Lucky (69 page)

The truth of the matter was that Santino was in charge. He always had been.

She knew, without a doubt, that she should have got out a long time ago, for slowly and surely he was getting worse all the time. When he reneged on his promise to star her in the movie he financed for Vitos Felicidade she should have made her move then.

But no. She just sat in the house on Blue Jay Way – guarded by Zeko the baboon, and went along with everything Santino wanted. When she
did
finally get up the courage to split, he refused to let her. ‘Ya’ll go when I friggin’ wancha to,’ he had told her ominously. ‘An’ don’t worry, I’ll let y’know when that day is. Only don’t count on it bein’ too soon.’

So far the moment had not arrived. She was weak, and she knew it. The longer she left her escape the more difficult it would be. And she wasn’t getting any younger . . .

She turned over beneath the sheets and lay flat on her stomach. Nobody would believe her if she told them what was going on. Nobody would believe that in Los Angeles, in 1983, a woman could be kept a sexual prisoner by someone like Santino Bonnatti.

Of course, she could go to the police if she ever got the opportunity – which she didn’t – Zeko was on her case all the time. And even if she
did
go to the cops – what then? She had no proof that Santino threatened her constantly, made her do things she found repulsive and obscene, and swore he would carve her face up if she ever ran out on him.

‘What about my career?’ she demanded as often as possible. ‘You promised me a movie. You
know
you promised me.’

He let the bait dangle, never withdrew it completely. ‘Ya gotta play the right part,’ he promised. ‘When that comes along, it’s yours, honey puss.’

The right part had not existed in the final script of the Felicidade movie. An established actress had been cast as the love interest. Then Santino had put up the money for
Private Dick,
Lennie Golden’s first film. Eden had seen the script, and
known
the girl’s role was for her. ‘I want to do it,’ she had told Santino breathlessly. God! If she could get to Lennie and tell him what was happening to her, he would help her, she knew it.

‘I got no input on this one,’ Santino spat. ‘I’m just puttin’ up the friggin’ green stuff on account of the fact I think it’ll be a moneymaker.’

He was right.
Private Dick
broke records. Lennie Golden became a star. Eden never even got to go to the opening. Santino took his fat wife, while she sat home staring at television, with Zeko lurking in a corner picking his nose.

What a horrible trap she was caught in. She lived in a beautiful house. She had gorgeous clothes – for when Santino took her out he wanted her to knock his friends’ eyes out. And what else?

Nothing.

Her life was nothing.

She was nothing.

Restlessly she kicked off the sheets. A Mexican gardener working on the foliage outside nearly dropped his hose.

She reached for the phone. She knew Santino taped all her calls, but she was allowed a couple of girlfriends to have lunch with occasionally. Ulla, and Paige Wheeler – not exactly a girl, but a sympathetic friend. She was tempted to tell Paige everything in the hope that she could help.

Sure. She could really help when Eden hit the hospital with her face carved up and her looks gone forever.

*   *   *

‘Faster,’ ordered Santino to his driver as they sped along the freeway heading for L.A. after a business meeting in San Diego.

‘Everything okay, boss?’ asked Blackie, seated next to the driver.

‘Y’know what I’m gonna put on your tombstone,’ Santino growled. ‘Everythin’ okay, boss? Ya sound like a fuckin’ record.’

‘Sorry, boss.

‘Forget it.’

Santino struggled out of his jacket and folded it carefully. The slight aroma of his own sweat twitched at his nostrils. It bothered him. Goddamn deodorants. They never worked. He should go into the deodorant business – he’d own the world. Santino was not in a good mood. It had been a bad week. Lucky Santangelo had finally opened her lousy hotel in Atlantic City and it burned the shit out of him. He had done everything in his power to stop it from happening – put up road blocks everywhere – and then, just like that, his fucking brother Carlo had called him from New York. ‘The word is out you’re to cease bothering the lady.’

The lady! What fucking lady? Lucky Santangelo was a cunt and one of these days he was going to get her good.

