Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge (16 page)

“
AW, JESUS!” ALEX GROANED AS HE APPROACHED
the bar and caught the action.

“It’s okay, I promise you, it’s okay,” Lucky said quickly, jumping to her feet.

Jed was flexing his power. “What’s
with
you, bitch?” he demanded belligerently, facing her right on. “Too freakin’ good for us?”

“Back off,” Alex said with a granitelike expression as he stared Jed down.

Jed swayed on his feet. “Don’t freakin’ tell
me
what to do, Grandpa!”

“Fuck!” Alex muttered, wondering how he’d ever gotten caught up in this scene. And what was with the Grandpa shit? He should knock this snot-nosed pisshead out of the ring.

Instead, he reached into his pocket, produced a wad of bills, threw them at the barman, and grabbed Lucky’s arm. “We’re outta here,” he said, pulling her to the door without looking back. It was a trick he’d learned in Vietnam. If you want to fight, stay eyeball to eyeball with the enemy. If you don’t, get the hell out. And do it fast.

“Hey,” Lucky objected as they reached the door. “What about the twenty bucks I gave the bartender?”

Alex tightened his grip. “What about getting in the car and shutting the fuck up.”

“You’re a lot of laughs,” she complained.

“If it’s laughs you want, you picked the wrong guy,” he said tersely.

“Let me jog your memory, Alex,
you’re
the one who came running into my office asking me out for a drink.”

“I came for a business meeting,” he reminded her. “Did I know you were going to be sitting there half ripped?”

“Half ripped?” she said, outraged. “I’m perfectly sober.” Although even as she said it she knew she was teetering on the edge.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, hustling her over to the Porsche. Out of the corner of his eye he observed Jed emerging from the bar with a couple of his rowdy friends. He shoved Lucky in the passenger seat, bent down, and reached for his gun in the glove compartment.

“What are you
doing
?” Lucky said.

“Protecting us. Do you mind?”

“Are you
crazy
? You can’t shoot the jerk just ’cause he came on to me.”

“I’m not planning on shooting anybody. I’m buying us time to split.”

“Gino taught me never to pull a gun unless you’re prepared to use it.”

“He taught you well, ’cause if those punks come at me, I’m shooting ’em straight in their scrawny balls.”

“I can see the headline now,” Lucky said, not taking him seriously in spite of the fact that his gun appeared to be the real thing. “‘Studio head an’ bad boy filmmaker.
Busted!
’” She broke up at her own humor.

Jed and his friends hesitated at the entrance. Maybe they’d seen the glint of the metal, or maybe they’d
changed their minds. Whatever, to Alex’s great relief, they didn’t venture farther. Which was fortunate, because he’d meant what he’d said.

Lucky doesn’t know me
, he thought grimly.
She has no idea that in Vietnam I was forced to kill people more than once
.

It wasn’t something he cared to remember, only in his nightmares.

He got behind the wheel of his Porsche, revved the engine, and took off at high speed.

“Shame,” Lucky sighed, snuggling down in her seat, feeling no pain. “I was
sooo
interested in talking to Driving Miss Daisy.”

This woman is crazy, Alex thought as he got back on the freeway. What am I doing with her? She’s crazier than me.

They’d been driving for five minutes when Lucky realized she’d left her purse at the bar. She sat up abruptly to announce the fact.

“We are
not
going back,” Alex said tersely. “No fucking way.”

“Oh, yes we
are
,” Lucky retorted. “My credit cards are in it, my Filofax, driver’s license—everything. We
have
to go back.”

“You’re a difficult woman,” he said sourly.

“So I’ve been told.”

He couldn’t believe he was doing it as he took the next exit off the freeway, making a sharp turn. “Listen to me,” he said sternly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “You stay in the car with the engine running while I go in and collect your purse. Understand?”

“You’re not taking your gun in.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“No, don’t tell
me
what to do.”

“Oh, I can see we’re going to have a fascinating time making this movie.”

“You’d better believe it.”

Did she
always
have to have the last word?

He pulled his Porsche up outside the roadhouse and got out. In spite of Lucky’s warning, he shoved his gun down his belt, at the back of his pants. Better prepared than not; small-town hotheads were the worst kind.

When he walked in, another stripper was busily working the stage, grabbing everyone’s attention. Chinese this time. They certainly went in for variety.

Alex hurried over to the bar. “My companion left her purse,” he said.

