Lady Boss (6 page)

‘I was reflecting on your lurid past.'

‘Sweetheart, you don't know nothin'.'

‘Bullshit.'

‘My daughter the lady.'

‘Just what you wanted, huh?'

Their eyes met, full of warmth. Gino summoned the waitress and ordered his favourite red wine and hot crusty bread to be brought to their table immediately.

‘It's on the way,' the waitress said triumphantly.

He pinched her big ass, making her day. ‘What a girl!' he said, and then he turned his full attention to Lucky. ‘How's Bobby – an' more important, when am I gonna see him?'

Gino was crazy about his grandchild, and never stopped complaining about the boy being educated in England.

‘Bobby is fine,' Lucky replied. ‘I speak to him every day. Naturally he sends you his love. You're his favourite, as if you didn't know.'

‘The kid would be better off in New York,' Gino grumbled. ‘He's an American, he should be here. What's he gonna learn in one of them fancy schmancy English schools?'

She did not feel the time was right to remind her father that Bobby was half Greek. ‘Manners,' she said.

‘Ha!' Gino snorted his amusement. ‘I sent you to Switzerland to learn manners, an' look what happened to you!'

‘Yeah, look what happened to me. I
really
bummed out, didn't I?'

The waitress poured a drop of wine for Gino to taste. He sipped, nodded. ‘You're one hell of a Santangelo,' he said, facing his daughter. ‘You got my street smarts, your mother's class,
and
you're a looker on top of it all. We did OK by you, kiddo, huh?'

‘Thanks a lot. Don't
I
get any credit?' Lucky asked good-naturedly.

‘It's all in the genes, kid.'

‘Sure.'

Gino's eyes scanned the restaurant as he drank his favourite wine and tore into the freshly baked bread. ‘So,' he said slowly, ‘tell me, what's so important that I had to leave Paige? She thinks I got another broad stashed away.'

‘At your age?' Lucky asked, raising a sceptical eyebrow.

‘Listen, kid, age has nothin' t'do with nothin'. Just remember that. In your head you're always whatever age you wanna be – an'
I'm
stickin' to forty-five.
Capisce?
'

My father is a remarkable man
, Lucky thought.
He's probably going to die on the job — humping his way to heaven!

‘You're grinnin' again,' Gino said. ‘What's up? Are you pregnant? You an' Lennie hit the old jackpot, huh? Is that what you got to tell me?'

‘No
way!
'

‘OK, OK, so don't get excited. It's about time Bobby had a brother or sister, I'm only askin'.'

‘Why is it that whenever a woman has a secret, every man in the world naturally assumes she's pregnant?'

‘So stab me in the back. I came up with a bad guess.'

Taking a deep breath she made her announcement. ‘I'm going to buy a movie studio.'

‘You're gonna do
what?
'

‘I'm buying Panther Studios,' Lucky went on excitedly. ‘The studio that has Lennie tied to a three-picture deal.' Her eyes glowed. ‘You see, the truth is he's hating every minute of the movie he's shooting now. He wants out, and
I'm
going to arrange it. Not out – but control. All the control he wants! Isn't it a sensational idea?
I
own the studio, and
he
gets his freedom.'

‘Slow down, kid – an' correct me if I'm readin' you wrong. But the thought here seems to be that you're gonna buy a film studio just 'cause your old man is not havin' a day at the beach. Am I hittin' it straight on?'

‘You got it!' Lucky was on a roll. She felt the adrenaline coursing through her body. Telling Gino was a kick. When she'd financed and built the Magiriano Hotel in Vegas by herself, and her father had seen the results, it had been a real triumph. Somehow, purchasing a movie studio was even more of a thrill.

Gino laughed derisively. ‘What the hell do
you
know about makin' movies?' he asked.

‘What did
you
know about running a hotel when you put up the Mirage in 1902?' Lucky countered.

‘It was 1951, smart ass, an' I knew plenty.'

‘Like what?' she challenged.

‘Like more than
you
know about the goddamn picture business.'

