Deena. He’d liked her a lot. He’d married her.
When he’d found out she’d lied to him about her age and background something had clicked off. Martin did not appreciate being lied to.
Their marriage was one of convenience. From the outside it appeared that the Swansons had it all. The truth was that Martin worked eighteen hours a day, while Deena tried to keep up. Perhaps children would have helped, but after two miscarriages Deena was informed she shouldn’t try for more babies, and her tubes were tied to make sure it never happened.
Although he had gallantly told Deena it didn’t matter, Martin was a disappointed man. He would love to have had a son, a small image of himself whom he could mould and shape. Martin Z. Swanson, Junior. A boy he could take to ball games and teach the intricacies of real business.
Who was going to carry on the great Swanson name?
Who was going to inherit all his money?
Deena had let him down.
Sex was not particularly important to Martin. He’d been a virgin until he was seventeen, and his first experience was with a forty-three-year-old prostitute who’d sulkily told him to hurry up. She’d cost him ten dollars and an unfortunate dose of the clap.
An early lesson to be learned – you pay for what you get.
His second experience was with a five-hundred-dollar-a-night call girl who resided in a Park Avenue apartment. He’d used his Christmas present money, and disappointingly found the second time almost as unexciting as the first.
After that he settled for a series of young ladies who gave it away for free. He didn’t exactly fuck his way through college, but he did OK.
After college, business came first. Then came Deena. Then the miscarriages. Then the mistresses.
Martin was not interested in mere physical beauty. He only pursued women who’d achieved something.
The chase excited him. Targeting a woman he wanted, and then seeing how long it took to nail her, that was the best game. Sometimes he even stayed around for a month or two.
What he’d found out was that they all had their price.
What he’d found out was that he could pay it.
Then along came Venus Maria, and finally, at forty-five, Martin Z. Swanson discovered love and lust and living. And the passion engulfed him.
He leaned back in his seat and relived their first encounter.
Venus Maria.
Martin Z. Swanson.
A volcano waiting to erupt.
* * *
‘Hi.’ Venus Maria smiled at him. She had small white teeth and a provocative smile.
‘I’m an admirer,’ he replied, with the charming Swanson smooth look and a cavalier wink.
The smile did not leave her face. ‘You’re full of shit. I bet you’ve never even seen anything I’ve done.’
‘Not true,’ he protested.
‘So tell me.’
‘Tell you what exactly?’
‘What’ve you seen me do?’
He paused. ‘You were on the cover of Time.’
‘That’s not doing anything. That’s publicity.’
‘I know that.’
‘So?
‘You’re a singer.’
‘Wow! How astute.’
‘And an actress.’
‘But you’ve never actually seen me in anything, have you?’
He shrugged. ‘You’ve got me.’
Still smiling she said, ‘You see, I was right, you’re full of shit.’
Martin was not used to people telling him he was full of shit. Especially not a young woman – however famous she might be – with platinum hair, challenging eyes, and the strangest outfit he’d ever seen. She looked like some kind of travelling Gypsy, strung with silver ethnic jewellery, worn over a long multicoloured skirt and midriff-exposing gold blouse.
They were at a dinner party in New York given by the Websters. Effie Webster was an avant-garde fashion designer, and Yul, her husband, published books. Both of them were well known for their weird assortment of friends and their drug-taking proclivities. Although Deena was good friends with the Websters, Martin was only there because the party was for his old friend and former roommate, Cooper Turner. Deena had stayed home with a migraine. Her first mistake.
‘Now we’ve established you’re full of shit,’ Venus Maria said, enjoying herself as she plucked a shrimp cake from a passing waiter’s tray and popped it between disturbingly full ruby-red lips, ‘what are we going to do about it?’
The ‘we’ got his attention. He’d recently called it off with the feminist lawyer he was sleeping with – she was too demanding. So he was available for the next adventure. But this girl was something else – too young – too wild – too much. Warning signals told him to stay away.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked, fully confident she did.
