The Santangelos

by Jackie Collins

  * * *

  Paige was busy being social. There was nothing she liked better. And not having to share the limelight with Lucky was a definite plus. The downside was the blowup photo of Gino and Maria up on the podium for all to see. Damn Lucky for doing that. She, Paige, was Gino’s widow. It should have been her with Gino, not his long-dead wife.

  Lucky was a conniving cow, and Paige hated her.

  Hovering beside Paige, Bud Pappas was in his element. His star might be long past, but everyone remembered him with great fondness. He was very happy to be there.

  Venus bent down to kiss Bud on the cheek, telling him that she’d grown up listening to his music because her mom had been such a big fan. Venus’s scent was so seductive that poor old Bud almost keeled over.

  Eddie Falcon had moved in on Nick Angel in the hope of scoring him as a client, while Annabelle chatted with Bobby about how excited she was to be pregnant.

  Harry flirted with Danny. Cookie flirted with Charlie Dollar, who in spite of being old enough to be her grandfather still had it going on.

  Forty-something Gerald M. entertained his twenty-something Russian girlfriend with promises of all the important people she would get to meet at the party following the service. His girlfriend, a model, bared her large white teeth and gave a knowing smirk. She’d already spotted Jack Python, and as far as she was concerned, he would be the man of her future.

  Lennie cornered Bobby, rescuing him from Annabelle. “Your mom’s on a crazy trip,” he muttered. “She seems to think something’s about to go down.”

  “Hey,” Bobby replied. “If we don’t get this thing started soon, something will go down. In case you haven’t noticed, the natives are getting restless.”

  “I can see that,” Lennie said. “She wants me to get the kids out of here.”

  “Why would she want you to do that?”

  “Who knows with Lucky.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I’m more worried about Max,” Lennie continued, shaking his head. “Where the hell is she?”

  “You checked her phone?”

  “It’s dead.”

  “How about her boss? You reached him?”

  “As soon as we get out of here, I’m on it.”

  “Maybe she ran off and got married,” Bobby said lightly. “After all, this is Vegas, and you know our Max—she’s a little Lucky. They’re two of a kind.”

  Lennie threw him a deadly look. “This is no joke, Bobby.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure,” Bobby said quickly. “Don’t worry, we’ll find her.”

  “In the meantime, maybe you can chase Lucky and insist she get her ass out here.”

  “Now?”

  “No,” Lennie said drily. “How about tomorrow morning?”

  “I’m on my way,” Bobby said, noticing that Venus was in a close conversation with Charlie Dollar.

  Curbing the urge to go over and intervene, he realized that this wasn’t the time or the place to act like a jealous boyfriend. And the truth was, he had no boyfriend status—not yet, anyway.

  Moving briskly, he started to head back inside.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  Pammy flung open the door of Willow’s house and was confronted with Jeff Williams. She’d borrowed one of Willow’s dresses, put on an expensive pair of her daughter’s Louboutins, and applied far too much makeup. She was feeling rather full of herself.

  “You ready to go?” Jeff Williams asked, standing on the doorstep impatiently cracking his knuckles.

  He was older than Pammy had expected. She’d been hoping he would turn out to be a young stud—instead she’d gotten a leathery-faced man with squinty eyes, a burgeoning gut, and a gray crew cut.

  “We gotta get goin’,” Jeff said, a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth.

  “I’m ready,” Pammy said, stepping outside and shutting the front door behind her.

  His car was parked in front of the house; it was a beat-up old Chevrolet with blacked-out windows. Pammy took one look and wondered if she should be going with him at all. Maybe this was a bizarre kidnap attempt, and she was the victim. She wouldn’t put it past Willow to try to get rid of her.

  She hesitated before getting in his car.

  “Whassamatter?” Jeff said, puffing smoke and crinkling his eyes.

  “How do I know you’re who you say you are?” Pammy ventured, wishing she’d taken a shot of vodka before leaving the house.