‘What I don't know, I'll find out. I plan to surround myself with professionals. If you look around at some of the jerks in charge of major studios you can see it's no big challenge. Panther is coasting along on cheap exploitation flicks and stars' ego trips. I'm going to turn the studio around and make it hot again.'

Gino shrugged, sipped more wine, and shook his head. ‘Yeah, you're my daughter all right. You're a Santangelo.'

With a smile she charmed him. ‘Was there ever any question?'

Three hours later they'd finished two bottles of wine, eaten a mound of spaghetti and clam sauce, dallied with a dishful of home-made pastries, and were now on hot, whisky-soaked Irish coffees.

‘Cholesterol heaven!' Lucky murmured happily. ‘Are you
sure
you're supposed to do this at your age?'

He winked. ‘I'm forty-five, remember?'

She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. ‘I do love you, Gino… uh… Daddy.' It was only on very special occasions that she called him daddy.

Basking in her affection, he said, ‘It's mutual, kid. You never doubted it, didja?'

Yes, lots of times
, she wanted to say.
When Mommy was murdered and you withdrew from your children. And how about the time you paid to marry me off to Senator Richmond's dumb son when I was only sixteen? And shutting me out of the family business. And treating me like women were an inferior species. And marrying that Beverly Hills bitch Susan Martino and almost adopting her scuzzy, fully grown children…

Oh yes, there were plenty of bad memories. But now things couldn't be better. They were a team. And somehow she knew it would never change.

‘You've been edgy for the last three days,' Mary-Lou said, massaging Steven's left foot. ‘What is it, honey? Are you ever going to tell me, or have I just got to carry on tiptoeing around your bad mood like a zombie?'

Steven roused himself from Johnny Carson's television monologue. ‘What bad mood are you talking about?'

Mary-Lou dropped his foot and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Either you're going to tell me, or you're not. Obviously you're not, so quit with the short answers and long silences, otherwise
I
am out of here.' She raised her voice. ‘You hear me, Steven? O-U-T.'

He looked faintly amused. ‘Where would you go?'

‘Go? Me? I'm a star, honey, I can go where I want. So there!'

Lazily he reached for her. ‘With that big belly?'

She pulled away. ‘Don't try an' sweet-talk me now. You're too late.'

His hands found their way to her swollen breasts, where they lingered.

She didn't move. A good sign. Maybe he could short-stop a fight and get lost in her warmness. He needed comforting and nurturing – not a damned argument.

‘Steven,' she murmured in a low voice that was neither denial nor acceptance.

With practised ease he continued to fondle her breasts, springing one of them free from the confines of a lacy nightgown, and bending his head to play small circling games with his tongue.

‘Steven Berkeley,' she sighed breathlessly, ‘I
really
hate you.'

There was no more talking after that. Three years of marriage and they were both still hopelessly turned on by each other.

On television Johnny Carson continued to entertain.

In the Berkeley household no one was watching.

The next morning Mary-Lou was up first. She showered, dressed in a sensible tracksuit, and sat on the side of the bed waiting for Steven to wake up.

He rolled into consciousness, foggily aware it was Saturday, his favourite day.

As soon as he opened his eyes Mary-Lou pounced. ‘About time, lover boy,' she said matter-of-factly. ‘Now let's continue that conversation we never finished last night.'

Piece by piece she dragged it out of him until eventually he confided the whole story to her. What else could he do? She was relentless when it came to extracting information.

He told her about Deena Swanson and their bizarre meeting. And then he told her about Jerry – the fool – who'd laughed the whole thing off and claimed they were dealing with a crazy woman, and no way was he handing back a million-bucks retainer, no damn way.

‘Perhaps she
is
crazy,' Mary-Lou mused. ‘She must be, to even tell you she's considering murdering someone. I'm sure she's putting you on.'

‘Great. Just great.
You're
sure she's putting us on,' Steven replied sarcastically, jumping out of bed. ‘That solves everything. Now I can go about my business with a clear conscience.' He stalked into the bathroom. ‘Let's not worry about the poor victim, huh?' he called over his shoulder.

‘There
is
no victim,' Mary-Lou pointed out.

