Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  Matt phoned to inform her that he had arranged for Boogie to pick her up at two o’clock. He was certainly concerned enough, making arrangements with her driver. Any other time she would have balled him out.

  The last thing she felt like doing was attending a funeral, especially when the normally blue desert sky was turning grey, and the weather stations predicted thunderstorms. But she wouldn’t let Matt down now.

  She was just so tired, as if every ounce of energy had been drained from her body. All she wanted to do was sleep.

  It occurred to her she should visit her doctor, have a physical, get a little vitamin therapy. It was no use running off to conquer New York feeling like a dead camel. She called her doctor and made a morning appointment.

  Gino had returned to L.A. for a few days.

  A few days. Sure. More like a few weeks.

  Susan beckoned.

  He came running.

  How nice to have a permanent hard-on at his age. Maybe it ran in the family.

  She laughed dryly. Sex was the last thing on her mind. She wanted to build an empire – her own empire – and then maybe think about her non-existent sex life. There had been no one since Dimitri Stanislopoulos. Yet she didn’t care.

  Sex was important when she wanted it to be.

  Only then.

  Chapter Thirty

  The plane ride was bumpy, and by the time they prepared to land it was raining.

  Nothing like a desert rainstorm, Lennie thought. Black clouds, tough stingy hailstones, and a humid heat that never quit. He had a hangover. And the memory of a fierce fight with Isaac Luther when he had told him he couldn’t do the Griffin Show.

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t do it?’ Isaac had yelled.

  ‘I can’t do it because a friend needs me in Vegas, and I gotta go.’

  ‘Screw friends. This is the big break, man. If you blow this you’re crazy.’

  Lennie shrugged. ‘Some things in life have to take priority. Maybe they can reschedule my spot.’

  ‘They’re more likely to reschedule your ass,’ Isaac exploded. ‘You’re letting them down at the last minute. Don’t do it, Lennie.’

  He had gestured impatiently. ‘No choice.’

  Foxie had been more agreeable in his own inimitable way. ‘Go. Stay there. An’ don’t come back until you got yourself straight. I don’t like drunks, an’ I don’t stand for no shit acts in my place. These last two nights you’ve given me both.’

  No arguing with that.

  So here he was, back in Vegas, with the rain pissing down, and a lousy taste in his mouth.

  In L.A. the sun was shining and he would have been preparing to go before the TV cameras.

  He would also be getting no reply from the lovely Eden. A true cunt. As always. The hell with her. She was unimportant. What was going on in Jess’s life was all he cared about.

  Matt Traynor had called him the previous evening. The same Matt Traynor who had fired him. ‘Jess needs you here,’ Matt said, and then given him a sketchy rundown on what had happened.

  Jesus. Just looking at that freak Jess was married to had given him bad vibes. Wayland. A stoned creep scoring off the money she brought home. Why hadn’t he said something to her? At least taken the time to find out what was going on.

  But no. He hadn’t done that. He had rushed out of town with a bug up his ass because he got canned, and only he, Lennie Golden, mattered.

  Goddammit.

  She had needed him.

  He never stayed around to care.

  And now her baby was dead, and maybe he could have prevented the tragedy.

  A car waited for him. An Oldsmobile driven by a retired showgirl in a purple sequinned uniform. Ah . . . Las Vegas . . . City of bad taste.

  The ex-showgirl drove like Paul Newman on the track, and by the time they arrived at Matt’s apartment, Lennie was a nervous wreck. Thunder and lightning greeted him as he left the car. He pulled up the collar on his jacket and ran inside.

  * * *

  Matt glanced around the assorted gathering which huddled graveside and made a mental note to repay the favours of those who had turned up. It wasn’t a huge group – maybe twenty people. But it was a respectable number, and he was pleased. Lucky – God bless her – was there. She hadn’t let him down. She stood beneath a large black umbrella, her head bowed as the pitifully small coffin was lowered into the ground.

