Lady Boss (16 page)

‘I think I'm in the wrong place. I'm looking for Mr. Stolli's office.'

‘One floor up,' Talon Nails said, generously adding, ‘You can take the elevator if you like.'

Just as she spoke, the tall woman emerged from Eddie Kane's private office. Close up she had a face carved in granite, decorated with perfect makeup. Her eyes were hard and unrelenting. Lucky recognized the look – she'd seen it on hookers and gamblers and druggies. Vegas was full of expensive whores; Lucky had grown up observing them.

‘Thanks,' she said to the secretary, and followed the woman outside.

Johnny Romano was on his way towards the building. He walked with a pelvic thrust, cock first, everything else trailing behind, including his entourage.

The woman didn't even glance in his direction. She hurried over to a grey Cadillac Seville, climbed inside, and took off.

Feeling like a detective, Lucky made a note of the licence plate before hurrying back to Eddie's office.

Talon Nails was now on the phone, while the other secretary, a pretty, black girl, flicked through a copy of
Rolling Stone
.

‘Excuse me,' Lucky said. This playing meek and mild was getting her down, and the fucking wig stuck on top of her head was driving her insane, especially on this exceptionally hot and humid Monday morning.

The girl reading
Rolling Stone
lowered the magazine and managed a desultory ‘Yes?'

‘The woman who was just in here – does she work at the studio?'

‘No. Why?'

‘Uh, because I just saw someone damage her car and I thought I ought to tell her.'

Talon Nails got off the phone and said, ‘What's up, Brenda?' to the other girl.

Brenda shrugged. ‘Something about a car accident.'

‘I need to reach the woman who was just in here,' Lucky said assertively. ‘Do you have a number I can call?'

Now it was Talon Nails' turn to shrug. ‘Dunno. Maybe Eddie does.'

‘
Mr
. Kane,' Brenda interrupted with a warning look.

Talon Nails pulled a face. ‘I hate calling anyone
Mister
anything,' she snapped. ‘It's so demeaning. Like we're inferior or something. I'll call him Eddie if I want.'

‘Do what you like. I'm just reminding you what he said.'

‘Yeah, like he's going to fire me if I forget,' Talon Nails sneered. ‘Sure. He's lucky to
have
a secretary, the way
he
carries on with his horny hands. They're everywhere. Bending
down
is a hazard in this office!'

Brenda couldn't help giggling.

They both suddenly remembered Lucky was standing there.

‘I seem to remember her name is Smith,' Talon Nails said, all business. ‘Let me check the Rolodex.'

‘If you can't reach her she'll be here next Monday,' Brenda chimed in helpfully. ‘She comes in once a week to look after his fish.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Tropical fish. He keeps them in a tank in his office.'

‘Really? And what exactly does she do to them?'

‘Who knows?' Brenda yawned. ‘Feeds 'em, I guess. He
is
kind of obsessive about it, though. One Monday she didn't turn up, and he just about threw a fit. Screaming and yelling like Stallone on a rampage.'

‘Very good, Brenda,' Talon Nails said admiringly. ‘You should be writing scripts.'

Brenda giggled and picked up
Rolling Stone
again. She'd had enough conversation for one day. She was more interested in whether David Lee Roth bleached his hair or not.

‘Here we are,' Talon Nails said. ‘J. Smith, Tropical Fish.' She scribbled on a piece of paper and handed Lucky the number. ‘Do you work here?'

‘I'm Mr. Stone's temporary assistant.'

‘Who's he?'

‘An executive.'

‘Of what?'

‘He was around in Mr. Panther's day.'

‘Yeah?' Talon Nails was bored.

Lucky made her escape.
Tropical Fish
,
my ass
, she thought, trudging back to Herman's quarters.

So far it had been an interesting morning. She'd observed the Sleazy Singles in action, elicited Olive's sympathy, and come across a woman who – if her gut instinct was anything to go on – was quite obviously Eddie Kane's drug supplier.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

And now she had lunch with Olive to look forward to, and dinner with Abe and Inga. How exciting could one day get?

Abigaile Stolli was entertaining, or at least preparing to. She marched around her Bel Air mansion checking every little detail, closely followed by her two Spanish maids, Consuela and Firella.

