Lady Boss (11 page)

A sudden commotion took place as a woman swept through the door, paused dramatically, and said, ‘Olive, dear, is he here?'

Olive jumped to her feet. ‘Miss Rush. He's expecting you.'

A tinkling, phony laugh. ‘Of
course
he is.'

Susie Rush was petite and slim, with straggly yellow hair artfully arranged in neat curls, wide pale blue eyes, porcelain skin, and thin lips. She was almost pretty, certainly petulant. She did not have the presence of a movie star. More girl-next-door than Marilyn Monroe.

Olive buzzed her boss, who apparently didn't hesitate once he got the news. Throwing open the door to his office, along with his arms, he exclaimed, ‘Susie, my
pet!
Come in.'

Susie my pet ran straight into his welcoming arms and nuzzled for a moment or two. Small mewing sounds could be heard. Then the two of them, still in full embrace, entered his office and slammed the door shut.

Olive's nostrils flared. A sign of disapproval? Lucky couldn't be sure. ‘Wasn't that Susie Rush?' she asked brightly.

‘You must
never
ask for autographs,' Olive admonished sternly. ‘It's a studio rule.'

‘I wasn't planning on doing so,' Lucky couldn't help responding.

Olive ignored her, busying herself with a pile of papers on her desk. Susie Rush being in her boss's office was obviously not a thrilling happening.

‘Is there somewhere around here for lunch?' Lucky asked in her best polite voice, hoping to win Olive over.

‘The commissary,' Olive replied, without looking up.

‘Maybe we can lunch together,' Lucky ventured.

‘I rarely eat lunch,' Olive replied brusquely. ‘The commissary is halfway between here and your office. Do give my regards to your aunt.' It was a dismissal, firm and proper.

So… English Olive had a thing about her boss, who was very obviously kissing Susie Rush's ass – if not other parts of her anatomy.

Veree interesting
.

And Mickey Stolli did not want to hand over the budget sheets on his three big movies in production. Even more interesting.

These weren't important discoveries, but it was a start. And at least she'd got a look at the first ‘scum-in-law', Mickey Stolli, a bronzed bullet of a man with cobra eyes and a phony whiter-than-white smile.

Outside the gleaming structure there was a pleasant walkway lined with shady trees, banks of flowers, and in the middle an elaborate fountain. There was also a bench where Lucky stationed herself, all the better to catch the action as people hurried in and out of the main building.

A few secretaries came and went. A couple of executives – recognizable because of their California Casual attire. A tall woman in a tightly belted yellow Donna Karan suit. And finally Susie Rush emerged, hiding behind large white-rimmed sunglasses.

Susie stood on the steps for only a minute before a sleek chocolate-brown limousine slid into position, and she vanished inside.

Five minutes later Mickey Stolli appeared, accompanied by two other men. The three of them set off at a brisk pace.

Lucky trailed them all the way to the commissary, where they were ushered into the private dining room. She found herself a table for two in the crowded main restaurant and sat down.

Now that she looked like a drudge she felt almost invisible. People didn't seem to notice she existed – a good way to get a massive inferiority complex. Fortunately she knew that if she took off the disguise, things would change instantly. The power of appearance was potent indeed. Luce and Lucky – two different people inhabiting two different worlds.

What have I got myself into?
she thought.
One morning and I'm ready to rip off this stupid disguise and run back to real life. How am I going to last six goddamn weeks?

Because it's a challenge.

Right.

‘You're sitting at my table.'

A man. Slight, bespectacled, undernourished. He spoke in an agitated voice.

Lucky checked him out. She judged him to be somewhere in his fifties. ‘I didn't see a reserved sign,' she replied coolly.

He was clearly irritated. ‘Everyone knows this is my table.'

‘Then why don't you sit here, there
is
another chair,' she suggested quite reasonably.

He hesitated for a moment, then, realizing he had no alternative, pulled out a clean handkerchief, dusted off the vacant chair, and sat down. His close-set brown eyes, covered by wire-rimmed spectacles, darted around the room looking everywhere except at her.

A plump waitress appeared at their table. ‘The usual, Harry?' she asked cheerfully, adjusting her diamanté-tipped wing glasses.