  Lennie stood to one side of Jess, supporting her, and Matt was on the other. He could feel her body shaking with silent sobs and he didn’t know what to do. She made him feel helpless. He just wanted to protect her from the world. And if she would let him, that’s exactly what he planned to do. As the second Mrs Traynor she would have more than enough protection.

  Wayland was not present. Wayland was even now hitching a ride out of town, which Matt had assured him would be the healthiest thing he could possibly do.

  The rain was relentless. It would have to rain, Matt thought, adding even more misery to the pathetic scene. After the ceremony he had arranged refreshments in a nearby restaurant. It was a mistake. Everyone just wanted to get the hell out of there.

  * * *

  For a moment Lennie did not recognize the woman. Her jet hair was pulled back tightly, and dark shades covered her expressive eyes. Her body was concealed beneath a long black leather coat, tightly belted. She looked like a spy out of a Le Carré novel. Beautiful, mysterious, and ice-cold hot.

  Then he remembered. The girl from the casino. The nearly one-night stand. Why was she still in Vegas?

  As soon as he could he edged toward her. She stood at the bar gulping a Pernod on the rocks.

  ‘Hey,’ he accused. ‘You stood me up.’

  She did not remove her black shades so he could not tell if she was looking at him or not.

  ‘Do I know you?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘We almost made history, only you wanted to start the course before I was ready. Lennie Golden. Remember?’

  An imperceptible nod.

  ‘So what happened? You were supposed to meet me in the bar.’

  ‘Maybe someone more willing to learn came along. Excuse me.’

  She brushed past him, went over to where Jess sat with Matt, said a few words and left.

  First Eden, then this one. Was the famous Golden charm evaporating?

  Christ, funerals were depressing. Poor little Jess seemed like a forlorn kid. He wished Matt Traynor would leave her alone, the old guy was a horny swinger, panting after her as if she were the only female in town. Hadn’t he ever learned timing?

  Lennie wondered what he could do to ease her pain, she looked so lost. He went over and squeezed her hand. ‘How’re you feeling, monkey face?’ He hoped to spur some sort of reaction.

  She shook her head blankly.

  There was nothing to say at a time like this. Maybe just being there was enough.

  * * *

  Santino returned at seven in the morning. Eden was asleep, but he had his own key to her apartment (when he had started to pay the rent and all the bills he had insisted) so he let himself in, entered her bedroom, and sat watching her for a while. She slept naked on chocolate-brown sheets which contrasted nicely with the paleness of her skin and the blondeness of her hair. Who did she think she was playing games with? One mistake was all he’d allow her. If she cheated on him again she wouldn’t get away with a smack on the face.

  She was a skinny broad.

  After Donatella, his wife, Santino considered anyone under one hundred and fifty pounds skinny.

  He could still see the mark of his hand on her cheek and it excited him. Broads like Eden Antonio needed constant watching. His father had taught him that. ‘Any cunt who thinks she’s hot stuff is gonna need a sharp eye on her fanny,’ Enzio, his father, had announced one morning at breakfast to Santino and his elder brother, Carlo. ‘To keep ’em in line you gotta buy ’em plenty, fuck ’em regularly, an’ beat ’em occasionally.’

  Enzio had roared with laughter at his
own wit and wisdom. But wit and wisdom had not been enough to protect him from cold planned murder at the hands of a woman.

  Santino scowled with fury when he thought of that fateful day a year ago. And he scowled even harder when he remembered the instructions he and Carlo received from his father’s business associates. ‘No more killings,’ they were told. ‘No more revenge. The violence has to stop.’

  Just like that they were forbidden to do anything.

  As far as Santino was concerned it was like cutting off his balls. Although Carlo took it calm as a fucking priest.

  Santino scratched his bald pate and thought about his brother. Carlo was a shithead, a nothing. Unfortunately they were partners and blood brothers, and as such had to stick together. But not in the same city.

  With Enzio gone, Santino moved his end of their operation to LA. And there he planned to stay. A wise decision. Without Carlo looking over his shoulder he was able to expand and branch out. The family business had included a string of massage parlours. Santino found that the porno magazines sold in such establishments raked in a fortune. He investigated the publishers and distributors. Reasonable men. Before long Santino was a part of the action – and with the imports he brought in from Denmark and Thailand – plus videos – he was rolling in profits. He had more money than Carlo. The shithead Carlo. What kind of man refused to act on his own father’s murder?

