Ah . . . the famed Las Vegas pencil. It was not an actual pencil, just permission to sign for anything he wanted and never having to pay. Food, drink, room service . . . whatever. Oh, the times he and Jess had dreamed of having that power. Only high rollers and big stars were given the privilege. He was more pleased about the pencil than anything else.
Jess arrived in great spirits. He had been a little worried about her returning to Vegas and the memories, but she genuinely appeared to have put it all behind her. Not a mention of Wayland or the baby.
‘Well, well, well!’ she exclaimed, looking around at the baskets of flowers, champagne cooling on ice, and a huge dish of exotic sliced fruit laid out on a buffet table. ‘I see they welcomed you properly.’
‘Hey—’ he grinned, ‘they’re lucky to have me. If I’d held a grudge they’d never have gotten me back.’
Jess picked at a slice of papaya. ‘Matt wants to have a dinner for you tonight, and whoever you want to invite.’
‘How is your boyfriend?’
‘Don’t say that,’ she snapped, a little too quickly, causing Lennie to raise an eyebrow.
‘Where’s your sense of humour, monkey face?’ he asked.
‘Don’t call me that!’ she yelled.
He held up his hands, making a peaceful gesture. ‘I come as a friend. Have mercy.’
She couldn’t help laughing.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I want to use the fucking pencil, only I’ve got everything I need.’
‘It’s tough bein’ a star,’ she commented dryly.
‘Let’s go to the drugstore. I have this insane urge to sign.’
‘Call down. Stars have things sent.’
‘You’re so full of shit. Let’s go.’
He pulled her by the hand and they left the suite.
The drug store, located on swimming-pool level, sold everything from paper panties to three-thousand-dollar mink bikinis. Lennie grabbed a wire basket and started throwing things in. Toothpaste, toothbrushes, aftershave, shampoo.
Jess trailed patiently after him. ‘Do you really need all this?’ she asked.
‘Kid – it’s free,’ he mumbled, filling one basket and starting on another.
‘Lennie,’ she suggested, ‘if we’re going for freebees let’s go for the good stuff She dragged him over to the cosmetic counter. ‘Stock me up with Estée Lauder,’ she commanded, getting into the spirit of it all. ‘And Dior. And Clinique.’
They filled the second wire basket, and a third.
‘I think it’s enough,’ Jess said, when he started piling in a month’s supply of candy.
‘But I don’t have everything I need,’ he objected, grabbing three boxes of Tampax and a handful of tastefully wrapped Durex.
Jess began to break up, and when Jess laughed everybody noticed. Her laugh still sounded like a crazed hyena.
‘Oh shit!’ said Lennie, as a few stares came his way.
‘Aren’t you on the cover of People magazine?’ asked a bronzed woman in shorts which displayed large cellulite dimpled thighs.
‘Oh. You’re Leonard Goldman,’ announced a tall brunette, as if he didn’t know.
He grinned engagingly. A crowd began to form.
‘Who’s de jerk?’ snapped a red-faced New Yorker.
‘Nobody,’ replied his spandexed girlfriend.
Lennie turned to Jess for help. She was bent double by the magazines.
‘Can I have your autograph?’ sighed a winsome little thing. ‘I watch you every week. I’m your favourite.’
They were moving in on him. A wall of people. He was being crowded into a corner, and suddenly he felt vulnerable and under attack. Pens and slips of paper were shoved at him. He scribbled his name a few times. Shit! If this was what stardom was all about you could shove it.
A pregnant girl touched his face. ‘For luck,’ she giggled. While an older woman hissed out of the corner of her drooping lips, ‘God is watching you. You’d better be careful. God doesn’t forgive.’
He wanted out. He needed rescuing. Fortunately Jess got herself together and grabbed a security guard. Together they hustled Lennie through the throng and rushed him to the nearest elevator.
‘That crowd weren’t nothin’,’ the elderly guard sneered. ‘Once I hadda rescue Elvis. They tore his pants off. They woulda killed him with love. Took eight of us to get him in a limo. Those were the good old days.’
