Lady Boss by Jackie Collins Page A

screen any way they wanted, and as long as the sex wasn’t too graphic they could get away with murder. Literally.
    Panther Studios had begun to specialize in these low-bucks, soft-core exploitation flicks, thanks to Mickey Stolli, who liked the big bucks they generated. But as powerful as he was, even Mickey had to cover his ass, bolster his ego,
and
shut up his brother-in-law, Ben Harrison – who was always bitching and complaining about the cheapos. So, aside from the exploitation cheapos, Panther Studios made deals with major stars – paying them more money than anyone else, and also giving them sweet development deals that included their own production companies and a suite of offices on the studio lot.
    Every year Panther made three or four legitimate big-time movies. One of these was
Macho Man
, the film currently shooting with Lennie Golden, Joey Firello, and Marisa Birch. Then there was
Strut
, a dramatic movie about a charming con man and a street-smart young woman, starring Venus Maria –
the
hot property of the year – with Cooper Turner co-starring and directing. Quite a coup.
    In post-production they had the new Johnny Romano action comedy,
Motherfaker
.
    Abigaile Stolli insisted that Mickey make movies with big stars. It was good for her social life.
    Quite frankly, Mickey didn’t give a rat’s ass. Movie stars were trouble – always causing problems, holding things up, and expecting more money and attention than they were worth. Their egos were beyond enormous.
    Mickey preferred shooting his cheapos. A nice fast production with a guaranteed box-office bonanza at the end of it.
    Of course, he had to take into account Abigaile’s feelings. She was, after all, Abe Panther’s granddaughter,
and
the reason Mickey Stolli was where he was today.
    And where was he?
    He was in an air-conditioned office bigger than the house he’d grown up in. He was forty-eight years old. He was five feet nine inches tall. He was bald and didn’t wear a rug. He had a deep permanent suntan, flashing white teeth (all his own – the teeth compensated for the hair), a hard body (thanks to daily tennis, his passion), and a rough-edged voice tinged with memories of the Bronx only when he was angry.
    Mickey had lived in Hollywood for thirty years, first coming out as an eighteen-year-old would-be actor. Giving that up when he lost his hair at twenty and becoming an agent. Giving that up when he married Abigaile eighteen years ago and becoming Abe’s right-hand man. Giving that up ten years ago when Abe had his stroke and Mickey took over.
    Mickey Stolli was a happy man. He had a wife, a thirteen-year-old daughter, Tabitha (nobody knew about the illegitimate son he’d fathered when he was twenty-nine, just before meeting and marrying Abigaile), a black mistress, two houses (Bel Air and Trancas), three cars (a Rolls, a Porsche, and a jeep), and a studio.
    What more could any man ask for?
    Olive, his English personal secretary, entered the office. Olive was a slim woman of forty cast in the Deborah Kerr mould. ‘Good morning, Mr. Stolli,’ she said crisply.
    Mickey grunted. On Monday mornings Olive presented him with a private and confidential report of all the studio activities from the previous week. She handed it to him as usual. It never bothered him that she had to work all weekend to get it ready for their eight a.m. meeting.
    He skimmed through it quickly, jotting notes in the margin with a thick red pen. When he was finished he handed it back to her to be retyped with his notes included. After this was done, she filed it in a locked cabinet in his office.
    â€˜Juice,’ Mickey snapped. ‘Carrot.’
    Olive hurried into the small gleaming kitchen adjoining his office, and prepared freshly blended carrot juice for her boss. Mickey Stolli had a health and cleanliness fetish. He allowed nobody but the fastidious Olive to fix his fruit and vegetable drinks.
    While