Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  Olympia was not exactly left out. She was to receive a lifetime allowance of a million dollars a year, which she considered an out and out insult. Brigette was to get double that amount, and also a twenty-five million dollar inheritance when she reached twenty-one.

  ‘How dare he!’ Olympia screamed, as they left the lawyer’s office. ‘How dare that senile sonofabitch do this to me!’

  Lennie was not really interested in Olympia’s hysterical complaints. He had just come face to face with Lucky for the first time in three years, and he felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach with a steel-toed boot. She was as wildly beautiful as ever in a simple black suit, her jet curls pulled severely back from her face.

  She had walked toward them and offered a hug of sympathy to Olympia, who had shrugged her off with a cold glare.

  He didn’t know what to say. Everything seemed inappropriate. Hey – the big movie star was speechless. ‘How are you?’ he managed to mumble.

  She barely glanced in his direction. ‘Fine, thank you,’ in clipped tones.

  And that was it. The full extent of their conversation, followed by hours of boredom while the will was read.

  He had tried to catch her eye, but she was aloof, and very remote, which destroyed him. It seemed that as far as Lucky was concerned it was over. And there was no way he could convince her otherwise while he remained married to Olympia. ‘It’s all that bitch’s fault,’ Olympia ranted on. ‘She brainwashed him. She coerced him. But she needn’t think for one moment that she’s getting away with it, because she’s not. My lawyers will fight it every inch of the way – every goddamn inch.’

  * * *

  The newspapers descended like a plague of ants, and Lucky, who had always managed to keep a fairly low profile, suddenly found herself the centre of attention. As Mrs Stanislopoulos, she had kept in the background. But as the Widow Stanislopoulos, and the inheritor of most of Dimitri’s fortune, she was suddenly thrust unwillingly into the limelight. Unwanted headlines began to appear. Pictures were dug up from her days as Senator Richmond’s daughter-in-law, the opening of the Magiriano, and more recent ones from the Hotel Santangelo opening night.

  DAUGHTER OF FORMER MOBSTER HITS THE JACKPOT creamed one tabloid, SANTANGELO KID GETS RICH QUICK offered another.

  It wasn’t long before industrious digging produced the story of her attempted rape at the hands of Enzio Bonnatti, and the subsequent shooting. It had taken six years to make the headlines but now it was hot news, STANISLOPOULOS HEIRESS KILLED RAPIST.

  She was outraged by the sudden loss of privacy, and when they printed a picture of Roberto, playing in the pool at the Magiriano where he was staying with Gino, she really freaked out, and called Gino immediately. ‘What the hell is going on?’ she demanded. ‘Why are you letting them photograph Roberto?’

  ‘I’m not,’ he replied grimly. He too was upset by the unwelcome thrust of publicity. ‘I got security guards throwin’ the newspaper bums on their asses, but I can’t control the tourists with their cameras,’ he complained.

  ‘I want Roberto out of there,’ Lucky said urgently. ‘At once.’

  ‘I know,’ Gino agreed. ‘I was thinkin’ along the same lines.’

  He told her his plans. Costa and Ria had rented a house in Beverly Hills for the month. They were flying to L.A. that evening, and he planned to take Roberto and CeeCee and go with them. ‘I can’t put up with the shit goin’ on here,’ he said. ‘This way nobody will know where we are, an’ we’ll get some peace.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Lucky. ‘I’ll join you as soon as I can.’

  ‘No rush,’ Gino assured her. ‘Roberto’s safe with me.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied quickly. ‘But I miss him.’ And she did. Desperately. A hotel was no substitute for a son.

  They talked some more, and at the end of the conversation she felt better. She could finally turn to Gino in times of trouble. He understood and was always there for her. Right now she needed someone.

  Lennie.

  Still married to Olympia.

  Why had she ever thought they had something going?

  Chapter One-Hundred-Five

  If only she could get to Lennie. Eden knew he would lend her the money to free herself from the deadly clutches of Santino Bonnatti. With Ryder Wheeler off the movie, things deteriorated day by day. Her scenes with Tim presented no problem. They were steamy, but she could handle it because she was with him. However, when Santino insisted the rape scene go back in, she knew she was in trouble.

