Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge (14 page)

Luke was in the middle of a session when they entered the studio. His assistant, a skinny girl in khaki overalls and scuffed combat boots, led them over to the bar and told them to wait.

Luke was busy shooting Cybil Wilde, the gorgeous blond model. Cybil wore lingerie of the see-through kind and a toothpaste-ad smile. It didn’t seem to faze her at all that the studio was packed with people.

“Who
are
all these bodies?” Brigette whispered.

“Ad executives, hair, makeup, stylists,” Nona replied. “When they shot my mom for
Vanity Fair
, there were more people than this.”

Loud rock music blasted from several speakers. A side table was set up with a full salad bar and plenty of snacks. The atmosphere was tense even though Cybil seemed to laugh a lot.

Every time Luke took a break, people sprang at Cybil, fussing with her hair, touching up her makeup, adjusting the tiny red lace bra and bikini panties that barely covered her luscious curves.

Brigette tried to imagine herself in Cybil’s place. Would it be fun? Would she like it?

When Cybil finally went off to change, Luke came over to the bar. “Hello, ladies,” he said, running a hand through his spiky hair.

“What’s the panic?” Nona asked. “You told me to get Brigette up here immediately.”

“Let me finish this gig,” Luke said. “Then I’ll take you two girls out for dinner.”

“I’m supposed to be seeing Zan later,” Nona objected. “And Brigette’s exhausted. She only just got off a plane.”

“Have Zan meet us. In fact, I want him there, too.”

“Can we at least go home and change?” Nona grumbled.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I didn’t realize this session was going to run over. Tell you what—let’s meet at Mario’s, eight o’clock. We’ll get into everything then.”

Nona frowned. “Exactly
what
are we getting into?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Luke replied ingenuously, like
it was no big thing. “Rock ‘n’ Roll Jeans want Brigette and Zandino to carry the ad. You were right, Nona—they’re gonna be superstars!”

LUCKY FINISHED OFF MOST OF THE PITCHER OF
margaritas before falling asleep. When she awoke she experienced a fleeting moment of confusion—where the hell was she?

Then she remembered. She was in a car with Alex Woods and they were on their way to visit Gino in Palm Springs.

She glanced over at Alex. He had the demeanor of a man who’d always gotten his own way—strong profile, rugged jawline, probably a selfish sonofabitch with women.

She couldn’t help wondering if he was a good lover.

No…too into himself.

“Hey—” she said, languidly stretching. “Where are we?”

“On the road. You drank everything in sight and fell asleep.”

She laughed softly. “It’s a habit I have.”

“That’s okay.”

“Gee…thanks,” she murmured, reaching for the pitcher of margaritas wedged precariously against the back of her seat. She took a couple of healthy swigs. “Guess I should call Gino, warn him we’re heading in his direction.”

“You didn’t call him from the restaurant?”

“Don’t sweat it, he’ll be thrilled to see us.”

“He’s
your
father.”

“Yeah, and he’s the greatest, although…I have to admit…we didn’t always get along.”

He had a feeling she wanted to talk. “How come?” he asked, making it easy for her.

“Gino wanted a boy. Got me instead. I turned out to be more than he could handle.” She grinned at the memories. “I was a wild child. Uncontrollable.”

“And now?”

“A mere shadow of my former self.”

“What was so wild about you, Lucky?” he asked, genuinely interested.

“Oh, the usual,” she said casually. “Ran away from school, fucked a lot of guys, tried to take over my father’s business, threatened to cut off one of his investor’s dicks if he didn’t put up the money he owed.”

“A nice, simple girl,” Alex said sarcastically.

“Trust me, it worked. When you mess with a guy’s dick, it
always
works.”

“And now you’re running a studio. Perfect.”

“Y’know,” she said thoughtfully, “Gino always warned me to check on everyone around me—and to double-check everyone around
them
. In other words”—she put on a tough guy voice—“don’t trust no one.
Capishe?
”

“He sounds like a smart guy.”

“Yeah,” she said ruefully. “He sure is.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“There’s nothing to tell. I’ve simply got this gut feeling that something bad is about to happen. Don’t ask me why.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Alex said, “I didn’t think nice Italian girls fucked around.”

She laughed good-naturedly, “Oh, baby, baby…what a sheltered life
you’ve
led.”

“
Me?
” he said incredulously. Hadn’t she read his press clippings?

She paused and lit a cigarette. “How come out of everything I said, the only thing you commented on was that nice Italian girls aren’t supposed to screw around? Hmmm…Could it be that the bad boy of movies, Mr. Sexually Anything Goes is—deep down—dare I say it—a prude?”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

She smiled slyly. “Girls do talk, y’know. Wanna hear what the word is on you?”

He couldn’t resist falling into the trap. “What?”

Dragging on her cigarette, she blew a steady stream of smoke into his face. “Big boy on campus. Doesn’t give head.”

