Lady Boss

by Jackie Collins

  * * *

  Six superstars. And as far as he was concerned all six of them belonged to Mickey Stolli. He had them tied to Panther Studios with the best deals in town. They were his. All the way.

  Panther Studios. Mickey Stolli. What a team!

  His brother-in-law, Ben Harrison, hardly counted. And as soon as old Abe Panther died, Mickey Stolli planned to buy Ben out whether he wished to sell or not.

  Panther Studios. Mickey Stolli. A winning combination.

  And woe betide anyone who got in his way.

  Chapter 12

  Panther Studios was one of the last of the great landmark Hollywood studios. Over the forty-five years since it was originally built, occasional modernization had taken place. There was a brand new six-storey gleaming steel and chrome office building that was Mickey Stolli’s pride. He regarded it as an architectural statement. Naturally it housed his sumptuous suite of offices, as well as those of Ford Werne, his chief of production, and the offices of the heads of marketing, distribution, and international production. Mickey Stolli’s team – his A-team as he liked to call them. Sometimes the A stood for Ace Achievers, other times for Asinine Assholes. The title depended on Mickey Stolli’s mood and his ‘team’s’ performance.

  Hidden behind Mickey’s building was the old publicity structure, complete with photographic studios and rabbithole office spaces. And a long way behind that, right at the back of the lot, stood the oldest building of all – the main administrative block, nicknamed Alcatraz, because it was gloomy and depressing, and did indeed remind one of a prison. Alcatraz was sandwiched between two of the largest sound stages – massive towers that cut off all light. It was a building due for demolition. It was also the building that housed Herman Stone’s office. Herman Stone was Abe’s faithful man on the lot. Sheila, his secretary, had been sent off on a six-week cruise.

  The story was – if anyone asked or even cared – that Sheila was visiting a sick relative, and that Lucky (rechristened Luce for the gig), her niece, was helping out on a temporary basis.

  On Monday morning Lucky reported for work at the gates of Panther Studios at exactly ten o’clock. She wore a long shapeless dress, loose cardigan, and flat shoes. Her jet hair was hidden beneath a badly styled mousy-brown wig with heavy bangs, and very thick pebble glasses covered her eyes, causing her to squint.

  She was driving Sheila’s car, of which she had temporary possession – along with Sheila’s apartment, a depressing two rooms in West Hollywood that she’d used to change in after she’d left Lennie early in the morning, supposedly to fly to New York and then on to Japan.

  Lennie had kissed her long and hard. ‘Don’t forget what you promised me, sweetheart,’ he’d said.

  How could she forget? She’d promised him a baby, but she hadn’t said when. A couple of years down the line – maybe. Right now she had a studio to think about.

  Entering Panther Studios was a Hollywood historian’s dream. The huge arched gates were intricately carved in stone, with fancy art deco iron railings, and on top of the gates perched a sleek black granite panther, just about to take flight. MGM had its lion – but Panther Studios had the real power symbol.

  Lucky gave a shiver of delight as she stopped Sheila’s modest Chevrolet by the security guard’s window and stated her business.

  One of these days all of this was going to be hers – an exciting and stimulating thought.

  The guard was rude. He questioned her brusquely, giving her vague directions about where to park her car.

  ‘Well, buddy, we know what’s going to happen to you in six weeks,’ she muttered under her breath when, after driving around the vast studio twice, she realized she was completely lost.

  Stopping the car on what seemed to be the main street, she asked a slim woman in a floral print dress where the parking for Herman Stone’s office was.

  ‘Isn’t this Sheila’s car?’ the woman asked. She spoke with a strong English accent.

  Test number one. ‘Yes,’ Lucky replied without taking a beat. ‘Sheila had to go and care for a sick relative. I’m Luce, her niece. I’m helping out for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘I do hope it’s nothing serious,’ the woman in the floral print dress said, looking concerned.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good.’ The woman then proceeded to give her directions before entering a nearby building.

  Lucky found the parking lot, left the car, and walked quite a distance. It seemed that secretaries were not allowed the privilege of parking their cars close to their bosses’ offices.

  Hm… better start making notes, Santangelo.

