Lucky (4 page)

Dimitri arranged the divorce for her. She settled two Ferraris and three million dollars on her second mistake. He never had time to enjoy it. Three months after the divorce, he stepped out of a car in Paris, and was blown to pieces by a terrorist bomb. Olympia had no time to mourn, she was too busy making mistake number three, an impoverished Polish count. Take out the O and you had his number. He lasted sixteen weeks and left her with a title and all his debts.

Olympia decided marriage was out, and indulged in a great many affairs, none of which satisfied her. She began to travel frequently, dividing her time between her Paris apartment, a pied-à-terre in Rome, and the Connaught in London. Summers she spent in the South of France. Gstaad at Christmas. Acapulco when she felt like it. She went through men fast. Most of them bored her after she had sampled their bodies. She needed more than sex, she needed an added thrill.

Married men were fun. And famous men. And powerful men. The more unobtainable they were the better.

Laying them was the kick. After the initial encounter what was left? She needed a challenge. For she discovered something she had known all along – most men were easy lays. And who needed easy?

Olympia’s first lover had taken possession of her body when she was a mere sixteen. The setting was Southern France, in a villa she and her girlfriend, Lucky Santangelo, had ‘borrowed’ from Olympia’s aunt. They were on the run from boarding school, two adventurous little girls with time on their hands, money to burn, a white Mercedes, and inquisitive natures. Often Olympia looked back on those illicit carefree days as the happiest time of her life. No pressures or sneaking photographers behind every bush. No great expectations.

Warris Charters. She remembered him well. Handsome, with corn-coloured hair and slitted green eyes. An older man. A film producer. A broke hustler with an exceedingly active cock.

Sometimes she wondered what had happened to him. Warris Charters, caught with her sixteen-year-old golden curls between his legs giving him a blow job. Caught by her father and Lucky’s father when the two men travelled to the South of France in search of their errant daughters.

The last she had seen of Warris was a nervous figure scurrying into the storm-ridden night clutching two Gucci suitcases and an earful of threats from Dimitri.

She had never heard from him again. Understandably so.

She had never heard from her best friend Lucky Santangelo again either. Not so understandable. After all the experiences they had shared she would have expected at least a phone call. It never occurred to her that Lucky had been forbidden to contact her. What
did
occur to her was that Lucky might have betrayed them. Summoned the two fathers to come and collect them, because she, Olympia, was having all the fun.

Who needed Lucky anyway?

‘
Olympiaaaa
.’ The plaintive cry was accompanied by a sharp pounding on the bathroom door. ‘My beauty. What are you doing in there?’

What did the fool
think
she was doing? Playing with herself?

She flung open the door impatiently.

Lord Jeremy’s naked erectness faced her.

She sighed.

It was a rainy afternoon in Paris.

What else was there to do on a rainy afternoon?

Bikini’d bodies, oiled and gleaming, lay in various stages of undress beside the Magiriano pool. Lennie sauntered aimlessly among them, and remembered the countless times he and Jess had crashed out beside many of the better hotel pools while playing hookey from school. It had become one of their most interesting games, along with cruising the casinos, feeding the slot machines without getting caught, and trying to sneak into the lavish shows. In the end every security guard in town knew their faces, which kind of cramped their style – but certainly not their energy.

Leaving Vegas for New York, at seventeen, was easy. Leaving Jess behind was not. But New York beckoned, and who was he to argue? He looked at least twenty, and was six feet two, with a great body and a tousled handsomeness. A variety of jobs kept him going while he made up his mind what he wanted to do. He had no trouble getting by. A room in Greenwich Village became his home, and there was never a shortage of girlfriends as he coasted along for a couple of years just enjoying the freedom of being in the big city. To survive he did everything from slicing lox in a Sixth Avenue deli, to selling watches in Bloomingdale’s. And the summers he spent in the Catskills, doing busboy duties at one of the busier hotels. It was there he learned that there was more to comedy than pie-in-the-face, drop your pants, Jack Golden style. He discovered the records of the late great Lenny Bruce. (He fantasized for a while that his mother had named him after Lenny Bruce. Just a fantasy. She had named him after a dumb cousin of hers in Miami.) He discovered political humour, irreverent humour, and the straight monologue. At last he realized what he wanted to do with his life, and he set about it with a vengeance.

Writing came first. Routines. Schtick. Brief sketches. Then he found himself an agent who began to sell some of his stuff. Not enough to give up working – but it was a start.

He had a flair for pithy original material. Sometimes it was a little too wild, but gradually his agent developed a steady market of buyers for anything he came up with. By the time he was twenty-four he was able to concentrate full time on creating. He wasn’t making a fortune, but things were moving along nicely, lots of girlfriends, and plenty of good times.

Being back in Vegas was strange.

He passed a slavic blonde with cheekbones that could cut butter. She threw him a long slow look as she suggestively rubbed suntan oil on her thighs. He was not in the mood for a pick-up. Now that he was thirty there had to be more than just getting laid. She did look a little like Eden though. The same high cheekbones, icy blondeness, and cool narrow eyes. Cat eyes.

Eden Antonio. He would never forget the first time he saw her. He was living with a girl named Victoria, a photographic model who looked like Miss Prom Queen – all long lean limbs and whiter than white teeth. He had thought they had a pretty good thing going for the two years they were together. She adored him and gave him all the home comforts he had never received at home. Then one day she introduced him to another model, Eden Antonio.

