Lady Boss

by Jackie Collins

  Mickey was in a meeting with a writer on one of his special projects. When Eddie burst into his office he was taken by surprise.

  Lucky let him through without question. This was her last day at the studio and she didn’t care what happened.

  The writer, an earnest young man, leaped to his feet as soon as Eddie entered. Eddie looked like a madman with his ten days’ growth of beard, crumpled clothes, and wild bloodshot eyes.

  ‘I’m through takin’ shit,’ Eddie yelled, placing both hands on Mickey’s desk and glaring at him. ‘Carlo Bonnatti came to my house. My fucking house, for chrissakes! No more, Mickey. You’re in this with me, an’ there’s no way you’re backin’ out. Panther’s gotta pay him.’

  Mickey’s eyes narrowed. This was what happened when you tried to assist a friend? ‘Luce,’ he shouted.

  No acknowledgement.

  ‘Get the guards up here,’ he screamed.

  ‘You get the fucking guards an’ you got more trouble than you ever believed possible,’ Eddie yelled, grabbing Mickey by the lapels of his sports jacket. ‘I’ll go to Abe Panther. I’ll spill the works. Your fat ass won’t be worth a dime.’

  The writer slowly and carefully backed his way towards the door. He’d heard about these scenes where unhinged maniacs went on a rampage. Sometimes they had a gun. This could get nasty. ‘I’ll come back later, Mr. Stolli,’ he said.

  ‘Get your hands off my jacket,’ Mickey growled at Eddie.

  Fuck you,’ replied Eddie.

  They began to scuffle.

  The writer scuttled out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  Lucky glanced up from her desk.

  ‘Did you call the guards?’ the writer asked urgently.

  ‘I think they’ll be able to work it out between them, don’t you?’ she said sweetly.

  Shaking his head, the writer ran out of there. He was paid to write, not get involved in grudge battles.

  * * *

  Just as she was recovering from Madame Loretta’s callous attitude, the doorbell rang.

  Tentatively Leslie peered through the peephole. A woman stood on the other side of the door. A well-dressed, heavily made-up woman. ‘Yes?’ Leslie called out. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Where’s Eddie?’ the woman said irritably.

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Shit! We had an appointment.’

  ‘I’m Mrs. Kane,’ Leslie said, attempting to assert herself. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Kathleen Le Paul. Open up this goddamn door.’

  Cautiously Leslie opened it an inch, keeping the security chain firmly in place. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘Eddie told me to meet him at noon,’ Kathleen said. ‘I haven’t driven all the way here for nothing. Did he leave me the money?’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The money for his… delivery. I have a package for him.’

  ‘How much does he owe you?’ Leslie asked curiously.

  ‘Fifteen hundred dollars, cash,’ Kathleen replied, thinking to herself she was getting too old for this kind of thing. If Umberto Castelli would only divorce his fat Colombian wife and move to Los Angeles, she could live in luxury instead of being a runner.

  ‘He didn’t mention you or any money,’ Leslie said.

  Kathleen impatiently tapped a Chanel-clad toe on the sidewalk. ‘Take a look,’ she said abruptly. ‘Maybe you’ll find he left something for me.’

  Leslie shut the door in her face and scurried into the bedroom. Sure enough there was a pile of cash on top of Eddie’s dresser.

  For a moment she was unsure about what to do. If she refused to accept this package, Eddie could be mad. And yet if she took it and gave the woman money, he could also be angry. Thinking fast, she tried to reach him on his car phone. There was no reply.

  By this time Kathleen Le Paul was banging on the door again.

  Leslie hurried back to the door.

  ‘I’m not standing out here all day,’ Kathleen Le Paul complained. ‘Do you have the money or don’t you?’

  Leslie took a deep breath and decided to pay. She went back to his dresser, counted out fifteen hundred dollars, and took it out to the woman.

  In return Kathleen handed over the package and left.

  When she was gone, Leslie carried the small, wrapped package into the kitchen, put it on the table, and opened it up with a kitchen knife.

  Inside there was a small glassine bag filled with white powder.

  Carefully Leslie slit the bag and tipped the powder onto the table.

  Cocaine.

  It was ruining their lives.

