Lucky (35 page)

‘But—’

‘Pay or I holler rape.’

He paid.

Six weeks later she realized with a dull shock that she was pregnant. It was a bombshell, because she had always thought she was unable to conceive. ‘You just ain’t fertile,’ Whitejack had assured her on many occasions.

Now she was pregnant and she had no idea who the father was.

Gino Santangelo. Freddy Lester. It could be either.

She didn’t know what to do or where to turn.

*   *   *

‘Well’, Steven said tightly. ‘I guess we go see the publisher next. I’ll arrange an appointment – you can say you want to do a book on your life.’

Carrie nodded numbly. Why was Steven torturing her like this? She had been a good mother. He had never suffered because of the life she once lived. Even when she ran a brothel and sold drugs for the notorious Enzio Bonnatti, she had always seen to it that he was never involved.

‘When?’ she asked listlessly.

‘I’ll arrange it as quickly as possible.’

She nodded again, and for one brief moment hated her good-looking unfeeling son. What did he know about her suffering? What did he even care?

They spoke on the telephone. Lucky and Costa.

‘Uncle Costa?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m married.’

‘You’re what?’

‘I’m married again. To a very nice person, you’ll like him.’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Trust me.’

‘Ah, Lucky, I’ve always done that. Does your father know?’

‘Uh . . . not yet. I’ll tell him.’

‘When?’

‘Soon.’

A grunt of disapproval. ‘Who’s the boy?’

A nervous laugh. ‘Well . . . er . . . he’s not exactly a boy.’

The phone rattled while Costa moved his position. ‘Who is he?’

She quickly changed the subject. ‘I’ve got another surprise for you.’

‘Isn’t one enough?’

‘You’re a great-uncle.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No. no. A
Great-uncle.’

‘I don’t think I understand . . .’

‘Yes you do. I have a baby.’

‘Whose baby?’

‘My baby.’

She could hear the shock in his voice. Costa had always been old-fashioned.
‘Yours
, Lucky. What does this mean?’

‘It means’, she said patiently, ‘that eighteen months ago I gave birth to a fantastic little boy named Roberto, and two days ago I married his father.’

Silence.

A long silence.

Then: ‘Does Gino know?’

‘Not yet.’

A drawn-out sigh. ‘Not yet.’

‘Don’t repeat me like that, I hate it!’

‘What
should
I say?’

‘Congratulations. Tell me it’s wonderful, and that you can’t wait to fly in and see me and Roberto. Because we’re dying to see you.’

‘Eighteen months ago you had a baby, and now you’re dying to see me. Hah!’

‘Don’t be mad’, she pleaded. ‘You know I love you.’

‘What a way to show it!
I
feel bad enough. How do you think Gino is going to take it?’

‘He won’t care – he has his own life with superwoman. She’ll
hate
him being a grandpa. It’ll remove the curl from her hair for a week!’

‘Lucky. I think you’d better visit Gino. I don’t recommend you tell him on the phone.’

‘I’m hardly a child’, she said stubbornly. ‘I don’t have to ask his permission to do anything.’

‘Who’s talking permission?’ Costa replied gently. ‘You can do whatever you want, but I think it would be a nice gesture, don’t you? Gino’s first grandchild, his only one . . . He’s not so young . . . His heart’s not in such great shape . . .’

‘Did something happen?’ she asked quickly, frantically.

‘No, no, nothing happened. But I spoke to him a few weeks ago and he sounded fed-up and bored. He said he missed you.’

‘Did he really?’

‘I don’t make things up.’

She was thoughtful for a moment. Why not visit Gino in California? Take Roberto. Oh, she couldn’t wait to see his face when he saw such a gorgeous baby.
Her
baby.
Her
accomplishment. And she could tell him about the hotel and casino she was going to build in Atlantic City. At last. Without his help.

‘I’ll go’, she decided impulsively. ‘Will you come too, Costa? I’d like that a lot.’

He hesitated. ‘I don’t know if it would be a good idea. There’ll be you, the baby, your husband—’

‘Oh, he won’t come. He’s off on a business trip, and won’t be back for a week.’

‘I thought you said you only got married two days ago.’

‘So what? That doesn’t make us joined at the hip. We both lead our own lives.’

Costa sighed. ‘You young people . . .’

‘Uh . . . he’s not so young . . .’

‘How not so young?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

*   *   *

Paige Wheeler screamed aloud. Several times. Gino Santangelo might be old. But he was dynamite.

Susan never made her scream. Nor did Ryder. But then of course, Ryder was completely disinterested in sex, only business turned him on. One of the reasons Paige enjoyed so many lovers.

She and Gino shared a large double bed in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Paige had booked the suite for a client two days earlier. The Beverly Wilshire was the perfect place for an assignation. Central. Luxurious. And if one was spotted in the lobby or thereabouts, well one was merely visiting Tiffanys (located right next door) or lunching in the very fashionable El Padrino restaurant, or browsing Brentanos bookstore. Perfect alibis, all of them.

‘Hmmm . . .’ said Paige, sitting up in bed and stretching for a cigarette. ‘Now I know why Susan’s always complaining.’

‘What’s she got to complain about?’ asked Gino, reaching across her full breasts for the matches, and lighting her up.

Paige drew deeply on her cigarette. ‘Your . . . er . . . enthusiasm, stamina, and staying power.’

‘You gonna tell me you broads discuss sex?’

‘What else is there to discuss?’

‘An’ she
complains?’

‘Foolish woman.’

‘Jeez!’

‘Susan never did know how to enjoy herself. Poor Tiny had to go elsewhere all the time.’

