Yes, he did mind. Deena was not the woman he’d thought she was. And discreet enquiries revealed she didn’t come from one of the wealthiest families in Amsterdam. Her father, it turned out, was an innkeeper, and her mother worked at the American Embassy as a translator. Furthermore, Deena was six years older than she’d told him, making her only two years younger than him, instead of the eight years he’d believed.
Martin Z. Swanson was not a happy man when he discovered all this information. He’d angrily confronted his bride. She’d nodded, perfectly composed. ‘Yes, it’s true. But what does it matter? Besides, if I can fool a smart man like you, then I can certainly fool the rest of the world, making me the perfect wife for you, don’t you think?’
She happened to be right. The image was there, why bother about the past?
So the Swansons embarked on married life, both determined to reach the top. Deena became pregnant twice, and miscarried on both occasions. After the second time, Martin took his first mistress, a Tony-award-winning stage actress with a jutting lower lip and an insatiable sexual appetite. The important thing was she was famous, extremely talented, and her achievements really turned Martin on in a big way.
After the actress came a prima ballerina. Then came a voluptuous blonde author who wrote about sex and had topped the New York Times bestseller list several times. The author was followed by a female racing-car driver, and then a particularly skilled lawyer.
By this time, Deena had grown used to Martin’s indiscretions. She didn’t like it, but what could she do? Divorce was not even a consideration. She was Mrs. Martin Z. Swanson for life and let no one forget it. Especially her erring husband.
When Deena decided to parlay her social celebrity into real bucks, Martin was unimpressed. After she showed him how much money her various products were making, he was still unmoved. ‘Money is not talent,’ he’d said flatly.
‘Ah, but that’s all you’ve got – money,’ she’d answered triumphantly.
‘The truth is, I’m closer to real talent than you’ll ever be,’ he’d replied.
‘If you think sleeping with sluts is being close to real talent, then you’re deluding yourself.’
Martin had given his infuriating, self-satisfied smirk. ‘Try it. You’ll see,’ he’d said.
She tried it. She had an affair with a sleek black soul singer. Naked, he was the most magnificent man she’d ever seen. But he wasn’t Martin, and although the affair satisfied her physically, it wasn’t enough, so she dropped him.
Just in time, for when Martin found out, he was furious. ‘If you wish to stay married to me, you’ll never sleep around again,’ he’d warned her. ‘You are my wife, Deena. Do you understand me? My wife. And you will not make me out to be a fool.’
She’d stared at him angrily. ‘And you’re my husband. Yet you expect me to accept your screwing around without question. I’m only doing what you do all the time. Why do you object?’
‘Because you’re a woman. And for a woman it’s not the same. No more affairs.’
‘What am I supposed to do? You never sleep with me,’ she’d cried. ‘I’m hardly going to become a nun.’
So they’d struck a bargain. Every Sunday night Martin would take care of his husbandly duties. And in return Deena would remain the faithful wife.
She welcomed him back into her bed with every trick she could think of. Not that Martin was such a great lover. He did not believe in foreplay unless it was for himself. And his action was short, sharp, and clinical.
Deena comforted herself with the thought that at least he was in her bed again, and wasn’t that what really mattered?
Although Deena had no love for the women her husband slept with, she couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit sorry for them. Anyone who knew Martin at all was fully aware that his work came first. The man had an insatiable lust for more money and power. He also enjoyed the headlines on the financial pages.
Over the last few years the name Swanson was everywhere. There was a Swanson Sports Stadium, a chain of Swanson shopping malls, Swanson Publishing, and in development there was a new luxury automobile to be named the Swanson.
Yes, Martin got off on seeing his name in print, but only if he was shown in a positive light. He abhorred scandal and gossip, regarding it as a major embarrassment. When the newspaper columns hinted at some of his affairs he was furious, and since they couldn’t prove anything he immediately threatened legal action.
The press had learned to leave the great Martin Swanson alone unless they had something favourable to write or could prove his infidelities.