  It was taking all their money and screwing up their marriage.

  She knew what she had to do.

  Chapter 42

  It was incredibly great knowing this was her last day of purgatory. After today she was a free person. No longer Luce – quiet, obedient little secretary. Within hours she was returning to her true identity. Lucky Santangelo. Winner takes all.

  It was Friday noon, and at the end of the day she was out of there.

  She knew the first thing she’d do. Burn the goddamn wig and dreadful clothes. Smash the vile glasses. And dance around the bonfire chanting thanks like a crazy woman.

  After that she’d get on the next plane to New York, and be with Lennie.

  Ah… she couldn’t wait. A long weekend with her husband was just what they both needed. A very long weekend in bed catching up on all the time they’d been apart. And during the weekend she’d give him the news.

  Dear husband, I’ve brought you a present. I hope you like it.

  Naturally they’d run Panther Studios together. What a trip!

  Soon, Bobby would be out of school for summer break. He’d travel with his nanny straight to California. And Lennie had mentioned something about Brigette joining them. It was going to be the most wonderful summer. A real family affair. Maybe she’d even persuade Gino to come out for a week or two.

  When Eddie Kane came racing through her office like a deranged maniac, she didn’t take much notice. Eddie Kane was Mickey’s problem, not hers. In fact, Mickey was going to have a lot of problems to deal with after today – not the least being that on Monday morning he was going to find himself out of a job.

  This was the plan. Today, she was out of there. At six o’clock there was a meeting at Abe’s house to sign the final papers with both sets of lawyers present. And when all was signed, sealed, and delivered, Panther Studios would be officially hers.

  Monday morning Abe had requested the pleasure of announcing the sale himself. He’d already sent an urgent telegram to his other granddaughter, Primrose, and her husband, Ben Harrison, in London, summoning them to the meeting.

  Abe had decided to visit the studio in person for the first time in ten years. ‘Can’t wait to see their faces,’ he’d told Lucky excitedly. ‘Can’t wait to present ’em with you, girlie.’

  As long as she had the weekend to spend with Lennie, she was ready for anything.

  The noises coming from Mickey Stolli’s office were becoming violent. Idly she wondered who was getting beat up. In a fight she would put her money on Mickey. He was shorter than Eddie, and older, but he had the real strength. Mickey was a street fighter. She’d recognized that quality in him the first time she’d seen him.

  Mickey’s writer ran from the office with a panicked expression on his face.

  Her intercom was buzzing out of control. ‘Call security,’ yelled Mickey. ‘Get ’em up here now.’

  She could hear Eddie’s raised voice. ‘Don’t fuck with me, Mickey, ’cause you’re fucking with the wrong guy.’

  ‘I’m fucking with the wrong guy?’ screamed Mickey. ‘Me? Clean up your act, shithead, and get the fuck out of my sight.’

  Lucky called the front gate. ‘Can you send a security guard to Mr. Stolli’s office please?’ she requested.

  ‘Sure, ma’am,’ one of the guards replied. ‘Is it urgent?’

  ‘It depends what you
call urgent,’ she said calmly.

  ‘Life-threatening?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  Before the guard had a chance to arrive, Eddie stormed out of there with a bloodied nose.

  Hmmm, Lucky thought, she was right. In a fight it was always the street fighter who came out on top. Eddie was a little too weak around the edges. Too many late nights and too much cocaine.

  Mickey emerged from his office in a black fury. ‘You dumb cunt!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t you ever let anybody in here unless I tell you to. Even if you have to throw yourself in front of my office door and they have to trample over your body, you do not let anybody in here. Am I makin’ myself clear?’

  ‘No,’ she said blankly, trying to ignore the fact that he’d screamed ‘dumb cunt’ at her. Nobody called Lucky Santangelo a dumb cunt and lived.

  ‘What?’ he bellowed.

  ‘No, I don’t understand you,’ she said evenly. ‘I’m not allowing people to trample over my body. And I’m certainly not putting myself at risk for you.’

  He stared at her in disbelief. A secretary – answering back?

  ‘Are you tryin’ to get yourself fired?’ he asked angrily, practically hopping up and down.

  She shrugged. ‘Whatever you want to do. It’s up to you.’

