No,’ she had said. ‘I’ve got an early call.’

So he had watched her drive off into the dawn, for it was five in the morning when they parted company.

Now, all he had to do was get through the day without her. It occurred to him that he should have found out where she was working and met her for lunch. Come to think of it, he should have found out a lot of things, he didn’t even know where she lived, all he had was her phone number.

Tonight he wanted her to accompany him to Foxie’s. He would sit her at a front table, and let her get a load of the feedback he was receiving from the audience. She had always criticized his work. Once she saw him in action in L.A. she would realize how wrong she had been.

It was just so right that they were back together. Sure, they had their fights, but who didn’t? He and Eden were an unbeatable combination.

An inner voice mocked –
Who are you kiddin’, Lennie Golden? She eats you up and spits you out. You and Eden together – forget it
.

He ignored the subliminal warning.

*   *   *

Eden had lied. Which she did a lot. Beautifully. There was no early call. The first item on her agenda was a one o’clock meeting with the interior designer who owed Santino Bonnatti a favour.

She rose late, luxuriated in a scented bath, dressed slowly, and arrived at the house on Blue Jay Way fifteen minutes late for her appointment. Punctuality was not one of her priorities.

The decorator was a woman, which annoyed her. She loathed dealing with women. They either hated her because of her beauty, or fawned over her because she was once one of the top photo models in America, before she gave it all up for her acting.

This woman was different. She was short, in her forties, with a mass of copper-coloured frizzy hair, and a skirt split up to her crotch. She was also businesslike, with a gay assistant, a drawing board, and a lot of sketches and ideas. Her name was Paige Wheeler. Idly Eden wondered what favour she owed Santino, but she wasn’t about to ask.

‘I want a lot of white,’ she said vaguely. ‘White couches and rugs and everything modern and clean cut, with plenty of mirrors. I like chrome too . . . I want the place to look glamorous.’

Paige nodded, made notes, showed her swatches of material, and suggested certain ideas.

Eden agreed with most things. She was just as anxious to leave her apartment as Santino was to install her in the house. As long as the place looked sensational in
People
and
Us
layouts, what did she care? It would probably only be home for a short while anyway, because when stardom hit she was moving on. She had no intention of sleeping with Santino Bonnatti for the rest of her life. Just as long as it took.

For a moment she thought of Lennie and their love-making. Oh, Lennie . . . he certainly hadn’t lost his touch. The guy was a great lay. A
really
great lay. And she should know . . . many men had made the trip to heaven and left without credentials.

It was a pity he was a loser. Always had been, always would be. Working at some dump on Hollywood Boulevard. Didn’t he know Hollywood Boulevard was out of
town
for crissakes? Nowhere city. Just like all the nothing gigs he had played in New York.

Nobody could say she hadn’t given Lennie a chance. Three years’ worth of a chance. But in the sex stakes he was still something, and after Santino’s ape-like attentions she needed a respite. So. She was glad he’d called. Glad she’d seen him. Just hoped that he’d go away quietly.

‘Peach wallpaper will look most effective in the bedroom,’ Paige said briskly. ‘Perhaps we could incorporate it into the total concept.’

‘Hmmm . . .’ Eden agreed. ‘And I’d like a fur bedspread. Something wild and sexy . . . Something . . . movie-starish.’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ nodded Paige, exchanging an amused glance with her assistant.

‘Good,’ said Eden. ‘Are we finished?’ She had an appointment to have her nails done, and she was already twenty minutes late.

*   *   *

There was no getting rid of Matt Traynor. There he was again, hanging around her table, asking her how she felt, asking her out again. Jess couldn’t stand him, and yet . . . at least he was there, and in his own peculiar way he seemed to care.

‘I guess I made an idiot of myself last night,’ she mumbled.

She didn’t know! Relief rushed through him. He had another chance. ‘Not at all. You told me about your mother. It did you good getting drunk.’

‘Anything would do me good lately.’

‘Let’s do it again tonight.’

‘What, get drunk?’

‘Just talk.’

She had decided to tell Wayland to go. Why didn’t she delay it just one more night until she felt more able to deal with it? Maybe she should ask Matt’s advice. There were always legalities involved in things like this. Getting Wayland out might not be as easy as she had assumed.

‘Okay,’ she said, surprising both of them. ‘As long as it’s not dinner for two at Chez Traynor.’

*   *   *

At three o’clock Lennie was paged beside the Chateau Marmont pool where he was working on a suntan. Well, not exactly paged Beverly Hills Hotel style, more like the pool-side phone ringing and a pony-tailed blonde yelling, ‘Anybody named Golden here?’

He thought it was Eden and jumped.

It was not Eden. It was a researcher from the
Merv Griffin Show
who said one of the producers had seen him at Foxie’s the previous night, and that they had a spot open in three days’ time, and if he wanted it, it was his.

If he wanted it. Did Barbara Walters give Special? Was Clint Eastwood Dirty Harry? If he wanted it. Ha!

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think that fits into my schedule.’ And he gave them his agent’s number.

Eden was going to love this. She would come with him to the taping, hold his hand, maybe slide to her knees in the dressing room and give him a little bit of her special luck. At last he was on a roll.

Frantically he started thinking about what he could and could not use. Television was different from playing clubs. Television demanded great visuals, clean material, no bad language, and fresh original routines. Not that all his routines weren’t fresh and original. He wrote his own material, nobody fucked with what Lennie Golden wanted to say.

He didn’t know whether to work on his suntan or hurry to his room. Eden had said he looked pale. ‘Like a New Yorker,’ she had husked.

So what was wrong with looking like a New Yorker?

Fuck it. He hurried inside. There was work to do.

*   *   *

‘You went out last night,’ said Santino softly.

‘I did not,’ lied Eden indignantly. She had no intention of answering to Santino. ‘I watched television all night, and it was extremely boring.’

His voice was a cobra’s whisper. ‘Where did you go?’