The grizzled old barman fished under the bar, silently handing over Lucky’s purse. “We don’t want no trouble in these parts,” the man said sourly. “You L.A. people with your money and flashy cars. Stay away.”

“Listen, buddy, it’s a free country,” Alex pointed out, putting Lucky’s purse under his arm and walking out.

His Porsche was exactly where he’d left it. There was only one problem. Lucky was not in it.

He stood by his car, totally pissed off. He’d
told
her to stay in the goddamn car—was that so difficult? Too independent. That was the problem with Lucky Santangelo. One thing was sure. He’d never met a woman like her.

He considered teaching her a lesson, driving away and leaving her stranded. Then he decided he couldn’t do that, nobody deserved to be left in this pisshole; besides, her studio was financing his movie. He went back inside, looking for her.

The bartender was busy shifting heavy crates of beer; he shook his finger when he saw Alex—as if to say, Not you again.

“Did you see the lady I was with?” Alex asked.

“I told you,” the bartender repeated, “your kind ain’t welcome here.”

Alex was fast running out of patience. “Where’s the ladies’ room?” he asked.

“Out in the parking lot,” the bartender said. “An’ don’t come back.”

Like he would ever want to.

The outdoor ladies’ room doubled as a dressing room for the strippers. They scurried in with their plastic makeup cases and see-through carryalls, changing clothes in the cramped space. When Lucky entered, Driving Miss Daisy had just finished getting dressed in an alarmingly tight, scarlet catsuit.

“Hi,” Lucky said. “My friend and I wanted to buy you a drink, only it didn’t seem like we were welcome here.”

The stripper peered at her reflection in the cracked mirror over the once white basin. “Girl, this place is two-tone shit,” she remarked, busily rubbing lipstick off her teeth. “Why’re you here?”

“I’m with Alex Woods, the film director,” Lucky explained. “And we’re both kind of curious to know why you’re wasting the best body we’ve ever seen in
this
dump?”

Driving Miss Daisy adjusted what appeared to be a long red wig. “Listen, girl, there’s times a person don’t have no choice. I work plenny a places—private parties, ole boys’ reunions, crap clubs, an’ dives like this. Thing is, girl
—that’s
what pays the rent.”

“We’d pay you—”

“Oh,
no, no no
,” Driving Miss Daisy said, shaking her finger at Lucky. “I ain’t into any of them
kinky
scenes, so don’ go gettin’ no fancy ideas jest ’cause I take my clothes off.”

“Absolutely no kinky scenes,” Lucky assured her. “All we want is to hear your story. Alex is interested in putting you in his new movie.”

“His movie, huh?”

“Would a hundred bucks give us twenty minutes of your time?”

“This is too weird,” the stripper said, shaking her long red wig.

“What’s weird about it? It’s an opportunity. Seize it.”

The woman pursed her lips. “Never
had
no
opportunities
,” she said thoughtfully.

“So take it,” Lucky urged.

“I got another gig t’go to.”

“We’ll come with you.”

“I dunno…”

“Where is it?”

“A pool hall…’bout twenny minutes from here.”

“A deal,” Lucky said quickly, before the stripper changed her mind.

They walked outside, running straight into an irate Alex.

“I told you to stay in the car,” he said, glaring.

“I don’t take instructions well.”

“That’s obvious.”

“Alex, this is Driving Miss Daisy…or, uh…” She turned to the stripper. “I guess you’ve got a name, right?”

“Why y’ wanna know my name?” the woman asked suspiciously.

“’Cause I feel a little foolish when I have to keep saying Driving Miss Daisy. It’s not like I’m turning you in to Social Security or anything.”

The stripper narrowed her eyes. “Jest ’cause I’m black, y’ think I’m on welfare? That’s
shit
!”

“Did I say that?”

“Lucky,” Alex interrupted impatiently. “Can we go?”

“We’re going to see…what’s your real name?”

“Daisy,” the woman muttered.

“Fine. We’ll catch uh…Daisy dancing at another place, and then she’ll have a drink with us.”

“I’m
not
stopping at another one of these shitholes,” Alex said, still glaring.

“I promise,” Lucky said sweetly, “no more trouble.”

Alex didn’t believe a word. “Yeah, like
you
can control it,” he said.

“I can,” she assured him.

He shook his head. “You’re something else, Lucky.”

“So are you, Alex,” she said. “But we’ll get into that another time.” She turned to the stripper. “Daisy, we’ll follow you, where’s your car?”

“Y’all are
real
strange,” Daisy said, rolling her eyes.