  He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Until now this one had been the perfect secretary. She’d fended off his calls, taken care of his appointments, made him coffee, squeezed his juice. She’d even squeeze his balls if he told her to. Now she was developing lip. Jesus Christ!

  He stormed back into his office and slammed the door. When the fuck was Olive coming back?

  * * *

  Lucky took a final leisurely lunch in the commissary as Luce.

  When she was finished she strolled over to Harry Browning’s table and said, ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

  He glanced up, not pleased to see her. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said shortly.

  ‘I’d like to explain something,’ she said. She felt ever so slightly guilty about Harry. If she’d known he was an alcoholic she’d never have plied him with liquor that fateful night of the fish pie. She sat down. ‘Harry—’ she began.

  ‘Mr. Browning to you,’ he interrupted.

  ‘I’m sure you imagine I’m playing some kind of strange game.’

  ‘I know what you’re doing,’ Harry said. ‘The whole studio knows what you are.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘What am I?’

  ‘You’re Abe Panther’s spy. He sent you in to sleep with Mickey Stolli.’

  She began to laugh. ‘Huh?’

  ‘You told Brenda in Eddie Kane’s office you were sleeping with Mickey Stolli,’ Harry said furiously. ‘Now the whole studio knows.’

  Lucky almost choked. The thought of shacking up with Mickey did that to a person. ‘Are you kidding me? I was joking when I said that to Brenda.’

  Harry drummed his fingers on the table. ‘A sick joke,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Oh, you bet it is,’ she agreed. ‘And anyway, what do you mean – the whole studio knows?’

  ‘Brenda told everybody. All the secretaries, messengers, assistants. And they in turn told everybody else.’

  Oh, wonderful! She sighed. What a reputation to have. Sleeping with Mickey Stolli, the man of my dreams! ‘And does everybody at the studio think I’m Abe’s spy?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Harry replied shortly. ‘Only I know. I suppose that’s why you’re sleeping with Mickey Stolli. Mr. Panther told you to.’

  Now she was getting irritated. ‘Cut it out, Harry. I am not sleeping with Mickey. Everything’s going to become clear on Monday.’

  ‘Yes?’ He looked at her suspiciously.

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded her head and got up from the table. ‘Don’t forget. Monday morning. Things are going to happen around here.’

  * * *

  Abigaile Stolli called at three o’clock. She had an annoying voice, sharp and imperious, as if everybody should jump the moment they heard it. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘Luce,’ Lucky replied. ‘And who’s this?’

  ‘Mrs. Stolli,’ Abigaile said haughtily. ‘Are you the new girl?’

  ‘I’ve been here a few weeks,’ Lucky answered.

  ‘When is Olive coming back?’ Abigaile demanded, as if it was a great imposition for her to have to talk to Lucky at all.

  ‘Soon,’ Lucky replied.

  ‘Have you ordered our car?’

  ‘What car is that, Mrs. Stolli?’

  ‘Our limousine for the première tonight. Surely you know?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware you needed a car.’

  Abigaile exploded. ‘My God! Do I have to take care of everything myself? Didn’t Mr. Stolli tell you? We need a studio limousine. My usual driver. And the car must be stocked with Cristal champagne and Perrier water. Oh, and have it at my house at six-thirty. Not six-twenty-five, or six-thirty-five. Six-thirty. Arrange it.’

  Lucky decided Abigaile and Mickey made the perfect couple. Both of them dripping with charm.

  ‘I’ll see to it, Mrs. Stolli,’ she said, the perfect secretary.

  ‘Where’s my husband?’ Abigaile asked crossly.

  For a moment Lucky was tempted to say, ‘Why don’t you try Warner’s apartment? You know, the black Vice cop he’s been screwing twice a week for God knows how long.’ Instead she replied, ‘I’ve no idea, Mrs. Stolli. But I’ll be sure to leave a message that you phoned.’

  ‘Do that,’ snapped Abigaile, banging the phone down.

  Lucky called up Dispatch. ‘Marty,’ she said, ‘Mrs. Stolli needs a car for tonight. Not her usual limousine. She’s requested one of the small sedans, OK? Have it at her house at six-forty-five. Thank you.’

