Lady Boss (48 page)

When he arrived, he was discreetly taken upstairs and ushered into a private bedroom.

Lemon, the beautiful Oriental girl he'd had before, greeted him with a shy smile, her long black hair flowing down her back. ‘And how may I pleasure you today?' she asked dutifully.

There was nothing like an obedient woman. He unzipped his pants and flopped down on the bed. ‘Gimme a blow-job.'

The nice thing about going to a whorehouse was that you could actually come right out with it. No flowers. No sweet talk. Just action. Every man's dream.

Lemon nodded and reached for a bottle of aromatic oil.

Mickey allowed his mind to go blank as she began to gently massage his balls, her delicate fingers doing marvellous things.

Forget everything. Go with the moment. Relax
.

He closed his eyes.

When he felt the insistent tip of her talented tongue he couldn't help groaning aloud. The pleasure was overwhelming.

Unfortunately for Mickey, just as he was about to reach ecstasy, the door was flung open and Warner and another plain-clothes Vice cop burst into the room.

‘OK, buddy, get your pants on. This is a raid. We're Vice,' said the male cop.

‘Mickey?' cried a surprised Warner.

Mickey's hard-on deflated like a pricked balloon.

‘What the fuck is going on?' demanded Carlo Bonnatti.

‘Whaddya mean, Big C?' asked Link, his bodyguard and right-hand man.

‘I mean, what the fuck is going on?' repeated Carlo flatly.

Link shrugged. He was a tall, thin-faced man with slit eyes and a lethal scar curving down his left cheek. ‘Ya talked to Eddie Kane yourself,' Link pointed out.

‘I know that,' Carlo said impatiently. ‘And I also know he don't have the money. The asshole snorted it. All my goddamn money up his goddamn nose.'

Link came up with a good suggestion. ‘Do ya want me to break his legs?'

‘If I thought broken legs would get me my money, I'd go for the idea. But let's get realistic here. The prick don't have the money. So I gotta go to the studio. Panther Studios, Mickey Stolli. Set me up a meet.'

Link nodded. ‘It's arranged. When d'ya want it?'

‘Monday,' Carlo said broodingly. ‘Set it up.'

He walked to the window of the Century City penthouse he used when he was in Los Angeles and stared at the view. He liked visiting L.A. Maybe he should think about spending more time on the Coast. Get out of New York, with the dirt and the crime and the homeless roaming the streets.

Now that he was a free man it didn't seem like such a bad idea. After ten years of marriage his wife had left him. Her loss. The dumb broad had run off with some fag interior designer.

He'd decided to let her learn her lesson the hard way. After a few months she'd come crawling back, begging for what she was missing. When she did, he'd take great pleasure in slamming the door in her face.

Fortunately there were no kids to consider. Carlo had always wanted a son, but his wife had never delivered. He was not fond of people who didn't deliver.

He was not fond of Eddie Kane.

Nobody stole from Carlo Bonnatti and got away with it.

‘I've got to make a phone call,' Mickey said urgently, zipping up his pants.

‘I told you, bud, you make your phone call down at the station,' replied the male cop, who couldn't care less.

Warner stood back and stared at him in disgust, shaking her head as if he was the lowest of the low.

‘Do you know who I am?' Mickey persisted, concentrating on the male cop because he knew he was getting no help from Warner.

‘Yeah, we know who you are,' replied Warner sharply, joining in for both of them. ‘Just another pathetic john.'

He was hustled downstairs along with everybody else. Madame Loretta was trying to put on a good front as she assured customers and girls alike that everything would be all right. Surrounding her were the girls in various stages of undress. Mickey thought he saw Leslie Kane among them, but it was just a glimpse and he knew he must be mistaken.

Mickey was in shock. He could not afford to be arrested in a whorehouse and carted off to jail like a common criminal. This was somebody's idea of a bad joke.

‘Who's in charge here?' he demanded, looking around for an authority figure.

Although there were police everywhere, plain-clothes and otherwise, he couldn't seem to find the captain of this operation.

Warner threw him another filthy glare. ‘Do yourself a favour and shut up,' she said, vitriol accompanying every word. ‘
Mr
. Stolli.'

