He wasn’t sure he wanted to see Joey.
Joey Firello was on his way. Lennie Golden was stuck in the same old rut. Oh yeah, he could always get work, but where was it taking him? All around him things were happening for other people. John Belushi, Dan Ackroyd, Chevy Chase, Joey Firello. They were on a roll.
Naively he had imagined Vegas as a spring board to bigger and better things. And he had ended up with shit on his face.
L.A. better have something exciting to offer, otherwise . . .
Otherwise what?
Preparations for the gala evening to honour Francesca Fern were elaborate. The Magiriano’s huge ballroom was festooned with exotic white orchids. An intimate touch supplied by Dimitri Stanislopoulos, his way of paying homage to Madame Fern.
Lucky dropped by during the day to see that everything was being set up smoothly. No problems. She had a terrific staff who rarely – if ever – put a foot wrong. And her catering manager was the best in town, the food would be magnificent.
Throughout the day celebrities arrived – by private plane, limousine and commercial jets. Naturally there were baskets of fruit, chilled champagne, caviar and a selection of expensive cheeses waiting in their suites with a personal note from Lucky. No matter how rich or famous anyone was, they all adored getting something for nothing – a fact of life Gino had taught her.
She had never met Francesca Fern, but she sent her six bottles of Cristal champagne and a welcoming note.
Gino had already informed Lucky he would be bringing Susan Martino to the event.
‘When is she leaving?’ Lucky had been unable to stop from asking.
‘Why?’ Gino snapped. He really did wonder when Susan
was
leaving. Originally she had said she was in town for a few weeks. The subject had not arisen again. As far as he was concerned she could stay forever. She made him very comfortable indeed.
When he picked her up later that night to escort her to the Francesca Fern dinner, he broached the subject. ‘I kinda gotten used to havin’ you around,’ he said. ‘You got no plans to leave, have you?’
Susan smiled wanly. ‘Life goes on,’ she said quietly. ‘Would that everything stopped at whim.’
‘Huh?’
She patted him lightly on the arm, the yellow diamond ring he had gifted her with sparkled brightly on her little finger. ‘I have a home to run, and many responsibilities. There’s the charity work I’m involved with. My children . . . Of course they’re not children any more. Nathan’s at college, and Gemma might be married in the fall. They still need my attention though, especially as Tiny is no longer with us.’
‘Yeh,’ Gino muttered uneasily. It was the first time she had mentioned her kids. Somehow he liked the thought of Susan with nobody in her life but him.
‘I expect I shall leave this weekend,’ she continued. ‘I will need an excellent reason not to.’
Wasn’t he excellent reason enough? Jeez! How many women would kill to be in her place?
* * *
Dimitri glowered at his reflection as he adjusted his bow tie. Here he was, in Las Vegas, attending Francesca Fern’s big event like an obedient puppy. She had insisted he be present. Naturally, he had complied, even arrived two days early so he would be rested and full of energy. Francesca admired ceaseless energy. She, herself, never stopped, and she expected – though never received – the same of the people around her. ‘Dimitri,’ she would purr in her deep husky voice. ‘We are twins, the same star, the same destiny. Only
you
can keep up with me.’
They were both Geminis.
Now Madam Fern had flown in with her entourage – including browbeaten Horace – and where was her phone call? Where was her presence in his suite? Where was the damn woman?
Dimitri knew exactly what time she had arrived – eleven-thirty in the morning. He had allowed her the courtesy of an hour to rest, and then he had called her suite and been told by her insolent male secretary that the great Miz Fern was in the middle of an interview with
Time
magazine and absolutely could not be disturbed.
‘Disturb her!’ Dimitri had bellowed, used to getting his own way.
‘That’s out of the question,’ replied the secretary.
‘Disturb her!’ Dimitri thundered a second time.
‘I’m sure Miz Fern will return your call when she is able,’ retorted the secretary and hung up.
Dimitri was so furious he called back immediately, only to reach Horace.
‘Francesca’s busy at the moment,’ said Horace, in his usual worried whine. ‘I’ll get her to phone you as soon as she can.’
Dimitri had spent the day in his suite waiting for her call. It never came.
He was incensed. In all his dealings with women, nobody ever dared to treat him the way Francesca Fern did.
Now he was ready to attend her gala, and anger coursed through his veins. He was not some miserable fan. If Francesca thought she could treat him in this fashion and get away with it, she had better think again.
* * *
Lucky called Matt at the last minute. ‘You’ll have to escort me to this thing tonight,’ she said with a sigh of annoyance. ‘Gino’s taking Grace Kelly.’
‘Grace is in Monaco.’
‘Someone should tell dear old Susan. Maybe she’ll stop the masquerade.’
‘Don’t you like her?’
‘Oh Matt, you’re so perceptive – right on the dime.’
‘She’s a very nice lady.’
‘Hitler only had one ball, but he could charm ’em too.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Forget it. Pick me up at six-thirty.’
Matt decided he had a problem. Escorting Lucky Santangelo had never figured in his scheme of things. He had hoped to see Jess later. Not that she ever wanted to see him again. She had told him so, in no uncertain terms. Just because he had tried to jump her bones.
He shook his head. The sexual revolution seemed to have eluded poor Jess. Silly girl. But he was not prepared to give up yet. Now he was supposed to drop everything and be at Lucky Santangelo’s beck and call. Why?
Because she’s the boss, that’s why.
* * *
Francesca Fern clicked talon red nails. ‘Emeralds,’ she commanded.
Horace sprang toward her travelling Vuitton jewel case and found the requested gems.
Francesca clicked again. ‘Jourdan diamante shoes.’
Horace raced for the closet and located the size ten evening shoes. Lovingly he placed them upon his wife’s large feet.