Back in the suite, Lennie said ruefully, ‘I never did get to sign.’
Jess grinned. ‘What were you going to do with eight packets of Durex anyway?’
‘Fuck a lot.’
‘So what else is new?’
Chapter Forty-Six
Vitos had not expected Olympia to insist on bringing her child and nanny to Vegas. But insist she did. ‘Brigette will be my bridesmaid,’ she said. ‘I cannot get married without her. What kind of a mother do you think I am?’
The truth of the matter was, Olympia did not want Nanny Mabel and Brigette in New York answering the phone and telling tales. She wanted them with her, where she could keep an eye on them. Now, when Flash called, he would get the answering service, and they wouldn’t know where she was. Let the scumbag suffer. He wasn’t winning her back so easily.
It never occurred to Olympia that he might not want her back. She sailed through life filled with supreme confidence – easy when you could buy and sell most people.
Before leaving New York she contacted her lawyer. ‘Courier me a marriage document,’ she demanded. ‘You know what I mean – a pre-nuptial agreement.’
‘You’re not getting married again, are you?’ he groaned incredulously.
‘I might be.’
‘Please, can’t you wait until we can discuss this properly? Your financial affairs are complicated. It’ll take time to work out.’
‘I want it now. Immediately.’
She had never been to Las Vegas before, and it both fascinated and repelled her. ‘All these dreadful people,’ she complained to Vitos, as they were whisked through the lobby with their accompanying entourages.
He nodded like a puppet, blazing the perfect Felicidade smile at his fans.
‘Everyone looks so . . . so . . . cheap,’ she said in the elevator.
‘These pipples buy my records,’ he remarked sagely.
‘They would!’ she muttered under her breath.
They were placed in adjoining suites. Vitos had the more lavish one which infuriated Olympia. She decided to call Lucky Santangelo and complain. Dimitri had mentioned that Lucky owned the Magiriano. It would be interesting to see her again . . .
What did she look like? Was she married? Did she have kids?
Once settled, Olympia sent Nanny Mabel off with Brigette to explore, and then she called the front desk. ‘This is Olympia Stanislopoulos’, she announced imperiously. ‘Kindly tell Lucky Santangelo I wish to see her.’
‘Miz Santangelo’s no longer with us,’ said the operator.
‘Where is she?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, ma’am.’
‘Who can?’
‘Perhaps the manager, or Mr Traynor.’
‘Have either of them call me. Immediately.’
She felt strangely disappointed. It would have been interesting to see Lucky again. Or would it? They shared so many memories of a carefree summer, once, long ago. Lucky had been her best friend. But who needed friends? They always let you down eventually.
* * *
Vitos spoke heatedly to his manager in Spanish. The gist of the conversation was his marital situation. He had married at eighteen to a local girl in his Spanish home town. When his star began to rise in America, the marriage was annulled. Now he wished to marry Olympia. How legal was the annulment? There were no children. And where were the documents?
His manager grimaced. This was a great opportunity. Big as Vitos was becoming, marriage to Olympia Stanislopoulos could only mean more fame and acceptance in America – the promised land. It was not something to
be rushed into and blown.
‘We must obtain the best legal advice,’ he warned. ‘And I will order a search for the papers.’
‘Quickly,’ Vitos cautioned. He had a hunch Olympia was not the most patient of women.
* * *
Brigette eyed the busy gambling tables, the scurrying crowds, the scantily clad cocktail waitresses, the over-made-up hookers. ‘This place stinks!’ she informed Nanny Mabel loudly.
‘Shhh,’ Nanny admonished.
‘Stinks!’ yelled Brigette. ‘Stinks! Stinks! Stinks! I hate it.’
Privately Nanny Mabel agreed, but she wasn’t about to hear it from her precocious charge. The child became more like her mother every day.
‘Be quiet,’ scolded Nanny Mabel.
‘Won’t!’ screamed Brigette. ‘Can’t make me. This place is stiiiinking!!’
