Chances

by Jackie Collins

  Suddenly she remembered emptying her bag out in the elevator when she had been desperately looking for her lighter. Idiot! She must have forgotten to put her keys back. They were probably lying on the floor of the elevator.

  It was just too much. “Goddamn it!” She kicked the car.

  Steven, who had just entered the garage, paused. “What’s the matter?”

  “I left my keys in the elevator. Can you believe it?”

  “How could you do a stupid thing like that?”

  “‘How could you do a stupid thing like that?’” she mimicked furiously. “I did it purposely, of course—so that you would be forced to give me a ride. I mean—like we haven’t spent enough time together, right?”

  He sighed. “Come on.”

  She piled everything back in her bag and followed him to his car. It was a two-year-old Chevrolet.

  He unlocked the doors and she slumped into the passenger seat. “Put the air conditioning on,” she demanded.

  He ignored her and started the car, revving the engine gently.

  “Put on the air conditioning,” she repeated.

  “No. This car needs to run at least ten minutes before I can do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because otherwise it stalls,” he explained patiently.

  “So how come you don’t buy a new car?”

  “I happen to like this one. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Silently he drove the Chevrolet up from the underground garage. The streets were alive with people hurrying in all directions. “Where do you live?” he asked politely.

  She yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth. “Sixty-first and Park. But it’s no good dropping me there. I don’t have my apartment keys, and the maid doesn’t get in until ten.”

  “Surely the janitor has a set?”

  She shook her head.

  His mouth tightened. He had had just about enough of her. “So where then?”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Why?”

  She extracted a cigarette from her pack and angrily jammed the car lighter in. “Christ! It doesn’t matter. I was only going to ask if I could hang out there until ten o’clock—but forget it. I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “No trouble,” he said tightly, wondering why she didn’t ask to be dropped at a friend or relation’s house.

  “Thank you.” The lighter popped out. She pressed it to her cigarette and dragged hungrily.

  In silence he drove to his apartment. The traffic signals were not in operation, so it was more or less a slow crawl.

  He thought about all the work he had in front of him. The Bonnatti investigation was just about reaching a peak. Two years of checking out a man’s life. Enzio Bonnatti, a street kid who over the years had turned into one of the biggest criminal bosses around. Prostitution, pornography, gambling, and drugs. Not to mention murder, extortion, and bribery.

  It had not been easy persuading people to talk. Fear hung heavy. But a few had been persuaded, thanks to Bobby De Walt. A few key witnesses who would be able to put Bonnatti away forever. Steven had his witnesses safely hidden away. And now it was just a question of finishing the papers that would indict Bonnatti and bring him up for trial.

  Carefully he parked his Chevrolet in front of the brownstone where he lived at Fifty-eighth and Lexington. Once a year there was a parking spot right outside—and today was it. Seemed like a good omen after the wasted night.

  Lucky yawned again. “We’re practically neighbors,” she announced, stretching luxuriously. “I’ll be able to jog home at ten o’clock.”

  What was he going to do with her for three hours? Why did he have to be Mister Nice Guy? Why couldn’t he just tell her to go find someone else to hang around?

  He got out of the car, but before he reached her side she was out, stretching again and saying, “I’m hungry. Are you hungry? Have you got any food?”

  She didn’t honestly expect him to cook her breakfast, did she? “There’s eggs if you want to make them,” he said curtly.

  She followed him down the steps of the house. “I can’t cook.”

  “Not even eggs?”

  She shrugged vaguely. “I guess I don’t have that womanly touch in the kitchen. I’ve just got to look at uncooked food and it turns to—”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  The brownstone was divided into four apartments. Steven had the basement. Carrie was always trying to get him to do something with it but he liked it just the way it was, plain and stark: dark wood, leather couches, a huge old desk, shelves crammed with books, and his one extravagance—incredible quadraphonic hi-fi equipment and an impressive collection of blues and soul records.