‘What word?’ Santino screamed. ‘Who from?’

‘There was a meeting yesterday. A vote was taken. You are to stop harassing her.’

Santino stopped. He knew who to listen to.

That didn’t mean it was over. One of these days he would get the bitch . . . one of these days . . .

Like all good Californians Lennie learned to play tennis. When he wasn’t filming he awoke at seven – no need to worry about disturbing Olympia – they had separate bedrooms. Then, after showering and shaving, he sometimes drove over to Ryder Wheeler’s house where they played three punishing sets. Occasionally Paige was around. He enjoyed seeing Ryder’s wife, she was a lot of fun and he liked hearing all the latest ‘trash’ – her word for gossip.

When he left there, he went home and worked. Six or seven hours locked in his study with his new toy – a word processor – was not unusual. Sometimes he would break for lunch – sometimes he wouldn’t.

He had a few women dotted around the city he could call at any time – usually attractive working females, who were delighted to see him, and made no demands. They knew he was married – he could hardly hide it, and they accepted that fact. Occasionally he would visit one of them, and just end up talking the afternoon away. Sex was no big deal since Lucky exited his life. Sex was just . . . getting laid.

He knew he had to leave Olympia. Their marriage meant nothing. He had only stayed to see her through the series of operations which had restored her looks. Besides, he had no pressing reason to make the move. Lucky was not waiting. She didn’t give a damn. For three years she had ignored him – not responding to any of his attempts to contact her. She was still with Dimitri – and it burned the hell out of him.

However, enough was
more
than enough, and Olympia’s looks were finally regained. So was her personality. She was the same rich spoiled heiress, and when he wasn’t locked away working – which was most of the time – they fought constantly.

‘I think we should get a divorce,’ he told her one day, as they skidded out of yet another fracas.

She stopped mid-sentence and stared at him. Pained blue eyes in a piggy face. ‘I don’t want a divorce,’ she said quickly.

‘Hey – listen.’ He walked to the bar and fixed himself a bourbon. ‘We were never a match made in heaven.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘Maybe because it’s true.’

‘Just because I’m slightly overweight—’

‘It has nothing to do with your weight.’

‘Oh yes it does,’ she yelled. ‘You hate me because you think I’m fat, you lousy bastard. It wasn’t
my
fault I was in a plane crash. It wasn’t
my
fault—’

Oh shit. Freedom was not going to be easy. Every time he brought it up it was the same old story.

‘Sonofabitch,’ she mumbled. ‘Why don’t
you
desert me too? Everyone else has. Big fucking movie star. Take off, Lennie. You think I care? Shit. I don’t care. Maybe I’ll kill myself – would that be more convenient for you? Would you like that?’ She began to sob theatrically.

‘Cut it out, Olympia,’ he said grimly. ‘You know I’m not going to leave until you’re ready.’

He meant what he said. After all, he had nowhere to go. And her suicide threats – which she made often – bothered him. He didn’t want to feel responsible if anything happened to her.

He knew Lucky was about to open the hotel she had built in Atlantic City. Some PR had sent them an invitation to the opening. For one wild moment he had contemplated attending. But what good would it do? Screw Lucky Santangelo.

He hated her.

No he didn’t.

Yes he did.

Lucky . . . Lucky . . . She was with him every day.

Once a month Dimitri telephoned and spoke dutifully to his daughter. It was always the same conversation. The ‘how are you’ speech, Lennie called it. The duty call.

‘I can’t stand him!’ Olympia always shrieked when she slammed down the phone. ‘I don’t know why he bothers. He treated me as if I didn’t exist when I was in the hospital practically dead. And I hate that bitch he’s married to as well. Lucky fucking Santangelo. You know something? He wishes I was the one who died in the crash, not his precious Francesca.’