‘Nope,’ she replied nonchalantly. ‘Although I have to admit you do look a little familiar. Are you a politician? Like a senator or something?
‘I’m Martin Swanson,’ he said, the way someone would say ‘This is the Empire State Building’ or ‘Here stands the Eiffel Tower.’
Venus Maria cocked her head on one side. He noticed her earrings did not match.
‘No ringing bells,’ she said. ‘Zap me with a clue.’
Now she was beginning to irritate him, this strange-looking creature. Her eyebrows were too dark for her hair, and her eyes had a hooded quality – far too knowledgeable for the rest of her face. ‘Read Time, January 1984,’ he said abruptly. ‘You’re not the only one who’s been on the cover.’
Cooper Turner walked over then – the handsome Cooper himself. Cooper, who was probably nailing this famous-for-fifteen-minutes bimbo into the ground. He had a reputation to maintain.
‘I see you’ve met Venus,’ Cooper said with a grin. ‘Has she insulted you yet?
‘I’m not sure,’ Martin replied.
‘Hang onto your balls, fellas. One day you might need ’em.’ Venus Maria laughed gaily and honoured them with a jaunty wave. ‘I gotta go. Nice meeting you – uh…’
‘Martin.’
‘My memory stinks, but I give great head.’
She left them with that line, sashaying across the room attracting attention every step of the way.
‘Ah, but I wish I knew,’ Cooper said wistfully. ‘Young Venus Maria is what we used to call a prick-tease. Remember them? Back in the good old sixties.’
‘You mean you’re not in bed with her?’ Martin asked curiously.
‘Difficult to believe, isn’t it?’ Cooper said with a wry grin. ‘I finally seem to have struck out. She laughed when I suggested it. Do you think we’re getting old, Martin?’ Cooper said this last line with the confidence of a man who knew he’d never be too old for anyone.
Martin kept a watchful eye on Venus Maria for the rest of the night. She fluttered around the room like an inquisitive bird, never staying long in one place, all platinum hair and full red lips – her heady perfume trailing her wherever she went.
At one point their eyes met. Just once. She held his gaze like a cat, forcing him to look away first. Another small triumph for her. Martin was intrigued.
The next day he sent for her press file. His secretary handed him an avalanche of magazine and newspaper clippings. She was more famous than he’d thought.
He then asked for copies of her videos, and the two movies she’d made. On screen she had a dynamic presence. A sexual siren with a solid dose of street smarts. She could dance, she could sing, she could even act.
By the end of the day Martin was in lust. He found out she was staying at the Chelsea Hotel and sent over three dozen sterling silver roses with a note. The note read: So do I – Martin Swanson.
Not strictly true. He’d never given head to a woman in his life. Never had to.
She neither acknowledged nor thanked him for his flowers. He wondered if she’d even received them, for he discovered she’d returned to L.A. the next day.
Venus Maria.
&
nbsp; Unfinished business.
Martin liked every deal sewn up tight.
Six weeks later Deena decided there was a party she wished to attend in L.A. It was for a big charity, and she quite fancied wearing her new sapphire and diamond necklace which set off her pale blue eyes and translucent skin.
‘Let’s go,’ Martin said agreeably, surprising Deena because she knew he hated L.A.
He must have had an instinct about it. Venus Maria was at the event, standing out in black leather, while all around her there was a sea of Valentinos, Ungaros, and Adolfos. Her hair was dyed a harsh black – all the better to match her eyebrows – and her full lips were painted a strident purple. Under her black leather motorcycle jacket she wore a softer black leather bustier, studded with silver nails. Her breasts were creamy invitations to whatever else lay hidden beneath the leather.
‘My God! That Venus Maria girl is just awful! Did you see her?’ Deena asked.
Could he miss her?
No.
And this time he had no intention of doing so.
Cooper Turner was not anxious to part with her phone number. ‘She’s not for you, Martin,’ he warned. ‘This girl dances to a whole new step. Forget it.’