  Lucky looked around. It was not what she’d expected. But then she didn’t quite know what to make of Steven anyway. He was certainly one of the best-looking men she had ever seen. The thing was, men that attractive were usually full of conceit and arrogance. This guy was different. He honestly did not seem to be aware of quite what a knockout he was. Of course, that didn’t change the fact that he was an uptight pain in the ass.

  She was experiencing a strong desire to lure him into bed. Get beneath the covers with him and see if she could thaw him out a little.

  She almost laughed aloud. What a switch! It was always the guys who were raring to go. All she had to do was stroll into any singles bar and men were hitting on her from all sides, like pussy was going out of style and they had to be sure to grab a piece fast. She liked the anonymity of singles bars. The going in and choosing a partner and not even knowing his name.

  No name. No pain.

  “Why don’t you sit down,” he said. “I’ll boil some water for coffee.”

  “Are you gas or electric?”

  “Gas.”

  “Fortunate.”

  “Yes.” He walked into the kitchen.

  She sat on the leather couch and wished that she felt better. There was so much on her mind, so many things to deal with….

  She closed her eyes for a minute. Gino was coming back… Any moment… Any day….

  I don’t want to be a little girl again. Please, daddy, don’t take it all away from me…. Please….

  Her eyes snapped open quickly. Christ! What’s the matter with me? Nobody—but nobody—is taking anything.

  Steven came back into the room. He had removed his jacket and seemed more relaxed. “The kettle is on, it takes a while. I’ll put a record on for you while I dive under the shower.”

  She nodded, her eyelids heavy, threatening to close again, just for a second, only for a second….

  He leafed quickly through some albums and picked out one of his favorites. At least she had good taste in music. He’d try her on a little vintage Marvin Gaye. The What’s Going On album was a classic. He put the disc on the turntable and hurried to strip off his clothes and stand under the luxury of a cold energizing shower.

  She was almost asleep when the sound came wafting through her consciousness. Marvin Gaye. What’s Going On. Christ! Marco. The night they had made love. Pledged themselves to a future together. Marvin Gaye on the record player. What’s Going On repeating again and again…. The memories came flooding in before she could even attempt to stop them.

  Marco. She never allowed herself to think about him. He was locked away in a corner of her mind she refused to visit. He was dead…. gone….

  Marco… Marco… Marco….

  She could still hear her own screams. Still see his body lying on the black asphalt. Still remember the blood pumping out of him. Out of her Marco, her love.

  And the people grouped around his body, staring and chattering as though he was just another Las Vegas sight. Fat hags in grotesque sundresses, ratty little kids, and florid men in polyester suits.

  One of them was taking a picture. Aiming his fucking Instamatic and taking a snapshot.

  Like an animal she had sprung, clawing the camera from his sweaty grasp, smashing it to the concrete, and screaming over an
d over, “Bastard… bastard… bastard…”

  Boogie had pulled her off the surprised tourist, and she sank to the ground, lifted Marco’s head, and cradled it on her lap.

  And all the while the blood pumped out of him…. Slowly… Surely… Irrevocably….

  “I love you, baby… I love you… I love you!” Somehow she thought if she said the words enough times he wouldn’t go… wouldn’t leave her.

  “He’s dead, Lucky,” Costa said grimly. “He’s dead.”

  “Fuck off!” she screamed, her face a twisted mask of pain. “Just fuck off! He’s going to be all right…. He’ll be fine…”

  The ambulance and the police arrived at the same time.

  “We have to get him to a hospital,” she wailed. “Please! Hurry! Every second counts.”

  “He’s gone, miss,” muttered the ambulance attendant, touching her gently on the arm.

  She threw his hand off angrily. “How the hell do you know? You haven’t even tried to help him.”

  Lucky saw the Marco she had been with that morning. She did not see the inert body. She did not see that half his face was gone, a pulp of blood and bone. She did not see the huge pool of blood around her.

  A seasoned detective was moving into the picture with several cops in attendance. He began issuing instructions, calling for the crowds to be cleared and witnesses to be detained. “Who is she?” he asked. “Get her away from the victim and find out what the hell happened.”