‘If you misbehave here I’ll be forced to tell your mother. And she’ll—’
Before she could continue further, a grim-faced security woman packing a gun appeared. ‘Shut the kid up,’ she commanded.
Nanny Mabel shot Brigette a warning look.
‘I’m not going to shut up,’ Brigitte yelled. ‘I’m going to do whatever I like. So there, you stupid fat pig!’
‘Oh no you’re not,’ said the guard.
‘Oh yes I am,’ said Brigette.
‘Oh dear,’ said Nanny Mabel.
* * *
Matt Traynor presented himself at Olympia’s door.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded, pulling a Chinese robe tightly around her.
‘I run the hotel, Miss Stanislopoulos.’
‘You got my message I presume.’
‘What message?’
‘About Lucky Santangelo.’
‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t.’
‘Well, where is she?’
‘Miss Santangelo is no longer connected with the Magiriano.’
Olympia frowned. ‘Too bad.’
Matt did not appreciate being kept at the door like a delivery boy. ‘May I come in?’
‘What for?’
Matt decided he did not like the plump blonde heiress with the petulant expression and all the charm of a bad-tempered shop girl. ‘We have a slight problem with your daughter . . .’
‘How boring! What’s she done?’
‘Kicked a security woman, tried to dismantle a blackjack table, and—’
‘Where is she?’ Olympia interrupted.
‘We have her downstairs in an office. She’s creating a considerable disturbance. She refuses to er . . . be quiet . . . until you collect her.’
‘God!’ Olympia was visibly irritated. ‘What about her nanny? Why doesn’t she deal with her?’
‘She seems to have no control of the situation.’
Olympia rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘This is most inconvenient,’ she said testily, as if it were Matt’s personal fault. ‘Wait. I’ll have to dress.’
She slammed the door in his face and left him angrily marching up and down the corridor for ten minutes. Eventually she emerged and they proceeded downstairs in silence.
Brigette sat moodily in a small office chanting ‘Las Vegas stinks! Las Vegas stinks!’ at the top of her voice.
Nanny Mabel, red in the face, hovered outside, while the grim-looking female security guard stood at attention.
Olympia fixed her daughter with an icy blue stare, and she shut up.
‘What’s been going on?’ Olympia demanded.
Brigette produced a full flood of ever-ready tears. ‘Mama, mama,’ she cried, ‘these people have been so mean to me. Really really mean.’
‘Excuse me,’ said the security woman. ‘This child needs a good spanking. She’s rude and spoilt and—’
‘I’m not interested in your opinion,’ Olympia said dismiss-ively. ‘Come along, Brigette. It’s time for bed.’ She glared at Matt. ‘My daughter is tired, it’s been a long day.’
With that she took Brigette by the hand and swept out, a nervous Nanny Mabel trailing in her wake.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Carrie Berkeley had immense style. For many years, while married first to Bernard Dimes, and then to Elliott Berkeley, she had been a celebrity. The sort of celebrity who never really does anything but is always mentioned in gossip and society columns, and is often photographed for the fashion magazines. Several years in a row she had appeared in Harpers Bazaar as one of the ‘Ten Most Beautiful Women in America’.
When she divorced Elliott and went to live permanently on Fire Island, she retired from public life. But hers was still a well-known name, and it was no problem to arrange an appointment with Fred E. Lester of Lester and Wellington Publishers.
Steven wanted to accompany her, but she refused to let him. ‘I’m quite capable of deciding whether it’s him or not,’ she said coldly.
Lately that’s how she felt about Steven. Cold, withdrawn. He was her son, but she would never forgive him for what he was putting her through. Never.
What did it matter which one his father was? They were both bastards. Who cared?
Fred E. Lester sat behind an oak desk in a large, comfortable office. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with flurries of white hair surrounding a bald spot, and a healthy weekend tan. He was in his late sixties. He rose when Carrie was ushered into his office by a solicitous secretary, walked around his desk, and with outstretched hands said, ‘I don’t suppose you remember me, it was a long time ago, but . . .’