‘Yet,' Steven replied ominously.

‘And there won't be.'

He was annoyed. ‘For chrissakes, Mary-Lou. Don't come off as if you know what the hell you're talking about.'

Slamming the bathroom door he stared at himself in the mirror.
Satisfied?
his inner voice lectured,
you've betrayed a client-lawyer confidence, and hurt your pregnant wife's feelings. All in one morning too. How clever can you get?

By the time he emerged, Mary-Lou had left the house, leaving behind a terse note saying she would not be back until late.

Steven was really pissed off. They always spent Saturdays together, shopping for food, catching a movie, dropping by Bloomingdales, and finally, when they came home and she began to do things around the house, he was able to collapse on the couch in front of the television and watch sport.

Now their day was ruined thanks to Mrs. Deena Swanson.

He considered calling Jerry and telling him exactly what he could do with Deena Swanson's million bucks. But then again, maybe Jerry was right: maybe they should keep the money and wait for nothing to happen. Deena Swanson was no dangerous killer. She was a very rich woman with a grudge against someone – and there was no way she was ever going to go through with her plan to commit the perfect murder.

Besides, what could either he or Jerry do? Talk was talk, and lawyer-client privilege was supposed to be sacrosanct.

So why had he spilled the goods to Mary-Lou and spoiled a perfect day?

Because it bothered him. He didn't like it. He felt caught in a trap.

On the other hand, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Impulsively he picked up the phone and dialled Lucky's number. He hadn't seen her in a few weeks and he wouldn't mind talking to her. She was something else, his half-sister – a really incredible woman who'd added so much to his life, especially since the death of Carrie, his mother, who'd died peacefully in her sleep of a heart attack.

He really missed Carrie. She'd raised him alone, and in spite of terrible beginnings had managed to give him a sense of values, a great education, and a chance to succeed.

For many years she'd lied to him about his father – claimed that he'd died when Steven was a small boy. One day he'd found out the truth. His real father was Gino Santangelo, a man Carrie had slept with only once, and never told the result of that union.

The truth was difficult to accept, for Gino too, but gradually, over the last eighteen months, they'd forged a relationship. Hardly father and son, but a strong bond of mutual respect.

Lucky was different. She'd accepted him as her half-brother with immediate warmth. And when Carrie was alive she'd embraced her into the family too. He would always love Lucky for that. She was a very special woman.

The answering machine picked up at her apartment. Steven left a message and then tried Gino. ‘How about lunch?' he asked.

‘What is it with my kids this week?' Gino demanded gruffly. ‘I got Paige in town. Don't that mean nothin' to any of you?'

Steven was delighted to be called one of Gino's kids. It was taking time but he was getting there. ‘How about I buy you
both
lunch?' he suggested.

‘When Paige is here I don't eat,' Gino replied. ‘Y'know how it is.'

‘Hey, sorry I asked.'

‘Don't be sorry, call me Monday.'

* * *

Paige Wheeler wore a lacy brown garter belt, silk stockings, very high heels, a push-up bra, and nothing else. Although nearing fifty, she was still a very attractive woman with her pocket Venus figure, abundance of copper-coloured frizzy hair, husky voice, and sensual smile.

Gino, who'd had more women in his life than most rock stars, couldn't get enough of her. To him she was the perfect companion to grow old with – a smart, sassy broad who appreciated Frank Sinatra, enjoyed sex, and could hold a more than decent conversation.

‘Who was that?' Paige asked as soon as he put the phone down.

‘Steven. He wanted to take us to lunch. I told him to forget it.'

‘Why?' She paraded in front of him, spreading her legs in a dancer's stance.

‘Why the hell d'you think?' he replied, grabbing her. ‘Has anyone ever told you you're one hot number?'

She smiled. ‘Yes, you, Gino. Constantly. And I love it.'

He put his hand down the top of her stocking. ‘Get on your knees an' say that.'

‘If you insist. However, let me remind you – a lady
never
speaks with her mouth full!'

When they were done, Gino collapsed on the bed, his heart pounding at a roaring pace.