Gino felt like he was getting an education. Since marrying Susan she had grown less and less willing in the bedroom. The more she pushed him away, the more he tried to please. Christ! He had thought there was something wrong with
him.
Like age had finally caught him with his pants down and he no longer had what it took. He had been knocking himself out, and now her best friend calmly informs him Susan doesn’t like sex. Some act she must have put on in the beginning. Jeez!

‘Is this a revelation, Gino?’

‘A what?’

‘Didn’t you know?’

He felt ridiculous, a position he very rarely found himself in. ‘I guess I knew,’ he said guardedly, ‘otherwise I wouldn’t be here with you today.’

And he had to admit that being with a woman like Paige was a relief after two years of Susan. Paige stripped off all her inhibitions with her clothes. She was no great beauty, but she was an enormously sexy lady.

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,’ Paige said delicately.

‘What would have stopped you?’ Gino replied. ‘A tank?’

She lifted one leg from beneath the sheet and trailed her toes down his chest. ‘You . . .’ she murmured huskily, ‘are a very raunchy man. And I . . . am a very raunchy woman. Do we have to waste our time talking about Susan?’

He lifted her toes to his mouth and sucked on them one by one. ‘Who’s talkin’?’ he growled.

Lennie, Jess, Isaac and his pretty wife, plus a reporter from
Rolling Stone
, flew up to Vegas in a private plane, courtesy of Matt Traynor and the Magiriano Hotel. For about ten minutes they all tried to hide the fact that they were impressed.

Lennie was the first to break. ‘I gotta tell you – if Alice could see me now she’d shit a brick!’

Isaac began to laugh. ‘How about
my
mother, man. She used to clean other people’s floors an’ now her son is flyin’ high. Wait until I tell
her
!’

His wife, Irena, shyly pulled out a camera and started to take snaps. ‘Nothing like a little proof,’ she murmured.

The reporter from
Rolling Stone
was not at all impressed. He flew in private jets with rock stars all the time. He was amused by their excitement and promised not to write about it.

‘Sure,’ muttered Jess, the cynic of the group. ‘He’ll make us out to be a bunch of hicks just off the bus.’

‘Who cares?’ laughed Lennie. ‘All the reader remembers is seeing your name. That’s what you’re always telling me.’

‘Just so long as they spell it right,’ added Isaac, king of clichés.

Jess had negotiated the Magiriano appearance. She negotiated the money on most of Lennie’s deals, but he still kept Isaac on and paid him ten percent commission.

‘We don’t need him anymore,’ she had pointed out to Lennie months ago. ‘He’s talking a free ride.’

‘Let him ride,’ Lennie had said easily. ‘He was there for me when nobody wanted to know. We can afford it.’

When Matt sweetened the Vegas deal with the private plane and other trimmings, Lennie had immediately suggested they take Isaac and Irena along. Jess agreed. She had nothing against them personally, they were a nice couple. It was only business-wise she got angry.

‘I think,’ Lennie said, ‘tonight I am going to blow a thousand dollars at the tables. I always wanted to do that.’

‘How much are they paying you for this gig?’ asked the
Rolling Stone
reporter.

‘He never discusses his money or his sex life – just makes funny about other people’s’, interrupted Jess quickly.

Lennie fixed her with a look. Lately she was coming on a little too heavy. He could answer his own questions, and fully intended to. He needed no wet-nurse.

*   *   *

‘You look so . . . so different!’ Jess exclaimed. ‘You lost weight. You look . . . great.’

Matt smiled. ‘I dumped fifteen pounds. Cut my hair. And I jog – two hours a day. It keeps me sane.’

Gone was the Matt Traynor of old. In his place was a thin, fit-looking man, with grey crew-cut hair and a flat stomach. Instead of the fancy clothes he used to favour, he wore plain dark slacks and a white open-neck shirt. ‘No gold chains’, Jess grinned.

‘Had ‘em melted down and sent to Sammy Davis Jr.’

‘I bet he was thrilled.’

‘Hasn’t stopped calling me since.’

They exchanged smiles.

‘And you?’ he asked. ‘Miss Success Story. When are they writing you up in
Forbes?’

‘When I let ‘em.’

‘Seriously, Jess. I’m very pleased for you.’

‘Thanks.’

She had dressed especially carefully. He hadn’t said a word about how
she
looked.

While minions were frothing about showing Lennie and the others to their suites, he offered her a drink.

‘In your apartment?’ she asked jokingly.

‘I gave it up. I live here now.’

‘Lead the way.’

*   *   *

Lennie’s penthouse suite left nothing to be desired. Water bed. Mirrored ceiling. Jacuzzi. Thick pile carpet. Colour televisions everywhere – including the john. A magnificent terrace with breathtaking views.

Everything.

Except

Eden.

He had thought – only for a moment – what if Eden were here, waiting for him?

Who needed her?

There was a fully stocked bar and plenty of beautiful available showgirls downstairs. He was a star now. He could select anyone he desired.

*   *   *

Not an initialled glass in sight. No fake marble, ornamental gilt, or dimmed pink lighting either. Just a modern functional penthouse with clean lines and a masculine feel.

‘Drink?’ Matt asked.

‘Anything cold and non-alcoholic,’ Jess replied, looking around appreciatively. ‘You’ve changed your style of living,’ she commented.

‘It was about time,’ he replied, fixing her a tall glass of grapefruit juice with shaved ice from behind a high-tech bar.

She accepted the drink and sipped it slowly. ‘Ummm, delicious.’

‘I’ll tell room service.’

‘Is that how you live now? All room service and never having to do anything for yourself?’