Lady Boss (20 page)

‘Daddy's got money, I'll take his.'

Daddy couldn't take a piss in the moonlight if it wasn't for your great-grandfather
, Abigaile wanted to say – but she always stopped herself just in time.

‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Mrs. Stolli?'

Jeffries was dogging her footsteps, the old fool. The fact that he was English was a plus. He was also unutterably nosy, and so was his wife. Abigaile suspected that if the opportunity ever arose they would sell her secrets to the gossip rags without so much as a twinge of regret.

Not that they knew any of her secrets.

Not that she had any.

Well… maybe a few…

‘No, Jeffries,' she said tartly, spying a dead branch on a prominent orchid arrangement. She plucked at the offending twig – pulling it out, scattering earth on the expensive Chinese rug. ‘What exactly is
this?
' she asked accusingly.

Jeffries had been waiting for this moment. ‘If you will recall, Mrs. Stolli, you gave the entire staff instructions we were
never
to touch the house plants or floral arrangements.'

‘Why would I do that?' she asked testily.

A small moment of triumph. ‘Because, Mrs. Stolli, you said that only the plant man was to tend them.'

Aggravation. ‘I did?'

‘Yes, Mrs. Stolli.'

‘And where
is
the plant man?'

‘He only comes on Fridays.'

God! Servants! Especially English ones. ‘Thank you, Jeffries. In the meantime have someone clean up the mess before Mr. Stolli gets home.'

When he gets home
, she added silently. For Mickey had this bad habit of always being late for his own dinner parties.

It drove Abigaile crazy.

* * *

Mickey Stolli wore his socks – pale grey Italian silk – and nothing else. He had a thing about his feet: he thought they were ugly and never allowed anyone to see them.

Surprisingly enough, even though he was devoid of hair on his head, his body was covered in tufts of black hair. A patch here, a patch there – strange little outbreaks of hairiness.

‘You're gorgeous,' Warner, his black mistress, assured him. She was tall and skinny with huge black nipples on generous breasts, and cropped black hair.

She straddled him, riding his erect penis as if she were taking an afternoon trot on a horse.

‘You're gorgeous,' she repeated, as the action heated up.

Nobody had ever told Mickey Stolli he was gorgeous before. Only Warner – who'd been his mistress for eighteen months. She was a cop. One day she'd pulled him over for a traffic ticket, and the rest was the stuff wet dreams are made of.

The thing he liked about Warner was her uniqueness. The first time they'd slept together she'd had no idea who he was or what he did. It simply didn't matter to her.

Mickey felt the moment of truth was going to be upon him at any moment. He let out a long strangulated sigh.

Warner contracted the muscles that really mattered and gave him the ride of his life.

He felt the come from the tip of his toes to the back of his head – which he thought might explode one of these days if Warner kept doing what she obviously loved to do. With him. Only him. Mickey Stolli was the only man in Warner Franklin's sex life. She had told him so many times and he believed her.

‘Was that a trip to heaven or what?' Warner demanded, climbing off. ‘You get better every time, Mickey. You're the greatest lover in the world.'

Nobody had ever told Mickey Stolli he was the greatest lover in the world before – only Warner. She knew how to make him feel like he could climb the Empire State Building from the outside and jump off without breaking a bone.

Warner Franklin was thirty-five years old and not particularly pretty. She lived alone in a small West Hollywood apartment with a skinny mongrel dog, and much to Mickey's relief she had no aspirations to be an actress.

She didn't want his money. She didn't want his favours. She'd turned down his offer of a Wilshire condo and a white Mercedes. The only gifts she'd accepted were a giant-screen colour television, and a video recorder. She'd only taken those presents because she was partial to
Hill Street Blues
repeats and
Hunter.
‘Gotta do
something
when I'm not working and I'm not with you,' she'd explained.

He thought he might love her. But the dreaded thought – lurking at the back of his mind – was so scary that he'd never taken it out to inspect.

‘Abby's having one of her dinner parties tonight,' he said, stifling a satisfied yawn.