  “You don’t,” Jeff replied with a dry chuckle. “Gotta trust me if you wanna see your daughter. Oh yeah, an’ let’s not forget there’s a check in your future, right?”

  “I’d prefer cash,” Pammy said, pursing her lips.

  “Then cash it is,” Jeff said. “Now get in the friggin’ car an’ let’s get this show started before anyone else finds out what’s goin’ on.”

  Pammy did as she was asked.

  * * *

  “I made a mistake,” Felicity informed Shaquita.

  “What kind of mistake would that be?” Shaquita said sternly.

  “I … I don’t think it’s her,” Felicity stammered.

  “Who?”

  “The girl in room six. I was wrong. She’s not famous.”

  Shaquita made a clucking sound with her teeth. “For God’s sake, child, why you makin’ these things up?”

  “Sorry,” Felicity mumbled, hoping and praying that Willow’s memory wouldn’t resurface before Jeff Williams arrived. Felicity couldn’t wait to meet him. Jeff Williams was a proper journalist bringing her money and fame—for surely she’d get credit for discovering the girl was Willow Price?

  I could be famous too, she thought. I could be discovered.

  “Now I gotta tell the doc we still don’t know who the girl is,” Shaquita grumbled with a put-upon sigh.

  “Sorry,” Felicity said again, before returning to Willow’s room to check on her cash cow.

  After making sure that the famous girl was sleeping soundly, she decided that she’d better take a look at the other girl, the one who’d been brought in with Willow, so she headed for the ICU, where she greeted the desk nurse on duty outside with a brisk “Nurse Shaquita asked me to check on a patient. Okay if I go in?”

  The desk nurse bobbed her head, and went back to reading the latest copy of Oprah’s magazine.

  The girl in the ICU was still in a deep coma. Felicity considered the fact that this girl could turn out to be famous too. What a coup that would be. Two for the price of one.

  The ICU gave her the creeps; it was always so grim and silent, except for the ticking machines keeping the patients alive.

  Felicity hovered over the bed and took a long look at Willow’s friend, a dark-haired beauty who didn’t seem to have a scratch on her. Felicity didn’t recognize her as she lay there in a coma. Unlike Willow, this girl was not about to wake up anytime soon.

  Felicity decided that the girl wasn’t famous. It was disappointing, but she snapped a couple of photos anyway, just in case.

  Now all she had to do was wait for Jeff Williams to put in an appearance.

  * * *

  Pammy did not appreciate the way the seat belt squashed her tits. “Do I have to wear this?” she grumbled.

  “Yeah,” Jeff said, stubbing out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “Gotta follow the law, an’ I’m not gettin’ a ticket on your account.”

  “The belt is too tight. I’m uncomfortable,” Pammy complained.

  “Too bad,” Jeff said, immediately lighting another cigarette before informing Pammy that they were on their way to the hospital in Barstow.

  “What the heck is Willow doing in Barstow?” Pammy exclaimed.

  “Barstow’s on the road to Vegas,” Jeff said. “I reckon she coulda been headin’ there. You got any clue who she was with?”

  Pammy bit down hard on her lower lip. Why hadn’t Willow told her she was going to Vegas? What was the big secret? How come Willow was so intent on shutting her out?

  “I dunno,” she admit
ted. “She’s been seeing that old movie star Ralph Maestro. Could be they were together.”

  “Yeah,” Jeff snorted. “I know about her and Ralphie—who doesn’t? The two of ’em were all over the Internet. What I want from you is stuff I don’t know.” He took his hand off the steering wheel and flicked on a recording device. “It’s time for you to get talkin’, Willow’s mom,” he said, blowing smoke in her face. “You gotta gimme the real inside Willow Price story, ’cause that’s what I’m payin’ you for.”

  Thrilled to be the center of attention, that’s exactly what Pammy did, revealing much more than she ever should have.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion of privacy?” Faisal demanded, glaring at Ian, who was desperately wishing he were someplace else. As far as Ian was concerned, this was an embarrassment of mammoth proportions. Lucky Santangelo might own hotels and be a big shot, but in his mind, the woman was obviously deranged.