One of these days, Deena was sure, Martin would tire of being unfaithful, and then he would be all hers. No more talented whores. No more super-achievers. She couldn’t wait.
And then along came The Bitch, and Deena knew her almost perfect existence was seriously threatened.
At first she didn’t take the intrusion of another mistress as anything more than a passing fling. They came, they went, and usually a month or two was enough to rid Martin of his newfound passion.
But this latest one was different. This one was here to stay, and Deena recognized her as putting the great Swanson marriage at risk.
She’d thought of many ways to handle it. Perhaps pay her off. No good, because The Bitch made mega-bucks and had no need of anyone’s money.
Threaten her with physical violence. No good either, because she’d merely run to Martin for protection.
Kill her. Extreme, but if she became too much of a threat – the only answer.
Deena had thought about this solution for many months. At first the idea of hiring a professional had seemed best. There were men for hire, and she knew of acquaintances who could probably arrange a contact. But the risks were enormous. And how convoluted did the trail have to be in order for it not to lead back to her?
She was also opening herself up to life-long blackmail, and that would never do. There was no way she could allow her position to be jeopardized.
There was only one answer. If she wanted The Bitch dead, she was going to have to do it herself.
Once she reached that momentous conclusion she felt secure.
But there remained three big questions.
How?
Where?
When?
How was easy. Growing up in Holland, she’d always been exceptionally close to her father, a handsome man, with two passions in life – hunting and fishing. He’d taught his only daughter to do both, and she’d learned well. Very well. Deena was a crack shot. She knew about guns. Disposing of The Bitch with a single bullet through the head would be simple.
Where was another matter. It all depended on timing.
And when was entirely in Martin’s hands, for if he stopped seeing The Bitch none of the above would apply.
Unfortunately, Deena did not think this would happen. Her instincts told her that eventually Martin was going to come to her for a divorce, and if and when that day ever arrived she was ready to put her plan into operation.
She had already taken out insurance. Jerry Myerson’s firm was one of the best. But the real reason she’d chosen them was because of Steven Berkeley and his reputation as being the finest defence attorney in town. If and when she was ever forced to act, she had a plan. Of course, she had no intention of getting caught. But events took strange turns, and Deena wished to be fully prepared.
She knew one thing for sure, and one thing only. Nobody was going to take Martin away from her. Absolutely nobody.
Chapter 15
For some time Harry Browning had been considering inviting Olive Watson, Mr. Stolli’s English secretary – or personal assistant as she referred to herself – out. Not exactly on a date, more an evening of shared companionship, although he certainly had every intention of picking up the cheque should they go to a restaurant. He’d been thinking about this for eight months ever since Olive had wished him a happy birthday on his big day. However, these things could not be rushed, so it was quite a disapp
ointment when she’d announced – calmly and coolly – that she was engaged.
‘Engaged?’ Harry had echoed blankly. They were on the phone at the time, arranging the hours Mr. Stolli would require the screening room that week.
‘Yes,’ Olive confirmed happily. ‘My fiancé proposed long distance from England last night. It’s quite a surprise.’
It was quite a surprise for Harry too, for he’d always imagined Olive was there for the taking whenever he decided to take.
Now this ruffle. It annoyed Harry. All those wasted hours thinking about Olive, only to discover she was no longer available.
When Lucky Santangelo – whom Harry knew only as Luce – sat herself down at his table in the commissary for the third consecutive day, Harry impulsively blurted out, ‘Would you like to go out one night?’
Lucky stared at the small, bespectacled man who’d so far told her nothing, in spite of the fact that Gino seemed to think Harry Browning held the knowledge to all of Panther Studios’ secrets. Did he actually imagine she’d go out with him? Wow – her disguise must really be terrific.
‘Where?’ she answered carefully, not wishing to offend him.
Harry hadn’t expected a ‘Where?’ He’d expected a ‘Yes,’ or a ‘No.’ Certainly not a ‘Where?’
