The Santangelos

by Jackie Collins

  “Don’t forget to come back,” Carlo sneered sarcastically as the stylist escorted her to the dressing room. “We have all the time in the world.”

  Max threw him a stony look. “Oh, I’ll be back,” she said, recovering her composure. “And these photos better rock!”

  And rock they did, for shedding her top forced Max to shed her inhibitions—helped by the few puffs of a joint the stylist happened to have handy.

  She returned to the set full of attitude, determined to make it work.

  “Can we have some sounds?” she demanded, feeling herself morphing into Athena, who always expected music to be played at her photo sessions.

  Drake flooded the studio—pounding out “Best I Ever Had,” followed by CeeLo Green’s “Fuck You,” and then the incomparable Amy W. refusing to go to rehab.

  Max settled into working with the camera lens, channeling an old photo of Janet Jackson on the cover of Rolling Stone, her hands covering her boobs. Then she started channeling Rihanna, Lady Gaga, and Katy Perry. They’d all posed seminude. If she wanted to make it as a model, she knew that she had to be bold.

  Good-bye, inhibitions.

  Hello, freedom.

  Carlo was suddenly silent. So was everyone else. Between them they were creating magic, and they both realized it.

  * * *

  Later there were drinks with the glam squad at a nearby pub. All the talk was about how great the photos had turned out, even though Carlo was a major prick.

  “Girl, you look wicked amazing,” the stylist assured her.

  “As did your tits,” added the makeup man—also gay.

  Max had to admit that the digital images she’d seen were pretty incredible—just racy enough. And even though she’d ended up topless, the images were highly stylized, and the only thing on show above her waist was a glimpse of side boob. Nothing for Lucky or Lennie to go ape-shit about, although Lennie probably would, he was so overprotective.

  She couldn’t wait for Athena’s opinion; Athena’s approval meant more than anyone’s.

  Finally, it was time to go home.

  Being in the apartment by herself made for a pleasant change. She took a shower, jumped into bed, and snuggled under the covers, resisting the impulse to google Billy. Soon she fell into a deep sleep.

  Hours later she was awakened by the persistent ringing of her doorbell. Groping for her phone, she noted that it was almost three in the morning.

  “What the hell…,” she muttered, picking up the intercom. “Who’s there?”

  A male voice mumbled something unintelligible. It was Tim, she was sure of it. He sometimes sought refuge with them when, drunk and stoned, he couldn’t make it back to the house he rented in Chelsea. Athena had given him a key to their flat, but of course he’d immediately lost it. Typical Tim behavior.

  Max pressed the buzzer to let him in, then dove back under the covers, ready to go back to sleep.

  The next thing she knew, Tim was crawling into bed next to her. Only to her horror it wasn’t Tim, it was the annoying Italian photographer, Carlo.

  Max let out a startled yell and scrambled from her bed, almost tripping over her own feet.

  “What’s the matter?” Carlo purred, seemingly unperturbed.

  “What’s the matter?” she shrieked, waving her arms in the air. “You’re here, in my bed! Get out, you pervert!”

  Carlo was way drunk. “Ah, bellissima,” he crooned. “You know you want me. Do not fight it. Calma, calma.”

  “You stay fucking calm!” she shouted, thinking, What would Athena do? Probably screw him, then throw him out.

  What would Lucky do? Well, her mom had a signature move she’d taught Max when she was seven, and that was to kick a man in the balls. It stopped them every time. However, since Carlo was now ensconced in her bed, Lucky’s move didn’t seem possible.

  “Get out,” she said through clenched teeth. “I mean it, or I’m calling the police.”

  “Soon, cara, very soon.” And with those words Carlo closed his eyes and drifted off into a drunken sleep.

  Max was outraged. What was she supposed to do now? Calling the police was not an option. The publicity would be out of control, plus it would make her look like a fool.

  Athena was in Saint-Tropez, so no help there.

  The only person she could think of to call was Tim.

  Okay, Tim. Let’s see if you can man up.