‘Yes, thank you, Myrtle,' he replied, rubbing a spot on the brightly checked tablecloth.

Myrtle turned her attention to Lucky, pad poised. ‘Yes, dear? Have you decided?'

‘Can I try a Susie Rush salad?'

‘Why not? Everyone else has.' Myrtle guffawed at her own joke. Harry didn't crack a smile. ‘Beverage?' Myrtle asked.

‘Fresh orange juice,' Lucky replied.

‘Canned or frozen? Take your pick.'

‘I'll just have water.'

Myrtle glanced from Lucky to Harry. ‘You two make a fine pair. The last of the big spenders!'

‘She's friendly,' Lucky remarked as Myrtle departed.

‘Myrtle's not the best waitress here,' Harry confided. ‘Leona is. She would never have let my table go. Unfortunately she's in the hospital at this time attending to her varicose veins. I hope she'll return soon.'

He was definitely a strange one, Lucky thought. ‘Can't wait,' she said flippantly.

He peered across the table, finally looking at her. ‘I beg your pardon?' he said.

Stop being smart, Santangelo. Shape up and act the way you look
.

‘Do you work here?' she asked nicely.

Harry considered her question before answering. ‘I have been at Panther Studios for thirty-three years,' he announced at last. ‘Panther Studios is my home.'

‘Your home?'

‘It seems I have spent more time here than in my own house. My wife left me because of it.'

‘Really?' She tried to look interested. ‘And what do you do around here?'

If Harry had been standing he would have pulled himself up to his full height. As it was he squared his shoulders and answered proudly, ‘I am the Chief Projectionist.'

‘How interesting.'

‘I worked for Mr. Abe Panther himself when he was here,' Harry continued with dignity. ‘This studio was different then, I can tell you.' Realizing that this might sound like a complaint, he stopped himself from saying more.

‘I bet you miss the good old days, huh?' Lucky asked encouragingly.

Harry found a new spot on the tablecloth and began to rub it vigorously. ‘Things change. I understand,' he said in a noncommittal voice. ‘Are you visiting? Or are you employed here?'

‘Sort of both,' Lucky replied. ‘I'm Luce, Sheila Hervey's niece. Y'know, Sheila, Mr. Stone's secretary? Well, she's off sick, and I'm kind of filling in for her.'

‘Sheila doesn't have a niece,' Harry said, blinking rapidly several times.

Son of a bitch!
‘You're looking at her,' Lucky replied without taking a beat.

‘She has one sister, childless, and no other living relatives,' Harry said, adjusting his spectacles. ‘I make it my business to find out about people.'

What was
his
problem? ‘I guess Sheila kept secrets,' she said lightly.

Harry shook his head as if he still didn't believe her, but he didn't question further. In fact he lapsed into silence.

Myrtle brought two glasses of ice water, placed them on the table, and pointed out Johnny Romano as the flamboyant star made his way into the private dining room, flanked by his ever-attentive entourage.

‘Isn't he a big hunk of real man? And
sooo
sexy,' Myrtle gushed, nudging Lucky. ‘I can tell you this, honey – I wouldn't mind crawling into
his
tent one long dark night. How about
you?'

‘Where's my fish?' Harry demanded testily.

‘Still swimming.' Cackling heartily, Myrtle hurried off.

An hour later, Lucky sat in front of Herman's desk again. ‘Why doesn't Mickey want to send you over the budgets?' she asked.

Herman tapped a heavy glass paperweight. ‘I have no idea,' he admitted.

She reached for a cigarette and lit up. ‘You'll just have to keep on pressuring them.'

Herman didn't like her tone, but he said nothing.

‘Oh, and by the way, who's this projectionist guy, Harry something or other?'

Herman thought for a moment and then said, ‘Do you mean Harry Browning?'

‘I guess so.' She exhaled a thin stream of smoke. ‘Skinny man in his fifties – maybe heading full tilt for sixty. Finicky little guy.'

Herman coughed, letting her know the smoke bothered him. ‘Yes, that's Harry Browning. He's one of the oldest employees on the lot. Why do you ask?'

‘Because when I told him who I was, he couldn't wait to tell
me
that Sheila doesn't
have
a. niece.'

