Chances

by Jackie Collins

  Gino said, “Sonofabitch. Where the fuck has she been?”

  Marco said, “I don’t know. I’ll try and find out, then I’ll bring her up.”

  Lucky sat happily in the booth, munching on a Sinatra Special sandwich and swigging a Coke. Marco slid in beside her.

  “This is terrific!” she said, full of enthusiasm. “You and I should do this more often.”

  Gino pulled on a bathrobe, went to her bedroom, found the pillows plumped up under the covers, and swore softly to himself. His daughter was a wild one. Had to be protected from herself. He had made the right decision. Now he was sure of it.

  Marco escorted her to the door of the suite.

  “Shhh,” she whispered, giggling, taking out the key and waving it around. “Mustn’t wake Big Daddy.”

  He felt a twinge of guilt. Squealing on the kid wasn’t nice, but it was for her own good.

  “I’d ask you in,” she giggled, opening up the door, “but he wouldn’t like it. Of course you could ask me back to your room….”

  She had been making plenty of cracks like that, coming on to him strong. Gino would have a fit if he knew. “Good night, Lucky,” he said quickly, giving her a little shove in the small of her back.

  “Hey, don’t I get a kiss?” She grabbed him before he could back off, arms around his neck, open mouth on his.

  He pushed her away fast and headed for the elevator.

  Behind him he heard Gino say, his voice hard, “Come on in, Lucky, you and I are gonna have a little talk.”

  They faced each other, father and daughter. It was just the two of them. Alone.

  Gino’s eyes raked her up and down, missing nothing: the dirty torn jeans, the rumpled T-shirt, the unruly hair.

  “Where you bin, kid? Out gettin’ laid?”

  She flushed. “What?”

  “You think I was born yesterday, kid? You think just ’cause I ain’t as young as I was I don’t know what goes on?”

  “I’m sorry—” she began.

  “Don’t give me that sorry shit,” he rasped. “I’ve had that sorry shit comin’ out my ass. Who the fuck do you think you’re foolin’ with?”

  She was startled by his language, by the way he was using it toward her. “I just went for a walk,” she said lamely.

  “A walk, huh? Is that how your clothes got in such a mess? Is that why your arms are all covered in bruises? Your jeans hanging down? A walk, huh?”

  “A man attacked me,” she admitted sulkily. “I was in the parking lot and he jumped me.”

  “Oh, yeh? Like the boy in Switzerland, huh? He just happened to get in your room, take his clothes off, take your clothes off, and climb into bed with you. While across the room your girl friend was doin’ the same thing. How come neither of you screamed for help, huh? Answer me that, huh?”

  She stared moodily at the floor.

  “And France,” Gino continued. “Shacked up in that villa with your whore friend. How many guys did you have there? How many, kid? Or did you and your friend settle for sharing that pimp who was living there with you?”

  “No!” she objected sharply. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Don’t give me any more crap, you hear me?” He was very angry, his eyes a deadly black, his hands shaking with emotion. “I figured out what I’m gonna do with you—figured it out good—an’ you should get down on your knees and thank me.”

  “What?” she whispered fearfully. Whatever it was, she would escape.

  “You got hot pants, you wanna fuck around—”

  She flinched.

  “Well, you’re my daughter, Gino Santangelo`’s daughter. I will not have it. “

  “I don’t… fuck around.” She could hardly say the word in front of him. “I don’t. Honestly, daddy.”

  He ignored her. “You’re gettin’ married, kid. I found you a husband, an’ you’re gettin’ married. And any screwin’ around you do will be in your marriage bed and nowhere else.” Suddenly he was screaming. “You understand me, kid? You understand me?”

  “But I don’t want to get married—”

  He hit her then. The first and only time. Across the face. Hard.

  She spun across the room, such was his strength.

  He went after her, picked her up, cradled her in his arms, began to talk fast. “I’m sorry kid, I’m sorry. Trust me. I know what’s best. You gotta do what I say. You gotta learn to listen to me.”