“You can say that again,” Alex muttered.

“I’m the yellow Chevrolet over there,” Daisy said, pointing to a wreck of a car.

“We’ll be right behind you,” Lucky said.

“Are you insane?” Alex asked when they were settled in his Porsche. “Why are we doing this?”

“If you’re not into it, drop me at the next bar and I’ll call a limo,” she said, fed up with Alex’s nagging.

“I can’t leave you here,” he said flatly, adding a surly, “Much as I’d like to.”

She desperately wanted another drink, it seemed that every drop of alcohol she’d consumed had no effect. “C’mon, lighten up,” she said, turning on the charm. “It’ll be a blast. Another tequila. A game of pool. What’s so bad?” She nudged him, trying to lure him into the spirit of things. “Twenty bucks says I can beat you.”

He studied her for a moment. “You think you can beat me at anything, don’t you?”

“Maybe I can,” she said, thinking that maybe she could.

“Your ego has a life of its own.”

“I suppose yours is just a shadowy little thing?” she countered, groping for a cigarette.

He couldn’t help laughing. “I bet you’re always used to getting your own way.”

“Like
you’re
not?” she said, wondering why she felt this continuing urge to needle him.

He regarded her steadily. “I worked my ass into the ground to be able to get my own way.”

“What do you think
I
did?” she replied, meeting his gaze.

“Then I guess we’re more alike than we realize.”

The yellow Chevrolet exited the parking lot.

“Let’s go,” Lucky said. “We’re following an adventure about to happen!”

MORTON SHARKEY MET WITH DONNA LANDSMAN
in the privacy of her fake Spanish castle. As he drove up the long winding driveway, he tried not to think about how he was betraying Lucky. He knew that what he was doing was wrong, but the downward spiral he was caught up in was too strong to stop. Besides, he was being blackmailed, so he was also a victim.

And yet…in spite of everything, he was still obsessed with Sara. When he was with her, nothing else mattered.

An Asian butler opened the front door and led him through a baronial hallway into a grand, high-ceilinged living room. Morton noticed a lot of portraits of other people’s ancestors hanging on the walls.

Donna stood in the middle of the room dressed in Escada, her face impeccably made up, a martini glass in her hand. “Morton,” she said, formal and cold, not offering him a drink.

“Donna,” he responded.

She did not ask him to sit down. “I understand you have good news for me,” she said.

“It’s the news you’ve been waiting for,” he replied evenly. “All the investors are in place. As of tomorrow, you will be in control of Panther Studios.”

She smiled a thin, almost evil smile. “I’m delighted you decided to cooperate with me.”

As if he’d had a choice. He tried not to stare at her; a nerve began twitching under his left eye. “When do I get the tapes, Donna?”

“The moment I’m sitting behind the desk in Lucky Santangelo’s office.”

“Exactly what day
are
you taking over?”

“Tomorrow,” Donna said, her face an unemotional mask. “I hope you’ll be there to congratulate me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“That’s not very friendly of you, Morton,” she chided. “Surely you wish to witness my moment of triumph?”

“Not really.”

“Too bad.” Her voice hardened. “Because you
will
be there. I’m sure at this late stage you would not want the videotape of you and that
inventive
young lady becoming public property.”

Witch! Scheming witch! Why was she doing this? What made Panther Studios so important to her? That was something he hadn’t figured out.

“Very well, Donna, I’ll be there.”

Another evil smile. “Good.”

She waited until Morton had left, then she went to the bar and fixed herself another congratulatory martini.

She sipped it slowly, relishing the thought of what joy tomorrow would bring.

Revenge was sweet. So very; very sweet.

As soon as he was out of there, Morton drove directly to Sara’s apartment, an apartment he paid for. When he’d met Sara, she’d lived in a place too dreadful to contemplate; he’d always imagined getting mugged on his way in. Now he’d installed her in a respectable high-rise, and
he felt secure traveling up in the elevator from the private underground garage.

He let himself in with his key. At first she’d objected to his having a key, but as he’d pointed out, if he was paying the rent, why shouldn’t he?

Sara was not alone, which infuriated him. He’d told her repeatedly that when he visited he did not want her friends around.

Even though he’d informed her he was on his way over, her friend Ruby was there—a sulky-looking girl with stringy black hair and a bad attitude. The two of them were sitting on the living-room floor surrounded by trashy magazines, candies, and an army of colored nail polish bottles. Both of them were barefoot, giggling as they painted each other’s toenails.