‘Frightened of the competition?’ Martin asked.
‘I’m just trying to warn you. Venus is different. Say you did make out with her – which I can tell you now you won’t – she’s not the kind of woman who’s going to sit at home while you run back and forth to Deena. Forget it, Martin. This is a tough kid.’
‘Do I get the number or do I go elsewhere?’
He got the number and called, prepared for anything.
‘I took my roses back to L.A.,’ she said casually. ‘Oh, and I had my assistant get me Time magazine. I don’t like the picture – you look like a self-satisfied asshole. I do a little photography myself – wanna pose in front of my lens?’
He made an excuse to Deena and left her in the hotel while he hurried over to Venus Maria’s house in the Hollywood Hills.
She made him a cup of herb tea and touched his face with long silky fingers. ‘I won’t sleep with you until I know you,’ she said softly. ‘That might take a couple of years. Right?’
Wrong.
It took five weeks. During which time he made six trips to the Coast and she visited New York twice.
It happened in a friend’s house overlooking Big Sur in a four-poster bed with an incredible view of the ocean.
And Martin Z. Swanson – tycoon, sophisticate, billionaire, man-of-the-world, forty-five years old – finally learned about love and sex and passion.
It was a revelation.
* * *
The first thing Martin did upon arriving in L.A. was to call Venus Maria from his limo. She was on the set, but he got through anyway, using their private code-name – Mr. Whacko. He felt like a fool using such a name, but Venus Maria had insisted. ‘Only a stupid name like that will work,’ she’d assured him. And she was probably right. So Mr. Whacko it was…
‘What time shall I come over?’ he asked.
‘You can’t. My brother’s still at my house.’
‘God damn it! I thought you were getting rid of him.’
‘I am. It takes time. I’d really prefer he doesn’t go running to the National Enquirer to sell my secrets.’
‘He’ll do that anyway.’
‘You think?’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll rent him an apartment.’
‘When?’
‘Today.’
‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Good.’
‘Well?’
‘What?’
‘You know what. Have you missed me?’
‘Martin, when you’re here, you’re here. When you’re away, that’s your other life. Missing you is negative energy. I don’t have time for it.’
She could be infuriating. Didn’t she have any idea how much it took for him to say ‘I miss you’? He’d never said it to anyone in his life. And she dismissed it like it was nothing.
‘I’m out here to do a takeover deal on a studio,’ he said, as if that would impress her.
‘You told me on your last trip.’
‘That particular deal fell through.’
‘So what now?’
‘New negotiations.’
‘I’ve gotta go, they’re yelling for me.’
‘Make ’em wait.’
‘Martin! I’m surprised at you. I’m a professional.’
‘Get rid of your brother. I want to come to the house.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Don’t try. Do.’
‘Later.’
Later he would have her in his arms. That young, vibrant body pulsating with energy. Pulsating all over him. Giving him the best hard-on he’d ever had.
And so to work. Martin Z. Swanson wanted to achieve a take-over. And when Martin Z. Swanson wanted something he always succeeded.
Chapter 28
Lucky lit a cigarette. Once, long ago, she’d promised herself she’d give up smoking. Impossible. The habit was too deeply ingrained. And besides, she enjoyed the process. Lighting up, inhaling, allowing the smoke to drift lazily away.
Boogie didn’t smoke. Boogie was into wheat bran and whole flakes and brown rice and grains. He’d discovered health with a vengeance and kept on shooting her disapproving looks when she gulped her coffee black, strong, and certainly not decaf, and settled into a thick juicy steak for dinner.
It was Saturday morning and there was lots to do. No time to run off to London – maybe a day trip to Acapulco if she wasn’t supposed to be in Japan.
God damn it! She needed to be with Lennie.
She called him tentatively. From the sound of his voice on the phone to Mickey yesterday he was not likely to be in the best of moods. She was right.
‘Where are you?’ was his first question, asked in a belligerent tone.