  A hulking actor from hard core movies appeared on the set to play her assailant. And she sensed, without a doubt, that Santino had told the director to run the scene to its limit.

  Tim slipped her some pills before he was ordered to leave the set. ‘Take ’em,’ he commanded. ‘They’ll get you through.’

  She did as he said, and felt better immediately.

  Santino was sitting ringside when she was called to start the scene. He sat in a director’s chair behind the camera, a leer on his face, and the stub of a stinking cigar stuck between his teeth. ‘Lotsa luck, honey,’ he said, the concerned boyfriend.

  She smiled vaguely. The pills had taken her to another place where nothing mattered.

  The director, a New Yorker with dyed hair and slit eyes, said, ‘Let’s go with the flow, sweetie. Live it. Feel it. I’m going for one take in long shot, then we’ll move in for the close ups.’

  ‘Do I look beautiful?’ she murmured.

  ‘Hot stuff, sweet ass. You’ll have every schlong in the theatre at full mast.’

  She licked her thin lips and waited for the magic word, ‘Action’.

  The director called it and they were away.

  She moved into the scene like the pro she was.

  Eden Antonio.

  Great screen beauty.

  She wore a satin nightgown and not much else.

  The hulking actor lurked behind a curtain waiting for his moment. At a signal from the director he moved into shot, huge and sinister. He grabbed her quickly. She was like a helpless doll in his vicious grip.

  She relaxed and went limp in his arms.

  ‘Struggle!’ the director hissed.

  ‘Yeah, struggle,’ Santino repeated, leaning forward, sweat beading his brow.

  Why did she have to fight? Whatever happened now was inevitable, all the struggling in the world wouldn’t stop it.

  Feebly she attempted resistance.

  The hulk loved that. He ripped at satin, lifted her bodily, and threw her down on the bed.

  The pills had an anaesthetizing effect. She was glad. Getting raped on camera had never been a career goal.

  * * *

  ‘Hello, little girl.’

  ‘Tim!’

  ‘What a memory!’

  ‘Why haven’t you phoned me before?’

  ‘I thought rich little girls like you wouldn’t want to be bothered with broke actors.’

  ‘Are you broke?’

  ‘Nearly. But I think I can rustle up enough change to take you to dinner tonight.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Why not? You’re free aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘I’ll meet you in the bar at Trader Vic’s, eight o’clock.’

  Brigette replaced the receiver and squealed with joy. She had known Tim Wealth would phone, and now he had. Brilliant!

  He had asked her on a date and she would go.

  Except . . .

  How was she going to get out of the house?

  Alice was taking a nap in front of a giant TV.

  She snored delicately.

  Brigette shook her vigorously awake.

  ‘Where am I?’ mumbled Alice, lost for a moment.

  ‘My girlfriend from school is here,’ Brigette announced.

  ‘Where?’ panicked Alice, sitting up in a hurry and looking around.

  ‘Not here, silly. In L.A. She’s visiting.’

  Alice had been dreaming of John Travol
ta. She had read somewhere once that he preferred older women, and she knew if he ever clapped eyes on her it would be love at first sight. Mrs Alice Travolta. That would make Lennie sit up and take notice. ‘How nice, dear,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘She wants me to stay overnight with her,’ Brigette lied.

  Alice was delighted. ‘That’ll be nice for you,’ she said, patting her hair. Claudio was coming over and this would give them an opportunity to be alone. Looking after Brigette was one thing – but neglecting her sex life was another. Claudio was an extremely talented short person, and she missed his ardent attentions.

  ‘I don’t want to go to my friend’s house in the Rolls,’ Brigette announced. ‘It’s so embarrassing!’

  If Alice had her way she would never go anywhere except in a Rolls Royce, ever again. What a peculiar child Brigette was.

  ‘How will you get there?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll call a cab.’

  ‘Lennie said—’

  ‘Please, Ali. Pretty please! I won’t tell Lennie if you won’t.’

  Alice failed to see the harm in allowing the girl to go by cab. ‘Oh, very well. But don’t talk to the driver. They’re all illegals, you know.’

