Authors: Jackie Collins
The Santangelos (38 page)
She felt like a fool. How could she have doubted him? He was probably with Lucky and the rest of his family.
Was he missing her? If he was, he certainly wasn’t blowing up the phone lines to reach out.
She wondered if she should call him. Then she decided that no, she had to make up with him in person. Bobby was a one-on-one kind of guy.
“Weren’t things supposed to be happening this week?” Sam said over the phone.
He sounded uptight. Willow didn’t blame him; she too had thought everything was about to fall into place. Eddie had promised that he’d fast-track their movie as soon as she presented the cash to him, followed by the rest of the up-front money to get things moving.
The problem was that
she
wasn’t responsible for getting the money, Alejandro was, and it appeared he was doing jack shit about coming up with it.
“If nothing comes together today, then I’m out,” Sam threatened.
She hung up on Sam and called Alejandro. Matias informed her that his boss had been out all night and was still sleeping.
Out all night doing what? Fucking his brains out and snorting blow? It was late afternoon, for crissake. He’d better get it together or this deal was going away. She’d certainly done her part. She’d gotten them the services of a known screenwriter
and
solicited Eddie Falcon to represent them. It was disappointing, because if Alejandro didn’t come through, they were on a fast track to nowhere.
She took a shower, vigorously scrubbing off all traces of Ralph Maestro’s sickeningly sweet aftershave. When she was finished, she called Eddie on his private line—the line his assistant/agent-in-training did not listen in on.
“Bad move,” Eddie growled.
“Bad move what?” she asked innocently.
“You know what,” he snapped.
“I didn’t fuck him,” she lied.
“Yes you did,” Eddie said accusingly.
“What if I did?” she said defiantly. After all, it wasn’t as if she had to answer to Eddie Falcon. He was a married man.
“It’s not right, Willow,” he said, sounding uptight.
“Could be if he helps out with our movie,” she said flippantly.
“Don’t you get it?” Eddie blustered. “He’s my fucking
father-in-law
, for crissake. He’s family.”
“So?”
“So you should’ve taken that into account.”
“Why?”
“Jesus Christ, you’re a real pain in my ass.”
“One of these days I could be your stepmother-in-law,” she announced, teasing him. “Wouldn’t
that
be a blast. Imagine what holidays would be like. Christmas Day—you and me in the bathroom, me sucking you off, while Annabelle and Ralph bond like a father and daughter should.”
“You’re sick, you know that?”
“Oh yes, and you’re so perfect,” she said, knowing that she was turning him on.
After a long pause, he said, “You coming over?”
“When did you have in mind?”
“Later—after everyone’s gone.”
“Why do I always have to wait till everyone’s out of there?” she complained.
“Because I say so.”
“Seems you’re forgetting that I’m a legitimate client again.”
“Premature.”
“Excuse me?”
“Forget it,” Eddie said gruffly. “Be here at six. Use my private elevator.”
“And we’ll discuss our project?”
“Sure.”
“Anything else you’d like from me, Mr. Big Shot Falcon?” she asked coyly.
“I’d like you to stop fucking my father-in-law,” he said with a surly grunt.
“I’ll take it under consideration,” she said, clicking off her phone and grinning to herself.
Eddie was jealous. Good. It would force him to pay attention. And if there was one thing that Willow loved, it was attention.
* * *
Alejandro surfaced late in the afternoon. Matias gave him his messages—including one from Rafael saying he was on his way back to L.A. Summoning his housekeeper, Alejandro ordered coffee and an omelet, then he reflected on the previous night’s activities. He pictured the two plain Valley girls standing in front of him wearing nothing except the plastic baggies of drugs taped to their imperfect bodies. Then he pictured himself ripping the baggies off the girls, listening to them squeal with pain as the tape tore at their skin.
Thinking about it gave him an immediate erection, which pleased him. He’d been taking so much Viagra lately that he wasn’t sure if he could get it up without the little blue pill.
It wasn’t that he needed Viagra like some decrepit old man. No, he simply enjoyed the explosive effect. In his mind, Viagra was heroin for his cock.