Although he didn’t voice an opinion, Lennie was inclined to agree with her. Dimitri obviously couldn’t care less if he ever saw his daughter again. She was a sorry reminder of his lost love. But his granddaughter, Brigette, was another matter. She spent most of her vacations with Dimitri, and that suited Olympia just fine. In fact, Brigette had not visited them for over a year, although she was due to arrive within days, shortly after attending the opening of Lucky’s new hotel.

The last time she had been at the house was with dear old Alice, who turned up with an out of work actor of twenty, and a raving queen of fifty. The three of them got drunk and very disorderly, and Lennie had never invited her back. Alice complained at first, but he discovered that if he sent her money – lots of it – she shut up and left him alone. He hadn’t seen her in over a year.

Thank Christ he had his work. It was all-consuming. He didn’t think about much else. Writing and starring in movies was a twenty-five hour a day occupation. No time to worry about real life and what might have been. Just get on out there and do it.

*   *   *

Jess loved lunching with Paige Wheeler. Paige was the only person she could be seen in public with and not feel short, for Paige was only inches taller than she. And Paige talked dirty. None of the Hollywood bullshit for her. She said what was on her mind, and it was usually outrageous and funny.

‘Did you ever go to bed with Lennie?’ Paige asked, as soon as they were settled at a table in the Bistro Garden.

‘What kind of a question is that?’ Jess giggled. ‘He’s my friend. You don’t go to bed with your best friend.’

‘Oh no?’ winked Paige.

‘You’re terrible!’ laughed Jess.

The women had become friendly when Ryder started producing Lennie’s movies.

‘I can ask, can’t I?’ chided Paige. ‘I think he’s very hot-looking. Sometimes the hot ones turn out to be duds in bed.’

‘Not Lennie.’

‘I thought you said—’

‘His reputation goes before him. Don’t forget, I’ve known him since we were kids.’

They consulted the menu and ordered a light lunch.

‘I’m going to Atlantic City this weekend,’ Jess confided over the chopped salad.

‘Anything or anyone I should know about?’ Paige asked, twirling her fingers around the stem of a wine glass.

Jess’s eyes were sparkling. ‘There’s this guy – an older man—’

‘The best kind,’ Paige murmured.

‘He sort of liked me – once,’ Jess continued. ‘But, you know, he was one of those guys that had it on offer all the time – so I didn’t jump.’

‘Good for you. Although
I’m
always wondering what I might have missed!’

‘When I went back to Vegas a few years ago with Lennie, he was different. Like he didn’t come on, he was very cool and—’

Paige finished the sentence for her – ‘naturally you wanted him at once.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Simple. It’s always that way. They want you – you don’t want
them.
You want them – they don’t want you.’ She leaned forward with interest. ‘What’s happened now?’

Jess grinned. ‘He wants
me.
I think.’

‘And do you—’

‘Yes!’

Paige nodded with satisfaction. ‘That’s wonderful. Who is he? And does he deserve you?’

‘His name is Matt Traynor. He used to run the Magiriano Hotel in Vegas for Gino Santangelo. Now he’s running Lucky Santangelo’s new hotel in Atlantic City. He’s kind of fiftyish, and—’

Paige tuned out as Jess gave a full description of Matt. The sound of Gino’s name evoked embarrassing memories. He never
had
allowed her to explain – and what could she have said anyway?

‘—and so he called and invited me for the weekend. Says he
has to
talk to me and can’t do it on the phone.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ said Paige encouragingly.

Jess grinned. ‘I hope so. To tell you the truth, if I have to go out on
one more
date and make stupid conversation, I’ll ace myself!’

*   *   *

Olympia called her drug dealer. She had several. They knew her well, and trusted her. Dealing by mail was usually out. But for Olympia Stanislopoulos, anything was possible. She hoarded drugs. She had a formidable supply. And she had the best place in the world to keep her stash – a secret room shown her by the realtor on the day they moved into the Bel Air mansion. While Lennie was downstairs he had led Olympia to the back of her dressing area, pressed a hidden button, and there, revealed by a sliding panel, was a small window-less room. ‘To keep your dope in,’ the realtor had joked.