  Brigette grinned slyly. What she planned to do was also illegal, but who cared?

  She raced to Olympia’s closet and scanned her clothes. Sweaters and blouses, dresses and pants, scarves and belts, jackets and pants. Browsing Olympia’s closet was like being in a store. Her mother’s taste was gross, and Brigette couldn’t find anything worth wearing except a ragged-looking leopard-skin scarf hanging in the back. She could have bet it once belonged to Flash.

  Excitedly she reached for it. Tight jeans, one of Lennie’s jackets, and the scarf – especially if it really had once belonged to Flash – would be a cool outfit.

  As she tugged at the scarf, there was a whirring noise, and part of the wall in the closet slid away revealing a hidden room.

  Brigette was startled, but only for a moment. She figured she had stumbled across the hiding place for her mother’s jewels.

  Inquisitively she pushed past clothes and entered the tiny room. Shelves lined the walls. And on the shelves were stacked bottles and bottles of different colour pills, glass phials, boxes of smelly brown tobacco stuff, and packets of white powder.

  Brigette frowned.

  Drugs?

  Whose?

  Lennie’s? He was a movie star. Weren’t all movie stars supposed to be bombed out of their minds? She had read it in The Enquirer or somewhere.

  Curiously she picked up a packet of white powder. It looked like powdered sugar, but she guessed it was cocaine. With a rush of excitement she remembered her last meeting with Tim Wealth. He had snorted coke, and been cross with her when she sneezed and blew most of it away. What would he say if she took him a gift? He would have to be pleased. And she wanted to please him more than anything else in the world.

  * * *

  ‘Hiya, little girl,’ Tim Wealth said, rising to greet her.

  ‘I’m eighteen,’ Brigette lied. ‘Fade out on the little girl.’

  He leaned toward her. ‘I always get horny in Polynesian restaurants, how about you?’

  She was weak in the knees, but she didn’t want him to know.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ she asked, looking at his glass.

  ‘Whisky sour.’

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ she said, and hoped and prayed they wouldn’t ask for her ID.

  As if reading her mind he said, ‘You’re only eighteen – you can’t be a legal drinking partner until you hit twenty-one. You want to get me arrested?’

  If he only knew!

  ‘I’ll order you a Mickey Mouse drink and you can share my whisky sour on the sly. How’s that?’

  She nodded happily. He was so fantastic! And understanding.

  Dinner was wonderful. At least it looked wonderful. Brigette was too excited to eat. It was difficult to believe she was actually sitting in a restaurant with Tim Wealth.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he encouraged over chicken chow mein. ‘Are you really the granddaughter of Dimitri Stanislopoulos?’

  She nodded. ‘He died, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, I read about it,’ he said casually. He had read all about it. ‘A rich old dude, huh?’

  ‘I guess.’

  She guessed. He stared at the pretty little blonde girl and wondered how best to use her. He felt no remorse that he had to do so. She was using him. Fourteen years old and pretending to be eighteen. Jail bait. Rich jail bait. Dangerous jail bait. She couldn’t care less that because of her deception he could have got his ass slung in the can. Why should she? Everything had been handed her on a silver platter all her life, and always would be. Slightly different from his humble beginnings. At fourteen he was fighting off his stepfather in the outside john. Miss Stanislopoulos, with her big blue eyes and golden curls, probably didn’t even know what an outside john was.

  He wondered what kind of access she had to all the money that was supposedly hers. Fourteen was kind of young. No doubt she was surrounded by trustees and guardians and was watched all the time.

  If she was watched all the time, how come she was out with him guzzling his whisky sour and waiting impatiently to get laid?

  He asked her a few questions about who she was staying with in L.A., and heard all about crazy Alice, Lennie Golden’s mother.

  ‘How’d you get here?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘Uh . . . I took a cab.’ She hesitated. ‘I would have driven, but my car is in the shop being fixed.’

  ‘Oh yeah, what’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Engine trouble.’ She took a quick sip of his drink and hoped he wouldn’t ask any more questions.

  ‘What do you drive?’ he persisted.