Sitting up in bed, he reached for the remote and tuned into afternoon television. He really enjoyed the talk shows with their dyke hosts and needy audiences. So many women seeking love advice. Who
wouldn’t
enjoy imagining them naked—all different shapes and sizes—all searching for a man who could satisfy them?
The women in the audiences reminded him of the two girls, his obedient drug mules. Girls who would do anything for money.
Thinking of money reminded him of Willow. Matias had mentioned she’d called, so he reached for his cell and called her back.
“Where’s the money?” she said, sounding shrill. “We can’t get anything started without the cash.”
“Rafael’s on his way back. He’ll have everything.”
“He only just left,” Willow pointed out.
“What difference does that make?” Alejandro said, watching a female on
The Daytona Rich Show
burst into tears because her boyfriend had cheated on her. She exhibited no shame in front of millions of people.
“Does this mean you’ll have the cash tomorrow?” Willow asked impatiently.
“Maybe,” Alejandro said, opening his nightstand drawer and reaching for a small glassine packet of coke, which he proceeded to tip out onto the top of the nightstand.
“I hope so, ’cause I’ve got everyone on hold,” Willow said.
“Keep ’em there,” Alejandro said, leaning over to snort a line.
“Should I come by later?”
“Not tonight,” Alejandro said, thinking that if the Puerto Rican with the juicy ass returned, she was going to be all his.
Willow couldn’t make up her mind whether she was relieved or pissed off. Relieved won out—because how many cocks could she service in one day? First the afternoon fling with Ralph. Then later she knew Eddie would expect oral—he always did. So dealing with Alejandro might’ve been one cock too many.
“Then tomorrow for sure?” she said. “I’ll come over around noon to pick up the cash. We can work on an announcement for the trades, and maybe discuss hiring a top PR. Publicity is king, and it’s essential that we hire the best.”
Alejandro snorted another line. “Okay,” he mumbled.
They both clicked off at the same time.
Settling back into his bed, Alejandro continued watching TV.
Willow went into her bathroom and started getting ready for her meeting with Eddie.
Soon their movie would be set to go.
Both of them envisioned a place for themselves in the Hollywood sun.
Persuasion is a funny thing. Sometimes it takes money. Sometimes it takes violence. Chris was adept at either, depending on what the situation called for.
Pedro, it turned out, was the scruffy and unkempt brother Chris had encountered earlier—except now he’d cleaned himself up and he actually resembled the man from the security tape. Chris suddenly realized that he
was
the man.
Exactly as Chris had expected, Pedro came up behind him in the parking lot, stuck a gun in his ribs, and muttered, “Who t’ fuck send you t’ me, mothafucker?”
This was not the first time Chris had experienced a gun in his ribs, and it probably wasn’t going to be the last. It didn’t faze him. In fact, it didn’t bother him at all, for he knew that whenever he felt like it, he could disarm this ass-wipe and take control.
Timing was everything.
“You killed a girl in Chicago,” Chris said evenly. “Why’d you do it?”
“Who’re you, her husband?” Pedro sneered.
“Nope. I’m simply an interested party.”
Pedro dug him hard with the gun, not understanding why the
pedazo de mierda
wasn’t shaking in his boots. “I ain’t askin’ again—where’d you hear ’bout me?” he snarled.
“Tell me what happened in Chicago,” Chris countered.
“Listen t’ me, mothafucker—”
Enough,
Chris thought.
I don’t have the time to be standing here going around in circles
.
With one swift move that Pedro didn’t see coming, he disarmed the man—sticking Pedro’s own gun in his stomach. “I’m asking nicely. It’s up to you, because if you don’t care to answer, we’ll be here until you do.”
“What t’ fuck—” Pedro fumed, trying to figure out what had just taken place. He was not used to being the victim.
“Yeah, what the fuck is right,” Chris said. “Glad that you’re finally getting it, ’cause I don’t have the time nor the inclination to hang around waiting for you to tell me something that you
will
tell me, whether it be now or hours from now. Your choice. Now, who hired you to go to Chicago?”
There was something in Chris’s tone that convinced Pedro he meant business. But Pedro was canny enough to realize that if this big lug wanted information, then why shouldn’t he get paid for it?
