Poor Little Bitch Girl (46 page)

“She’ll tell you how when you meet her,” Frankie said, holding on to his patience. “Fanny will explain every move we’re gonna make.”

“And when am I supposed to meet this so-called powerhouse?” Annabelle asked, faking a bored yawn.

“Tonight. Ten o’clock in the garden restaurant at the Château Marmont.”

“Ten is too late,” Annabelle said irritably. “We’ve been on and off planes all day. I’m exhausted.”

“We gotta eat, don’t we?” Frankie said, exasperated.

“I suppose so.”

“Okay, so let’s do it.”

“I guess,” Annabelle said, less than enthusiastic.

“An’ babe, I should warn you,” Frankie said, thinking it was best to prepare her for the ball of energy that was Fanny, “this woman is some crazy character. But you gotta believe me, Fanny Bernstein is gonna get us everythin’ we want.”

* * *

One look at Fanny, and Annabelle shifted into her snobby
Beverly Hills, I’m better than you
mode.

Fanny got her number immediately. Rich girl. Bitch girl. Movie star’s daughter with all the privileges and none of the attention and love. During her long and illustrious reign in Hollywood as a top manager, Fanny had met plenty of girls like Annabelle.

“Calm down,”
she was tempted to say.
“You chose to hook up with a coke-addict from the wrong side of the tracks. So get off your high horse, honey, and let’s discuss your future.”

Annabelle offered a limp handshake, appalled that Frankie was even thinking of doing business with this hot mess of a woman.

Fanny rejected the handshake and moved in for a hug, repulsing Annabelle even more as she found herself enveloped in Poison, her unfavorite scent.

“Fanny Bernstein,” Frankie said. “Meet Annabelle Maestro, the love of my life.”

Fanny winked at Annabelle as they settled at an outdoor table. “Doesn’t that corny bullshit make you wanna throw up?” she cackled.

Annabelle couldn’t help agreeing.

“It’s men, dollface,” Fanny continued. “They all spew forth the same tired old lines. Y’know what I’m sayin’?” And then, affecting a deep male voice she said, “‘Damn, you look beautiful tonight. No, your ass does
not
look big in that dress. Sure I’ll buy you a new car. How about sucking my pee-pee, darlin’? I promise not to cum in your mouth’.”

Unable to help herself, Annabelle broke up laughing. This woman in the outrageous purple caftan with the huge earrings, orange hair and loud mouth, was hilarious.

“I slipped that one to the Pres,” Fanny confided. “The horny bastard ate it up. The truth always gets a big haw haw.”

Annabelle didn’t like to ask which President she was referring to. Probably Clinton, not Bush, and certainly not Obama.

Frankie relaxed. He’d been nervous about putting Annabelle together with Fanny, but now he could see why Fanny was so successful; she knew how to play it, and before long she had Annabelle completely under the Fanny Bernstein spell.

* * *

Back in New York, Janey Bonafacio was in a deep state of panic. Not only had her son run off with what she was sure was a formidable payment for selling the story of Annabelle and Frankie’s business venture to a tabloid, but she was left dealing with the fallout – and there was considerable fallout. The phones hadn’t stopped ringing. Reporters and paparazzi were staked outside the swanky apartment-house – much to Annabelle’s snooty neighbors’ fury. Clients were threatening that if their names were revealed, there would be major lawsuits. And some of the so-called celebrity girls, their identities disclosed, had actually turned up at the front door ready to kill Frankie and Annabelle or whoever else was available.

Janey was a nervous wreck. But even though Frankie had spoken to her in such a harsh way over the phone, she still harbored a soft spot for him. He was still
her
Frankie, and because it was Chip who’d done such a reprehensible thing, she felt that in a way it was she who was responsible.

According to one of her neighbors who had a key to her apartment in Queens, Chip had vanished. Packed up all his stuff and taken a midnight run. Which was just as well, because when pushed, Janey had a formidable temper, and she would have felt no guilt taking it out on her good-for-nothing son.

Anyone else would’ve abandoned the Park Avenue apartment and run for the hills, but Janey remained loyal, hoping that when Frankie got back to New York, he would forgive her.

* * *

“It’s settled then,” Fanny said, attacking the shared dessert plate set in the middle of the table. “We all know what we have to do?”

Annabelle nodded. She felt a lot more secure now that Fanny had taken over.

“Outfit?” Fanny questioned, just to make sure Annabelle had absorbed her instructions for tomorrow’s funeral.

“Black,” Annabelle said obediently. “Not pants, a skirt—”

“Of a decent length,” Fanny interrupted.

“No jewelry except my Maltese cross. Very little make-up. Dark shades.”

“Perfect,” Fanny said, her fork heading for another scoop of chocolate cake. “And you, Frankie?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he said restlessly. “Nothin’ flashy, keep my mouth shut whatever happens.”

“Do not worry, I’ll be there to make sure Ralph doesn’t turn on you, which is unlikely because the press’ll be out in force, and Ralph would never risk besmirching his movie-star reputation by doing anything stupid in front of the cameras.”

