Lady Boss (38 page)

She placed another call to Mickey and got his new secretary again. ‘Is he back yet?' she asked impatiently.

‘He's not, Mrs. Stolli.'

‘Are you
sure
you don't know where he is? This is urgent.'

Irresistible, thought Lucky. ‘Well… I do have a number you might try…'

‘Give it to me,' Abigaile said, brooking no argument.

‘One moment, please.'

Lucky scooted into Mickey's office, dashed over to his private phone book, and looked up Warner's number.

You're being a real bitch, Santangelo.

So what? The guy called me a cunt. This is his punishment
.

She returned to the phone and gave Abigaile Warner Franklin's number.

Abigaile called, expecting to reach an office. ‘Is Mr. Stolli there?' she demanded imperiously when a female answered.

‘Who's this?' asked Warner.

‘This is his wife.'

‘Are you calling
me?'
said Warner.

‘I beg your pardon?' said Abigaile.

‘Is it me you're calling?'

Abigaile was having the most confusing day. ‘No, I'm not calling you,' she said crossly. ‘Whose secretary are you?'

‘I'm nobody's secretary. I'm Warner Franklin.' She said her name as if Abigaile was supposed to know who she was.

‘Are you an actress?' Abigaile asked, sniffing instant danger.

‘No, I'm not an actress, I'm a cop.'

‘A cop?'

‘That's right.'

Abigaile was confused.

Warner took a slow beat. ‘I'm also your husband's mistress,' she added, thinking it was about time Mickey's wife realized she existed.

Twenty thousand dollars' worth of IBM stock made out in her name was delivered to Venus Maria's house on Friday afternoon. She arrived home from the studio early to find a large, hand-delivered envelope waiting for her. Inside there was a Tiffany card from Martin. His name was hand-engraved on the top, and on it he had written
Don't say I never pay my bets!

Venus Maria grinned. Obviously Martin could afford it, but it was nice to know he'd remembered. It was also a clever way to settle his bet without involving cash.

How should she respond? It had to be something original. Ron was always full of great ideas, so she called him.

Naturally he was out. He and the Ken Doll had gone shopping to Fred Segal on Melrose. They were not expected back for a couple of hours.

Hmmmm. Ron was probably making more purchases for his live-in lover. He certainly knew how to spend it.

She thought about who else she could call. Unfortunately she didn't have any close women friends. It was difficult in her position. She was rich, young, and famous. She had everything most other females in Hollywood wanted. The envy factor was high.

Oh, of course there were the executives' wives, but she was hardly going to become bosom buddies with Abigaile Stolli and the like. All they seemed to be interested in was giving great charity, buying designer dresses, and having long, leisurely lunches where they trashed everybody in town.

It would have been nice to have one special close girlfriend to confide in. Growing up in Brooklyn, she'd always been different from the other girls. While they were hanging out at the corner drugstore, going to movies, rock concerts, and sitting around drinking sodas and flirting with boys, Venus Maria had always been obliged to rush home from school to take care of her many chores. Looking after her father and four brothers was extremely demanding. Sometimes she'd felt like a modern-day Cinderella.

None of them appreciated it. They took her completely for granted.

And then she'd met Ron, the boy next door.
The fag next door
, she thought with a hysterical giggle.

They'd hit it off right from the beginning. Two soul mates, finding each other in Brooklyn of all places.

Ron had encouraged her to cut loose, taking her on wild trips to Times Square, and then down Broadway where they'd enjoyed hanging out. She and Ron spoke each other's language. Showbiz. They both knew exactly what they wanted, and were determined to get it.

Stardom and fame. Staying in Brooklyn was not going to do it for them, so eventually they'd taken off.

Both were prepared to work hard. Venus Maria's big turn-on had always been singing, dancing, and acting. It was a thrill, a major charge. She strove to do everything to the best of her ability and usually succeeded.

Ron loved dancing and putting together fantastic routines. Hard work and tenacity brought them both the recognition they craved.