Abigaile was a short woman with thick, shoulder-length auburn hair, snub features, and an abundance of designer clothes. She was not a beauty, but as Abe Panther's granddaughter she had no need to be. Abigaile was true Hollywood royalty.

At the age of forty she had managed to keep a girlish figure (thanks to Jane Fonda), a smooth complexion (thanks to Aida Thibiant), and a keen sense of competitiveness with every other Hollywood wife in town.

When Abigaile did something it had to be the best. She strove to give the best big parties, the best charity premières, and the best intimate little dinners. The food was always wonderful, the service impeccable, but her true secret was putting together the right mix of guests.

Tonight was a perfect example. A simple dinner party for twelve people and the mix was dynamite. One black politician – male. One famous feminist – female. A legendary rock singer with his darkly exotic wife, who happened to be a successful model – an added plus. Two movie stars – Cooper Turner and Venus Maria. A hot young director and his girlfriend. And to round out the group, fast-talking, newly appointed head of Orpheus Studios, Zeppo White, and his mildly stoned wife, Ida.

Zeppo (a former top agent) and Ida (a so-called producer who never produced anything) were mainstays of any good dinner party. Zeppo, with his snobbish ways and acid conversation. Ida, chicly turned out, with all the latest outrageous gossip. Abigaile always tried to include them. They were insurance against boredom.

Abigaile was especially pleased Cooper Turner had accepted her invitation. He was notorious for never appearing anywhere, so it was a coup to get him. And Venus Maria was another hard-to-get guest.

Abigaile was satisfied this was going to be a talked-about evening. She would call George Christy personally to inform him of the guest list. Let the town read and weep.

‘Hmmm…' Abigaile spotted a Lalique wine glass with a tiny chip in the rim. She picked it up and turned to her two maids, glaring at them accusingly. Words were not necessary.

‘So sorry, Madame,' gasped Consuela, immediately accepting responsibility along with the offending glass. ‘I will take care of it, Madame,' she promised.

‘Yes, and perhaps you can find out who is responsible,' Abigaile said testily. ‘These glasses cost over one hundred and fifty dollars each.
Somebody
should pay. And that somebody is certainly
not
going to be me.'

Consuela and Firella exchanged glances. One hundred and fifty dollars! For a glass! American women were surely crazy.

Abigaile finished her inspection without further incident, and set off for the beauty salon in her cream-coloured Mercedes.

Speeding down Sunset, she used her cellular car phone to catch Mickey at the studio.

‘I'm on my way to lunch,' Mickey said, sounding harassed. ‘What is it?'

‘You were supposed to send over three dozen bottles of Cristal from your office. Where are they?'

Here he was, running a major studio, and his wife spoke to him like he was a goddamn liquor salesman. Wonderful! ‘Talk to Olive,' he snapped.

‘No,
you
talk to Olive,' Abigaile snapped back.

In most Hollywood marriages the men sat in the power seat and the women danced carefully around their delicate egos. In the Stolli household, Abigaile held the real chair of authority. She was Abe Panther's granddaughter and let no one forget it, especially Mickey.

‘And while you're speaking to Olive,' she added, ‘make sure she confirms the time and place with Cooper Turner
and
Venus Maria for tonight. I don't want any no-shows.'

‘Yeah, yeah,' Mickey said impatiently, tagging on a sarcastic ‘Anything else? Maybe you'd like me to pick up your dry cleaning, or stop by the market?'

‘Goodbye, Mickey dear.' The way Abigaile said goodbye spoke volumes.

She pulled up to the valet parker in front of Ivana's – the hot new beauty salon – and hurried briskly inside.

Abigaile Stolli was giving one of her famous intimate dinners. She had no time to waste.

Olive Watson spoke glowingly of her fiancé – a computer expert. She'd met him on her annual vacation trip to England a year ago, and they'd corresponded ever since.

‘How much time have you actually spent with him?' Lucky asked curiously.

‘Ten days,' Olive replied. ‘It was quite the whirlwind courtship.'

I bet
, Lucky thought. She was dying to ask if they'd slept together. But there was no way demure Luce would go for an intimate question like that, so she discreetly shut up and settled for ‘What's his name?'

‘George.' Olive sounded in love. ‘He's an older man. Very distinguished-looking.'

‘How old is older?' Lucky ventured.

Olive pursed her lips. ‘Fifty-something,' she disclosed.