‘I know how you
looove
them,' Warner drawled, rolling her eyes. ‘Don't worry, honey – you're always the smartest man in any room.'

By the time Mickey Stolli left Warner Franklin's apartment he was walking ten feet tall. He was the most gorgeous, the best lover, the smartest man in the whole fucking world!

Screw you, Abby.

You never told me shit
.

* * *

Lucky was fascinated watching Abe eat. He picked at his food like a ravenous monkey, rarely using a knife or fork if his fingers could do the job. For a man of eighty-eight his appetite was quite extraordinary.

Inga did not eat. She did not sit. But she was around enough to eavesdrop on exactly what was said.

Lucky was curious to know if they discussed things later. In fact, what exactly
was
their relationship now? Failed movie star and former studio head. Was there a lot to talk about?

During her research on Abe, Lucky had come across quite a few photos of Inga. There were many studio shots, and a few casual photographs of Abe and Inga together.

Twenty-five years ago, when Abe was a mere sixty-three and Inga twenty-something, she'd been a ravishing beauty – luminous skin, wide grey eyes, a lithe body, and bewitching smile.

What happens to people?
Lucky wondered.
How come some – like Gino and Abe – are born survivors, and others – like Inga – wither away into a miserable shell?

It's just the way the crap-shoot goes
, she thought.

She'd told Abe everything she knew to date. He'd been disappointed. He wanted more. So did she.

A few petty scams were not worth getting heated over. So Mickey charged the studio for his personal supply of Cristal. Big deal. And Eddie Kane was probably a cocaine freak. So what?

Mickey pulling a phony script scam with the agent Lionel Fricke – that was the only information worth getting excited about.

How many times had Mickey pulled that particular stunt? She'd have to look into it.

‘Enjoyin' yourself, girlie?' Abe asked, cocking his head on one side. ‘You like the movie business?'

‘I think I'm going to love it,' she replied honestly. ‘When I'm in control.'

Abe cackled. He liked a woman who knew what she wanted.

There was not much Cooper Turner didn't know about women. He'd had the best, he'd had the worst, and anything he could get his hands on in between.

Growing up in Ardmore, a small town outside Philadelphia, Cooper had started experimenting with girls when he was thirteen. Not for Cooper the paper cutouts and other girlie magazines. Oh no – one sniff of snatch and it became his life's pursuit. Girls, girls, girls.

‘You should have been a gynaecologist,' his older sister joked when he was nineteen. ‘At least get paid for what you do.'

If he hadn't become an actor he would have made a great male hooker – the kind that services only the female sex.

He moved to New York when he was twenty, living in the Village and hanging out at the Actors' Studio. His contemporaries got themselves jobs waiting tables and pumping gas while preparing for the big break.

Cooper never had to do any of that. There was always a hot meal and a warm bed begging for his attention. Not to mention a woman.

When he finally got out to Hollywood he met a beautiful young screen actress his first week in town. Within days he became her live-in lover. The relationship led to his picture in the papers, and his picture led him to a female agent who secured him the second lead in a small-budget teen film.

At the age of twenty-four, Cooper Turner became a heartthrob. Over the years his career just got better and better, culminating in an Oscar nomination when he was thirty-two.

He didn't win and it soured him. He stopped doing publicity and shied away from the press. The films he decided to appear in were few and far between.

The less Cooper made himself available the more he was wanted. He tried to lead a private life – it was impossible. Women came and went. Some stayed around almost long enough to drag a commitment out of him. He would have liked children, but the price of being with one woman wasn't worth it.

And then he met Venus Maria and things changed. With Venus Maria anything was possible. She was young and incredibly sexy. She had knowing eyes and a man-eating mouth. She was sharp and street smart. She had a body made to tango and the mind of an accountant. She was sensual, startling, and above all vitally alive.

One drawback. Contrary to popular belief and the headlines in the supermarket tabloids, he was not fucking her and she was not fucking him. Not even the famous blow-job story was true, although he'd heard it from various sources – including Mickey Stolli, who'd laughed, punched him slyly in the ribs, and said, ‘I like to see my stars getting along. Makes for a happy set.'

