Lucky (50 page)

Dessert was richly coated chocolate profiteroles, and as Lucky made desultory conversation with Horace, she noticed Francesca feeding the round, cream-filled delicacies to Dimitri, one at a time – while their eyes exchanged heated looks, and Francesca laughed throatily and licked her darkly painted lips with a snake-tongue.

That sonofabitch is still sleeping with her.

Lucky knew it for sure, and she was furious.

Of course, she had known it from the moment Francesca arrived on board. It was glaringly obvious. The long intimate looks, the hand touching, the attention he paid her. All conclusive evidence. Lucky was no idiot. She was also not in love with him, in fact she never had been. Oh sure, for a moment she had fooled herself that maybe he was the man for her. But looking at things clearly, she had married Dimitri because it seemed the right thing to do for Roberto’s sake, and also – she couldn’t shirk facts – because she wanted to build her hotel more than anything in the world.

Damn! Whatever happened to love? After Marco she was certain she could never love again. Not that white-hot all-consuming passion. And she was right.

Damn! Damn! Damn!

Horace was repeating some inane question. She wished he would shut up. What kind of man was he anyway? He must
know
what was going on.

She narrowed her eyes and tried to formulate a plan of action. First of all, she decided, she was not going to humiliate herself and make a scene. That’s probably what they were all waiting for, this illustrious group.

No, she would bide her time and wait for the right moment to strike.

Why couldn’t Marco have lived?

Her eyes threatened to fill with tears. She blinked them away. Crying was a weakness, and above all else, Lucky Santangelo was strong.

Carrie and Steven arrived in L.A. late in the afternoon. As usual Steven was silent, allowing his resentment and fury to bubble loudly beneath the surface. After checking into the hotel, he turned to Carrie and said, ‘I’ll see you at ten in the morning.’ And that was it. She was on her own. He didn’t care that a long, lonely evening loomed ahead of her.

‘Very well, Steven,’ she replied quietly, walking toward the elevator.

He went to his room – watched the phone for a while, shaved, showered, ordered a half bottle of Scotch from room service, stared at the phone.

At a quarter to seven he picked it up and dialled. A woman answered.

‘This is an emergency,’ he said, his voice controlled. ‘I have to speak to Gino Santangelo at once.’

‘Oh, dear.’ The woman sounded flustered. ‘What kind of emergency? Mr and Mrs Santangelo left the country yesterday. They will be in Europe for two weeks.’

‘Europe?’ he questioned blankly.

‘France,’ the woman said. ‘I can try to contact—’

She was still speaking as he hung up.

Later that night he rented a car and drove past the Santangelo residence. That’s when he became aware of what a protected life these people led, and realization dawned. There was no way Gino Santangelo would listen to him even if he
was
in town. Why was he fooling himself?

Dejected, he drove around for a while, headed back to Sunset, and finally pulled into the parking lot of a bar. He had no idea it was a strip joint until he got inside, and by that time he felt like a drink and really didn’t care what kind of a dump he got it in.

The place was full of men staring at a regal-looking Scandinavian woman who took it off suggestively on a scuffed runway snaking between the chipped tables. Red satin stripped away to reveal smooth flesh, jutting breasts and a thick bush.

Steven ordered a double Scotch from a topless waitress in a grass skirt. She had stringy hair and perky breasts. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen. He felt sorry for her, and when she returned with his drink he dropped her a big tip.

She looked at him with stoned eyes and whispered, ‘I take a break at nine-thirty. I can give you a blow job in the parking lot for twenty bucks.’

Her offer offended him. Was he starting to look like a john?

‘No, thanks,’ he said shortly.

‘Fifteen,’ she whispered hopefully.

‘No.’

‘Ten,’ she pleaded. ‘I’ve gotta kid. He needs things.’

‘What kind of things?’ he asked quickly.

‘Oh,’ she looked around furtively. ‘Food, clothes. You name it.’

‘Bull.’

‘I’m not shittin’ you.’

‘Eh – Desiree,’ the barman yelled. ‘What’s goin’ on over there? You takin’ another order or what?’

She froze like a cornered rat.

‘That’s okay,’ Steven said, ‘bring me another drink.’

On stage the Scandinavian made way for an action-packed Puerto Rican with startlingly white teased hair. She was clad in a cowboy outfit which stayed on her nubile body for exactly three and a half minutes. Then she stripped, until all that remained were tassles on her nipples and crotch. She squatted down and began to twirl, while the audience of men shouted ribald encouragement.

Desiree returned with his second drink.

‘How old is your kid?’ he asked.

‘Nearly two.’

‘And you?’

‘How old do you want me to be?’ she replied coquettishly. ‘I can play schoolgirl or whore. You wanna come back to my place later an’ find out? It’ll cost you fifty – but it’ll be worth every dollar. If you wanna pay me sixty I can quit now, I’ll tell ’em I’m sick.’

‘Desiree!’ screamed the bartender.

‘Well?’ she asked anxiously.

His curiosity was aroused. ‘Quit now’, he decided.

‘The parking lot in five minutes’, she mumbled, and scurried away.

He sat through a few more minutes of twirling nipples. But when the woman on stage began to pick up rolled dollar bills with her crotch, he got up and went outside.

The air was balmy and rich. He stood by his rented car and waited.

Desiree eventually appeared, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, her stringy hair tied back in a ponytail. Now she looked twelve. She walked toward an old Pontiac. ‘Hand over the money and follow me in your car,’ she instructed.

He did not have a large bankroll by any means, but he was caught up in the game. ‘Half now, half later,’ he bargained.

‘You’re not gonna stiff me?’ she pleaded.

‘You’re not going to run off on me?’