“How about after?” Annabelle questioned. “Do we go back to the house?”

“We’ll play that one by ear,” Fanny said, a dribble of chocolate trickling down her chin.

“Done deal,” Frankie said.

“Yes, it is,” Fanny agreed, reaching for a forkful of cheesecake. “Oh, and Frankie, we’ll be doing the
People
magazine interview in the afternoon, so keep your coke intake to a minimum, and no telltale white powder decorating your nose.”

“Hey—” Frankie began to say.

“Don’t bother,” Fanny said, stopping him from speaking. “I’ve heard every excuse in the book, and I couldn’t give a monkey’s left ball about what you do on your own time, but when we’re working – no drugs. Got it?”

Annabelle smiled. Finally someone who could control Frankie. What a bonus!

B
enito grabbed his crotch as he approached the door to the bedroom and turned the handle. He was good and hard, which meant that the Senator’s bitch was in for a treat now. She was about to get the real deal, not some old dude’s limp dick. Benito Ortego was a man to be reckoned with.

The bedroom was in darkness, but he planned on blindfolding the woman anyway – a security measure in case she ever tried to identify him. He’d blindfold her, then he’d turn the light on so he could see exactly what kind of pussy he was getting.

As he entered the room he was hit by a freezing rush of cold air coming from the window. Rosa, the stupid douche, must’ve opened it for some reason. The place was like a mo-fuckin’ iceberg.

Groping his way to the bed, he realized with a combination of shock and disbelief that his captive was no longer there.

Shit! The fuckin’ bitch had escaped!

* * *

Rosa’s eyes flickered open – only one eye actually, because her right eye was throbbing and covered with a heavy dressing.

She attempted to speak, but she couldn’t do more than let out a croak since her mouth was so dry.

“Where am I?” she tried to say.

A nurse appeared. “Stay quiet, dear,” she said in a soothing voice. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake.”

“I want my momma,” Rosa whimpered, reverting to the scared teenager she really was.

The nurse paged Dr Glass, who appeared fifteen minutes later.

As soon as the doctor saw that the young girl was conscious and talking, she immediately called Detective Lennox.

“Something came up, I’m on another case,” the detective said, not sounding too pleased about it. “I’m goin’ to have to send someone else to take her statement.”

“You’re not coming yourself?” Dr Glass asked, strangely disappointed.

“Missing woman – Senator’s assistant,” Detective Lennox explained. “By tomorrow the press’ll be all over it. The Chief already is.”

“I understand,” Dr Glass said.

“If things clear up, maybe I’ll stop by tomorrow, speak to the girl myself.” A pause. “You on duty tomorrow?”

“All day.”

“See you then.”

Dr Glass returned her attention to her patient.

“I want my momma,” Rosa repeated, tears streaking down her cheeks. “I want her to come here
now
.”

* * *

“What can I do for you, Ramirez?” Gregory asked over the phone, keeping his voice neutral. He’d made up his mind that it was wise to get the phone call over with, find out what the man wanted.

“It’s about my brother,” Ramirez said.

“Your brother?” Gregory questioned, swallowing hard.

Had Ramirez found out what was going on?

Was it possible that Benito had ratted him out?

Jesus Christ! The shit was about to fly.

“I need to speak with you about him,” Ramirez continued. “Can you come by the center early tomorrow? It’s urgent.”

Ramirez might as well have said,
“Bring plenty of money, ’cause I’m about to blackmail your dumb white ass.”

Gregory bit down hard on his lower lip. Yes, he was dumb, for what he’d put into motion was unforgivable.

“I’ll be there,” he said gruffly.

* * *

Stepping on something sharp caused an excruciating pain that shot through Carolyn’s foot like a knife. She let out a cry of despair.

It wasn’t enough that she was drenched, freezing, and running for her life. Now this.

As her eyes became acclimatized to the dark, she started to get her bearings and realized she was running down an alley filled with overflowing garbage cans, abandoned cars, old furniture, and worn out mattresses. On each side of the alley was a mass of overgrown grass and an abundance of weeds.

A rat scurried across her path. Stifling a scream she kept going, because one thing she knew for sure, she had to get as far away from the house she’d been held in as fast as possible. If her captors discovered she was gone and came looking for her, what then?

It wasn’t something she cared to think about.

B
obby had suddenly become like one of those annoying big dogs that one is constantly tripping over.

He didn’t know how to back off. It was apparent he’d never had to.

“Go back to Vegas and let Zeena blow you from here to the next Lakers game,”
I had a yen to say. But of course I didn’t – that’s the not-into-hurting-people’s-feelings side of me.

Sometimes I can be such a wimp. Or a bit of a hypocrite, depending on how you look at it. I’d gone off Bobby because he’d gotten head from some scary superstar who’d announced their sex tryst from the stage. But in the last few days I’ve had excellent sex with two different men – so I’m hardly a vestal virgin!