Hooked (10 page)

She wondered what it was that Nicky wanted from her. Then she smiled to herself. The nice thing about him was that his methods of persuasion were so much more civilized than anyone else’s. Most millionaires she knew were too involved in acquiring money and power to be aware of other people. They got what they wanted by giving orders and making certain they were carried out. Nicky had more finesse: he was acutely conscious of what the men and women around him were thinking and feeling, and he used that knowledge to his own advantage. Maybe that was why he was so much more successful than any of the others.

It was a fall day, with a bite in the air. The outside temperature was much cooler than water temperature and caused a sheer mist to hover over the surface of the pool. The pool was halfway up a mountain and surrounded by terraced cliffs, formed by the limestone in the water as it flowed downward and joined with a stream hundreds of feet below. The white mountains were as spectacular as the pool itself and made Adriana almost feel as if she were on the surface of the moon.

“In Panukkale, the past, the present, and the future come together,” she said, aware that she was here with Nicky, the man who dominated her past, filled her present, and controlled her future.

“I remember when you used to feel that way about the piano,” Nicky said. “You could again, you know—”

“I felt that way once, but I don’t anymore,” Adriana said, realizing now why he had brought her here. “You wanted me to retire and now the pain prevents me from performing. I’ve adjusted—”

“Why adjust when you don’t have to?” he said. “What about all the people who loved hearing you play? Why deprive them of that pleasure?”

”Because I’m afraid the price will be too high—”

“But don’t you owe something to your fans?”

She was furious. “I don’t owe anybody anything—”

“You’re an artist,” he persisted. “You have an obligation to your art—”

“What do you know about art?” she shouted, loud enough for everyone in the hotel lobby across the patio to hear her. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking about my responsibility to my art? Stick to your oil wells and leave the piano to me—”

“What I don’t understand is that you were so excited about playing again when I offered to introduce you to Dr. Jenkins.”

“That was then,” said Adriana, who had regained her composure. “This is now—”

“Make the comeback,” he said softly. “Adriana, you know I wouldn’t advise you to do anything that isn’t best for you.”

“You wouldn’t advise me to do anything that wasn’t best for
you
—”

Both of them knew she was right. It wasn’t enough that she was beautiful and intelligent and seductive. Nicky, Nicky’s ego, demanded more — demanded that she be worshiped by the world. What he wanted, the world must want. Not only would she make her comeback, but she would be again, as she had once been, the most adored woman in the world.

“I’m sorry—” said Nicky.

She nodded, although she knew the apology to be a lie. She knew he would bring up the subject again. What she didn’t know was when, or how.

Ames Bostwick wondered why Nicky Kiskalesi wanted to see him. Ames was a legend in show business, a self-made legend. He had started selling popcorn in a theater in Maryland when he was twelve; had pasted up circus posters, agented magicians and tap dancers until finally he made the big time, producing movies and Broadway plays, making the biggest splash and the most money — gathering publicity, fame, and three ex-wives in the process.

On the day Nicky Kiskalesi called, Ames was holding auditions for his next musical, a nude political review, but quickly canceled. The truth was that Ames Bostwick, born Irving Goldberg, was impressed as hell at the thought of meeting the richest man in the world.

Ames thought maybe Nicky might be interested in a piece of one of his spectaculars. Every now and then, Ames had discovered, big-business types got stardust in their eyes.

Ames had plenty of that to offer. His remake of
Birth of a Nation
was the largest-grossing film of all time; his Broadway musical version of
Moby Dick
, which had a forty-foot fish tank on stage with real dolphins and a plastic great white whale, had been running for three years; and
Pisces
, his action-adventure series about John Pisces, clairvoyant astrologer turned detective, was television’s top-rated program.

At three o’clock, Ames’ secretary buzzed and announced that Mr. Kiskalesi had arrived. Ames, who always wore his heart on his sleeve, rushed to open the office door. It wasn’t every day a one-hundred-percent genuine billionaire dropped in.

“Mr. Kiskalesi,” said Ames, sticking out his hand. “Thrilled to meetcha.”

“Mr. Bostwick,” said the billionaire smiling his pirate’s smile and extending his own hand. “Delighted.”

