Lady Boss (19 page)

It was time to get ready for the Stollis' dinner party. After applying an alabaster-white makeup with darkened eyes and bright red lips, she pinned her platinum hair on top of her head and marched into her walk-in closet to survey the possibilities. Abigaile Stolli's secretary had said ties for the men and pretty for the women. What the fuck did
that
mean?

Venus Maria selected a black suit with a thin pinstripe – cut masculine style. Under it she chose a matching vest which only just covered her breasts. On her feet she wore white stockings and granny-style lace-up black boots.

She chose her jewellery carefully – deciding on silver hoop earrings accompanied by three small diamond studs embedded in each ear, and eight thin silver and gold bangles on both wrists. The Venus Maria look was complete.

A star was ready to face the world.

The driveway leading to Abe Panther's house was shrouded in darkness. Talk about creepy! Lucky wasn't frightened of the dark, but surely the old guy could afford a few lights?

She'd decided against bringing Boogie, he'd only have to sit outside in the car all night.

From the studio she'd driven straight back to her rented house, bypassing Sheila Hervey's depressing apartment where Boogie had installed an answering machine with a remote so if anyone from the studio called her – such as Olive or Harry Browning – she would know about it.

Once at the house she'd thrown off the hated wig, dumped the heavy glasses, stripped off the disgusting clothes, and dived into the pool for a welcome and invigorating swim.

She'd swum twenty lengths before quitting, and then she'd hurried to get ready for an evening with good old Abe. There wasn't even time to call Gino.

Inga answered the door of Abe's Miller Drive house. Big-boned Inga with her cropped hair and sour expression.

‘Hello,' Lucky said pleasantly.

Inga merely gave a curt nod and stomped off, obviously expecting Lucky to follow, which she did.

Abe was in the dining room sitting at one end of an elaborate oak table. ‘You're late,' he snapped impatiently, indicating she should occupy the chair next to him.

‘I wasn't aware we were running on a strict timetable,' Lucky remarked.

Gnarled fingers beat out a rhythm on the table. ‘I always eat at six o'clock.'

She glanced at her watch. ‘It's only twelve past.'

‘That means I've been sitting here for twelve minutes,' he said crossly.

‘C'mon, Abe, lighten up,' Lucky said, attempting to put him in a better mood. ‘Eating dinner a few minutes late is hardly a disaster. And frankly, I wouldn't mind being offered a drink.'

‘What do you drink, girlie?'

‘Jack Daniels. What do
you
drink?' she replied, challenging him.

He admired her attitude. ‘Whatever I goddamn feel like.'

‘And what do you feel like tonight?'

‘I'll join you. Two Jack Daniels, on the rocks. Pronto! Pronto!' He issued these instructions to an uptight Inga, who stormed off without saying a word.

‘Used to have a houseful of servants,' Abe offered. ‘Hated it! Couldn't take a crap without somebody smellin' it.'

Lucky laughed. It felt good to laugh. She realized she'd been taking the whole Panther Studios deal too seriously. It was time to lie back and relax. Not too much, just enough to let it all go for a night.

‘Y'know, my father, Gino, is in town. I'd love to bring him up here one day,' she said, thinking to herself how well the two old men would get along.

‘Why?' Abe snapped. ‘He and I acquainted or somethin'?'

‘Maybe. He built one of the first hotels in Las Vegas, the Mirage.'

‘I remember the Mirage,' Abe said gruffly. ‘Lost ten thousand big ones at the crap tables. That was way back when ten thousand meant somethin'. Today you can't buy nothin' for ten thousand bucks.'

‘You wouldn't want to buy anything anyway, you never leave the house.'

‘Why should I?' he demanded testily. ‘You think I'm crazy? I know all about what goes on out on the streets today. You think I want t'get mugged an' shot at? No, thank you, girlie. No, thank you very much.'

Inga appeared, carrying the drinks. She placed them on the table with a disapproving thump.

Abe cackled. ‘She don't like me to drink,' he said, taking a hearty swig. ‘Thinks I'm too old. Thinks the old tick-tock can't take it. Ain't that right, Inga?'

‘You do whatever pleases you,' Inga replied dourly. ‘I can't stop you.'