She felt a moment of sheer panic. It was him.
The blood drained from her face and a sickness filled the pit of her stomach.
‘. . . a charity ball,’ he was saying. ‘It must have been some twenty years ago. You still look exactly the same. Lovely as ever.’
Thankfully she slumped into a chair. It wasn’t him. Fred E. Lester looked nothing like the college boy of so many years ago. How was it going to be possible to recognize a man she had only spent one night with forty-two years ago? Damn Steven. Why was he putting her through this?
‘Coffee? Tea? Perhaps a drink?’ Fred Lester asked.
His secretary stood by the door expectantly.
‘Tea,’ Carrie said quietly. ‘With lemon.’
‘Make that two,’ Fred said, sitting down behind his desk, and playing with a silver pen.
Carrie tried to recover her composure. She glanced around the office. There were framed covers of books on all the walls.
‘My successes,’ Fred said with a modest smile. ‘In this business you boast about your successes and try to hide your failures.’
She smiled politely.
‘Now then,’ Fred said, clasping his hands together. ‘Let’s hope that you and I are going to have a big success.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You do want to write a book for us, don’t you?’
She remembered that it was the reason she was sitting in his office. Steven had called and made the appointment. ‘Mrs Carrie Berkeley has an interesting idea for a book,’ he had said, and an appointment was immediately forthcoming.
‘I have a few ideas,’ she faltered.
‘That’s where it all begins.’ He beamed.
She stared at his bald head. It shone, as though someone had polished it with a soft cloth. Whitejack’s head had shone. Black and shiny. Sometimes he oiled it. ‘Makes all the pretty ladies cum,’ he used to say with a wicked grin, flashing his large white teeth.
‘My hunch is that you would like to write a beauty book,’ Fred Lester said. ‘Am I right?’
‘Beauty and . . . uh . . . maybe fashion, style,’ she replied, picking up on his idea.
‘Couldn’t be better. The timing is just right.’
He had very nice eyes. Brown, kindly eyes. On his desk there were three silver frames containing family pictures.
She felt secure with him. In a funny way he reminded her of Bernard, her first husband.
‘Now then,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you have in mind, and we can proceed from
there. Does that sound reasonable?’
She nodded, and racked her brain for ideas.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Costa met Lucky at L.A. airport. He fussed over Roberto as if he was the proud grandpa.
‘You haven’t told Gino, have you?’ she demanded.
‘I arrived late last night,’ Costa said. ‘He doesn’t even know I’m here.’
‘Good. We’ll really surprise him.’
She checked into a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and immediately called Gino.
To her disappointment he was out. Now she had decided to tell him, she was too impatient for roadblocks. It was only a matter of time before Dimitri made an announcement, and she really did not want Gino reading about her marriage in a newspaper.
‘When will he be back?’ she asked the maid.
‘Later,’ the woman said unhelpfully.
Later could mean any time. She wondered where he was. What did a person who wasn’t in the movie business do in LA? Gino had always been so active. Didn’t he miss the hustle of Vegas? Surely he couldn’t spend his days strolling up and down Rodeo Drive.
She and Costa lunched out by the pool, while Roberto napped.
‘Well, Lucky,’ Costa asked. ‘When are you going to tell me? Who is this man you have married?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Dimitri Stanislopoulos,’ she anounced.
‘No, really, who?’ he persisted.
She shrugged. ‘Dimitri.’
Costa shook his head and looked grim.
‘It’s not a crime for crissake,’ Lucky said quickly. ‘So he’s a few years older than me. Big deal.’
‘I wish your Aunt Jennifer were alive,’ he said dourly.
‘We all wish she were alive. But she’s not, and even if she were, she wouldn’t be telling me what to do.’
‘You’ve been on your own too long,’ Costa said. ‘You’ve never had anyone to turn to. When you were growing up you should have had a mother. Someone to confide in. A—’
‘Will you quit with the dirge? I like being on my own.’
‘Dimitri Stanislopoulos is an old man.’
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