  Tim arrived half an hour later and bravely attempted to wake Carlo with a timid shove. The Italian photographer did not budge.

  “C’mon,” Max urged, impatiently jumping up and down. “Move the fucker. Get him out of my bed!”

  “He’s legless,” Tim offered.

  “What do you mean, ‘legless’?” Max said, livid that she had to deal with such a screwed-up situation.

  “Drunker than a skunk,” Tim opined.

  “Then what the hell am I supposed to do?” Max wailed. “This is so not right.”

  “You could come home with me, camp out on the sofa,” Tim suggested. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Max sniffed. “Only there’s no way I’m leaving my own apartment.”

  “Then may I suggest that you take Athena’s bed and let him sleep it off,” Tim said, stifling a yawn. “I’m going home.”

  “Oh no you’re not,” Max said adamantly. “You’re not leaving me alone with this drunken Italian asshole.”

  “What makes you think he’s an arsehole?”

  “I worked with him today, and he’s a total asshole.”

  “He obviously likes you, dear,” Tim said with a knowing smirk.

  “Do not call me dear,” she said, thoroughly pissed off. “You sound like your freaking father.”

  “Methinks you have a thing for Lord Henry,” Tim said, wagging a bony finger in her face. “You quite fancy him, don’t you?”

  “Oh puh-leeze!” Max exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “That’s so gross.”

  “You American girls always go gaga for titles,” Tim stated. “I’ve seen it before.”

  “Shut up,” she said furiously. “This American girl doesn’t give a fast crap.”

  “Ah,” Tim said knowingly, “and the truth shall out.”

  They were having this conversation next to Max’s bed, where Carlo was spread out, still fully dressed, snoring like a satisfied bull.

  Max was in shock that this was happening. How had Carlo even gotten her address? And why wasn’t Athena around to deal with the situation? It was quite apparent that Athena had bigger balls than her useless brother. Tim was such a loser.

  “Okay,” she said at last. “I’ll take Athena’s bed, and you can sleep on the pull-out couch.”

  Tim threw her a frosty look. “I never indicated that I was prepared to stay.”

  “I’ll let you wear my Dolce and Gabbana leopard-print pajamas,” Max said, tempting him the only way she knew how.

  “They’re Athena’s.”

  “She gave them to me,” Max lied.

  Tim considered the possibilities. He was a fervent fan of designer outfits. Dolce & Gabbana had impeccable flair; even their pajamas were chic.

  “Very well,” he said, after a moment or two. “And for your information, I shall be expecting a hot breakfast.”

  “Sure,” Max said, although she had no intention of cooking anything. Once Carlo was out, Tim would follow.

  Saint-Tropez, here I come.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was almost noon and Bobby still hadn’t called. Denver was inwardly steaming, although she refused to allow it to show. She sat at her desk mulling over the last time they’d spoken. The previous night, Bobby had left her a voice mail. She’d called him back and he’d blurted out a hurried, “Can’t talk. Catch you later.”

  Only he hadn’t caught her later, and she’d then left him two messages that he’d failed to return. It wasn’t as if she was some needy girlfriend craving his attention. However, not getting back to her was so unlike Bobby.r />
  Before he’d left for Chicago, he’d accused her of being obsessed with the Diego case. Unfortunately, it was true. She didn’t feel guilty, because it was her job. Besides, he was equally obsessed with opening his clubs across America, and lately he’d been talking about building a chain of boutique hotels. Great! Something else to take all his time.

  Things were not so good. A month ago she’d lost her beloved dog, Amy Winehouse—named after the legendary singer. Bobby had promised her they would visit the pound and pick out a rescue dog, only so far he’d been too busy. If he was in town on the weekend, all he seemed to want to do was sit in front of the TV and watch endless sports.

  What was it with men and sports? Why were they so obsessed? Could it be that they were all frustrated ballplayers?

  Was their relationship becoming mundane? Had she made a mistake moving in with him? Well, Carolyn certainly hadn’t helped matters with her “all men cheat” comments.