‘Don't even try,' he warned, shaking a bony finger in her direction.

‘You're only as old as you feel,' Lucky said cheerfully. ‘That's what my father says. He's decided to stick at forty-five – he's actually seventy-nine, though you'd never believe it. The man is amazing.'

‘Seventy-nine's not old,' Abe scoffed. ‘I was still runnin' the studio in my seventies.' Realizing Inga had remained standing beside him, he waved her away with his bird-like arms. ‘Shoo! Shoo! Go get the food. I'm a hungry old dinosaur, an' I want to eat
now!
Hurry, woman.'

Once more Inga departed to do his bidding.

‘Uh… how does she feel about our deal?' Lucky asked curiously.

Abe shrugged. ‘What do I care?'

‘You must care,' Lucky insisted. ‘Inga's been with you a long time. She looks after you. Surely you depend on her? I don't see anyone else around taking care of your needs.'

‘I employ two gardeners, a pool man who comes in twice a week, an' two maids,' Abe said grandly. ‘Inga sits on her big Swedish bottom all day doin' nothin'. She should kiss my ass to have such a life.'

Lucky got to the point. ‘I'm sure. But can you trust her? I mean, we don't want her blowing my cover. She's not exactly friendly towards me, you know.'

Abe began to laugh. ‘Inga does what's good for her,' he cackled. ‘She's a smart one. She's thought it out, an' she knows it's better for her if I sell the studio
before
I die, that way she gets a stash of cash. If I
don't
sell the studio, she's going to have a fight on her hands with my granddaughters. Those two'll tie her up in court forever.'

‘Why?'

‘Because they're greedy. It runs in the family. They'll want everything I've got. No sharing.'

‘But they'll still inherit all your money.'

He cocked his head on one side, a canny old man with a plan. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. I could move to Bora Bora an' give it all away to a cats' home before I go.'

‘Then you'd
really
have a fight on your hands.'

‘Not me, girlie. I'll be ten foot under. I could care less.' He tapped his gnarled fingers on the table. ‘Now, let's get down to business. I want to hear everything you've got. Every goddamn detail.'

* * *

Mickey Stolli prepared to leave the studio early. ‘If my wife calls, tell her I'm in an important meeting and cannot be disturbed,' he instructed Olive. ‘Whatever you do, don't let her know I've left.'

‘Yes, Mr. Stolli.'

Mickey was not in a good mood, and he was wise enough to realize he had to do something about it before going home to Abigaile's perfect little dinner party. Christ! How he hated her parties. Phony conversations. Too much rich food. And everyone as secretly bored as he was.

Why did she have to do it to him? Just so she could see her name in George Christy's column? Big deal. He worked like a slave at the studio all week – wouldn't it be nice to come home to some much-needed rest and relaxation?

Tonight Cooper Turner would corner him about the movie. Venus Maria would do the same. They both wanted to complain about something or other.

How did he know?

Movie stars. They were all the same. Their part was never big enough. Their percentage didn't satisfy. And their close-ups were too few and far between.

Zeppo White would also want to talk business. Fucking social-climbing ex-agent snob. Zeppo thought he was running Orpheus Studios. He couldn't run an errand! Mickey missed the days when Howard Soloman was in charge. Howard was a goer – a little whacked out, especially when he had the coke problem, but a real studio man. Howard
knew
what it was all about. And it was about making money, not hosting lousy dinner parties…

Just as he was about to leave the building, Eddie Kane grabbed him.

‘Gotta talk to you, Mickey,' Eddie said urgently, hanging onto his arm. ‘It's important.'

‘Not now,' Mickey replied, freeing himself with a quick shake. He didn't like being touched unless he instigated it.

‘When?' Eddie demanded. He was a sandy-haired, attractive man in his early forties, with Don Johnson stubble, transparent blue eyes, and a penchant for crumpled sports clothes. A former child star, the innocence he'd once been famous for had settled into a kind of bemused adulthood.

Eddie and Mickey went way back – almost twenty-five years. For a while Mickey had been his agent, nailing his once hot career right into the ground. When Eddie had given up acting – or rather when acting had given up him – Mickey had found him a job at his agency. Too mundane for Eddie – after a while he got bored and took off for Hawaii, where he became a production manager on a private-eye television series. The drugs were plentiful and good, but eventually they got him into trouble, and once again he was on the move. Back in L.A. Mickey helped him out. He used a little influence, and fixed Eddie up with a job at Panther.