“Call me Ames. I don’t go for that ‘mister’ business.” Ames was surprised that Nicky Kiskalesi was so short. Almost as short as Ames himself. A real shrimp. Ames pulled out a comfortable leather chair for his distinguished guest.

“Then you must call me Nicky,” said Nicky, pouring on the charm. “All my friends do—”

Ames arranged his five-foot-four in his executive-model chair and stuck his feet on the desk. Stuffed in his mouth, as usual, was a long, expensive cigar. A Monte Cristo from Dunhill’s.

“I’ve gotta admit I’m impressed you wanted to see me,” said Ames. “It’s really an honor—”

Nicky dismissed the compliment with a gesture of his right hand. “Ames, I’ve come to you because you’re the best—”

Ames was on the verge of blushing and Nicky continued. “I’ll come right to the point. I want you to produce Adriana Partos’ comeback tour—”

Nicky’s interest in Adriana Partos did not surprise Ames. Everybody knew that the two of them had been an item for years. Although it was not common knowledge, Ames, plugged into the celebrity gossip grapevine, also knew that Nicky had been spending plenty of time with a kinky heiress to a steel fortune named Barbara Restrepo.

“I thought Adriana Partos retired,” said Ames. He didn’t want to insult a man like Nicky Kiskalesi, but acts like Adriana Partos weren’t exactly his cup of tea.

“Only temporarily,” said the billionaire, accepting one of the Ames’s Monte Cristos and looking around the office. Every inch of wall space was covered with photographs of the famous stars he had presented and all of them were lovingly autographed — even those by stars who had subsequently found it necessary to sue Ames Bostwick. ”As you know, Miss Partos is one of the true geniuses of our century—”

“Definitely, but, to be honest — uh, Nicky — Adriana Partos, I mean, her kind of act, well, it isn’t up my alley, if you know what I mean,” Ames said. “I mean, I’m known for g-strings and sequins — tits and glitz — you know what I mean?”

“I know precisely what you mean,” Nicky said. He gestured to a photograph of a red-haired sex kitten bulging out of a white fur-and-rhinestone trimmed bikini. “I think it’s time you graduated to something with more class, more prestige—”

“Prestige isn’t my thing,” said Ames, indulging in rare understatement.

“Money is, though, isn’t it?” said Nicky. “I’ll make you a very fair offer, Ames, I’ll offer you twenty percent of the profits if you’ll produce Miss Partos’ comeback tour—”

Nicky paused. He thought he was being more than generous. Ames didn’t.

“You’ve got to be kidding! That’s twenty percent of nothing. Adriana Partos retired a while ago. Her name means zilch at the box office,” explained Ames. “Mick Jagger you can book into Shea Stadium. What
you’re
talking about is a fifteen-hundred-seat concert hall and a twenty-five-dollar top. Besides, why are you offering me the job, anyway? I never produced a concert in my life. Why didn’t you go to Columbia Artists or Sol Hurok’s office?”

“Because I like your style. You can publicize Miss Partos’s return to the concert stage as the comeback of the century,” said Nicky. “What about a bonus of two million dollars?”

“Plus expenses,” snapped Ames, without blinking an eyelash. “And I don’t shop at Woolworth’s—”

“Plus expenses—”

“And I run the show,” said Ames. “Whatever I say goes—”

Nicky Kiskalesi’s eyes turned cold. “When I pay the bills,
I
give the orders—”

“Then the deal is off,” said Ames. “I don’t take orders—”

As far as Ames was concerned, the discussion was over. He picked up his phone and spoke to his secretary on the intercom. “April, baby, I’ll take calls now. Mr. Kiskalesi is on his way out.”

“You are
not
taking calls,” Nicky said and got up, grabbed the telephone, and yanked the cord out of the wall. Then he slammed the door shut.

“Hey! What the hell?” snapped Ames. “This is a business office,
bubelah
, not a prizefight—”

“I am no longer asking you to produce the tour,” Nicky said. “I am telling you. Let me make myself clear—”

Nicky recited a detailed dossier on Ames’s personal finances, facts that Ames thought nobody knew about except his accountants and bankers. His entertainment empire was built on loans and mortgages and his most successful properties, including
Birth of a Nation
, were collateral for the loans. Sometimes Ames fell a few months behind in his payments but there had never been any serious complaints. His bankers knew he was good for the money and tended to be tolerant.