Herman clucked nervously. ‘Harry thinks he knows everything. Ignore him, he's a little strange.'

‘Shit, Herman – if Harry knows everything, maybe
he
can give me some info on Mickey Stolli. What do you think?'

‘I'm not sure exactly what you're looking for,' Herman said frostily, offended not only by her smoking, but also by her unladylike language.

‘All the things
you
missed,' she replied pointedly.

In six weeks she was going to have to put this old guy out to gaze at the stars. His days as a studio executive were definitely numbered.

‘OK, Herman, I'll tell you what to do. Call Harry whatsit. If he asks you, assure him I'm Sheila's niece – make up a “long-lost” story or something. And while you're at it, arrange for a screening of all the dailies on
Macho Man
. I want to see what it's like.'

‘But—'

She stubbed out her cigarette. Smoking was a bad habit she had to give up. ‘Don't even fight it, Herman. You're supposed to have clout, so use it for once. Let us not forget you are Abe Panther's representative, and it's about time you started kicking ass, because if you don't, I'm going to be awfully tempted.'

Herman twitched.

‘Right now I'm out of here,' she continued. ‘I am hot. I am tired. And tomorrow I'll start again. I'll see you in the morning.'

Sheila's car broke down on Hollywood Boulevard. Lucky got out, gave it a vicious kick – hurting her foot in the process – and strode into the porno theatre the car had chosen to die in front of.

‘Can I use your phone?' she asked the gum-chewing blonde behind the ticket counter.

‘Out on the street,' lisped Blondie. ‘Two blocks down.'

‘You don't have a phone here?'

‘S'private.'

Lucky pulled off the hideous glasses that were driving her crazy and stared at the woman with her deadly black eyes. ‘Will ten bucks make it public?'

The woman didn't hesitate. ‘Gimme the money.'

Lucky waved a ten in the air. The woman grabbed, stuffed it down her mottled cleavage, and produced a filthy white phone hidden on the floor.

A customer buying a ticket for
Hot Tight Lust
, the current movie on show, nudged closer to Lucky as she punched out a number. ‘Wanna come in with me?' he offered suggestively. ‘I'll spring fer ya ticket, cutie.'

She smiled, a cold smile. ‘Take your ticket
and
mine. Roll them tightly, then shove them up your dumb ass. OK,
cutie?
'

He snatched his ticket and ran.

Lucky spoke into the receiver, a plaintive cry for help. ‘Boogie? Come get me. School's out and I've
had
it.'

‘Where
is
Lucky?' Steven asked impatiently. ‘I've been trying to reach her for days and nobody seems able to give me an intelligent answer.'

‘Japan,' Gino lied with a straight face. ‘You know how she likes to make the big deals herself. And I understand this is some killer.'

The two men sat companionably next to each other in a steak house with sawdust on the floor and autographed photographs of boxers on the walls.

The more time Gino spent with Steven the more he enjoyed his company. Steven was a no-bullshit guy, like himself. They didn't share the same set of morals, but that was OK too.

When Gino had first learned of Steven's existence it had been a tremendous shock. Not only did he get the news
you have a son
, but
your son is black
really sent him reeling.

Lucky couldn't have been more thrilled. ‘I always wanted another brother,' she'd said. ‘And now I've got a black brother. Hey – thank you, Gino. You really come up with wild surprises. You're the best!'

He'd searched his memory for the one time he'd slept with Steven's mother, Carrie, and had finally remembered. A few hours of pleasure, and forty-five years later a son.

The revelation had come two years earlier, and he was over the shock now. Steven had arranged a reunion with him and Carrie before she died. She'd turned out to be an elegant woman in her sixties who bore no resemblance to the young teenage girl he'd once made love to. They'd gotten along just fine.

Gino had reconciled himself to the fact that while Steven could never replace Dario – the son he'd lost to the Bonnatti family's murdering hands – he was certainly a true comfort to have around. Not to mention Mary-Lou, his pretty and talented wife, who made the best pasta this side of Little Italy.

‘Why do you need to reach Lucky?' Gino asked.

‘Nothing important. I like to talk to her every so often. Usually she calls me back.'