“
Jesus!
”

“Oh, sorry,” she said innocently. “Am I shocking you?”

He was completely perplexed. Lucky Santangelo was certifiably crazy.

“You say things to get a reaction, don’t you?” he asked.

“Isn’t that the whole point?”

He drove on in silence, trying to figure her out.

“Why’n’t we pull off at the next exit?” she suggested. “We’re all out of margaritas.”

Alex had to admit, he was intrigued. He had not expected Lucky to be so unpredictable. She had an aura of strength about her, as if she could handle any situation and come out on top. It was unnerving. He was not used to women who projected such confidence.

So far she hadn’t mentioned Lennie, and it didn’t seem appropriate for him to bring it up; if she wanted to talk about it, she’d no doubt do so.

He changed lanes and pulled off the freeway. The territory was desolate—there was not much going on
except a gas station, a hamburger joint, and a seedy roadhouse with a neon sign flashing
LIVE NAKED GIRLS

Alex slowed the car. “We’re in the wastelands,” he said. “This appears to be it.”

“Define
live
naked girls,” Lucky said, frowning. “Is that as opposed to
dead
naked girls?”

“Not your kind of place, huh?”

“Seems our choice is limited.”

He shrugged. “Don’t blame me.”

“Alex, when you know me better you’ll realize I
always
accept responsibility.”

“Former wild child straightens out. I like it.”

“Fuck you,” she said casually.

He looked her straight in the eye. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“You’d better leave me alone tonight, Alex. I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.”

And as she said it, it came to her. That’s
exactly
what she needed to do. Hurt someone the way Lennie had hurt her. It was bad enough that he’d gotten himself killed—but when he’d gone, he’d left enough evidence of infidelity to make her hate him forever. There was only one way to even the score.

They parked the car and entered the crowded bar. Big surprise—it was filled with men, most of them swigging bottled beer.

A harassed underage waitress in boots, a cowboy hat, and micro skirt darted about carrying a tray. She was topless, with small, droopy breasts and a lackluster smile. At one end of the bar was a circular platform where a large blond stripper undulated her out-of-shape body up and down a shiny pole wearing only a frayed pink G-string and fake silver cuff bracelets. Dolly Parton blared from the jukebox. Every time the stripper squatted down, rolls of excess flesh doubled over her stomach and hips.

“Lovely,” Lucky muttered, taking a seat at the bar while every guy in the place checked her out.

Alex slid on the stool beside her. He carried an unlicensed gun in his car; after taking a look around, he was sorry he hadn’t brought it in with him.

“Tequila,” Lucky said to the bartender, a gnarled old man with sunken cheeks and a permanent scowl. He ignored her, waiting for Alex to give him the order.

“Tequila for the lady,” Alex said, getting the picture. “And I’ll have a bourbon and water.”

“Make mine a double,” Lucky said, impatiently tapping her fingernails on the bar. The bartender shuffled off.

The big blond stripper reached the end of her act, snatched off her G-string, turned her back to the crowd, bent over, and shook her huge blob of an ass at the paying customers. There was a scattering of groans and catcalls.

“What a bunch of pathetic losers,” Lucky said, checking out the place. “I mean, take a look at these jerks—why aren’t they at home with their wives?”

“I didn’t promise you the Ritz in Paris,” Alex said. “And keep your voice down.”

“You didn’t promise me shit,” Lucky replied, the booze finally getting to her. “But, hey—we’re here, let’s make the most of it.”

The bartender returned with their drinks. Lucky downed her tequila in one shot. A John Travolta clone, perched on a stool on the other side of her, let loose an admiring whistle.

“Another one,” Lucky said.

“Are we ever gonna make it to your father’s?” Alex sighed, signaling the bartender.

“Tell me the truth,” Lucky said, swaying slightly on the rickety bar stool. “Is that the only reason you’re with me tonight? To meet Gino?”

“What do
you
think?”

“I think we’re together ’cause we both have a need for something different.” She fixed him with a long, knowing look. “Am I right?”

“Perceptive.”

“Oh, yeah, that I am. So fucking perceptive that I truly believed Lennie was faithful.”

“And he wasn’t?”

“Don’t wanna get into it,” she snapped, sorry she’d mentioned something so private.

A short man clad in a too tight leisure suit jumped up on stage. “Okay, folks,” he bellowed, his cheeks red from the effort. “Here’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for—the star of our show! Give her a great big hand—and we all know where!” Snicker, snicker. “Here she is—our special queen of the night—Driving Miss Daisy!”

An extremely ugly black woman with an incredible body hit the stage with a burst of unbridled energy. She was clad in a white fringed bra, bikini panties, and a peaked chauffeur’s cap. The Rolling Stones were on the jukebox and Driving Miss Daisy immediately began taking it off to the strains of “Honky Tonk Woman.” The audience went wild.