When he first set eyes on Eden he knew Victoria had merely been the hors d’oeuvre. Eden had just returned from a successful working trip to Europe, and was as feline and sleek as a cat. Unlike Victoria, she did not look like Miss anything. She was pale and exotic looking, with finely etched porcelain features, and a startling bone structure. She was also making more money than him, but things were getting better all the time. He had gotten himself involved in the pilot for a new kind of television show – aptly titled
Off the Wall
– and for the first time he was actually performing, and he loved it. Audience reaction was a charge he had never thought would turn him on to the extent it did. The show was given a weekly spot on a local station. He was twenty-seven and running on all cylinders. Not bad for a boy who had survived in New York without a pot to piss in.

Eden was neurotic, ambitious, and just about the most exciting woman he had ever met. Although she was four years younger than him, she seemed to know so much about life. She had travelled around the world, been with numerous lovers, and struck Lennie as being incredibly sophisticated. Of course, that was in the beginning. After three and a half years of a love/hate relationship, he knew her supposed sophistication for the sham it was. Eden Antonio was the most insecure person he had ever met. At times he felt sorry for her, other times she made him so jealous he could kill.

Eden! What she had put him through. He had physical as well as mental scars from their intense volatile relationship. And yet . . . still he wanted more. They might have fought constantly, but the making up was always worth it.

‘You are what is commonly known as pussy-whipped,’ his friend, Joey Firello, had told him on many occasions. ‘She fucks up your head, and you come back for more. Dump her, Lennie. She’s just a user. A classy tramp.’

Sure she was. He knew that. But he couldn’t help himself.

‘She’s got you by the balls,’ Joey said.

‘No way,’ Lennie replied. But it was true.

Eden adored being seen. Every night she liked to go out on the town. Weekends she attended some half-assed acting class. She wanted to be discovered and become a movie star. She already thought she was a star of sorts. When Lennie’s television show was cancelled after one season, her only comment was, ‘Jesus! And I was just about ready to do a guest shot for you.’

She thought his career was a dead end and often told him so. Not that she gave a damn. Eden never cared about anyone except herself.

She was a terrible actress. Lennie saw her in several class productions and found her embarrassingly inept. As a model nobody could beat her. ‘Why don’t you stick to modelling?’ he asked one Sunday afternoon, having watched her murder a scene from
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

‘
Fuck you
– you sonofabitch!’ she screamed. ‘Are you telling me I’m no good?’

‘I’m telling you you’d be better off doing what you do better than anyone around.’

‘You
bastard!
’ A bottle of scent came flying through the air. ‘You
cocksucker
!’ Followed by a hefty glass ashtray. ‘You jealous
asshole!
’

Two months and many fights later she had taken off for California with an actor from her class. A long-haired jerk named Tim Wealth.

Lennie missed her. Even though he was into performing at small off-beat clubs. Even though he loved every minute. Even though audience reaction was very positive, and gradually he began to build a small but hard-core following.

Reviews – when he got them – were excellent. The money was nothing to get excited about – but he supplemented his salary with writing assignments. His material was always in demand.

In the back of his mind he knew he would follow her to California. Las Vegas was the starting point. If he could make an impression there, then he could head for LA with a real shot. Eden was impressed by success. If he ever made it she’d come running . . .

The slavic blonde beckoned, and he realized he must have been staring. Quickly he moved on, skirting the pool, looking around. A girl lay on a lounge chair in a black one-piece swim-suit. He remembered seeing her stride through the airport earlier. There had been a lot of women since Eden, none of them helped. Each time he thought the next one would be different. They never were. Without pausing he was beside the girl in the black swimsuit, mentally zeroing in on which of his many successful lines he should go with. He decided safe was best, and besides, it always worked. Turn downs were something Lennie Golden knew little about.

‘You,’ he said, ‘are too beautiful to be alone. So what’s it to be? A drink? Breakfast? Or how about diamonds? I give great heist!’

Usually they responded one of two ways. They either laughed, or made a quick request for diamonds. Whatever they did a dialogue was created and from there it was all the way home. Make ’em laugh first, then move in for the kill.

Lucky raised her shades slowly and stared at him coldly.

He fell into her black opal eyes and almost gave up blondes forever.

‘You’ve got to promise to respect me in the morning,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m
very
sensitive.’ He grinned in what he had been told countless times was an irresistible way, and waited for her comment.

‘Back off, schmuck,’ she said disinterestedly. ‘Try the cupcake posing under the palm tree, she looks like she could use a little of your corn syrup. More your style, y’know what I mean?’ She lowered her shades dismissively.

‘Wait a minute, who’s writing your script – me?’ She was a touch icy, but nothing he couldn’t thaw.

Before he could continue further a hand descended on his shoulder, and a burly Swede in blue swim shorts said, ‘This is not a pick-up joint, mister. Please leave.’

He tried to shake the hand off, but Bertil’s grip was firm. ‘Hey, c’mon man. I’m a guest here,’ he objected.

‘Show me your room key,’ said Bertil, propelling him away from Lucky.

He didn’t like being strong-armed. Nor did he like being made to look a fool. ‘Do yourself a favour,’ he exclaimed in disgust. ‘Take your hands off me. I’m appearing here in the Bahia lounge. My name’s Lennie Golden. I’m
talent
for crissakes.’

The scream of a distraught mother distracted everyone. ‘My little girl, she can’t swim!’ yelled the hysterical woman.

Bertil loosened his grip. Two lifeguards and Lennie leaped into the pool. He reached the child first, pulled her up by a mop of hair, and hauled her to the side where Bertil lifted her from his arms and handed her, unhappy but unharmed, to the grateful mother. Lennie pulled himself out and stood dripping in ruined white pants and a shrinking sweater, not to mention water-logged tennis shoes. The two lifeguards shot him filthy looks. Bertil ignored him. The mother was too interested in her rescued offspring to even glance in his direction.

He looked for the girl with the black eyes. How could she resist him now?

She was long gone.

So much for heroics.