‘There's nothing wrong with an older man,' Lucky said reassuringly, thinking of her own marriage to Dimitri Stanislopoulos when she was twenty-something and he was in his sixties.

‘You're very understanding,' Olive replied, picking at a light salad. She hesitated a moment and then said, ‘I hope you don't mind me saying this, but actually your hairstyle could be improved, and I'd be willing to take you to my hairdresser. That's if you want me to,' she added hastily, anxious not to offend.

‘Thanks, I like it this way,' Lucky said quickly, automatically touching the hideous wig.

‘Oh. I don't mean that it's not very nice. It is. Very nice,' Olive said, obviously flustered, and lying as best she could.

For the first time Lucky felt like a fraud. Olive was genuinely concerned, and maybe it wasn't fair to be playing games with her.

No problem, she decided. When she took over the studio she'd give Olive a hefty raise and a promotion; the woman deserved it after working for Mickey Stolli all these years.

Changing the subject she asked, ‘When are you planning to get married?'

‘George wants to do it at once,' Olive said with a worried frown, thinking of the difficulties. ‘I told him it's impossible. There's so much to discuss, and I have no desire to leave my job. I'm not sure if George is prepared to live in California.'

‘Shouldn't you find out?'

‘Yes.' Olive nodded vigorously. ‘George is going to be in Boston for two days next week on business. It would be a perfect time to talk things over.' She sighed. ‘He wants me to join him. Unfortunately it's impossible.'

Lucky sensed an opportunity. ‘Why?'

‘Because Mr. Stolli can't do without me. He's a very particular man. Everything has to be just so.'

‘Really? He won't accept a temp?'

‘Certainly not.'

‘Or one of the girls in your building?'

‘Absolutely out of the question.'

‘How about me?'

‘You?'

This was a hard sell, but she could do it. ‘Yes, me. I can take over for a couple of days. You'll show me what to do, and I promise you he'll have no complaints.'

‘You work for Mr. Stone,' Olive pointed out.

‘He's off on vacation next week. Besides, even when he's around I have nothing to do. It's a boring job. To tell you the truth, I was thinking of leaving.'

Olive was silent for a moment. It was a tempting offer. Luce certainly seemed competent enough. ‘I'll have to ask Mr. Stolli,' she said doubtfully. ‘After all, it's his decision, and as I said before, he's a very particular man with cast-iron habits.'

‘OK,' Lucky said, willing Olive to go for the idea. ‘I understand.'

Olive nodded. ‘I
shall
ask him,' she decided. ‘This is such an important trip for me, and it's best to get things settled as soon as possible.'

‘Quite,' agreed Lucky.

Olive nodded again. ‘I'll let you know,' she said.

* * *

Lucky had Boogie run a trace on Eddie Kane's tropical-fish lady's car. It was registered to one Kathleen Le Paul. J. Smith never even entered the picture. Well, anyone with half a brain would have guessed that.

She instructed Boogie to check Ms. Le Paul out, and to get her the information as soon as possible.

‘It's done,' Boogie assured her.

Herman immediately wanted to know what was going on. The air-conditioning in his office had broken down and he was feeling the heat in more ways than one. He was red in the face and stressed out.

Lucky felt sorry for him. ‘You're taking a vacation,' she said firmly.

He became agitated. ‘What?'

‘A vacation. You need it. You deserve it. A week in Palm Springs. You're to get out of here so I'm free to fill in for Olive. OK?'

Herman wasn't about to argue. Any excuse to stay away was welcome. ‘When shall I leave?' he asked stiffly.

‘Stick around until Thursday. Maybe we can get to see the dailies you requested. In fact –' she grabbed the phone – ‘I'm going to arrange that right now.'

* * *

The screening room was comfortably decorated in plush green leather with thick carpeting and blow-up pictures of some of Panther's biggest stars on the walls. There was Venus Maria, clad in black leather, with a mocking expression. A full close-up of the very handsome Cooper Turner. Susie Rush, pert and coy, hiding beneath a pink parasol. Charlie Dollar, maniacal grin in place. Johnny Romano, surrounded by girls in low-cut dresses. Marisa Birch, standing tall with her crew-cut hair and enormous bosom. And Lennie Golden, laid-back and quirky, with his longish dirty-blond hair, penetrating green eyes, and cynical smile.