Poor Little Bitch Girl (34 page)

On his way through the lobby to the front of the hotel, he passed the magazine and newspaper stand. A headline caught his eye on the front of
Truth & Fact
. A headline that stopped him in his tracks.

Holy shit!
This was not about to be pretty.

T
here were two flight attendants on the Stanislopoulos plane – Gitta, an attractive Dutch woman, and Hani, an Hawaiian beauty. Both women were pleasant and competent, and both knew how to deal with any situation. They’d been working for Stanislopoulos Shipping and Industries for over ten years – Gitta since she was twenty-five, and Hani a day before her nineteenth birthday. But today they were aware they had a problem, and both were mulling over different ideas about how it should be handled.

Frankie Romano was aboard the plane with his girlfriend Annabelle Maestro. They were on their way to Las Vegas – and therein lay the problem. Gitta and Hani could not decide whether to tell the loving couple about what could be lying in wait for them the moment they stepped off the plane, or whether to maintain a discreet silence.

Gitta opted for silence. Hani thought it best if the couple were forewarned.

At loggerheads, they consulted one of the two pilots, an older married man who harbored a secret crush on Hani.

“You should do what feels right for you,” the pilot said, gazing at Hani – the woman he could never have, on account of a wife and three small children at home.

“Then we tell them,” Hani said firmly.

“Not them –
him
,” Gitta said, always the diplomat. “
He
should be the one to inform her. Less embarrassing.”

“Maybe I could take a peek at this magazine,” the pilot suggested.

“We don’t have a copy,” Gitta answered.

“Gitta thought it best if we didn’t bring it aboard,” Hani explained.

The pilot shrugged. “If it’s one of those tabloid magazines, then it’s probably a story based on lies,” he said. “Could be best if you
don’t
mention it.” Hani threw him a stony look which forced him to hurriedly change his mind. “Although,” he added quickly, “you could take this Romano guy to one side and warn him.”

“I’ll do it,” Gitta offered. “It’ll be better coming from me.”

“Why?” Hani argued. “Are you not sure I can handle it?”

“I know you can,” Gitta said soothingly. “But should he get excited, I’m an expert at calming people down.”

“And I’m not?”

“We both are,” Gitta allowed. “Why don’t I bring him to the galley, and we’ll tell him together.”

“Problem solved,” the pilot said, relieved that he was off the hook. “Let me know how it turns out.”

* * *

“I have a horrible suspicion that I might’ve been molested as a child,” Annabelle mused, picking at a dish of nuts as Bobby’s plane zoomed them toward Vegas.

“An’ you’re only remembering it
now
?” Frankie said incredulously.

“It’s all coming back to me,” Annabelle persisted. “Obviously I buried the memory, but now that you’ve dragged me back to L.A . . . .”

“I haven’t dragged you anywhere,” Frankie said, narrowing his eyes. Jesus! She was in a pissy mood.

“May I remind you that it was
your
brilliant idea that we fly to L.A. for the funeral, leaving a perfectly excellent business in New York which Janey and her moron son are probably screwing up as we speak.”

“Janey’s not screwin’ up anything,” he snapped.

“Have you spoken to her?” Annabelle demanded, removing her sunglasses and glaring at him. “Checked in?”

“Jesus Christ, babe, we just got here,” he groaned. “Isn’t it time you stopped breakin’ my balls?”

“I thought you left your balls with Daddy,” Annabelle sniped. “All tied up with a pink satin ribbon and the credits of his latest movie.”

“You can be such a bitch,” Frankie said, shaking his head.

“Ralph Maestro. Your hero,” Annabelle taunted. “And possibly
my
molester.”

“Gimme a fuckin’ break,” Frankie said shortly. “When did you decide to invent
that
story?”

“Oh, you think it’s a story, do you?” Annabelle said, bristling with annoyance that he didn’t immediately believe her. After all, it could be true. Frowning, she decided she needed to go to one of those regression shrinks who would dig deep into her murky childhood and find out everything.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, babe,” Frankie said, figuring that he should at least humor her, because once she got into one of her impossible moods, it could so easily turn into an outrageous knock-down fight about nothing. “It’s just that I think your mom’s murder is affectin’ you emotionally.”

Unexpectedly, Annabelle’s eyes filled with tears. Yes, of course it was. That and Sharif Rani’s big fat son attacking her – about which Frankie had done exactly nothing.

There and then she made a life-changing decision: she had to lose her boyfriend. Frankie was a toxic sonofabitch who thought about nothing except snorting coke, scoring money and looking out for himself. Plus she couldn’t stand the fact that he’d sucked up to Ralph as if he was the fucking President of America.

The thrill was definitely gone.

Should she tell him now, on the plane, leaving her free to run to Bobby?

Hmm . . . interesting thought. But probably wiser to wait until they got back to New York and things calmed down.