  Denver made up her mind that if she found out that Bobby had cheated on her, she would pack up and move out. No hesitation. It was about time he realized that she was an independent working woman, not a girl he could screw around on.

  Apart from the Bobby situation, the news from her boss was hardly what she’d hoped to hear. According to the DA, they needed stone-cold evidence to indict Alejandro. They needed Frankie Romano to start talking.

  If that was the case, she’d damn well put a deal on the table that would lure Frankie into talking. As for Alejandro, he wasn’t exactly low-key; he was always front and center at his club, always hooking up with different women, and no doubt passing out drugs like candy.

  The DA decided that their next move was to put in place a female undercover agent. It sounded like a plan.

  And so the chase continued. Only it wasn’t a chase, more like a game of cat and mouse.

  Her cell buzzed. Bobby?

  No. It read “Unknown caller.”

  She answered anyway with a tentative “Yes?”

  “Denver?” said a male voice.

  “That’s me.”

  “Guess who?”

  Was there anything more tedious than playing guessing games about who was on the other end of the phone?

  “Obama,” she said drily.

  “Close.”

  “Ryan Gosling.”

  “You’re getting warmer.”

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Busy as always. Surprise, surprise—it’s Sam.”

  Sam Slade. An ex. Well, not really an ex—more like a one-night stand before she’d met Bobby. He’d rescued her when she’d been on a difficult assignment in New York back in her defense attorney days. They’d spent one very pleasant night together. After that she’d hooked up with Bobby, and she and Sam had remained friends, although they hadn’t spoken in months.

  Sam was a successful screenwriter whose name had appeared on two hit movies. He was hardworking, self-deprecating, and interesting to hang out with. When she’d first met him, he’d been struggling. Now, in Hollywood-speak, he was red-hot.

  Sam Slade. Tall, slightly gawky, with curly hair, brown eyes, and crooked teeth.

  She couldn’t help wondering if he’d had his teeth fixed. She hoped not, his crooked-toothed smile was one of his most endearing qualities.

  “I saw your latest movie,” she said, smiling because she was genuinely pleased to hear from him. “Too much violence, although I have to admit it was very entertaining.”

  “That’s the way they like ’em.”

  “At least it wasn’t aimed at teenage boys. Not one fart joke, if I remember correctly.”

  “Thanks for the compliment. Coming from you it means a lot.”

  “You know me—I say what I think. I’m not full of crap.”

  “You never were.”

  She took a long deep breath. “Okay, Sam,” she said. “What exactly can I do for you?”

  “You can dump Bobby and move in with me.”

  His words startled her. “Seriously?”

  “I’m joking,” he said, laughing. “How’s it going with you and Bobby anyway? Married? Pregnant? Still madly in love?”

  What did he have, ESP? He was catching her at a time when she had no answers.

  “Everything’s great,” she lied. “How’s your love life?”

  “Sad.”

  “Sad?”

  “Believe me, it’s not easy searching for another you.”

  “Oh, c’mon…” she replied, secretly flattered. “You must be surrounded with gorgeous young starlets dying to jump your body.”

  “Actresses don’t do it for me. They’re way too obsessed with projecting the right image. All they want to talk about is themselves, and that gets tired very fast.”

  “How about actors?” she teased. “You could change tracks.”

  “Ha-ha. I’m not that desperate.”

  What do you want, Sam? she thought. Why are you coming back into my life when I’m feeling hurt and vulnerable?

  “Listen, here’s the thing,” he said, turning all businesslike. “I’ve been commissioned to write a script about a tough, beautiful female DA, and I was figuring you could supply me with some special inside info.”

  “Who exactly is going to be playing this tough, beautiful DA?”

  “Not cast until I’m done with the script. The powers that be are thinking Scarlett or Jessica Chastain.”

  “Nice.”

  “It all comes down to whether they or their agents or managers or whoever makes their decisions like the script. I’m striving for authenticity—which is why I’m coming to you.”