  Trekking briskly past a group of bare-chested workmen, she couldn’t help noticing that none of them whistled or catcalled. There were no anguished cries of ‘Give it to me, baby. C’mon, sweet sweet stuff, give it up! I waaant your fine ass!! I neeed to taste pussy!’

  This was a first. Her disguise was better than she’d anticipated. She really had managed to turn herself into a dowdy, nondescript drone. Even Lennie would fail to recognize her if they came face to face. Not that it was likely, for he was due to leave for the Acapulco location that very afternoon and would be away for five weeks. At least her timing was impeccable.

  She quickened her step and headed for adventure.

  * * *

  Herman Stone was a nervous wreck. He hustled Lucky into his dark office, arms flailing, muttering to himself, practically pushing her into a chair in front of his desk. ‘You’re late,’ he fussed.

  ‘I had to walk ten miles to get here,’ she complained. ‘Why can’t I park outside the office?’

  ‘Executive parking only,’ Herman explained.

  ‘My ass,’ Lucky muttered.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Herman Stone was in on the scam and Lucky wondered if he’d last the six weeks. A small, wizened man, he looked older than Abe, and frightened out of his shiny blue suit.

  She wanted to give him a shot of brandy and tell him to calm down. Instead she leaned back in her chair and spoke slowly and reassuringly. ‘Mr. Stone. All I need from you is information. Everything you have on everyone who works here. And then, after I familiarize myself with the players, you’re to send me out into the field to play. OK?’

  Herman breathed sharply. Short, jerky gasps, as if at any moment someone was going to shut off his air supply.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lucky went on reassuringly. ‘This entire exercise is going to be easy. And since your job is totally secure, let’s just relax. OK?’

  Herman gasped another breath. ‘Whatever Mr. Panther requires,’ he said sourly, glaring balefully at her.

  Lucky nodded. ‘Yeah.’ And for the first time she realized that maybe it wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d imagined.

  The morning passed slowly while Herman repeated everything she’d already learned about the key executives. Mickey Stolli was Number One, followed by Ford Werne, his Head of Production; Teddy T. Lauden, Chief of Business Affairs; Zev Lorenzo, Head of the Television Division; and three Senior Vice Presidents – Buck Graham, Marketing, Eddie Kane, Distribution, and Grant Wendell, Worldwide Production.

  These were the most important players, but other influential figures on the lot included several producers with multi-picture deals, the two most important being Frankie Lombardo and Arnie Blackwood.

  And then, of course, there were Mickey Stolli’s six resident stars.

  ‘C’mon, I’m after the real dirt,’ Lucky pressed. ‘I can get all this stuff you’re telling me from their studio bios.’

  ‘What real dirt?’ Herman asked blankly, fiddling with his heavy horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘I’ve told you everything I know.’

  Some spy Abe had stashed on the lot. Herman was either too old or too out of touch. Probably a combination of both. Lucky realized she was going to have to figure out who was doing what to whom all by herself.

  ‘What do you usually do all day?’ she asked. She’d been sitting in his office for two and a half
hours and the phone hadn’t rung once.

  ‘I look over papers.’

  ‘What kind of papers?’

  ‘Deal memos.’

  ‘And whose deal memos would these be?’

  ‘Various.’

  ‘I don’t see any today.’

  ‘They’re usually sent over at the end of the week.’

  ‘Can I look at last week’s?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  Herman Stone was a tired old man. It was quite obvious that he considered his nice ordered life was being threatened. She could understand his discomfort, but she couldn’t accept it. He had to know where at least one body was buried.

  The deal memos turned out to be a stack of duplicates dealing with mundane everyday affairs at the studio. None of them meant anything.

  Lucky decided it was time to get started. ‘Call Mickey Stolli and tell him you want to see copies of the budgets for Motherfaker, Strut, and Macho Man,’ she said briskly.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ Herman asked, blinking nervously.

  ‘Because you’re supposed to be looking after Abe Panther’s interests at the studio, and you’re entitled to see anything you want. Tell him you’re sending your secretary over for the papers. OK?’

  Herman Stone visibly blanched. Reluctantly he did as she requested.