  Chris didn’t give Ian a chance to reply. “Where’s your boss?” he said to Faisal.

  Faisal’s lip curled. “If you mean the king, he is not receiving visitors, especially not common people who are here to violate his private space.”

  Ian felt obliged to say something; after all, he was the one with the relationship with these people. King Emir had spent millions of dollars during his stay. Surely the king had a right to privacy? Ian began muttering an inane apology.

  Chris turned on him. “You can go,” he said sharply.

  Ian didn’t need to be asked twice. He scuttled from the room without looking back.

  Lucky was busy staring at Faisal, a nondescript dark-skinned man of medium height and build with a full beard wearing a traditional long robe. She was sure he would do anything for his king.

  Her black eyes studied him from head to toe as he argued with Chris, who was insisting they talk to King Emir immediately.

  Faisal wasn’t budging.

  Upon hearing raised voices, the two guards entered the room.

  The situation was getting tense. Chris was not giving up, in spite of the guards who had taken up threatening positions. “We have to see King Emir immediately,” he insisted.

  “No!” Faisal yelled, his voice choked with anger. “I tell you no and you must listen. My king does not receive infidels. You go. You go now.”

  Lucky fixed him with her eyes—black and deadly. “Infidels?” she said. “Is that what you think? So tell me, why are you here? Why are you in our country if you hate us so much? What the fuck are you doing here?”

  A crafty expression crossed Faisal’s face. “You will see,” he sneered. “Everyone will see.”

  And that was the moment when Lucky knew she was right. Something terrible was about to happen, and somehow or other she had to stop it.

  * * *

  Outside on the terrace, King Emir was becoming restless.

  “Go see who is making noise,” he said to his grandson. “It is disturbing me.”

  Tariq got to his feet. “Can we leave soon?” he whined. “I’m bored.”

  King Emir fingered his thick beard. “The time is almost upon us. You will see justice as it should be done. You will witness retribution for your dear father’s death. Only then will we leave this place.”

  Tariq threw him a sulky look. Sometimes he didn’t understand a word his grandfather said. What was with justice and retribution and all the things the old man carried on about? What did retribution even mean? None of it made any sense to him.

  * * *

  Nazeem and Salman stood side by side in a rarely used narrow passageway that led outside to where all the guests were gathered. Nazeem and Salman wore long black robes and their faces were expressionless. For many, many months they’d been living a life they’d refused to embrace. American culture was not for them. It was crass and degrading. They’d managed to blend in as much as they could, and the previous night their loyalty had been justly rewarded, for King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan had granted them an audience.

  The two of them had stood before him in awe while their king had told them how proud he was of them, and how the people of Akramshar would be forever grateful for the act of sacrifice they were soon to commit.

  “You will be heroes,” King Emir had promised. “Your families and many other of your relatives will be revered because of your brave and loyal acts. Money will flow toward them, and the memory of your courage will never die.”

  They both had courage, although they were also filled with a deep fear of the unknown. They shivered beneath their heavy robes, painfully aware of the suicide vests strapped to their chests. Vests that could be detonated only by a cell-phone device in the hands of their king.

  They feared discovery as they hovered near the opening. If that happened, the king would detonate early. He had the power; they didn’t. It was all right, though, because King Emir was their ruler, and therefore, he had to be obeyed at all times.

  Still … this didn’t stop their feeling of dread.

  Soon it would be all over, and so would they.

  It was inevitable. It was their king’s desire.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  Driving down the freeway listening to Pammy carrying on, Jeff Williams couldn’t help reflecting on his life. He lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment in Silver Lake. He had two ex-wives and a kid that he never saw. Work was his pleasure. Unearthing stories he could headline in Truth and Fact or on his very popular Web site, The Truth with Jeff, was really all he was interested in—that and a full bottle of scotch to start the evening. Jeff Williams was a man used to getting his own way. He had a press pass and a macho attitude, plus plenty of cash to hand out if needed. There was no way he was looking to get involved with anyone. Whenever he felt horny he simply summoned an available call girl, who’d come by his place and satisfy him.