  “I guess I can help you,” she ventured, remembering how much she enjoyed Sam’s company. “E-mail me your questions and I’ll try to answer them.”

  “E-mail?” he said. “I was thinking more like lunch.”

  She was tempted. Bobby was on the missing list. It wasn’t as if they were married or anything, and she was hardly planning on jumping into bed with Sam. He was merely a friend, albeit a friend who’d always had a bit of a crush on her. Why not have lunch with him?

  Glancing at the time on her phone, she noted it was past noon and she was hungry. Starving, actually.

  “How about today?” she said crisply, deciding that if Bobby wanted to play games, she could too. “Does that work for you?”

  “It certainly does.”

  “Then where?”

  “I could take you somewhere fancy.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Fatburger on Santa Monica?”

  “Junk food. Exactly what I feel like.”

  “See you in fifteen.”

  “You got it.” She clicked off and couldn’t help smiling.

  Leon approached her desk as she was gathering her things.

  “Where’re you goin’?” he asked.

  “Lunch,” she said shortly.

  “Want me to tag along?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Meetin’ Bobby? Is he back?”

  She felt herself blushing. “No. And it’s none of your business who I’m seeing.”

  Leon rolled his eyes. “I didn’t ask. Although the thing is—now you got me all curious.”

  Collecting her purse, she quickly brushed past him.

  “Okay, lady, be like that,” Leon said. “Only get your cute ass back here by two. We got a meetin’ with the agent who’s goin’ in undercover on our boy.”

  “Alejandro Diego is not a boy,” she said sternly. “He’s a scumbag. And stop making sexist remarks, or I’ll have to report your cute ass.”

  “Understood,” he said, grinning.

  “See you later, Leon.”

  She hurried to her car, got in, checked her appearance in the visor mirror, applied a dab of lip gloss, and fluffed out her hair.

  Then she felt ridiculous. This was a business meeting, nothing more.

  * * *

  Sam was his usual somewhat scruffy self, a look that suited him. Denver was delighted to note that he had
not had his teeth fixed. In fact, he hadn’t changed at all, even though he was probably raking in millions. He was sitting at a table outside Fatburger, the smell of burgers wafting in the air. He jumped up as soon as he saw her approaching.

  “Here she is, the DA of my dreams,” he said, enveloping her in a clumsy embrace.

  “Deputy DA,” she corrected.

  “Whatever. You’re still a raving beauty. It’s a real drag you’re not an actress.”

  “I’m not, so don’t start with me,” she said, feeling a slight blush coming on.

  “Who’s starting?”

  “You are.”

  They grinned at each other.

  “Where’s my favorite pooch, Amy Winehouse?” he asked. “I thought she went everywhere with you.”

  “Unfortunately, we lost her.”

  “Huh?”

  “She was having seizures. We were forced to put her down.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks. It was really difficult.”

  “Did you get another dog?”

  “I want to. I will,” she said fervently. “Bobby’s promised we can pick out a rescue. I can’t wait.”

  “Amy Winehouse,” Sam reflected. “She’s probably in heaven with the great singer herself.”

  Denver gave a wan smile. Sam always managed to say the right thing.

  “Now,” Sam said. “If I remember correctly, the lady likes a double cheeseburger fully loaded, with french fries and an extra-thick chocolate shake. You stay here. I’ll go put in our order.”

  While Sam went inside, Denver checked her phone, which she’d set to go directly to voice mail. Bobby had a jealous streak, especially when it came to Sam, and she didn’t want him calling and questioning her, because she was not the greatest liar. Besides, Bobby was on her shit list, and so far it seemed he was making no effort to get off it.

  Lunch with Sam sped by. His stories about life on the set of a big Hollywood movie were hilarious. She told him a little about the Diego case, and he couldn’t have been more interested. Sam was unusual because he actually listened to what she had to say, a rare quality in a man.

  By the time she realized that it was past two, Sam was still plying her with questions.