Nicky paused in his chilling recital and took a piece of paper from the thin alligator case in his breast pocket. He handed it across the desk to Ames.

“What the hell is this?” Ames was stunned and furious — and trapped.

“You read English,” said Nicky. “Your debts have been paid. In full. You no longer owe Federal Chemical a cent. From now on, you will make your monthly check to Kiskalesi Enterprises and you will find that we will not be quite so tolerant—”

Ames gulped and turned white as Nicky took back the assignment of debt, carefully folded it, and replaced it in the alligator case.

“You will start taking orders now,” said Nicky. “Number one, you will produce Miss Partos’s concert tour. Number two, you will make it the most spectacular comeback in the history of show business. And number three, you will do it on my terms.”

“Which are?” asked Ames.

“You get nothing in advance and expenses only as you need them,” Nicky said. “The two million comes later —
if
you’re successful—”

“And if I’m not?”

“I don’t think, Mr. Bostwick, we need go into the details—”

Ames had done business with gangsters before. He’d handled trouble when it came, and not before.

“‘Ames Bostwick presents Adriana Partos,’” the producer said, as he extended his hand to shake on the deal. “When do I meet my client?”

“Whenever you want,” said Nicky. “But I think you should know that Miss Partos has point-blank refused to make the tour—”

Ames blinked and his mouth fell open. “Then how the hell can I produce the tour?”

“That, my dear Ames,” said the world’s richest man, “is your problem.”

Ames Bostwick’s first impression of Adriana Partos was that she was a damn good-looking broad for her age. His second was that she had a brain. The third was that she had balls and probably needed them to be involved with a
goniff
like Nicky Kiskalesi.

He had been taking her to lunch, to dinner, trying to sweet-talk her into making a comeback tour. He had wheedled, flattered, and pulled every con-artist trick at his command. He rented out the entire upstairs room at 21 and papered the place with actors — some of them famous friends of his, most of them out-of-work performers hungry for an extra buck. He arranged for people to come up to Adriana throughout the dinner and ask for her autograph. They told her how much they missed her, and they wanted to know when she was going to play again. It was an expensive charade (though Nicky was picking up the tab), and it almost worked. Adriana said yes but later had second thoughts.

Ames took her out on his yacht, which he kept anchored at the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin and gave a party in her honor. He had two dozen violinists aboard playing music Adriana was famous for performing — Schubert’s posthumous Sonata in B-flat, Mozart’s Sonata in D — and made sure there were plenty of requests for her to accompany them. She was gracious about it but refused to sit down at the Steinway Ames had had hoisted on board.

Adriana was amused by Ames and enjoyed spending time with him. She found him outrageous and refreshing. She didn’t care if he kept on pressuring her, just as long as he realized he wasn’t going to succeed.

Ames realized nothing of the sort and in desperation decided to fall back on the last trick in his repertoire — the truth. It was something to be saved for rare occasions and the good thing about it was that it often worked. Not as much fun as a hustle, of course, but useful in certain situations.

All during dinner at the Four Seasons he delayed making his prepared pitch. At the end of the meal he fortified himself with several Courvoisier cognacs before finally coming out with it.

“I’ve been conning you from the day I met you,” Ames said. “I’ve been giving you a lot of crap about what you owe your public, but that’s all bullshit—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Adriana said, amused by the confession. “I enjoyed hearing it. I was flattered—”

“As far as I’m concerned, you don’t owe anybody anything,” Ames persisted. “If the piano doesn’t have any kicks for you anymore, then screw it—”

“If that’s how you feel, then why were you pushing me so hard?”

“Because I need the money,” admitted Ames. “I’m in hock up to my eyeballs and your tour would get me in the clear again—”

Adriana was pretty sure that, this time, Ames was being straight with her. She tilted her head back and roared with laughter. “If it’s only money, I can solve your problems without giving a concert. I’ll lend you what you need—”

Ames had been drinking a great many cognacs and her generosity brought tears to his eyes. Here he was in the middle of a con job and she had to go make it hard for him by being so goddamn beautiful. Problem was, that even though she didn’t know it, there was no way she could lend him the money. Her bank was Nicky Kiskalesi.