  Santino knew it was up to him to even the score with that bitch, Lucky Santangelo. And he would do it one day. For sure.

  Eden stirred, and threw her arms above her head.

  Santino’s small eyes bore into her pink-tipped breasts. Small but perfect. His wife filled a 42D cup. It was like having sex with a pregnant cow. Quickly he rose and pulled down the jogging pants he wore. Then he allowed his erection to slip from the confines of patterned boxer shorts.

  Eden sighed in her sleep.

  Roughly Santino ripped the sheet from the bed exposing all of her. She had blonde hair on her snatch which drove him crazy. He was partial to blondes. In one fast movement he straddled her chest and thrust his erection toward her mouth.

  Her eyes were hardly open before he was rocking back and forth.

  ‘Suck it,’ he demanded hoarsely. ‘Take it, baby, take it all. You know you love it. You know Santino is King.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The drug culture had always appealed to Olympia, although she had never got into it in a major way. A lot of cocaine and plenty of pot was about as far as she had travelled. She did not want to become hooked like some of her so-called friends who couldn’t get out of bed in the morning without a snort. She was smart. She was a social user. And if she wasn’t going out she could go days without indulging and not miss it at all. As far as she was concerned, a toot of coke was the modern day equivalent of a Scotch on the rocks. Nothing wrong with that.

  Dimitri had asked her once if she indulged. ‘Certainly not,’ she had replied, suitably shocked.

  ‘Good,’ he had nodded thoughtfully. ‘Because a girl in your position has to be very very careful. There are many people who would be only too pleased to discover you have a weakness. You would be exploited mercilessly.’

  What did he think she was? Dumb? She had married three men, all of whom had exploited her to the limit. Why hadn’t he warned her about men? They were far more dangerous than drugs.

  It completely slipped her mind that Dimitri had warned her. Constantly.

  So . . . drugs were no problem. They made her feel good, allowed her to have a fantastic time at parties, and did not give her a hangover or make her fat.

  Conveniently she forgot the dawn cravings for chocolate cake, double cream cheesecake, and Haagen-Dazs rum raisin ice cream.

  She was sure Dimitri was into coke. Or at least some of his jet-set girlfriends were. How could one be part of the social circle without indulging?

  Flash indulged. Heavily. He might be a former heroin addict, but that did not stop him from grabbing anything else going. Uppers, downers, sleepers, quacks, grass, and of course – cocaine. The rich man’s drug. Only Flash never had to pay, because he was so famous – or maybe infamous – that the hangers-on and the gofers and the groupies and the star-fucks always managed to get him everything he wanted for nothing.

  Flash was looking for a place to crash in New York. He had a permanent residence in the Bahamas (for tax reasons) and in L.A. he stayed with a dissolute movie star (male) with stoned eyes and a grin like a sick cat. But Flash needed a New York base. And Olympia looked like she could provide it.

  Enter Flash.

  Exit Vitos.

  Flash made a lot of money, but he was notoriously tight-fisted. Why spend when there were others to do it for you?’

  The first night he slept with Olympia he had no idea who she was. They whiled away a few hours rolling around on a water bed in an apartment he was borrowing. She wasn’t really his type. Too chubby. His style was usually young, tall models with stringy hair and beautiful blank faces. But Olympia was there – coming on strong, and Flash needed to get laid. He always needed to get laid. So he had said goodbye to his entourage, and taken her to his borrowed apartment.

  Olympia told Vitos she had a very important business proposition she had to discuss with Flash. Vitos didn’t seem to care. He was deep in conversation with Bianca Jagger, or was it Diane Von Furstenberg? – Olympia never could tell them apart.