  Marching across the studio lot was no fun, especially at midday. By the time Lucky reached the outer limits of Mickey Stolli’s quarters she was exhausted. The dowdy clothes clung to her body, and the heavy wig didn’t help. Sweat moistened every inch of her, and she could hardly stop the thick pebble glasses from sliding off her nose. Playing dressing-up was not exactly dinner with Al Pacino.

  ‘Oh,’ said Olive, the woman with the English accent and floral print dress who’d given her directions earlier. ‘It’s you again.’

  Lucky attempted a pleasant expression. ‘’Fraid so. Mr. Stone sent me over to collect some papers.’

  ‘Yes.’ Olive appeared flustered. ‘Mr. Stolli will get them to Mr. Stone later in the week.’

  Why? Lucky wanted to ask. What’s wrong with now? Instead she mock-groaned. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve come all the way over here for nothing?’

  Olive put on a suitably sympathetic face. ‘It is hot, isn’t it?’

  Noticing a water-cooler in the corner, Lucky asked if she might have a drink.

  ‘Certainly,’ Olive said crisply, although her eyes darted towards the door to the inner sanctum, as if she needed Mickey Stolli’s approval.

  Lucky approached the water-cooler and took a long refreshing drink, using the time to check out her surroundings. The outer office was painted a cool light beige, with matching wall-to-wall carpet, and a large modern window overlooked fancy landscaping. Quite a difference from Herman Stone’s dreary space. On the walls were perma-plaqued pictures of Mickey Stolli with various celebrities and politicians.

  A sudden commotion took place as a woman swept through the door, paused dramatically, and said, ‘Olive, dear, is he here?’

  Olive jumped to her feet. ‘Miss Rush. He’s expecting you.’

  A tinkling, phony laugh. ‘Of course he is.’

  Susie Rush was petite and slim, with straggly yellow hair artfully arranged in neat curls, wide pale blue eyes, porcelain skin, and thin lips. She was almost pretty, certainly petulant. She did not have the presence of a movie star. More girl-next-door than Marilyn Monroe.

  Olive buzzed her boss, who apparently didn’t hesitate once he got the news. Throwing open the door to his office, along with his arms, he exclaimed, ‘Susie, my pet! Come in.’

  Susie my pet ran straight into his welcoming arms and nuzzled for a moment or two. Small mewing sounds could be heard. Then the two of them, still in full embrace, entered his office and slammed the door shut.

  Olive’s nostrils flared. A sign of disapproval? Lucky couldn’t be sure. ‘Wasn’t that Susie Rush?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘You must never ask for autographs,’ Olive admonished sternly. ‘It’s a studio rule.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning on doing so,’ Lucky couldn’t help responding.

  Olive ignored her, busying herself with a pile of papers on her desk. Susie Rush being in her boss’s office was obviously not a thrilling happening.

  ‘Is there somewhere around here for lunch?’ Lucky asked in her best polite voice, hoping to win Olive over.

  ‘The commissary,’ Olive replied, without looking up.

  ‘Maybe we can lunch together,’ Lucky ventured.

  ‘I rarely eat lunch,’ Olive replied brusquely. ‘The commissary is halfway between here and your office. Do give my regards to your aunt.’ It was a dismissal, firm and proper.

  So… English Olive had a thing about her boss, who was very obviously kissing Susie Rush’s ass – if not other parts of her anatomy.

  Veree interesting.

  And Mickey Stolli did not want to hand over the budget sheets on his three big movies in production. Even more interesting.

  These weren’t important discoveries, but it was a start. And at least she’d got a look at the first ‘scum-in-law’, Mickey Stolli, a bronzed bullet of a man with cobra eyes and a phony whiter-than-white smile.

  Outside the gleaming structure there was a pleasant walkway lined with shady trees, banks of flowers, and in the middle an elaborate fountain. There was also a bench where Lucky stationed herself, all the better to catch the action as people hurried in and out of the main building.

  A few secretaries came and went. A couple of executives – recognizable because of their California Casual attire. A tall woman in a tightly belted yellow Donna Karan suit. And finally Susie Rush emerged, hiding behind large white-rimmed sunglasses.