‘No way, man. I like you. I’ll make you feel real satisfied.’

He didn’t want to tell her he had no intention of having sex with her. She would consider him a weirdo and run.

Maybe that’s what he was turning into. A fucked-up weirdo who spent his time cruising hooker bars and searching for a father it was too late to find.

Desiree lived in a run-down apartment on a street off Santa Monica. She double-parked her car and told him it was okay to do the same. ‘You’ll hear ’em holler when they wanna get out,’ she stated matter-of-factly.

He followed her up rickety stairs to a small room which contained her life – including a toddler asleep in a battered cot pushed into one corner, and a ragged-looking cat dozing in another.

She switched on a lamp, and said matter-of-factly, ‘You’re not a cop are you?’ And when he shook his head she recited, ‘Straight sex only for sixty. Anything else will cost you extra.’

He indicated the baby. ‘What about him?’

‘No kiddie porn,’ she answered quickly, her blank eyes alarmed.

Steven felt helpless. And very very angry.

‘I meant,’ he said slowly, ‘does he stay in the room? What if he wakes up?’

‘He won’t.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because he just won’t,’ she replied stubbornly.

‘Who looks after him while you’re out working?’

‘He sleeps all the time.’

‘Are you telling me you simply walk out of here and leave him
alone?’

‘He never wakes up.’

‘How are you so sure?’

‘Because I give him a sleeper – it knocks him out cold.’ She glared at him. ‘Does that satisfy you?’

He sat down on the side of the bed. ‘Jesus!’

She took this as a sign, and began to pull her T-shirt over her head.

‘Don’t undress,’ he said quickly.

She pulled her T-shirt back down. ‘I gotta take off my jeans,’ she complained, fiddling with the zipper.

‘I just want to talk,’ he said. ‘Nothing else.’

Restlessly she picked up the scraggy cat, opened the door and threw it out. She was uncomfortable with talk. At least with sex she knew what she was dealing with. ‘I want the rest of my money,’ she whined.

He handed it over, and said, quietly, ‘Do you know that giving a small child sleeping pills is very dangerous?’

‘What are you – a social worker?’

‘It could be fatal. And so could leaving him alone in this fire trap.’

‘Don’t jinx me, man.’

‘Who is his father?’

She laughed aloud. ‘I don’t know. I don’t even care. Who gives a shit anyway?’

‘Maybe
he
will when he’s old enough to ask. Have you thought about that?’

‘Listen, man.’ Suddenly her dull eyes were alive. ‘I
look after
my kid.
You
may not think it’s much – but it’s the best I can do. When he’s old enough to ask, I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll tell him that I kept him with me, paid his way, and he has
nobody
to thank but me – because if it wasn’t for
me
he’d be in some stupid state orphanage without anyone caring.’

Steven didn’t stay around to talk or anything else. He left, her shrill words ringing in his ears
. . . If it wasn’t for me he’d be in some orphanage without anyone caring . . .

If it wasn’t for Carrie that would have been his fate. And how was he repaying her? By dragging her around the country searching for a dream or a nightmare. And she was beginning to hate him for it, he knew it, and who could blame her? He was subjecting her to an ordeal that would alienate her – perhaps forever. For the first time he began to realize just how much she meant to him, and how he was making her suffer. He had shut her out. Maybe the time was right to start opening doors. This chase – this quest for the truth – was heading nowhere.

Early in the morning he called Jerry in New York. ‘I need help,’ he said.

‘What’s happened now?’ sighed Jerry wearily.

‘We’re here in L.A. Gino Santangelo’s not. I called his house and found out he’s away for two weeks. And you know something? I guess I finally realized you’re right – if I turn up at his front door with my story, he’s going to call the cops and bust my ass. Why shouldn’t he?’

‘You had to go all the way to California to find that out?’ Jerry commented dryly.

‘I drove by his house. There are gates, closed-circuit TV, and armed patrol.’

‘Which means you – with your black face – are not going to get near the sonofabitch.’

‘Right.’

‘So you’re calling me for help.’

‘Right.’

There was a long silence, broken finally by Jerry. ‘Steven,’ he said harshly. ‘I’m getting sick and tired of lending you money, handing out free advice, and listening to you bitch.’

‘I agree with you.’

‘What?’

‘I said I agree with you. If I were you, I’d have given up on me a long time ago.’

‘Am I about to hear that you are abandoning this cocka-mamie search and regaining your senses?’

‘I still need to find out who my father is,’ Steven replied seriously. ‘But I’m releasing Carrie from the responsibility. I’m through dragging her around the country. And – if the offer is still open – I’m coming to work for you. It’s time I started paying my debts.’

‘I don’t believe this!’ Jerry exclaimed. ‘One day on the West Coast and you found God!’

‘Cut it out. I need support, not wisecracks.’

‘Have you told Carrie?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Do so. At once. And get your ass back here pronto.’

*   *   *

They were staying at the Hyatt Hotel on Sunset. The California sun was blazing and the lobby was full of tourists. Steven had arranged to meet Carrie by the front entrance at ten. He spotted her from a distance – aloof and erect, forever stylish and ageless, she stood apart from the crowd.

She thought they were going to visit Gino Santangelo. A humiliation she was prepared to go through with for him.

He approached her from behind and hugged her. She was startled.

‘We’re going home,’ he said. ‘Back to New York.’

She searched his face, knew something had changed, and didn’t ask questions.

‘I’ve missed you, Steven,’ she said softly.

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I
do
know.’

From the moment they left the Connaught and set off for London Airport, Olympia was insufferable to everyone, including Lennie. When they reached the plane he had had enough. The first thing she did was insult the stewardess.