Bobby was definitely a future prospect, but since he was a friend of Frankie’s she had to make sure her timing was right. If she dumped Frankie, she was certain Bobby would offer a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.

And from there . . . who knew what could happen?

* * *

“Excuse me, Mr Romano,” Gitta said, lightly tapping him on his shoulder. “Might I have a word with you?”

“Huh?” Frankie said, wondering if he’d left a residue of coke on the bathroom counter and this woman in her smart pink and green uniform was about to tell him it was against federal rules to snort coke on a plane.

Shit! What could she do? Arrest him?

No way. He was being paranoid.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, automatically swiping his hand beneath his nose, obliterating any telltale signs of white powder.

“There’s something you should be aware of,” Gitta said. “I don’t think we should disturb Miss Maestro at this time, so perhaps if you can come with me?”

They both glanced over at Annabelle who had fallen into a light sleep, a copy of
Us Magazine
almost slipping off her lap.

It occurred to Frankie that maybe the plane was in trouble. A faulty engine, a locked landing-gear, a fire. Jesus Christ! It could be anything.

Leaving his seat, he followed the flight attendant to the galley, where the second flight attendant – a pretty Hawaiian girl – was standing with her arms crossed. She didn’t look panicked, she looked altogether too calm for there to be anything wrong with the plane.

“What’s up, ladies?” he asked, thinking that the younger flight attendant was kind of hot in an exotic way.

“This is quite awkward, Mr Romano,” Gitta said. “But we’ve decided that it will be better for all concerned if we advise you of the situation.”

The goddamn plane
was
going down. His fucking luck.

“What situation?” he managed.
And where’s the fucking pilot?

“There’s a headline story in one of the tabloids,” Hani said, crisp and to the point. “It’s about you and Miss Maestro.”

So . . . their relationship had finally made the rags. What was so awkward about that? Annabelle had never courted publicity, but he didn’t mind at all. He imagined the headlines.

The truth was that being famous had always appealed to him.

“I’m afraid it’s not a very reputable story,” Gitta continued, bursting his bubble. “The truth of the matter is that it’s quite scandalous, which is why we thought we should warn you before you de-planed.”

“Not very reputable how?” he questioned, wondering if he’d done anything to rock the boat.

“Well,” Hani said hesitantly, “they’re calling Miss Maestro a notorious madam, and they’re also saying that you are a drug addict, and that you procure girls for the prostitution business the two of you run.”

“Naturally we understand that none of this is true,” Gitta said, hastily joining in. “But we thought it best to tell you before the paparazzi descend.”

“I do hope we’ve done the right thing,” Hani added, wondering if any of the story was true.

Frankie stood quite still. He was in total shock. A headline story in the tabloids about their private business venture. Calling Annabelle a notorious madam, and him a drug addict and a procurer. How could this be?

Annabelle would go fucking nuts. And she’d blame him, because according to his lovely girlfriend, everything was always his fault.

“Where is this lying piece of crap rag?” he demanded, his voice a low angry growl.

“I’m sorry, Mr Romano,” Gitta said. “We didn’t bring a copy aboard.”

“Why the fuck not?” he said, suddenly losing it. “You feed me this shit story, an’ now you got nothin’ to show me. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Mr Romano—” Gitta began.

“Don’t Mr Romano me,” he raged. “I’ll tell you what you can do for me. You can keep your dumb fuckin’ mouths shut, an’ not mention a word about this made-up crap to my girlfriend. You understand?”

“Whatever you say,” Gitta said, throwing an “I told you so” look in Hani’s direction.

Hani was not happy with Frankie’s reaction. How dare he speak to them in such a rude fashion. The tabloid story was probably true, and then she started wondering how someone as nice and low-key as Bobby Stanislopoulos could be friends with such an uncouth man.

Frankie Romano was a pig. As usual, Gitta was right. They should not have said a word – merely allowed him to find out on his own time.

* * *

Annabelle slept right through the landing. Frankie did not bother waking her. The further he kept her away from the two big-mouthed flight attendants, the better.

His mind was in overdrive, but he realized there was nothing he could do until he got a look at the offending article and read every word.

Bastards! He’d sue the shit out of them and then some. He’d hire the sharpest fucking lawyer in New York. Ralph would pay. Ralph would be as outraged as he was that his daughter’s reputation was at stake.

Where the fuck had the tabloid gotten its information?

Christ! He needed to know exactly what they’d printed. The timing couldn’t be worse, what with the funeral coming up the next day. Ralph would shit himself.

He had to phone Janey, see if she knew anything. But right now his main thrust was to get Annabelle off the plane, stash her in the limo Bobby was sending to the airport, and go pick up a copy of whichever tabloid it was that had printed the story.

It couldn’t be that bad.

Or could it?