  A young policeman stepped forward to oblige. When he tried to separate her from the body she hit him so hard that he fell back in a state of shock.

  Boogie moved then. He was strong as steel, in spite of his wasted appearance. He pried her away from Marco and half carried, half dragged her toward the entrance to the hotel.

  The rest was a blur as far as she was concerned, a blur of faces and voices, doctors and nothingness. She retreated to a place she had visited once before. A quiet place where nobody bothered you. She remembered when her mommy had gone away. It had been the same then….

  She woke up in a private clinic twenty-four hours later, opened her eyes, and said sharply, “What is this place? Why am I here?”

  A nurse, dozing in a chair, sprang to attention. “Oh, Miss Santangelo…. Just a minute, please.” She dashed from the room.

  Gingerly she sat up and checked out her body. She thought she must have been in an accident. Casting her mind back, she could remember the opening-night party of the Magiriano…. She could remember Enzio, and Costa, Marco, Warris Charters, Dario, a roomful of stars. She could remember the whole goddamn evening… then—nothing.

  A white-coated doctor came hurrying into the room.

  “Why am I here?” she demanded. “Did I have an accident?”

  “More like a traumatic experience, Miss Santangelo. You’ve been sedated. Mr. Zennocotti is on his way. I think it best if he explains.”

  Costa arrived. Explained.

  Now, two years later, Marvin Gaye and What’s Going On… and she was finally allowing herself to remember the real truth and the real pain.

  She began to cry, deep, racking sobs. The vengeance she had asked for had not been enough. But there had been no Marco to turn to for guidance and advice. No Marco upon whom she had depended so strongly. She was responsible for many things, but when it came to the smooth trouble-free running of the two hotels, he was the one to make it all happen.

  Of course, Enzio Bonnatti had been wonderful. He had personally selected two of his best men to run things in Vegas, and by the time she was out of the clinic they were installed and taking care of everything. This suited her fine. She didn’t want to stay in the gambling city. She wanted to return to New York. She thanked Enzio profusely and asked him if he would mind continuing to look after things for a while.

  “Sure,” he said. “Do what y’hafta do, Lucky. My guys’ll handle the operations. We’ll make a deal.” And then he had personally made it his business to have his people track down Marco’s killer.

  Two weeks after the shooting he told her, “We got the guy—some dumb pisser who held a gambling grudge. You’ll read about the bastard in tomorrow’s paper.”

  Lucky had read how a Mr. Mortimer Sauris had burned to death in his automobile—a freak accident, the papers said. “The cocksucker died slowly,” Enzio had explained. “’Scuse my language.”

  Enzio had been such a tower of strength. Lucky thought grimly of the Kassari brothers and their attempt to take over the Magiriano, shortly after Marco’s death. Enzio had said he would deal with it. A few weeks later he told her, “Rudolpho Crown, the Kassaris, some of those other bums who invested in the syndicate—they’re out. I got paper says it’s all ours.”

  She was pleased, but she still had no interest in ever returning to Vegas. She couldn’t bear to be anywhere that reminded her of Marco.

  Money from the Mirage continued to filter through in the normal way. A series of couriers picked up bags of cash and ferried them to various cities, where the money was laundered and made legitimate, and then finally it would turn up in one Santangelo enterprise or another. Money flowed from the Magiriano in the same way, until one day Enzio summoned Lucky to his Long Island mansion and said, “I got a surprise for you. I’m involved in a deal that could mean big bucks for all concerned. I included your take from the Magiriano—trust me, Lucky.”

  “I trust you.” She smiled.

  Costa objected the moment he heard. When it came to money, he was naturally suspicious of everything and everybody. Sometimes Lucky was just not responsible. Gino would never trust anyone with his money, not even an old loyal friend such as Enzio. Lucky was too young to realize the power and importance of the simple dollar.

  “Come on,” she argued. “We’re talking about Enzio here. He’s like my father, for God’s sake. Are you saying he’d try and cheat me?”