  Deep in the warmth of his arms, she started to cry. He smelled good, so very very good. Daddy-smells. Security. Love. Why wasn’t she five again? Why wasn’t her mother alive? “O.K., daddy, O.K. I’ll listen to you, I’ll do it. I love you. I love you so much. I’ll do anything to make it right with us.” She never wanted to leave the strength and warmth of his arms again. Never. Ever.

  “Good, kid,” he said softly. “It’ll be for the best, you’ll see.”

  “Who?” she whispered, knowing in her heart it would be Marco.

  “Craven Richmond,” Gino said proudly. “It’s all arranged.”

  Steven

  1970

  After five years of a marriage that got progressively worse, Steven was forced to admit that his mother had been right all along. Zizi was a cheap little tramp. A hotshot hustler who would not understand love and decency if it was given to her during the kiss of life. It took him awhile to find out, but when he did, he found out good. Coming home early one day, he had discovered the security chain in place. Knowing she was inside, he rang the bell continuously until a disheveled Zizi had appeared with a young guy hovering beside her. Before Steven could say anything, the boy slid past and vanished nervously down the stairs.

  “He was just delivering the groceries,” she objected when he accused her. “I always put the chain on. Habit.”

  He wanted to believe her—so he did. Although he knew she was screwing around.

  Soon after, he was having a drink with Jerry, discussing this and that, when Jerry blurted out, “I went to bed with your wife.”

  “Huh?” He thought Jerry was joking around, as was his way.

  “It wasn’t my fault!” Jerry said desperately. “It happened a week ago. You remember—when I dropped those papers by your apartment and you were out. She was all over me, dammit. I didn’t have a chance.”

  Steven looked at his friend in total disbelief. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Look, I’m not proud of what I did, but—hell, I don’t want to walk around with it on my conscience. You’re my friend. I had to tell you.”

  Steven had stormed from the bar and headed home.

  In the apartment Zizi was practicing for a dance exhibition with two of her Puerto Rican friends. Angrily he threw them out. A ferocious fight had ensued. She couldn’t wait to tell him everything. Yes, she had screwed Jerry Meyerson. And many others too. She was bored, fed up, dying to do something interesting with her life, like go to Hollywood and become a famous dancer in the movies. “I’m prettier than Rita Moreno,” she screamed. “I have more talent, I’m wasted married to you!”

  “So why don’t we get a divorce?” he questioned coldly, staring at her and realizing for the first time in five years that his cock was no longer on fire. Why hadn’t he realized before that she dressed like a hooker? Talked like a hooker? Even acted like a hooker?

  “Suits me fine, mister,” she flashed. “You are one tight-assed boring man. With boring friends and a boring job.”

  Why hadn’t she told him that before she screwed half of New York?

  He wanted her out of his life as fast as possible. No fuss, no bother. So he bought her a plane ticket to Hollywood, gave her a thousand dollars, agreed to pay her maintenance, and started divorce proceedings.

  It was two months after her departure before he got up enough courage to call Carrie. Ridiculous, really. Thirty-one years old and he was in a sweat about confronting his mother. He had been more hurt than he cared to admit by her total rejection of him. Now he knew she had been right, and while he didn’t condo
ne her unforgiving attitude, he could certainly understand it.

  Jerry had kept him in touch with what was going on. Carrie was well, working hard at her favorite charities, keeping up her reputation as one of the great New York hostesses. “You know your mother is amazing,” Jerry said. “She has the energy of a woman half her age.”

  Jerry and he had remained friends in spite of what had taken place. Steven wasn’t happy about what had happened, but it certainly wasn’t worth blowing a fourteen-year friendship over.

  With Zizi gone, he suddenly found that his life took on a new texture. He was working extremely hard, as usual. But the bonus was not having Zizi at home, nagging, sulking, generally distracting. Now he could visit his friends when he wanted, go to movies he wanted to see, play the soul music he loved without having to listen to a stream of complaints. Christ! He hadn’t realized it before, but she had cut off his balls while they were married. He determined that it would never happen to him again. No woman would get into his blood like foxy little Zizi had.

  Looking back on their relationship, he found it hard to figure out. What had she had that was so special? Jerry and he went out one night, really laid one on in a bar, and discussed it.

