Lucky (27 page)

She was a skinny broad.

After Donatella, his wife, Santino considered anyone under one hundred and fifty pounds skinny.

He could still see the mark of his hand on her cheek and it excited him. Broads like Eden Antonio needed constant watching. His father had taught him that. ‘Any cunt who thinks she’s hot stuff is gonna need a sharp eye on her fanny,’ Enzio, his father, had announced one morning at breakfast to Santino and his elder brother, Carlo. ‘To keep ’em in line you gotta buy ’em plenty, fuck ’em regularly, an’ beat ’em occasionally.’

Enzio had roared with laughter at his own wit and wisdom. But wit and wisdom had not been enough to protect him from cold planned murder at the hands of a woman.

Santino scowled with fury when he thought of that fateful day a year ago. And he scowled even harder when he remembered the instructions he and Carlo received from his father’s business associates. ‘No more killings,’ they were told. ‘No more revenge. The violence has to stop.’

Just like that they were forbidden to do anything.

As far as Santino was concerned it was like cutting off his balls. Although Carlo took it calm as a fucking priest.

Santino scratched his bald pate and thought about his brother. Carlo was a shithead, a nothing. Unfortunately they were partners and blood brothers, and as such had to stick together. But not in the same city.

With Enzio gone, Santino moved his end of their operation to LA. And there he planned to stay. A wise decision. Without Carlo looking over his shoulder he was able to expand and branch out. The family business had included a string of massage parlours. Santino found that the porno magazines sold in such establishments raked in a fortune. He investigated the publishers and distributors. Reasonable men. Before long Santino was a part of the action – and with the imports he brought in from Denmark and Thailand – plus videos – he was rolling in profits. He had more money than Carlo. The shithead Carlo. What kind of man refused to act on his own father’s murder?

Santino knew it was up to him to even the score with that bitch, Lucky Santangelo. And he would do it one day.
For sure.

Eden stirred, and threw her arms above her head.

Santino’s small eyes bore into her pink-tipped breasts. Small but perfect. His wife filled a 42D cup. It was like having sex with a pregnant cow. Quickly he rose and pulled down the jogging pants he wore. Then he allowed his erection to slip from the confines of patterned boxer shorts.

Eden sighed in her sleep.

Roughly Santino ripped the sheet from the bed exposing all of her. She had blonde hair on her snatch which drove him crazy. He was partial to blondes. In one fast movement he straddled her chest and thrust his erection toward her mouth.

Her eyes were hardly open before he was rocking back and forth.

‘Suck it,’ he demanded hoarsely. ‘Take it, baby, take it all. You know you love it. You know Santino is King.’

The drug culture had always appealed to Olympia, although she had never got into it in a major way. A lot of cocaine and plenty of pot was about as far as she had travelled. She did not want to become hooked like some of her so-called friends who couldn’t get out of bed in the morning without a snort. She was smart. She was a social user. And if she wasn’t going out she could go days without indulging and not miss it at all. As far as she was concerned, a toot of coke was the modern day equivalent of a Scotch on the rocks. Nothing wrong with
that
.

Dimitri had asked her once if she indulged. ‘Certainly not,’ she had replied, suitably shocked.

‘Good,’ he had nodded thoughtfully. ‘Because a girl in your position has to be very very careful. There are many people who would be only too pleased to discover you have a weakness. You would be exploited mercilessly.’

What did he think she was? Dumb? She had married three men, all of whom had exploited her to the limit. Why hadn’t he warned her about men? They were far more dangerous than drugs.

It completely slipped her mind that Dimitri
had
warned her. Constantly.

So . . . drugs were no problem. They made her feel good, allowed her to have a fantastic time at parties, and did not give her a hangover or make her fat.

Conveniently she forgot the dawn cravings for chocolate cake, double cream cheesecake, and Haagen-Dazs rum raisin ice cream.

She was sure Dimitri was into coke. Or at least some of his jet-set girlfriends were. How could one be part of the social circle without indulging?

Flash indulged. Heavily. He might be a former heroin addict, but that did not stop him from grabbing anything else going. Uppers, downers, sleepers, quacks, grass, and of course – cocaine. The rich man’s drug. Only Flash never had to pay, because he was so famous – or maybe infamous – that the hangers-on and the gofers and the groupies and the star-fucks always managed to get him everything he wanted for nothing.

Flash was looking for a place to crash in New York. He had a permanent residence in the Bahamas (for tax reasons) and in L.A. he stayed with a dissolute movie star (male) with stoned eyes and a grin like a sick cat. But Flash needed a New York base. And Olympia looked like she could provide it.

Enter Flash.

Exit Vitos.

Flash made a lot of money, but he was notoriously tight-fisted. Why spend when there were others to do it for you?’

The first night he slept with Olympia he had no idea who she was. They whiled away a few hours rolling around on a water bed in an apartment he was borrowing. She wasn’t really his type. Too chubby. His style was usually young, tall models with stringy hair and beautiful blank faces. But Olympia was there – coming on strong, and Flash needed to get laid. He
always
needed to get laid. So he had said goodbye to his entourage, and taken her to his borrowed apartment.

Olympia told Vitos she had a very important business proposition she had to discuss with Flash. Vitos didn’t seem to care. He was deep in conversation with Bianca Jagger, or was it Diane Von Furstenberg? – Olympia never could tell them apart.

Flash proved his reputation to be true. And Olympia was happy. She left by cab while he slept. And at noon the next day she let him know she was not just another little groupie. He awoke to find six cases of Dom Perignon, a healthy supply of Iranian caviar, and a small gift from Tiffany’s. The gift was a solid gold and diamond guitar pin. On it was engraved OLYMPIA/FLASH NEW YORK 1978.