  While Mickey was safely out of the office she then called Boogie. ‘Did you charter a plane for tonight?’

  ‘All set,’ he replied.

  ‘And you’ve found out where Lennie is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What would I do without you, Boogie?’

  ‘You’d get into a lot of trouble.’

  She smiled to herself. He was probably right.

  Chapter 43

  ‘Mickey,’ Warner asked, ‘are you seeing other women?’

  Mickey looked at her in surprise. ‘What kind of a stupid remark is that? Why would I want to see other women?’

  ‘I’m just asking,’ Warner said. ‘I can ask, can’t I?’

  He didn’t like her tone. ‘You can do what you want, but it’s a goddamn stupid question.’

  Warner stared at him. He’d been in a bad mood all day. Usually she respected his moods and tiptoed around them, but today she’d heard some disturbing gossip and it was on her mind. Some of the cops in Vice had a sting going on concerning a brothel in the Hollywood Hills. The high-class whorehouse was run by a woman called Madame Loretta, and according to the word around the locker room, many important and influential people in the film industry frequented this place. One of the names she’d heard mentioned today was Mickey Stolli.

  Mickey got up from Warner’s bed. The sex had not been good. Maybe it was time to move on.

  ‘It really pisses me off when you ask questions like that,’ he said, annoyed. ‘For those kind of questions I may as well stay home with my wife. What do I need to come here for?’

  Warner wondered if Mickey’s guilt was making him even angrier. She clenched her teeth and didn’t say anything. Instead she walked briskly into her tiny kitchen and plugged in the kettle.

  ‘How about a cup of coffee?’ she called out. Bastard! If he was playing games with other women – especially hookers – she wasn’t going to take it. No way.

  ‘What are you trying to do, kill me?’ he complained, following her into the kitchen. ‘All that caffeine they put in coffee. I have to watch my diet.’

  She bit back a sharp retort. Mickey only watched his diet when it suited him. Who was he kidding? ‘Did you remember to get my tickets for tonight?’ she asked, tight-lipped.


  ‘Huh?’ Mickey looked guilty.

  She strode out of the kitchen. ‘You promised me four tickets for the première of Motherfaker, remember?’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ he mumbled, right behind her. Naturally he’d forgotten, and she’d made the request months ago, Johnny Romano being one of her favourite movie stars and all. Shit! He’d gotten her an autographed picture of Johnny – wasn’t that enough? Now she had to have tickets for the goddamn première too.

  He reached for the phone. ‘Luce,’ he said, when his dumb secretary picked up. First thing Monday morning he was firing her. He’d bring in Brenda, the pretty black girl from Eddie Kane’s office. At least he’d have someone decent to look at.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Stolli?’

  ‘Get me four extra tickets for the première tonight. They don’t have to be great seats. And I want them… uh… shit, you’d better messenger them to… uh…’ He held his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Warner, I can’t give them your address. Where shall I have the tickets sent?’

  ‘Why can’t you give them my address?’ Warner demanded belligerently.

  ‘’Cause it’s not a smart thing to do.’ She was definitely beginning to needle him.

  ‘I’ll pick them up,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be out that way today.’

  The thought of Warner appearing at his office to pick up tickets for Motherfaker was one he didn’t even wish to contemplate. ‘The best thing is to have them left at the box-office,’ he said quickly, ‘under your name.’

  ‘If that suits you.’

  ‘Leave ’em at the box-office under the name of Franklin,’ he mumbled into the phone, hanging up and turning back to her.

  ‘Who are you taking anyway?’

  She glared at him. ‘Don’t worry, Mickey. I won’t come near you or your wife.’

  He didn’t like the way she said that, or the way their relationship was going. He’d thought Warner was different, making no demands. But all women turned out to be the same. They all ended up nagging and wanting more than any sane man was prepared to give.

  ‘OK, OK,’ he said, reaching for his clothes. ‘I’ve got to get dressed an’ out of here.’

  The scene with Eddie had unsettled him. He hated scenes, let alone a fist fight. God knows what Eddie would do next, he was hardly a stable character. If Leslie wasn’t such a stupid piece of ass she’d have gotten him into drug rehab long before now.