  “It was her pussy. You could smell her a mile off,” Jerry said wisely. “She was a bitch in heat, and all us cats got the scent.”

  “Thanks,” Steven said bitterly. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

  “Ex-wife. And you learned what not to look for in a woman. Must be worth something.”

  “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

  Jerry slapped him on the back. “’Course I’m right. Now, have I got a girl for you!”

  “Thanks, but I’m taking a break.”

  “Hey, nobody takes a break from pussy.”

  “You’re looking at just the guy.”

  “Shit!”

  “Don’t worry about it, I know I can count on you to do enough screwing for both of us.”

  Jerry laughed. “Right on, buddy boy—right on!”

  Carrie paced around her luxurious apartment. She was expecting Steven any minute. It was foolish, but she was nervous. Nervous of seeing her own son!

  It had certainly taken him long enough to contact her. She knew to the exact moment Zizi had left town. She should know. The girl had called her the week before. “Hey, Mrs. Berkely, this is the other Mrs. Berkely. Y’know, the one you love to hate. I have a little proposition for you.”

  “Yes?” Carrie had said coldly.

  “You remember our conversation just before your baby boy an’ I got married?”

  “Yes.” She remembered offering the tramp five thousand dollars to get out of Steven’s life—permanently. Zizi had laughed in her face.

  “Well, baby boy an’ I are talkin’ divorce.”

  Carrie’s heart had soared joyfully. She said nothing.

  “So,” continued Zizi, “as I know you are an interested party, I figured I should let you in on it. You see, our discussions could go either way. All I would have to do to keep things together is sweet-talk a little… y’know the sort of stuff I mean….”

  “How much?”

  “Ten thousand. Cash,” purred Zizi. “And I want it in two days.”

  “If we… make a deal, can I take it that Steven will never see you again?”

  “I’ll be in L.A. within a week.”

  “You’ll sign a paper?”

  “For ten thou I’ll stand on my head in Times Square!”

  Yes, thought Carrie, I bet you would.

  “Well?” snapped Zizi.

  “I’ll phone you back within the hour,” she replied. “I have to make certain… arrangements.”

  “I don’t want a doublecross, no runnin’ to baby boy tellin’ him I’m hittin’ on you for bread. You do that, honey, and the mistake is yours. I can sweet-talk that cat any time I want to—you’d better believe it.”

  “I believe it, all right.”

  Carrie had replaced the receiver thoughtfully. She hoped that Steven was over the tramp at last, but she couldn’t be sure. Best to pay the money and get the girl off both their backs. Fortunately, she would not have to go to Elliott for money. She still had fifteen thousand dollars left over from Bernard’s estate.

  She paid the money. Had a document drawn up for Zizi to sign. And waited for Steven to call.

  He finally had.

  The doorbell rang. She jumped and tried to compose herself by sitting down and picking up a magazine.

  The maid opened up the front door, and moments later Steven walked into the room. Tall and handsome. Well-dressed and classy. She had made sure he had every advantage in life. Advantages that had never come her way. He could go anywhere, do anything. And now that Zizi was gone—

  He swooped down on her and said one word. “Mama!”

  She rose to hug him.

  “I love you, stubborn woman!” he said. “How come it took me so long to find out you are always right?”

  Lucky

  1970

  “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Richmond?”

  Yes, please, a divorce. “What?” Lucky shaded her eyes and stared at the good-looking pool boy. Lazily her dark eyes inspected every inch of him. He was stocky, with firm thighs, a bulging crotch, and a chest heavily matted with blond hairs. “How about a piña colada?” she drawled.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He trotted off.

  She raised herself from the sun bed she was lying on and surveyed the scene around the pool at the Princess Saint Hotel in the Bahamas. Things had not changed in the four years she and Craven had been going there. The action never varied. Scads of tourists frying their asses off. Fat black Bahama Mamas waddling around holding trays aloft. A surly steel band playing their renditions of old Beatles hits.