“We’re experimenting,” Sara said, waving.

“Hi’ya,
Morton
,” Ruby said, mocking his name.

He nodded, standing awkwardly over the two girls, expecting them to get up. Neither of them did.

“Sara,” he said at last, “I’d like to speak with you.”

“Go ahead,” she said, busily painting black polish onto Ruby’s big toe.

“Privately,” he said, annoyed that she didn’t treat him with more respect.

She pulled a face. “Say what you want—Ruby don’t care.”

He wondered how much Ruby knew. Was she aware that Sara had put him in the most compromising position of his life? Did she know that Sara had banked twelve thousand dollars to do so? And she wasn’t even embarrassed or sorry when he’d found out. “It’s a lotta money, Morty,” she’d said, completely without guilt. “Couldn’t turn it down.” Then she’d made love to him in a way that he’d never been made love to before. And he’d continued seeing her.

He was sick. He knew that.

Lovesick. Only now he made sure there were no hidden cameras concealed in the apartment.

Ruby took the hint. She stood up and yawned. “I’m goin’ by Tower Records,” she said. “Want anything?”

“Wouldn’t mind comin’ with you,” Sara said, wistfully entertaining the idea until she noticed Morton’s furious expression. She grimaced. “Guess not.”

Ruby slipped on a pair of ugly sandals and left.

“I can’t imagine why you’re friendly with her,” Morton said, standing stiffly in place.

“That’s ’cause you got no imagination,” Sara said, popping a Gummi Bear in her mouth. She jumped up, throwing her arms around his waist. “That’s okay, Daddy, ’cause I got ’nuff for us both, don’t I, honey buns?”

“Yes, Sara, you do,” he said, feeling an overpowering rush of excitement, the kind of sexual anticipation he hadn’t experienced in twenty-five years.

Sara pulled her skimpy tank top over her head and dropped her shorts. She wore no underwear. She was as skinny as a ten-year-old boy, but her lack of curves only heightened Morton’s ferocious excitement. His eyes fastened on her almost pubescent nakedness, drifting down to her thick tangle of tangerine pubic hair.

“What’s it gonna be?” Sara asked with a sly smile. “Waitress? Lawyer? Schoolgirl? Or maybe you’re in the mood for the little
boy
thing…” She smiled knowingly, twisting her pubic hair. “C’
mon
, bunny rabbit, it’s your call.”

“Little boy,” he said, his voice constricted.

“Ohhh…you
are
naughty today. If I was playing nanny, I’d be forced to spank a bad boy like you.”

And so the games began.

And Morton Sharkey gave no more thought to his betrayal of Lucky Santangelo.

Santo had noticed that his mother was in an extremely good mood. This meant he could ask her for anything he wanted and more than likely get it.

He wandered into the kitchen where she was busily preparing pasta sauce.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, slouching over to stand beside her.

Donna beamed. “Santo. Come. Taste,” she said, shoving a spoonful of steaming, rich meat sauce into his mouth.

It burnt his tongue.
Dumb cunt!
he wanted to yell. Instead he said, “’S’good,” hating the garlicky flavor almost as much as he hated her.

Donna knew that when she cooked—which wasn’t often—she was the best. “Only good?” she questioned, confident of his answer.

“Awesome!” Santo responded. He knew what was expected of him.

“I’m freezing a batch of it,” Donna said. “You can invite friends over and enjoy it together.”

She was so stupid she didn’t even know he had no friends. The kids at school shouted names at him like “Rich Jerk” and “Fat, Greasy Wop.” They hated him, and he hated them back.

He didn’t care. One day he’d burn the whole friggin’ school down with everyone in it, then she could meet his so-called friends all laid out in the morgue—burnt to a crisp.

“I was thinkin’. Mom,” he said, perching his considerable bulk on a stool. “Wouldn’t it be bitchin’ if I got a new car?”

“What are you
talking
about?” Donna exclaimed, expertly chopping zucchini. “I bought you a Corvette for your birthday.”

“Since I had that dumb accident, it’s not the same,” he complained, hunching his shoulders.

“We had it repaired.”

“I know—but, Mom,” he waited until he had her full attention, “I
really
want a Ferrari.”

“A
Ferrari?
” she said, shocked.

“Why not?” he whined. “Mohammed’s dad bought him one, and Mohammed’s the geek of the decade.”

“It’s not a practical car for school,” Donna said sternly, adding the chopped zucchini to her pasta sauce.