Even Flash knew that to get Tiffany’s to engrave something in a couple of hours meant you had clout.

She had enclosed her card – OLYMPIA STANISLOPOULOS – with an address and phone number.

The surname was as well known as Onassis.

‘Who is she?’ he asked, handing the card to Como Rose, his manager.

Como looked at it, belched loudly and said, ‘She’s Dimitri Stanislopoulos’ daughter, for crissake. Richer than the Gettys.’

Flash knew a good thing when it came his way. And she had come and come and come.

He grinned, revealing a full spread of dangerously loose, rotting teeth. Dentists were not an important part of his life.

‘Call her,’ he said. ‘Have her here at five. I’m taking her to the concert.’

She turned up at five-thirty, dressed in taffeta, lace, and diamonds.

‘You’re friggin’ late,’ Flash said. ‘Friggin’ overdressed, and we’re gonna need a couple more boxes of the fizzy stuff. Arrange it.’

Nobody had ever spoken to Olympia like that before. She liked it. A lot. A refreshing change.

They snorted several lines of coke; swigged champagne on the way to the stadium where The Layabouts were giving their first New York concert in five years; and sent the paparazzi into a frenzy.

Within a week Olympia had purchased a huge apartment overlooking Central Park, and Flash took up residence on the same day she did.

That night they stood on the landscaped terrace and surveyed the city spread out before them.

‘Not bad, gel,’ Flash announced, and lit up a joint.

Olympia swigged from a bottle of Dom Perignon she was holding (her new habit) and agreed. Why had she wasted so much of her life in Europe when New York was such
fun
?

She wondered what she was going to do about Brigette. So far she hadn’t mentioned the existence of her daughter to Flash. Maybe she could just forget about her for another week or so. Why bring it up and ruin everything?

Flash dragged on the joint long and hard. Why hadn’t he thought of shacking up with a rich bird before? It was defi-nitely the way to go.

He wondered what he was going to do about his 16-year-old wife stashed somewhere in England. So far he hadn’t mentioned her existence to Olympia. Well it was a secret wedding, nobody knew. Maybe he could just forget about her for a while. She was used to his long absences. Why bring it up and ruin everything?

Olympia and Flash were perfectly suited.

The child’s funeral depressed Lucky. It seemed so . . . pointless. It made her feel angry and helpless. If people brought children into the world, they should look after them. The infant’s death was no accident, it was caused by human error. She had heard all about Wayland from Matt. If he were her husband she would have strung him up by his balls.

Standing by the grave in the pouring rain was a downer. But later, in the restaurant, it was even worse. One fast drink and she was out of there. She had given Matt the favour he requested, it was enough.

She was alone at the bar, drinking Pernod, when the comedian materialized. He was tall and rangy with green eyes and a killer smile. She remembered him instantly. She even remembered his name
before
he re-introduced himself. Lennie Golden. A comedian. And how.

She wanted to say, ‘What the hell are you doing here. I had
you
fired and I’m never supposed to set eyes on you again.’ Instead she said nothing while he fumbled for words. And when he told her his name she pretended not to know who he was, brushed past him, and made a fast exit.

The truth of the matter was she found him disturbingly attractive. He had turned her down once, and she did not plan to go for twice. What a nerve he had even speaking to her.

When she got back to the hotel she decided not to hang around any longer. There was no reason for her to stay, even Gino had left. She called Costa and told him she would be arriving in Miami the next day. Then she began to pack, urgently throwing things into several suitcases. Somehow she knew she had to get out at once.

*   *   *

In Bel Air all was peaceful. The cook prepared sesame chicken, one of Gino’s favourite dishes. There was an excellent baseball game on the Advent television which he watched from a comfortable armchair, while Susan, looking ladylike yet sexy in a pale blue peignoir, attended to her needlepoint.

This is a long way from the streets of Brooklyn, he thought. The long-ago far-away mean streets where he had started out without a dime to call his own.

He puffed contentedly on a thin Havana, and dipped a silver spoon into a dish of ice cream.

Yeh. He was making the right move. This was the life for him.

Susan had set the date. He was ready.

*   *   *

Lucky took an early plane out of Vegas. She stopped at her doctor’s on the way to the airport for a B12 vitamin shot. Her doctor, a woman – because male doctors seemed to treat female patients like backward children – insisted on running a few simple tests before giving it to her.

‘I can never get you in here for your yearly physical,’ Doctor Liz Turney complained with a smile. ‘So I’m grabbing you while I can.’

‘You’d better grab quickly,’ Lucky replied, surrendering her arm for a blood test, ‘because I’m on my way to the airport.’

‘Always in a rush. Have you ever thought of slowing down?’

‘What for? I’ve got things to do.’

‘Well find time to give me a urine sample, if you please.’

‘Just give me the shot, doc. That’s all I need.’

Liz Turney handed her a small glass bottle and pointed her in the direction of the toilet. ‘
I’ll
tell you what you need.’

The flight to Miami took forever. The plane made two stops, adding even more hours to the journey. By the time Lucky arrived she was tired out.

Costa was at the airport to greet her. Uncle Costa. She hadn’t seen him for a year, and she marvelled at how much better he looked. Last time they met he was grey-skinned and weary-eyed. Now he sported a healthy suntan, and his eyes were sharp and bright behind distinguished horn-rims. He wore a snappy sports jacket, nicely creased pants and an open-neck white shirt. He presented the image of a respectable retired businessman. Which was exactly what he was.

‘You look so well!’ Lucky exclaimed, throwing her arms around him and hugging him hard.

He drew back and inspected her critically. ‘And you, Lucky, well . . . you look tired.’

One could always depend on the truth from Uncle Costa.

‘Thanks a lot!’

‘Should I lie?’