‘Bowing a lot and drinking tea,’ she replied calmly.
He was getting more annoyed by the minute. ‘Are you aware you have moronic idiots working for you?’
‘Don’t we all?’
‘C’mon, Lucky, I’m not screwing around. The people in your office are either slow-witted or totally obtuse.’
Whom had he spoken to? ‘Why do you say that?’ she asked anxiously. It wouldn’t do to blow it now.
‘Because for the last twenty-four hours I’ve been trying to find out exactly where you are. A phone number. An address. Anything. “We have no idea, Mr. Golden,” they tell me – like I’m some kind of schmuck.’
Two weeks and she was already in deep shit.
‘They don’t know where I am,’ she answered blankly, ‘I don’t know where I am. Mr. Tagasaki is a strange and wonderful man who conducts his business in a somewhat eccentric way.’
Lennie sounded disgusted. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘It’s difficult to explain,’ she answered quickly. ‘It’s that kind of a deal. He’s a little crazy. I’ll be out of here soon.’
Lennie was not to be placated. ‘Are you sleeping with this Japanese prick?’ he asked accusingly.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘No, Lucky, you’re being ridiculous.’
Now it was her turn to get angry. ‘I’m making a deal. Do I interfere with the way you do things?’
‘All the time.’
Oh, God! She didn’t want this to develop into a fully fledged fight. ‘Please understand, Lennie,’ she said softly. ‘Just this once.’
‘I don’t understand. Get your ass back here.’
His accusing tone was beginning to grate. ‘Lennie,’ she said carefully, ‘I do what I want.’
‘Well, keep on doing it, honey, an’ you’ll be doing it on your own.’
Honey! He was really mad.
‘This deal is important to me. Why don’t you just let me pull it off my way, and then I’m all yours. We won’t move for the entire summer. We’ll sit in Malibu and build
sandcastles.’ Her voice softened again. ‘OK, baby?’
He calmed down. ‘I was going to surprise you this weekend. Just turn up. That’s if there’d been anywhere to turn up at.’
‘What about the movie?’
‘Screw the movie. I told Mickey Stolli if they’re not prepared to dump Grudge, I’m walking.’
‘I’ll have a big surprise for you soon.’
‘What?’
‘Be patient.’
He wasn’t giving up. ‘Since when was I patient? What’s your phone number?’
‘There isn’t one.’
‘Where are you speaking from, the street?’
‘A hotel.’
He sounded exasperated. ‘I don’t know what game you’re playing, Lucky, but do me and yourself a favour and get back here. I need you.’
‘I’ll be with you sooner than you think.’
Not the ideal phone conversation. How long was he going to believe her lightweight excuses?
She tried Bobby in London next. He’d been to a James Bond movie and insisted on telling her the entire plot. She listened patiently, told her son she loved him, and hung up.
You’re fucking up your life, Santangelo.
Only temporarily.
* * *
Monday morning back at the studio she knew a lot more than she’d known when she’d left on Friday carrying a briefcase full of papers and contracts from Mickey’s locked file cabinet. She’d had plenty of time to study them over the weekend. It seemed Mickey was creaming money all over the place. The head of business affairs had to be in on it. Major collusion.
Mickey came running in late snapping his fingers. ‘Get me Zeppo White on the phone. Cancel my nine o’clock with Eddie Kane. Tell Teddy Lauden to stay after the meeting. An’ fix me fresh juice – grapefruit. Get your ass in here. Fast.’
The man was unbelievable. Whatever happened to ‘Good morning’ and a little common courtesy?
She followed him into his office. He was already throwing off his tennis shirt, revealing an extremely hairy chest. If the shorts came next she was out of there.
He trotted into his private bathroom, took a loud pee with the door open, and dictated a terse fax to Grudge Freeport.
The fax read:
Unhappy actors are a pain in the ass.
A pain there makes me unhappy.
You are replaceable. The stars are not.
Lady Boss Page 18