As Mickey rose to power, so he took Eddie along with him. Mickey knew the wisdom of surrounding himself with grateful people.

Now Eddie Kane had plenty of clout; a gorgeous wife; a simple little two-million-dollar Malibu beach house; and an out-of-control cocaine habit.

‘Speak to Olive. She'll set it up,' Mickey said, already on his way.

‘Tomorrow?' Eddie asked anxiously. ‘Cause we gotta talk, man. This is serious shit.'

‘Check with Olive.'

Mickey ducked out of the building and hurried to his car. He could, if he so desired, have a limousine and chauffeur on twenty-four-hour call. But there were occasions for formality and times for privacy. Today he needed privacy. What he didn't need was Eddie Kane driving him crazy. Eddie was an asset who at any moment could turn into a major liability. Drug users were bad news. Mickey had given quite a lot of thought to cutting him loose.

A dream. Eddie knew too much.

Mickey made a mental note to call Leslie, Eddie's wife, and talk to her about getting her husband into drug rehab. Lately he looked stoned all the time, and that wasn't good for business.

Behind the wheel of his Porsche, Mickey felt in complete control. He had his stereo equipment, a CD player, a telephone, and emergency supplies in the trunk should he ever get caught in an earthquake.

Mickey thought about earthquakes quite a lot. He fantasized all sorts of scenarios. His favourite was the one where Abigaile was shopping in Magnins or Saks – buying just another little five-thousand-dollar evening purse – when the big one hit, and poor Abby was buried beneath a mountain of designer goods and suffocated by a rare two-hundred-thousand-dollar sable coat.

Fortunately, in his fantasy, the earthquake bypassed the studio and both his houses. Tabitha was safe, and so were his cars. Only Abby got it.

Naturally he arranged a magnificent funeral. Abe Panther would have attended, but the shock of the earthquake was too much for him, and the feisty son of a bitch finally expired.

At last Mickey Stolli was a free man – and Panther Studios was legally his. When Primrose and Ben Harrison arrived in L.A. to claim their share, a freeway overpass collapsed on their limo and crushed them out of his life.

What a fantasy! The best!

Mickey waved to the studio guard as he shot out of the gates.

The man saluted him. They all loved him at the studio, he was their king – their ruler! He was Mickey Stolli, and they all wanted to be him.

* * *

Everything was in place – the china, the glassware, the finest linens and silver.

Clad in a sweeping silk robe, Abigaile prowled around her pristine mansion checking details.

An army of servants were all present. Her permanent staff – Jeffries, her English butler, and Mrs. Jeffries, his plump wife who acted as housekeeper. Jacko, a young Australian who cleaned the cars and did driving duties for Tabitha – tonight he would be assisting Jeffries. And Consuela and Firella, her two Spanish maids.

Hired for the evening were three valet parkers, two bartenders, a cook with two assistants, and a special dessert chef.

The total was a staff of fourteen to look after twelve guests. Abigaile liked to do things right. She was Hollywood royalty, after all. She was Abe Panther's granddaughter, and people expected a certain level of style. Her own mother, long dead – killed along with her father in a boating accident – had been a fine hostess, entertaining lavishly. When Abigaile and Primrose were children they'd been allowed to peek in at some of the extravagant parties. Grandfather Abe was always present – surrounded by the great movie stars of the time, often with a dazzling beauty on each arm.

Abigaile had always been in awe of her grandfather. It wasn't until after his stroke that she'd been able to deal with him at all. Now she visited him as little as possible, and secretly wished he would fade quietly away so she could take centre stage.

She loathed Inga, and Inga loathed her. They barely spoke when Abigaile arrived at the house with Abe's grandchild, Tabitha, a precocious thirteen-year-old. It was difficult for Abigaile to persuade Tabitha to accompany her, but a touch of bribery usually did it, for she refused to go alone.

‘Why do I have to come every time?' Tabitha whined.

‘Because one of these days you're going to be a very rich little girl indeed. And you'd better remember where the money is coming from.'