Venus Maria's father and three other brothers still lived in the same house in Brooklyn. She'd offered to buy them something better. They hadn't accepted, although her father had said he wouldn't mind a new car, and her brothers had mentioned they could do with some extra cash. Two of them were married. Venus Maria imagined the wives were doing all the work now.

She'd bought her father a brand-new Chevrolet, and given her brothers ten thousand dollars each. Nobody bothered to thank her. Nice family.

And then there was Emilio – following her out to Hollywood, installing himself in her house, moaning when she'd asked him to leave. Since he'd left she hadn't heard a word from him. Not so much as a ‘Thanks, it's nice of you to pay my rent. It's nice of you to lend me a car.'

OK, so she was rich, but she'd worked hard to get where she was. Nobody had ever given her anything for nothing.

She took the envelope containing the share certificates up to her bedroom – a bright, spacious room overlooking the obligatory Hollywood swimming pool. Off to one side there was her bathroom, and on the other her mirrored gym.

On the wall in her closet hung a giant blow-up photograph of her taken by Helmut Newton. It was an interesting photo. She was sitting on a stool, wearing a flesh-coloured leotard. Her legs were bent under her, while her body arched, and her head was thrown back in profile. She looked sexy and innocent, wanton and prim all at the same time. It was her favourite photograph – taken before Martin.

With a wry grimace she realized her life fell into two categories. Before Martin. And after.

Maybe she'd been better off before. Who needed a man to obsess on?

She pressed a hidden button and the photograph slid aside to reveal a medium-sized safe. Clicking the knob, she hit the right combination and the safe opened. In it she kept her passport, share certificates, letters from old lovers, and a photograph of her with Martin. Cooper had taken the photo one night at her house. It was the only picture she had of them together and she loved it. They were sitting on the couch in her living room. Martin had his arm around her, while she gazed up at him. It was definitely an intimate photograph. Anyone seeing it would know immediately they were lovers. Which is why she couldn't put it in a frame and display it. Too risky. It would be like telling the world, ‘Hey, this is my boyfriend.' And she didn't want to be the one to reveal their relationship. Martin had to make his own decision.

Johnny Romano's voice was on her private answering machine. ‘Hey, baby,' he crooned. ‘You promised to call me back. This is Johnny. You were s'posed to let me know if you were comin' to my première with me tonight.' A plaintive cry from a superstar.

Oh, sure, Johnny would love her to arrive on his arm. Let the media salivate over Johnny Romano and Venus Maria together at last. What a picture! What a break! Not to mention sensational publicity for his movie.

Word around the studio was that the film was a bomb. But this was Hollywood – land of hype. The movie would make a fortune whatever it was like. Johnny Romano could take a piss on Rodeo Drive and still make money!

Why was he calling her anyway? She'd never said she would even consider going with him.

The man obviously got off on rejection. He was always calling her, and she was always saying no. Why did he bother? He could have any girl he wanted. How come he was so intent on having her?

She put away her IBM stock certificates and closed the safe. Then, feeling just a tad guilty, although she didn't know why, she picked up the phone and dialled Emilio's apartment.

He'd moved with the times and bought himself an answering machine. ‘Emilio Sierra is out,' his message said. ‘But Emilio Sierra would love to know who is calling him, so you call back and I'll call back. Don't forget now – leave your number.'

She waited for the beep and said a crisp ‘Emilio, this is Venus. Just checking in to see if you're settled.'

Duty call. It was done. Not that she owed him anything. But still…

While she was on a family kick she decided to call her father in New York. He'd never acknowledged her success. He was happy to accept the monthly cheque she sent him, but he wouldn't give her one word of praise. To her chagrin she couldn't help herself from still seeking his approval. It was a losing battle.

She was sure he was home, sitting in front of the television with his beer belly, a can of Heineken, a large pepperoni pizza, and two bags of salted potato chips.

‘Hi, Dad, it's Venus,' she said when he picked up.

‘Virginia?' He refused to use her professional name.

‘Yeah. How ya doin', Dad? Just thought I'd check in.'

