Lady Boss (23 page)

Bang! He hung up.

Bang! Mickey was out of his office bouncing with fury.

‘Get me Lennie Golden's contract,' he screamed. ‘I've had it with fuckin' actors.' He threw a key at her and pointed to a file cabinet.

She kept her voice low and subservient, figuring it was what Mickey required from his staff. ‘Yes, Mr. Stolli.'

‘And don't put any fuckin' actors through to me in the mornin'. You got it?'

Shades of his native Brooklyn. Stay calm, don't call him a rude prick – plenty of time for that when she took control.

‘Yes, Mr. Stolli.'

‘An' get hold of Eddie Kane – cancel my ten o'clock appointment.'

‘Shall I give an excuse?'

‘Fuck excuses. I'm head of this studio. No excuses – remember that.'

‘Yes, Mr. Stolli.'

He marched back into his office, slamming the door again. Obviously working for Mickey was not going to be dull. She went over to the contract file cabinet, opened it with the key, and began investigating.

Martin Z. Swanson had his own private jet, modestly named Swanson. He had a crew of seven and, on his trip from New York to the West Coast, no other passengers.

Two flight attendants took care of his every need. They were pretty girls – a brunette and a redhead. Both twenty-five, five feet seven inches, and one hundred and twenty-five pounds.

The Swanson uniform was a short white skirt, fitted white jacket, and a navy blue T-shirt with
SWANSON
stencilled in white across their breasts. Their breasts measured thirty-six inches B-cup. Martin was a stickler for detail.

The flight attendants called him ‘Mr. Swanson', and smiled a lot. Good teeth was another job requirement.

Martin never messed with the help, however attractive. In fact he hardly even noticed them. They were hired for a purpose, and that was to keep up the Swanson image. Martin did a lot of business entertaining, and if his guests cared to make time with his employees that was their prerogative.

Martin demanded three things from the people who worked for him – loyalty, brains, and a decent appearance. If they didn't shape up, they were fired.

On the other hand, if they did things the Swanson way they were richly rewarded.

At forty-five Martin had thought his life was more or less settled. From fairly modest beginnings he'd achieved more than he'd ever imagined. He was publicly known as a charismatic, dynamic wheeler-dealer who could make any dream come true. He had powerful, famous friends in politics, show business, sports, and the social scene. Connections were his for the asking. And he had a beautiful wife who was obviously smart and intelligent.

But until four months ago Martin had never truly known passion.

‘Another glass of Evian, Mr. Swanson?' the redheaded flight attendant enquired solicitously.

He nodded, and a cut crystal glass was in front of him in seconds. Pure Evian water, one slice of fresh lime, and two ice cubes. Just the way he liked it.

‘Are you ready to eat, Mr. Swanson?' asked the other flight attendant.

He noticed a dark spot on her tight white skirt and stared until she was forced to look down.

‘Oops!' she exclaimed in an embarrassed voice.

He hated women who said things like
oops
– it made them sound as if they'd quit trying to better themselves after the sixth grade.

‘Fix it,' he said shortly.

‘Yes,
sir
.'

Deena had designed their uniforms. ‘Make them up-to-date, sexy, not too obvious,' had been his instructions. Deena knew exactly what would please him.

Deena. His wife. A woman of steel. Not unlike him when it came to getting what she wanted.

When he'd first met her it was like looking in a mirror and seeing the female version of himself. A sharp woman, a worker. A woman who knew what she wanted and would do anything to get it.

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.

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?'