“How much?” he muttered.
“How much what?” Chris responded.
“How much you gonna pay me for the info I got?”
It’s never easy,
Chris thought with a weary sigh.
How come I always have to end up hurting someone before they give it up? And this ass-wipe will eventually give it up, whether he wants to or not
.
Of course he
could
pay him. But why would he pay a piece of shit murderer? No. He’d get the information he required, then he’d do Detective Cole’s job for him and point the detective in the direction of the real killer, because he had no doubt that’s who Pedro was.
Jamming the gun in Pedro’s stomach, he began moving him toward his van.
“Okay, okay,” Pedro muttered. “We stay out here. I tell you what you wanna know.”
And with that he jerked his knee up—making a vain attempt to throw Chris off balance. Chris saw it coming and swiftly sidestepped, jamming the gun even harder into Pedro’s soft gut.
“You want me to shoot you?” Chris threatened. “How do you feel about a bullet in your belly? ’Cause one more move like that, an’ I’ll do it.”
Pedro grunted.
They reached the van. Chris shoved him roughly into the back. It was time to get some answers.
* * *
A couple of hours later, Lucky felt the phone she had tucked under her pillow vibrate.
Rolling over in bed, she glanced quickly at Lennie. He was sleeping soundly. Grabbing her phone, she hurried downstairs to the kitchen.
Chris had texted her.
Pedro A involved with Bobby setup. No connection to Gino. Call me a.m
.
Did he honestly think she was waiting until the morning to call him? No way.
Grabbing a 7-Up from the fridge, she made her way into her study, shutting the door behind her. Popping open the can, she called Chris.
“I thought you’d be asleep,” he said.
“And
I
thought I’d hear from you earlier.”
“I got held up. Had to deal with some uh … dental work.”
“Dental work?”
“Don’t ask.”
“So … tell me everything.”
“Not over the phone, Lucky. I’ll meet you for breakfast.”
“It’s not a good idea for you to come to the house. Bobby’s starting to make noise about getting involved, and that’s the last thing I need. I want Bobby kept out of this.”
“Where, then?”
“There’s a breakfast truck parked above Zuma beach. I’ll see you there at seven.”
“Got it.”
* * *
At six-thirty
A.M.
Lucky managed to exit the house undetected. Lennie was a heavy sleeper, and the boys were sleeping too, having played video games until three
A.M.
She informed the security guard at the front of the house that she was taking a drive.
“Should I come with you, Mrs. Golden?” the guard asked, edging toward her.
“No thanks,” she said.
“Mr. Golden told us—”
“Yes, I know,” she said impatiently. “He told you I should have company, and
you
can tell Mr. Golden that you tried, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hmm … since when had she become “ma’am”?
She’d left Lennie a note on the bathroom mirror.
Meeting Chris for breakfast. Will call you later
.
He’d be pissed, but so what? She didn’t have to answer to him. Truth was, she didn’t have to answer to anyone. And the same went for him. Their marriage worked because they gave each other the freedom to do whatever they wanted. Unfortunately, Gino’s murder had freaked Lennie out, and that was because he knew what she was capable of, and he didn’t want her putting herself in danger. Lennie didn’t understand what revenge meant. He did not share the same mind-set on that subject.
The Pacific Coast Highway was clear, no traffic. Lucky raced her Ferrari down the winding stretch of road, impatient to hear what Chris would have to say.
She arrived at Zuma early and spotted Chris’s van already there, parked near the food truck.
It occurred to her that although she and Chris shared a great working relationship, she actually knew nothing about his personal life. Was he married? Did he have kids? Or maybe just a girlfriend?
Who knew? Not she. For Gino had taught her that it wasn’t wise to pry into people’s personal lives, not unless they offered up the information.
Chris was not offering.
She was not asking.
Chris had seen her drive onto the spacious open lot and was already approaching her. “Morning,” he said.
“Hard night?” she asked, noticing that he looked tired.
“Flying in and out of Chicago in one day wasn’t the greatest. I’m here, though,” he said with a casual shrug.
“Let’s get coffee,” she said, striding toward the food truck as a couple of early-morning surfers passed by all suited up and ready for action.