Francesca arose, clipped a huge emerald to an outsize earlobe and snapped, ‘Perfume.’
Horace obliged with a liberal spray of Joy.
‘Let us go,’ sighed Francesca. ‘The peasants are waiting.’
Mr Wrong wore a white silk tuxedo, a plastic smile, and several gold bracelets. He was a Spanish recording star who – according to his PR – drove women crazy. His accent was enough to drive anyone crazy. Had he not been halfway famous, Olympia would have disregarded him totally. As it was they were at adjoining tables in New York’s Regines on Park Avenue, and Olympia knew the platinum-blonde English woman he was with – a sort of international fixer-upper – who adored putting the right people together. So before long they all joined up – Olympia’s group, Mr Spanish Recording Star, and his friend. His name was Vitos Felicidade, and by the time he rocked Olympia in his arms on the dance floor, he knew exactly who she was – thanks to his blonde ladyfriend who excitedly filled him in, then told him – in Spanish (good international fixer-uppers always speak more than one language) to go for it. Both he and Olympia sensed interesting but limited possibilities.
‘You ’ave a wondeefool ’air,’ he murmured, pressing what appeared to be his idea of a hard-on between her thighs.
Olympia allowed desire to run rampant, hoped he was better hung than he appeared, and said, ‘So do you.’ Although she wasn’t quite sure whether he meant she had wonderful hair or a wonderful air about her. Since she had both, she didn’t much care.
‘I fluuuck yew beauuuutifully,’ he purred with a winning smile. Pure plastic.
I hope you fluuuck better than you speak English, she thought as she discreetly slid her hand down and felt for his cock. An encouraging rub and they were away.
Outside the club the lurking paparazzi jumped to attention. Olympia Stanislopoulos and Vitos Felicidade. Together! More than together! They jostled for position to capture the coupling of the two celebrities.
‘This is so boring!’ complained Olympia.
‘Booooring,’ agreed Vitos, lifting his head so there was no chance of a bad angle. ‘We take my car or yours?’
Two chauffeurs stood by their respective limousines.
‘Who cares?’ sighed Olympia, throwing herself into the back of his. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’
‘I hate these evenings,’ Lucky confided to Dimitri. ‘They make me want to scream and run naked down a beach someplace. Y’know what I mean?’
Dimitri regarded the black-eyed girl without a flicker of interest. He wished, quite frankly, that she would be quiet. He just wanted to concentrate on Francesca. Holding court at the top table like the Queen of England.
And
he
was not seated at the top table.
He
, Dimitri Stanislopoulos, was sitting at the
next
table, the grandest insult of all.
Lucky waited for his reply, which was not forthcoming. Silence reigned. Screw him. If he didn’t want to make conversation she could take a hint. She was just trying to be polite because it was her hotel, he was a big gambler, and she could see he was pissed as hell about the seating arrangements. She wasn’t exactly thrilled herself. Daddy and the widow at table numero uno with the star, her seedy husband, and a clutch of major celebrities. Francesca’s secretary had organized the seating arrangements. Badly, Lucky thought. She wished she hadn’t come – who needed this shit?
Matt, sitting on her other side, seemed to be enjoying himself. He was surrounded by friends and acquaintances from Hollywood where he had spent many happy working years. A fine escort
he
was. What had she expected – Al Pacino? She was trapped between the two dullest men in the room. Matt Traynor and Dimitri Stanislopoulos. Some winning combination.
Thanks a lot, Gino. Is this what my life has become?
She reached for her champagne glass and signalled for a waiter to refill it. Getting smashed was the only way to get through
this
evening.
* * *
Gino observed Susan in action. It was the first time he had seen her do her stuff surrounded by the elite of show business. She knew how to handle herself all right. Not one wrong move.
How would it be if he was married to a woman like Susan? He was too old to keep whoring around, one woman by his side and in his bed would suit him nicely.
He watched her chiselled profile as she chatted quietly to Horace Fern. After Maria he had never thought he would marry again. Dear sweet Maria . . . dead twenty-three years . . .
Surely he had waited long enough?
He glanced across at Lucky, sitting at the next table. How would she take it? She would hate it. But she would get used to it. She would have to.
* * *
It was a long night. A night of speeches, performances, and tributes. The television cameras whirred, and Francesca Fern blossomed. She played
grande dame
to the hilt. Francesca knew how to milk an evening.
Later, when the TV crew had left, and the guests began to thin out, Francesca graciously did the rounds. She stopped next to Dimitri, bent to peck him on the cheek, and husked, ‘So generous of you to be here tonight. Your gesture is much appreciated.’ Theatrically she posed next to him, while her personal photographer captured the shot.
He gripped her wrist so hard she almost cried out. ‘What is this charade?’ he demanded in a hoarse whisper. ‘How
dare
you treat me this way. What game are you playing?’
She managed a fixed smile, while hissing fiercely, ‘Let go of me, you filthy animal. I heard all about you and Norma Valentine. Don’t think you can have us both, because you
cannot
. I
will not
be humiliated in such a way.’
Norma Valentine. He almost laughed aloud. Norma Valentine was an English film star he had met in the South of France. She had been brought to his yacht a week previously by a Greek business associate and she had stayed the night. One night only. She meant nothing to him. ‘I was in her company once,’ he explained. ‘I didn’t even like her.’
‘Ah, but you liked her enough to fuck her.
And
to send her a Cartier bracelet the next day,’ Francesca said fiercely.
‘A gambling debt. She won at cards.’
‘Please, Dimitri, credit me with superior intelligence. More than you – for I am telling you – if you can sleep with Norma Valentine, then, my God – you will
never
sleep with me again.’