He glared back. ‘Why don't
you
get me out of this stinkin' mess?'

‘You got yourself into it. Work it out,' she retorted sharply, adding under her breath, ‘Asshole.' If looks could kill he'd be ten foot under.

This
was the woman he'd been sleeping with for over a year? The woman who'd gone out of her way to constantly tell him how wonderful he was? Whatever they'd had together, it was definitely over.

Eventually everybody was herded outside and bundled into a police van.

Mickey shielded his face and huddled by the window, wondering if he could sue. He'd certainly like to. Sue the sons of bitches for harassment.

By the time they reached the holding jail, there were television news crews and photographers milling around waiting to greet them.

Charming! A fucking circus! How could this be happening to him?

He considered Abigaile's reaction and knew he was a dead man.

* * *

Locked in the police van, Leslie Kane shivered at the injustice of it all. In vain she'd tried to explain to the cops that she was merely an overnight guest. ‘Right, honey,' they'd said, ignoring her protestations of innocence, and bundled her into the van along with everyone else.

Her heart was beating wildly. When Eddie found out he would surely investigate further and her past would be revealed.

Oh, the shame! Eddie was going to discover he'd married a prostitute.

She tried to calm herself. It wasn't so bad really. After all,
she'd
married a cocaine addict. Maybe it was time they both cleaned up their acts.

She spotted Mickey Stolli outside. Mickey Stolli, head of Panther Studios, pillar of Hollywood society. Married to Abigaile, the Hollywood princess. What was
he
doing there?

Men! When she'd been a working girl she'd always been surprised at the types that came in for a little action. Why should Mickey Stolli surprise her? He was typical.

Men went to whores for two things – conversation and sex. The conversation always came first.

Hoping he hadn't seen her, she turned away.

* * *

Arriving from London, Primrose and Ben Harrison checked into the Beverly Hills Hotel. Abigaile felt obliged to invite them over for dinner on Saturday night.

‘We're tired,' Primrose warned her over the phone, agreeing to come anyway.

It was most inconvenient. Jeffries, the butler, and his wife usually had Saturdays off. Now Abigaile realized she would have to try and find them and summon them back. They would not be pleased – and neither was she.

‘Where's Mr. Stolli?' Abigaile asked Consuela, after instructing the cook to prepare lightly grilled chicken with broccoli and fresh corn on the cob.

Consuela shrugged. Why did the Stollis always imagine
she
knew where everybody was? ‘Don't know, Missus,' she answered vaguely. ‘Mr. Stolli, he out. You shopping.'

‘I know, I know,' Abigaile said irritably, ‘I went shopping and now I'm back. Did Mr. Stolli leave me a message?'

‘No.' Consuela shook her head and wondered why she couldn't have weekends off like most of the other maids in Beverly Hills.

After locating Jeffries, Abigaile went to find Tabitha. Flinging open the door to her daughter's room she was assailed by the ear-splitting sounds of Van Halen blaring from the stereo.

‘Tabitha,' she shouted above the din.

Tabitha, lying in the middle of a messy bed surrounded by teen magazines, did not hear her. She was too busy speaking on her pink princess phone.

‘Tabitha,' Abigaile yelled crossly, marching across the room and switching off the stereo.

Tabitha sprang to attention as though she'd been mortally wounded. ‘Whatcha do that for?'

‘Because I wish to speak to you,' Abigaile replied haughtily. ‘How can you hear yourself? How can you speak with all this noise going on? You'll damage your hearing.'

‘Don't be so old-fashioned.' Tabitha muttered something into the phone and hung up. ‘By the way, did Daddy tell you? He said I can have a Porsche when I'm sixteen.'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' snorted Abigaile.

‘He did. He said so.'

‘Where
is
your father?'

‘Dunno.'

‘Didn't he say where he was going?'

‘Dunno.'

Getting information out of her daughter was like persuading the Pope to have sex.

Abigaile stalked from the room.

Before she was one step out the door, Van Halen blasted from the stereo, twice as loud as before.

* * *

Down at the station Mickey made a lot of noise and was finally allowed his one phone call. He called Ford Werne.

Unfortunately Ford was not at home.