Alex considered her almost naked ebony flesh. “I should find a walk-on for her in
Gangsters
,” he mused. “She’s got quite a look.”

“Why not?” Lucky replied coolly. “What would your movie be without the obligatory strip scene?”

She had a smart answer for everything. “Hey, it’s what’s happening, Lucky,” he said, knowing she’d give him an argument.

“Maybe it is, but how come you moviemakers are so predictable? It’s always two actors sitting in a strip joint while the camera spends the entire scene zooming in for close-ups of the stripper’s tits and ass. When are you
guys gonna realize those scenes have been done to death?”

“What
is
it with you? The first time we met all you could talk about was actors taking it off.”

“Did that offend you?”

“Women don’t want to see that. It’s a man’s world.”

“You’d
like
it to be a man’s world,” she said forcefully. “You’d like it to
stay
a man’s world. But women do what they want today, and women don’t mind taking a peek at naked guys. Why do you think Richard Gere is a star today? ’Cause he flashed his nuts in
Looking for Mr. Goodbar
, and women loved him for being so honest.”

Driving Miss Daisy did something obscene with the pole, causing quite a commotion among her audience. Several guys threw dollar bills onstage.

“A friend of mine was in the hospital and I took her
Playgirl
to read,” Lucky continued, getting into it. “Now, you’d think the nurses would’ve seen
plenty
of male equipment. But let me tell you—they went apeshit when they got a load of the guys in this magazine. They grabbed it, showed it to every other nurse on the floor. They were
thrilled
.”

He shook his head. “You don’t get it.”

She smiled, unperturbed. “No, Alex,
you
don’t get it.”

Driving Miss Daisy was divesting her clothes at a rapid pace. Flinging her bra into the audience, she twirled the two fringed pasties barely covering each erect nipple. Her bikini bottom was long gone, replaced by a hardly there G-string. Coated with a fine film of sweat, she moved like a sinewy gazelle.

“I wonder how she got here,” Lucky mused. “This seedy two-bit bar in the middle of nowhere.”

“That’s
my
deal,” Alex said. “Finding out people’s stories.”

“Then writing about them and turning them into a movie.”

“Beats packing meat.”

Driving Miss Daisy squatted down, cleverly picking up dollar bills between her thighs. The John Travolta clone on Lucky’s left yelled his appreciation.

“Asshole,” Lucky muttered.

“From what I hear, yours is a pretty interesting story,” Alex ventured, curious to hear what she had to say.

“I told you—I was a wild child,” she said lightly. “I didn’t tell you about the guy I shot. Self-defense, of course.”

Jesus! She
was
a wild one. “No, you didn’t tell me that,” he said quietly.

“Enzio Bonnatti, he was the man responsible for killing my mother and brother, and, uh…there were a few other minor incidents along the way that made me who I am today.”

She was actually sitting there calmly telling him that she’d killed somebody. Perhaps they had more in common than he’d thought. He’d killed in Vietnam, only he’d had an excuse, it was called war.

He wondered if she suffered from the same nightmares that often crept up on him without warning. Middle of the night panic attacks.

“You’re a very unusual woman, Lucky,” he said, clearing his throat.

She watched him carefully for a moment. He didn’t know the half of it. Maybe she was talking too much; it might be prudent to change the subject before he got too intrigued. “And you, Alex? Ever been married?”

“No,” he said guardedly.

“Never?” She shook her head disbelievingly. “How old are you?”

“Forty-seven.”

“Hmm…that means you’re either very smart, or you have a fatal flaw.”

He picked up his drink. “What are you—a shrink?”

She regarded him steadily. “Guys who aren’t married
by your age usually suffer from major hang-ups—otherwise some woman would’ve picked you off long ago.”

“There’s a simple answer. I’ve never met anybody I’d be prepared to spend the rest of my life with.”

“I’ve done it three times,” she said lightly. “It’s not so nerve-racking after the first time.”

“And the first time was…?”

“Craven Richmond. Senator Peter Richmond’s little boy. God, was he a moron! And I was stuck with him.” She laughed at the memory. “Gino married me off because he could. Peter owed him a favor.”

“Must’ve been some favor.”

“It was.”

“Do I get to hear about it?”

“Not until I know you better.”

“And after Craven?”

“Dimitri Stanislopoulos, a man old enough to be my father.” She paused for a moment. “Actually, he
was
the father of my best friend, Olympia.” She giggled, recalling her juvenile delinquent past. “We were two little bad girls who ran away from school together.”

“You must’ve really been something.”

“Oh, yeah! I gave jailbait a whole new meaning.”

“I bet you did.”

“Anyway, while I was married to Dimitri, I caught him in bed with Francesca Fern—the opera singer. She was a rival of Maria Callas’s, and
very
demanding. He didn’t want to leave me, but, boy, he sure wanted to fuck the life out of
her
.”