“I’d drive it weekends, and take the Corvette to school,” he explained, making it sound like an extremely sensible idea.

“Well…” She hesitated. It was so damn difficult saying no to her son.

“C’mon, Mom,” he said persuasively. “It’s not like I do drugs, or go out an’ get wasted like most of the kids in my school. I could, like,
really
do things that’d bum you out.”

Donna shook her head. Was this a veiled threat? No, not from her sweet boy. Santo was too good. “Two cars,” she mused, thinking it over. “George will never agree…”

“Who cares what George says,” Santo said bitterly, his puffy features hardening. “He’s not my father. My father was killed, and you can’t replace him with George, so don’t try.”

“I would never do that,” Donna objected.

Santo went for a new angle. “Putting George’s feelings first sucks,” he said, scowling.

“I put
you
first, Santo,” Donna replied, crushed that he would think otherwise.

He glared at her accusingly, as if he didn’t believe her.

“When I was your age we had nothing,” Donna said, shaking her head at the memories. “We were so poor—”

“’S’not the same,” Santo interrupted. “You lived in some little village.”

“A village I shall take you to one of these days,” Donna promised, remembering her humble roots with a certain amount of nostalgia. “My relatives will be so proud of you.
I’m
so proud of you.”

“If my dad was alive,
he’d
buy me a Ferrari,” Santo said, going for the full guilt trip. If this didn’t get her, nothing would.

Donna stared at her son, finally capitulating because it was too difficult saying no. “If it’s what you really want,” she said and sighed.

He beamed. She was so damned easy.

“Go to the showroom, pick out the model you like.”

He jumped up and hugged her. “You’re the best mom in L.A.”

The title alone was worth the expenditure. “George is staying in Chicago overnight,” she said. “If you like, we can catch a movie, then have dinner at Spago.”

Much as he wouldn’t mind pigging out on the delicious pizza at Spago, he couldn’t face an evening alone with his mother. “No, Ma, I can’t,” he mumbled. “Too much homework.”

“Oh,” she said, her face sagging with disappointment. “Can’t it wait?”

“You’d be bummed if I fell behind on my grades, wouldnja, Ma?”

“I suppose so.” She paused; the two martinis she’d had earlier were giving her a nice, steady buzz. “It’s just that this afternoon I concluded a very exciting deal. I thought we could celebrate.”

Like her closing some big deal was anything new. “What deal?” he said, not interested but smart enough to know that since she’d agreed to the Ferrari he should jolly her along.

“I’m taking control of a Hollywood studio,” she announced proudly. “Panther Studios.”

This was more like it. Thoughts of stardom raced
through his head. “Can I be an actor?” he asked, imagining the possibilities.

Donna’s thin mouth curved into an indulgent smile. “You can be anything you want.”

Shit! This was good news. A Hollywood studio. Venus Maria was an actress, and all actresses were prepared to do anything to get into movies, everyone knew that. If his mother owned a studio, the power would reflect on him. In fact, he’d be able to make sure Venus Maria starred in every film the studio made.

This was a sign. First the Ferrari, now a big movie studio. The time had come to contact Venus.

Of course, he wouldn’t reveal his identity yet, instead he’d write her an anonymous letter informing her he was on her side, and that soon, when the time was right, they’d be married, joined together in every way.

“Gotta go, Mom,” he said, sliding toward the kitchen door. “See ya later.”

Once up in his room he hunched over his computer and began composing his first letter to HER.

Recently he’d purchased a stars’ map and looked up Venus’s address. Then he’d taken an investigative drive up to her house in the Hollywood Hills, gotten out of his car, and peered through the large wrought-iron gates. A guard had emerged and waved him away.

Freaking moron. Didn’t he know that one day he, Santo, would live there with Venus, it was only a matter of time.

He’d thought about telling the asshole that’s what was going to happen. The jerk probably wouldn’t believe him.

No. He could wait. One day, everyone would know.

He did his best to concentrate on the letter, but somehow or other it was impossible to stop his mind from wandering.

He imagined Venus without her clothes, naked and
available, licking her jammy lips, prancing around the stage just for him…

And when she saw what he had to offer…Oh boy! Venus Maria would be some happy babe.

Jeez! He was getting the biggest boner just writing to her. Why hadn’t he done it before?

He unzipped his pants, fumbled for his dick, and thought about her some more. She was some horny piece of ass, and one day she would be all his.

He decided he had more exciting things to do with his hands than play with a computer. Her letter would have to wait.