‘I don’t know,’ he confessed.
‘Perhaps,’ Lucky replied, giving him hope.
Harry peered at her. She was certainly no Olive. In fact she was rather strange-looking with her frumpy clothes, dowdy hairstyle, and impenetrable glasses. But still, had she been more attractive he would not have dared to invite her out, nor even wanted to. Harry knew his limitations. Once he’d dated a pretty, red-headed extra – a date that had ended in disaster when she’d turned on him publicly, screaming in a banshee-like voice, ‘If you can’t get me in to see Mickey Stolli, what the fuck am I doing out with a dumb creep like you anyway?’
That nasty and humiliating incident had taken place five years ago. Harry had never forgotten it.
He was wary of women. Most of the secretaries and female staff around the studio were what he termed loose. They wore revealing clothes and slept with anybody. On four separate occasions during the last year he’d discovered couples ‘at it’ in the screening rooms when they thought they were not in use. Each time he’d got rid of them with the same ominous words: ‘Mr. Stolli is due here in five minutes.’
He could get away with telling that to the minor players. With the majors it was another game. They could do what they liked, and they did. Frequently.
Gino Santangelo was right. There was not much Harry hadn’t seen in his years of standing in the projection booth looking out over the moguls and producers, directors and movie stars who always seemed to forget his very existence and do exactly as they pleased in the darkened screening rooms.
Harry often mused that one day he might write a book. A pleasant dream, it made his secrets very valuable. He’d never told anyone of the goings-on he’d witnessed.
Lucky drew a deep breath. She was getting nowhere. If she met with Harry away from the studio maybe he would have stories to reveal. It was worth a shot.
Leaning across her Johnny Romano steak and french fries, she fixed him with a friendly stare. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m making… uh… fish pie tonight. Why don’t you come by Sheila’s apartment? I know you like fish.’
Sure she knew he liked fish, he’d eaten it three days in a row.
Harry considered her invitation. There was something about her he found slightly odd. However, a night away from his Sony television and three cats was a tempting prospect. And fish pie… his favourite. ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding decisively.
‘Good,’ Lucky replied, thinking to herself – What the hell am I doing? ‘Shall we say seven-thirty?’
Harry looked almost eager. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, blinking rapidly.
A man of not many words. Lucky forced a smile and stood up. How the fuck was she going to get hold of a fish pie? Why hadn’t she said pizza or pasta or something sane?
Her glasses rolled down her nose and she pushed them up in exasperation.
‘Later, Harry,’ she said, going for the fast getaway. ‘I’ll be expecting you.’
* * *
Herman Stone was horrified. ‘Seeing someone away from the studio is dangerous,’ he said.
Lucky raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Dangerous, Herman? I’m not cocaine-busting, I’m just trying to get a little insight into what’s really going on around here.’
‘You’re leading Harry Browning on. He’s a decent man.’
Lucky was outraged. Herman was such a stuffed asshole. ‘I’m not planning to fuck him,’ she said coolly. ‘Merely pump his tongue a little.’
Herman stood up. He was red in the face. ‘I can’t be a party to this folly. I’m phoning Abe. ‘You talk like a… a…’
‘Man?’ she offered helpfully.
Herman sat down again. He picked up a pen and banged it on the table. For ten years he’d led a quiet life. Two hours in the office, four hours on the golf course. No pressures. No headaches. No foul-mouthed woman to harass him.
‘Call Abe if you want,’ Lucky said. ‘Remember, though, it’s me you’re going to be working for.’
They both knew this wasn’t true. Lucky would retire him the moment she took control. And he wouldn’t work for Lucky Santangelo if she trebled his salary.
‘Do what you wish,’ Herman muttered.
‘Thank you sooo much. Your permission has made my day.’
* * *
‘Sherry?’
‘I don’t drink,’ Harry Browning replied.
‘Never?’ Lucky asked.
He hesitated. ‘Only if it’s an occasion.’