‘Can't complain,' her father replied gruffly. ‘Why're you calling?'

Why
was
she calling? He had her number, but he'd never bothered to use it, except once, when he'd wanted to complain about one of her videos. ‘Ya look like a cheap little whore,' he'd exploded. ‘Whaddaya think it's like for me at work? I got guys ribbin' me all over.'

That was at the beginning. When the money started to pour in, the ribbing hadn't seemed to matter so much.

‘I'm calling to see how you all are,' she said flatly, feeling rejected as usual. ‘Nothing important.'

‘We're OK,' he said shortly. ‘Could do with some extra money.'

So what else was new? ‘I'll talk to my business manager,' she said with a sigh. And that was the extent of their conversation.

If Martin Swanson left Deena and married her, the wedding would be a riot! She could just see her father and brothers mixing with New York high society and the cream of Hollywood.

God, she was hungry. Sometimes fame was a drag. If she wasn't so famous she could jump in her jeep, race down to Fred Segal, find Ron and the Ken Doll, and they could sit in the restaurant and pig out on delicious club sandwiches. But God forbid she wasn't looking her best, didn't have makeup on and her hair primped. People would say, ‘Oh, look, there's Venus Maria. She doesn't look as good as she does on her videos or in the movies, does she?' And then others would come over and start asking for her autograph. She was always polite to them, but it soon became too much of a hassle. And she lived in fear of that one maniac fan coming at her from out of nowhere, screaming ‘Whore!' and stabbing her to death.

Only another famous person could understand her fears. Cooper, for instance. Cooper understood everything. In fact, he was the only one she could really talk to.

Strut
was winding down. She'd finished all her scenes. It was funny, because when they were in the midst of shooting she and Cooper had fought all the time. Now she found that she missed him.

The end of filming was always difficult. During the shoot everyone became part of a large family – all working towards the same goal. And when it was over, you were suddenly cast adrift and no longer had that family to depend on. It was a wrench.

She decided to call him.

He was in his office at the studio. ‘What's up?' he said cheerfully.

‘I was wondering, will you be going to the première tonight?'

‘Are you certifiable?' He laughed. ‘I wouldn't see
Motherfaker
if you paid me. Mucho bucks.'

‘Then why don't we get a bite to eat?'

He sounded amused. ‘Are we talking Spago here?'

‘If you like.'

‘That means we'll be photographed together,' he warned. ‘What will Martin have to say about that?'

‘I don't tell him everything I do,' she replied defensively.

‘I'm glad to hear it. We'll dine at Spago and enjoy ourselves.'

She was pleased, but she hoped he wouldn't get the wrong impression. ‘Cooper, I need somebody to talk to. I'm not calling so you can jump my bones.'

‘When did I ever try to jump your bones?' he asked indignantly.

‘You know…'

‘Sweetheart,' he said firmly, ‘don't worry. We'll have a quiet dinner. We'll talk. I'll take you to your house, leave you at the door, and then I'll go home and jerk off. Does that suit you?'

She couldn't help laughing. ‘The day
you
have to jerk off is a day indeed.'

‘Don't be too sure. With AIDS creeping around every corner I'm not that interested anymore.'

She didn't believe a word. ‘Oh, Cooper,
please!
It's
me
you're talking to.'

He laughed ruefully. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. You don't buy my lines, do you?'

She smiled. ‘No.'

‘What time shall I pick you up?'

‘Eight o'clock.'

‘I'll be there.'

She put down the phone and felt quite pleased. An evening with Cooper. He was a friend. He was also Martin's friend, which meant that if she wanted to she could talk about Martin all night long.

And that was just what she felt like doing.

Eddie wiped the back of his hand across his nose. There was dried blood there, he could feel it. The humiliation of allowing Mickey Stolli to beat up on him was too much. He'd gone in expecting action, but certainly not the violent kind. Mickey Stolli was a son of a bitch.

The Maserati got him home in record time. He barged into the house, wound up and ready to kick ass.