  She thought of Lennie’s Porsche sitting in the garage. ‘A Porsche,’ she said quickly.

  He was playing with her. ‘What model?’

  She struggled to get up. ‘I gotta go to the bathroom.’

  He stood politely. ‘Be my guest.’

  Chapter One-Hundred-Six

  Jerry Myerson threw the glossy magazine on Steven’s desk with a resounding thud. The Bonnatti publication, titled Comer, featured Mary-Lou Moore in black stockings, garter belt and little else. She gazed at the camera, lips moist, expression sulky, and position precarious.

  ‘Get a load of this,’ said Jerry pointing to the writing alongside the near naked girl, MARY-LOU OPENS UP . . . SEE ALL HEAR ALL . . . FIVE GLORIOUS PAGES . . .

  Steven looked. And swore. And flipped the magazine open, searching for the other photos.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ Jerry asked.

  ‘Hell, no,’ Steven replied through clenched teeth as he studied the rest of the pictures.

  ‘She should have told you,’ Jerry grumbled. ‘This is going to blow your victory right out the window. The decision’ll be reversed and she’ll end up paying Bonnatti’s costs.’

  Steven was silent as he stared at the offensive shots. There was Mary-Lou in an empty bathtub – one leg thrown casually over the side. There was Mary-Lou lying on a chaise lounge, legs apart, with just a feather boa for company. And more of the same. Each shot portrayed – as known in the wonderful world of men’s magazines – split beaver.

  ‘Damn!’ said Steven harshly.

  Jerry was sympathetic. ‘I know, I know. It’s a shock. You thought she was a sweet kid, and all that. But believe me – women – you never can tell what they’re going to get up to next. I—’

  ‘Spare me your half-baked philosophies,’ interrupted Steven angrily, still staring at the photos. ‘This is not Mary-Lou.’

  ‘Steven. I know you like the girl, but—’

  ‘This is not Mary-Lou,’ he repeated angrily. ‘These pictures are fakes.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Fakes. Composites,’ Steven said excitedly. ‘Her face. Somebody else’s body superimposed. Jesus! I’m talking English, aren’t I?�
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  ‘Are you sure they’re not the real thing?’

  ‘Jerry. Please. I’m living with the girl. I should know what she looks like without her clothes on.’ He waved the magazine in the air. ‘This is definitely not Mary-Lou.’

  ‘So all we have to do is prove it,’ said Jerry logically. ‘And then it’s back to court for a real pay-off. If what you say is true, my friend, this one’s a piece of pie with double whipped cream. We are looking at a massive settlement.’

  ‘That’s three, four years down the line,’ Steven pointed out. ‘It’s more depositions and papers and meetings and postponements. All the legal machinations.’

  ‘Why are you telling me something I already know?’

  ‘Because I’m not sure Mary-Lou is willing to go through it again. She’s going to want these pictures never to appear.’

  ‘Impossible. The magazine’s hitting the stands any moment.’

  ‘How would you like it if somebody did this to you?’ Steven said furiously.

  Jerry laughed. ‘I don’t think I’d sell as many magazines!’

  ‘You asshole. Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it?’

  ‘There are certain things one cannot control. We have a legal system to take care of things – which, I might point out, you are part of. So either you go with it, or you have a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘Screw you!’ Steven exploded. ‘This one I’m not going to sit back on.’

  Jerry shrugged. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’

  ‘Just try me,’ Steven said grimly.

  Chapter One-Hundred-Seven

  The thrill was in doing it. Now that she had achieved that feat, Lucky needed to move on to something else. She had built the Santangelo. It was everything she wanted it to be. Her hotel. Her pride. But she had no intention of sitting in Atlantic City counting the money. She wanted a new challenge, another adventure.

  A business consortium wanted to buy her out. They were offering a huge profit on the two hundred million the hotel had cost to build.

  Sell, she decided. Take the money and run, as Gino would say. Not that she needed the money, she was rich beyond her wildest dreams. What she did need was the freedom. Being tied to Atlantic City for the rest of her life was not her idea of heaven. Quietly she instructed her lawyers to proceed with the deal.