* * *

Leslie used her one call to telephone the beach house, hoping Eddie was there. Indeed he was.

‘Eddie,' she exclaimed thankfully.

‘Sweetheart! Where are you? I'm glad you phoned. I want you to come home, baby. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'll never hit you again. I don't know what came over me.'

‘I'm in trouble,' Leslie whispered.

‘Just tell me where you are and I'll come get you,' he promised.

‘I'm in jail, Eddie. I've been arrested. You need to bail me out.'

He was shocked. ‘What?'

‘It's a mistake. I'll explain everything when I see you.'

‘What've you been arrested for?'

‘It doesn't matter. Just come and get me.'

‘I'm on my way.'

Abigaile and Primrose greeted each other with a stiff embrace. Primrose was taller than her sister, with fine golden hair and china-blue eyes. Her husband, Ben Harrison, was a heavily built man, youthful-looking for his fifty years, in spite of crinkled grey hair and a stern expression. He treated Primrose with a certain amount of deference.

‘Where's Mickey?' was his first question.

‘He'll be home soon,' Abigaile replied agitatedly. ‘He's out on a business meeting.'

‘We have to talk,' Ben said curtly. ‘I have no clue what this is about. I only know we're not happy being summoned here at the last moment. Has anybody contacted Abe?'

‘I saw him last week,' Abigaile said. ‘He never mentioned anything. I've tried to call him. Inga insists he can't be disturbed.'

‘Can't be disturbed?' Ben repeated, frowning darkly. ‘What kind of excuse is that?'

‘We'll find out on Monday morning,' Abigaile replied stiffly, wondering where Mickey was.

They were in the middle of dinner by the time Mickey finally showed up. Abigaile heard him sneaking into the house trying to slide past the dining room and vanish upstairs.

‘Excuse me a minute,' she said with a sweet smile to Ben and Primrose. She rushed into the hall. ‘Mickey! Where the
hell
have you been?'

He looked dishevelled. ‘I was in a car accident,' he lied.

‘A car accident? Is the car all right?'

Is the car all right?
A typical Abigaile question.

‘Yeah,' he said sourly. ‘The car is fine. I'm dead, but the car is fine.'

‘Primrose and Ben are here,' she hissed, ignoring his sarcasm. ‘Hurry up and join us. I am
not
entertaining them on my own.'

‘Gimme a break,' he protested. ‘I nearly got myself killed.'

‘Mickey.' Her warning tone spoke volumes.

What did she care? ‘OK, OK, five minutes.'

He hurried upstairs. Jesus! This was his worst nightmare come true. Arrested while a Chinese hooker gave him a blow-job. Was nothing sacred anymore? Thank God Madame Loretta had gathered her wits about her and contacted her lawyer. The man had arrived in record time and bailed everyone out.

Now Mickey had a date to appear in court.

If Abigaile ever found out he was visiting a whorehouse…

* * *

The ride back to the beach seemed longer than usual. Eddie was silent for a while, driving with one hand on the steering wheel and drumming the fingers of his other hand on the dashboard.

Finally he spoke. ‘What were you doing in a whorehouse, Leslie?'

‘I met Madame Loretta when I first came to Los Angeles,' Leslie explained, telling him the story she'd decided to use. ‘She seemed like a nice woman. In fact she helped me out. I used to go up to her house for tea.'

‘Tea?' Eddie yelled. ‘What did you think she was running – an English tea parlour?' He paused to make a point. ‘She runs a whorehouse, Leslie. You were sleeping there last night. What's goin' on here?
How
did she help you out?'

Leslie stared straight ahead. ‘I can explain.'

The Maserati roared down the highway. ‘The facts speak for themselves, huh?' Eddie said edgily.

‘How many times do I have to tell you? I was sleeping over. By myself. I had nowhere else to go.'

Eddie slapped the side of his head. ‘Jesus!' he said sarcastically. ‘I can't figure out why I'm suspicious, can you?'

‘Will I have to appear in court?' she asked anxiously.

‘Naw,' he replied. ‘I'll havta fix it.'

‘Can you?'

‘If I say I can do it, I can do it.'

‘Thank you, Eddie.' Her voice was almost a whisper.