What Venus Maria
was
doing was fucking one of Cooper Turner's best friends. A married man. A
very
married man. And Cooper found himself in the ridiculous position of being the beard.

Cooper Turner!

The beard!

What a laugh!

He looked at himself in the mirror and shook his head. He was dressed for the Stolli dinner party in a dark blue Armani suit, white shirt, and loosely knotted silk tie. The well-cut suit got 'em every time. Women loved a man they thought they could rumple.

Cooper ran a hand through his brownish hair. There were traces of grey along the sides – but nothing a talented hairdresser couldn't disguise. His eyes remained an intense blue. His skin was lightly sunkissed.

Cooper knew he looked good. He wasn't twenty-five, but he was still a killer.

Venus Maria had no idea what she was missing.

Steven Berkeley took it upon himself to visit Deena Swanson. He didn't tell Jerry. He didn't even confide in Mary-Lou. He phoned Deena and told her they had to meet. She almost objected, changed her mind, and asked him to be at her house at ten o'clock the next morning.

He was there.

She greeted him in a lime-green tracksuit, a matching headband holding back her pale red hair, running shoes on her feet. She looked thin and attractive and not at all athletic.

She proffered a delicate hand.

He shook it.

Limp handshake. No character.

‘I found our last meeting very disturbing,' he informed her, getting right down to business.

She raised a thinly pencilled eyebrow. ‘Why?'

‘We're talking about murder.'

‘Survival, Mr. Berkeley.'

‘Murder, Mrs. Swanson.'

She clasped her hands together and lowered her eyes. ‘You defend people all the time. What's the difference if you get a little warning up front?'

Her attitude was bizarre. The woman was strange. ‘Are you kidding me?' he asked.

‘Would it make you happy to know that I
didn't
mean it?'

‘Did you?' he persisted.

She looked up at him. Dead blue eyes in a pale face. ‘I'm considering writing a book, Mr. Berkeley. I needed a genuine reaction. I'm sorry if it disturbed you.'

‘So you're not planning to kill someone?'

A low, throaty laugh. ‘Do I seem like the kind of woman who would plan such a thing?'

‘How about the million bucks you deposited in our company account?'

‘Now that the game is over, I'll expect it back. Naturally I'll pay a handsome fee for your time and trouble.'

Steven was angry. ‘Your game is not funny, Mrs. Swanson. I don't appreciate being used for research.'

He got up to leave.

She watched him go. A lawyer with principles, quite unusual. No wonder he was so good.

She waited a few minutes then picked up the phone.

‘Jerry?'

‘Who else?'

How sensible of Jerry Myerson to have a direct line.

‘I said what you told me to.'

‘Did he believe you?'

‘I think so.'

‘Sorry about this, Mrs. Swanson. The trouble with Steven is that he has a conscience.'

‘And you don't?'

‘I abide by a rule I never break.'

‘And that is?'

‘The client always comes first.'

‘I'm delighted to hear it.' She paused for a moment, and then added casually, ‘Oh, and by the way, if anything
was
to happen…'

‘Steven
will
defend you.'

‘Can I count on that… Jerry?'

‘Absolutely.'

Jerry Myerson replaced the receiver of his private line and considered what he'd just done. He'd jollied along an eccentric woman and saved the firm a million bucks. Not bad for a morning's work.

* * *

Later that night Steven regaled Mary-Lou with the story of his visit to Deena Swanson.

Mary-Lou was engrossed in a television movie starring Ted Danson. She was eating a Häagen-Dazs ice-cream bar. She was contented and pregnant and getting larger every week.

‘One of these days you'll learn to listen to me, Steven Berkeley,' she scolded. ‘I told you that woman was putting you on all along. And you've been worrying about it. What a stiff!'

He felt relieved, and yet…

‘Yeah,' he said, not fully convinced.

‘Did you tell Jerry?'