  “I’m merely saying why change the Mirage operation when it has worked successfully for over twenty years?”

  “This is different; it’s an investment. Besides, we don’t need the income right now. Let Enzio do it his way. We’ll take what we want when we want it—no problem.”

  Marvin Gaye. Singing. Filling the room with memories. Opening and unlocking her mind.

  God! But she had loved Marco. Why had she denied herself the pleasure of remembering quite how much?

  Steven walked back into the room. He was wearing faded Levi’s and a denim work shirt. His black hair was wet and curly and his feet bare. “Did you check out the kettle?” he asked. Then he took a good look at her and added, “Are you feeling O.K.?”

  She had stopped crying and felt remarkably calm, like a heavy weight had been removed from her shoulders. “Sure. I feel fine.” She rubbed under her eyes to remove any traces of smudged mascara. “It’s just that particular record happened to get me going on some locked-up memories.”

  “I’m sorry. If I’d known, I—”

  “Shit!” She laughed sharply. “You couldn’t have known, could you? Why are you always so goddamn polite?”

  Just when he began to think that she wasn’t so bad, she always hit him with a zinger. For a moment she had looked like a forlorn little girl; then the mouth had gone into action and she was superbitch again. A spoiled New York ballbreaker. “I thought at least you would have stretched yourself and made the coffee,” he said coldly.

  “I’m the guest,” she pointed out.

  “Uninvited,” he couldn’t help replying.

  Quick to take offense she leaped off the couch. “If I’m putting you to any trouble…” she began.

  He ignored her, walked into the kitchen. The water in the kettle was almost boiled away. “Black? White? Sugar?” he called out.

  “Black. No sugar. You don’t mind if I use the bathroom, do you?”

  He did mind. “Go right ahead.”

  She found the bathroom. It was a mess. Damp towels on the floor, hair in the sink, a razor, deodorant, and breath freshener mixed up with toothpaste and tooth
brush on the side of the bath. It pleased Lucky—the fact that he wasn’t Mr. Perfect everywhere he went.

  She closed the door, investigated the contents of his medicine chest, then decided to take a bath. Why not? He had said she could use the bathroom, hadn’t he?

  In the kitchen Steven gulped a mouthful of steaming hot coffee and picked up the phone. It was too early to call Carrie or Aileen. It was never too early to call Bobby.

  “Hey, man, what’s happenin’?” complained Bobby. “I bin tryin’ to call you half the night.”

  “Would you believe I got trapped in an elevator over at Jerry’s office building?”

  “Yeah, I’d believe it. The whole city’s gone nuts. You’d better let Aileen know you’re O.K. I ain’t quit buggin’ her on the hour every hour.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Sure. She was home when it happened—the only place to be. The streets are like a jungle, man.”

  “Right. Look, Bobby, I just walked in. Just wanted to let you know I’ll see you around ten thirty. We’ll talk then.”

  “You think today’s the day?” Bobby asked anxiously.

  “We got a good chance. If not today, tomorrow for sure.”

  “I can’t wait to nail that dirty bastard. I have nightmares he’ll get word of what’s going down and skip town.”

  Steven glanced toward the door. “Bonnatti will never skip. He’ll figure his lawyers will get him off like they been getting him off for more years than you’ve been alive. We’ve got him, Bobby, don’t worry about it.”

  “Yeah, I know, I know. I just get nervous, that’s all.”

  “Don’t. I’ll see you ten thirty.” He replaced the receiver and drank the rest of his coffee. His stomach growled, reminding him that he was hungry. He was damned if he was going to fix breakfast for Lucky, he’d sooner stay hungry.

  Where was she anyway? She’d been in the bathroom long enough. So much on his mind, and yet having her in his apartment was throwing him off balance. He glanced at his watch. It was still only seven thirty. Time was dragging. He went to the bathroom door and knocked loudly. “What are you doing in there?” he yelled.

  “Taking a bath,” she yelled back. “Wanna come in and join me?”