  Walking toward her she saw Craven. Her husband. Four years of marriage, and still she couldn’t stand the sight of him. It wasn’t that she hated him, she couldn’t say that. He was just a constant aggravation. A dull person with no conversation, no personality, and no drive.

  Craven Richmond. Her husband. What a joke! On his skinny body he wore an aloha print shirt, white Bermuda shorts, tennis shoes with short orange socks. Liberally spread across his nose and around his mouth was a thick coating of white zinc ointment.

  She lay down quickly and closed her eyes. She didn’t have the energy to indulge in the usual conversation.

  With her eyes closed and the hot sun beating down on her body, she thought about the first time they had come to the Bahamas. Their honeymoon. Another joke. Big Daddy had thought she was some hot little nympho. Marry her off. Protect the great Santangelo name. Little did he know she was still a virgin. Had never done the dirty deed. Oh, sure, she’d done everything else, but when it came down to actually screwing…

  Craven had never done it either. Twenty-one years old when they married, he was more of a virgin than she was!

  After a sick-making wedding in Vegas, they had found themselves on a plane to the Bahamas. Two strangers. She had only been sixteen for one week. And what a week!When Gino said he had it all arranged, he meant it. It seemed everyone knew about it but her. Craven was delighted at the prospect. Betty Richmond coolly affectionate. Peter Richmond tolerant.

  Planefuls of Richmond family flew in for the wedding, which was flashy, distasteful, and fully covered by the press. In one fell swoop she went from little Lucky Saint, who nobody knew, to Lucky Santangelo, Gino’s beautiful daughter, marrying Craven Richmond of the Richmond family. Even Dario was allowed out of school for the event. She hardly recognized him. He had changed from a little boy to a young man. Long blond hair and sly blue eyes.

  “I bet you’re a killer with the girls!” she joked.

  “What girls?” he asked blankly. “It’s a boys’ school.”

  “Wait until college. You’ll slay ’em.”

  The communication they had once shared seemed to have gone.

  Marco was at the wedding, damn him. The Betrayer, she called him in her
mind, and carefully went out of her way to ignore him.

  Upon arrival in Nassau, a steel band met them at the airport and a convertible Cadillac whisked them across to Paradise Island, where the manager of the Princess Saint waited to greet them. A Marco look-alike. Dark, broody, dangerous-looking. Lucky gave him a cool greeting. Craven was more effusive.

  She had to admit she was impressed with Paradise Island. It certainly was the right name for the stretch of coastland which housed several beautiful luxury hotels. From the windows of their beachfront villa they were confronted with uninterrupted stretches of white sand, clear turquoise water, and exotic palms and ferns. She couldn’t wait to slip into her bikini and lie out on the beach. Craven rushed to join her in checked Bermudas. She was horrified by the sight of his skinny white body exposed at last. Incongruously, his legs and arms were deeply tanned. It only made everything else seem whiter.

  Why had she gone through with it? To make Gino happy? Or because there was no choice? Sixteen and married to a man she didn’t even know, let alone love.

  It was a windy day, but Lucky was immune to getting burned because of her natural dark skin and her deep-seated south of France tan. Several times she warned Craven, whose face and body were turning a particularly bright pink. “I’m all right,” he insisted. “Never had sunburn in my life.”

  There was always a first time. That night Craven lay in screaming agony while she plied him with unguents. “We got a real lethal sun here, ma’am,” the black guy in the hotel drugstore told her with a wide smile. “Once burnt nevah forgotten!” Very true. Craven was unable to leave the room for five days. Unable to do anything else either.

  Lucky waited patiently. She was married. She wanted to screw. If she closed her eyes tightly, maybe she could imagine Craven was Marco. There had to be some compensations to being married.

  On the sixth day of their honeymoon it became quite obvious that unless she made the first move no moves were going to be made. Craven’s sunburn was much improved. He had peeled—twice—and was now ready to approach the sun again—carefully.

  Instead of putting on the pajama top she usually wore to bed, she stripped off in the bathroom. She wasn’t embarrassed to enter the bedroom naked and stroll provocatively toward a startled Craven, whose dick shot up like a soldier at attention through his pajama trousers.