  Flash proved his reputation to be true. And Olympia was happy. She left by cab while he slept. And at noon the next day she let him know she was not just another little groupie. He awoke to find six cases of Dom Perignon, a healthy supply of Iranian caviar, and a small gift from Tiffany’s. The gift was a solid gold and diamond guitar pin. On it was engraved OLYMPIA/FLASH NEW YORK 1978.

  Even Flash knew that to get Tiffany’s to engrave something in a couple of hours meant you had clout.

  She had enclosed her card – OLYMPIA STANISLOPOULOS – with an address and phone number.

  The surname was as well known as Onassis.

  ‘Who is she?’ he asked, handing the card to Como Rose, his manager.

  Como looked at it, belched loudly and said, ‘She’s Dimitri Stanislopoulos’ daughter, for crissake. Richer than the Gettys.’

  Flash knew a good thing when it came his way. And she had come and come and come.

  He grinned, revealing a full spread of dangerously loose, rotting teeth. Dentists were not an important part of his life.

  ‘Call her,’ he said. ‘Have her here at five. I’m taking her to the concert.’

  She turned up at five-thirty, dressed in taffeta, lace, and diamonds.

  ‘You’re friggin’ late,’ Flash said. ‘Friggin’ overdressed, and we’re gonna need a couple more boxes of the fizzy stuff. Arrange it.’

  Nobody had ever spoken to Olympia like that before. She liked it. A lot. A refreshing change.

  They snorted several lines of coke; swigged champagne on the way to the stadium where The Layabouts were giving their first New York concert in five years; and sent the paparazzi into a frenzy.

  Within a week Olympia had purchased a huge apartment overlooking Central Park, and Flash took up residence on the same day she did.

  That night they stood on the landscaped terrace and surveyed the city spread out before them.

  ‘Not bad, gel,’ Flash announced, and lit up a joint.

  Olympia swigged from a bottle of Dom Perignon she was holding (her new habit) and agreed. Why had she wasted so much of her life in Europe when New York was such fun?

  She wondered what she was going to do about Brigette. So far she hadn’t mentioned the existence of her daughter to Flash. Maybe she could just forget about her for another week or so. Why bring it up and ruin everything?

  Flash dragged on the joint long and hard. Why hadn’t he thought of shacking up with a rich bird before? It was defi-nitely the way to go.

  He wondered what he was going to do about his 16-year-old wife stashed somewhere in England. So far he h
adn’t mentioned her existence to Olympia. Well it was a secret wedding, nobody knew. Maybe he could just forget about her for a while. She was used to his long absences. Why bring it up and ruin everything?

  Olympia and Flash were perfectly suited.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The child’s funeral depressed Lucky. It seemed so . . . pointless. It made her feel angry and helpless. If people brought children into the world, they should look after them. The infant’s death was no accident, it was caused by human error. She had heard all about Wayland from Matt. If he were her husband she would have strung him up by his balls.

  Standing by the grave in the pouring rain was a downer. But later, in the restaurant, it was even worse. One fast drink and she was out of there. She had given Matt the favour he requested, it was enough.

  She was alone at the bar, drinking Pernod, when the comedian materialized. He was tall and rangy with green eyes and a killer smile. She remembered him instantly. She even remembered his name before he re-introduced himself. Lennie Golden. A comedian. And how.

  She wanted to say, ‘What the hell are you doing here. I had you fired and I’m never supposed to set eyes on you again.’ Instead she said nothing while he fumbled for words. And when he told her his name she pretended not to know who he was, brushed past him, and made a fast exit.

  The truth of the matter was she found him disturbingly attractive. He had turned her down once, and she did not plan to go for twice. What a nerve he had even speaking to her.

  When she got back to the hotel she decided not to hang around any longer. There was no reason for her to stay, even Gino had left. She called Costa and told him she would be arriving in Miami the next day. Then she began to pack, urgently throwing things into several suitcases. Somehow she knew she had to get out at once.

  * * *

  In Bel Air all was peaceful. The cook prepared sesame chicken, one of Gino’s favourite dishes. There was an excellent baseball game on the Advent television which he watched from a comfortable armchair, while Susan, looking ladylike yet sexy in a pale blue peignoir, attended to her needlepoint.