  So why was he suddenly experiencing an attraction to Willow Price’s mom?

  It shouldn’t be happening. She’d obviously been around the block one time too many, and she had to be over forty. Not that age mattered anymore; most of the actresses who were hanging in there were way past forty. Jennifer Aniston, Gwyneth Paltrow, Cameron Diaz. Yeah, forty was the new shit.

  He shot a sidelong glance at Pammy. Nice tits. Pretty face. Must have been a knockout when she was younger, just like her bad-girl daughter. And oh boy, was she spilling about Willow—he was getting a load of stuff, much more than he’d expected, for once Pammy started talking, she couldn’t stop. A lot of the crap she was coming out with was all about her, and how she’d struggled and sacrificed to give Willow everything she could, but along the way there were a few hidden gems such as Willow’s abortions and affairs with powerful married executives.

  Jeff reckoned he was going to end up with one hell of a juicy story. And maybe he’d even end up with the mom. Stranger things had happened.

  * * *

  So far all was going smoothly. Felicity hovered near Willow’s room, occasionally peeking in to make sure she was still sleeping. Soon Jeff Williams would be arriving, and that was the time for Willow to wake up and hopefully remember who she was. Then Jeff would get his story, she’d get her money, and all would be well—as long as Shaquita didn’t interfere. Fortunately, a couple of gunshot victims had recently been admitted, and Shaquita was all over them. She’d instructed Felicity to keep an eye on the girl in room six, and that suited Felicity just fine.

  Jeff Williams had told her he would call her the moment he arrived, and she couldn’t wait. She ran to the restroom to check out her appearance. This was her big day; she had to look her best.

  * * *

  “We’re here,” Jeff announced, pulling his car into the parking lot of the hospital.

  “About time,” Pammy said, releasing her squashed tits from the confines of the seat belt. “I’m parched,” she ventured. “I sure could use a drink before we go in.”

  “I’m guessin’ you don’t mean water?” Jeff said, scratching his stubbled chin.


  “You’re guessing right,” Pammy replied with a coquettish tilt of her head.

  “Well, Willow’s mom, this has gotta be your lucky day,” he said, leaning across her to reach into the glove compartment, his arm surreptitiously grazing her breasts. “’Cause I got a bottle of scotch stashed right here with your sweet name written all over it.”

  “Ohh…” Pammy sighed, fluttering her over-mascaraed eyelashes. “You’re my kind of man.”

  A few minutes later, they were heading in to the lobby of the hospital, both duly fortified with a couple of swigs of scotch.

  “Remember,” Jeff told her, taking a firm grip on her arm. “We’re a married couple. I’m Willow’s dad an’ you’re the mom.”

  “But I am her mom,” Pammy said, confused.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Only hand these fuckers an ounce of authority, an’ they might try t’ gimme a hard time if they get a sniff I’m not a relative.”

  “I understand,” Pammy said, changing her first opinion of Jeff Williams. It occurred to her that she might have been slightly off; he had a strong macho personality that went a long way to making up for the leathery skin and burgeoning paunch. She also suspected that he was into her.

  She wondered if he had money—not a fortune; enough to make her happy would do.

  Mrs. Jeff Williams. It had quite a pleasant ring to it.

  * * *

  Felicity’s phone buzzed.

  “We’re downstairs in the lobby,” Jeff said. “You wanna come an’ get us?”

  “Us”? Who was “us”? He hadn’t mentioned that he would be bringing someone. Could it be his photographer? She wished she’d washed her hair; she was sure they’d want to photograph her.

  Bypassing Shaquita, who was on the phone at the nurses’ desk, Felicity took the elevator downstairs. She immediately spotted the couple. Jeff Williams was hard to miss in his red shirt and crumpled blue jacket. The woman with him was also quite a sight in a too-tight yellow flowered dress and exceptionally high heels. Felicity approached them. “Jeff?” she questioned.

  “That’s me,” he said, winking at her.