She poured him a glass of sherry and handed it to him. ‘This is an occasion,’ she said firmly.
The occasion of Olive’s engagement, Harry thought dourly as he drank the pale brown liquid. He deserved one drink.
Lucky decided Sheila Hervey’s tiny apartment was the most depressing place she’d ever had to spend time in. The walls were painted a particularly dreary shade of maroon, and the oppressive furniture was a mixture of heavy oak combined with cheap plastic modern, all of it too big for the small apartment. Voluminous velvet drapes completed the claustrophobic effect. And an ancient record player offered only Julio Iglesias for entertainment. Lucky was fed up.
While Julio crooned something indecipherable in broken English, Harry Browning gulped two glasses of sherry in quick succession and waited patiently for his fish pie.
Boogie had delivered the pie fifteen minutes before deadline. ‘Now I know you can do anything,’ Lucky had complimented him. ‘It better be good.’
Boogie had merely shaken his head in exasperation. Like Herman Stone, but for different reasons, he did not approve of his boss’s adventures. But then working for Lucky had never been dull.
‘Did you bake it yourself, Boog?’ she’d asked with a sly grin.
‘Try the best fish restaurant in L.A. You’ll get the bill,’ he’d replied laconically. ‘Call me in the car when you’re ready to go home.’
She was ready to go home the moment Harry Browning arrived. But she’d gone this far, and she couldn’t back out without giving him a chance to tell all.
Somewhere real life was going on while she was busy playacting with a mild little projectionist called Harry Browning, who probably couldn’t tell her anything she needed to know anyway.
Damn! And on top of everything else she was now going to have to eat fish pie – which she hated. What a night!
Eventually Harry Browning started to talk. Like a hooker revealing how she first got into the business, it all came rushing out.
For two hours Lucky had babied him along, flattering and feeding, plying him with a good white wine Boogie had thoughtfully provided, and after that, brandy. Now it was paying-off time.
After his first sip of Courvoisier, quiet little Harry Browning turned into Harry the Mouth. Lucky could ha
rdly believe it. This was going to turn out to be worthwhile after all.
‘When Abe Panther was in charge we had a decent studio,’ Harry said vehemently, sounding proud. ‘Mr. Panther was a real boss. People respected him.’
‘Don’t people respect Mickey Stolli?’ Lucky murmured.
‘Him!’ Harry spat in disgust. ‘He doesn’t care about making movies. All he cares about is money.’
‘At least he’s honest. Mickey is looking after Abe Panther’s interests, isn’t he?’ Lucky asked innocently.
‘The only interests Mickey Stolli cares about are his own.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I see plenty,’ Harry said, reaching for the bottle of brandy. ‘I hear plenty.’
‘Like what?’
Fuzzily Harry realized he might be saying too much. So what? He could talk if he wanted to. He felt pretty damned good. This woman was fascinated by everything that came out of his mouth, and it was a long time since he’d had a woman spellbound. Maybe he would impress her even more with his knowledge. ‘Do you know who Lionel Fricke is?’
Lucky tried to sound suitably impressed. ‘The big agent?’ she asked.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ He peered at her through his wire-rimmed spectacles. Her image swam before his eyes. She wasn’t Olive, but she was a woman, and if she got rid of those god-awful glasses…
‘What about Lionel Fricke?’ Lucky pressed.
Harry wondered how far he could go. He took another gulp of brandy and placed his hand on her knee. ‘I saw the two of them together… Lionel Fricke and Mr. Stolli. I heard ’em make a deal for Johnny Romano. A big deal.’
‘Yes?’ Lucky leaned towards him, her eyes gleaming.
‘A five-million-dollar price for Johnny Romano – only he never sees the full pay-out. Lionel Fricke sells Johnny to Panther for four million. Then he sells a script to a shell company for one hundred thousand. A month later Panther purchases the same script for one million.’
‘And Lionel and Mickey split the million minus the hundred thousand, and put it in their own pockets. Right?’ Lucky finished.
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