  Susie stood on the steps for only a minute before a sleek chocolate-brown limousine slid into position, and she vanished inside.

  Five minutes later Mickey Stolli appeared, accompanied by two other men. The three of them set off at a brisk pace.

  Lucky trailed them all the way to the commissary, where they were ushered into the private dining room. She found herself a table for two in the crowded main restaurant and sat down.

  Now that she looked like a drudge she felt almost invisible. People didn’t seem to notice she existed – a good way to get a massive inferiority complex. Fortunately she knew that if she took off the disguise, things would change instantly. The power of appearance was potent indeed. Luce and Lucky – two different people inhabiting two different worlds.

  What have I got myself into? she thought. One morning and I’m ready to rip off this stupid disguise and run back to real life. How am I going to last six goddamn weeks?

  Because it’s a challenge.

  Right.

  ‘You’re sitting at my table.’

  A man. Slight, bespectacled, undernourished. He spoke in an agitated voice.

  Lucky checked him out. She judged him to be somewhere in his fifties. ‘I didn’t see a reserved sign,’ she replied coolly.

  He was clearly irritated. ‘Everyone knows this is my table.’

  ‘Then why don’t you sit here, there is another chair,’ she suggested quite reasonably.

  He hesitated for a moment, then, realizing he had no alternative, pulled out a clean handkerchief, dusted off the vacant chair, and sat down. His close-set brown eyes, covered by wire-rimmed spectacles, darted around the room looking everywhere except at her.

  A plump waitress appeared at their table. ‘The usual, Harry?’ she asked cheerfully, adjusting her diamanté-tipped wing glasses.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Myrtle,’ he replied, rubbing a spot on the brightly checked tablecloth.

  Myrtle turned her attention to Lucky, pad poised. ‘Yes, dear? Have you decided?’

  ‘Can I try a Susie Rush salad?’

  ‘Why not? Everyone else has.’ Myrtle guffawed at her own joke. Harry didn’t crack a smile. ‘Beverage?’ Myrtle asked.

  ‘Fresh orange juice,’ Lucky replied.

  ‘Canned or frozen? Take your pick.’r />
  ‘I’ll just have water.’

  Myrtle glanced from Lucky to Harry. ‘You two make a fine pair. The last of the big spenders!’

  ‘She’s friendly,’ Lucky remarked as Myrtle departed.

  ‘Myrtle’s not the best waitress here,’ Harry confided. ‘Leona is. She would never have let my table go. Unfortunately she’s in the hospital at this time attending to her varicose veins. I hope she’ll return soon.’

  He was definitely a strange one, Lucky thought. ‘Can’t wait,’ she said flippantly.

  He peered across the table, finally looking at her. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

  Stop being smart, Santangelo. Shape up and act the way you look.

  ‘Do you work here?’ she asked nicely.

  Harry considered her question before answering. ‘I have been at Panther Studios for thirty-three years,’ he announced at last. ‘Panther Studios is my home.’

  ‘Your home?’

  ‘It seems I have spent more time here than in my own house. My wife left me because of it.’

  ‘Really?’ She tried to look interested. ‘And what do you do around here?’

  If Harry had been standing he would have pulled himself up to his full height. As it was he squared his shoulders and answered proudly, ‘I am the Chief Projectionist.’

  ‘How interesting.’

  ‘I worked for Mr. Abe Panther himself when he was here,’ Harry continued with dignity. ‘This studio was different then, I can tell you.’ Realizing that this might sound like a complaint, he stopped himself from saying more.

  ‘I bet you miss the good old days, huh?’ Lucky asked encouragingly.

  Harry found a new spot on the tablecloth and began to rub it vigorously. ‘Things change. I understand,’ he said in a noncommittal voice. ‘Are you visiting? Or are you employed here?’

  ‘Sort of both,’ Lucky replied. ‘I’m Luce, Sheila Hervey’s niece. Y’know, Sheila, Mr. Stone’s secretary? Well, she’s off sick, and I’m kind of filling in for her.’

  ‘Sheila doesn’t have a niece,’ Harry said, blinking rapidly several times.