The Tides of Change Read online

  ‘The office, Paul, please,’ she said, pressing the driver intercom.

  Peaches never went anywhere on business unless it was in the limo. To her, it was as much a part of her image as her underwear.

  ‘No problem, Peaches,’ Paul said. She could tell he was smiling. But then Paul was always smiling on the other side of the dark glass. Peaches paid the one-time heavyweight boxer to make sure he stayed happy and didn’t talk about some of the things he heard going on in the back, or some of the places he dropped her.

  ‘How was it for you?’ Tommy asked.

  Peaches laughed. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

  Tommy blushed. They both knew that he should know better than to ask. She never told him the extent of what she did. She never gave out the details of her liaisons to anyone. What went on behind closed doors stayed there. Tommy Liebermann was there to protect her legally and to acquire assets without too many questions being asked.

  ‘As I was saying earlier, we’ve got a problem,’ he said as the car pulled silently away from the hotel and bumped over the kerb on to the main drag.

  Peaches sighed, opening her purse to find her compact and reapply her lipstick. Tommy was so serious. She glanced across at him. He was in his late fifties and his greying hair had receded, as if chased away by the frown lines on his forehead.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The DA’s office. My contacts there. They say there’s gonna be a crackdown.’

  ‘I told you: I’m keeping my head down and my nose clean,’ Peaches said, checking her reflection. ‘I’ve got this thing watertight. It’s all discreet.’

  ‘Right. Like walking out of there as if you owned the joint. And climbing into this ’mo. Come on, Peaches, the press would have a field day with you. If they ever find out about you and the Senator—’

  Peaches looked up. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘People talk.’

  People like the Senator himself, Peaches thought, knowing that any leak hadn’t come from her. The dumb, bragging son-of-a-bitch had become too big for his boots now that the new management in the White House had raised his profile. Peaches made a mental note to take him to task over his indiscretion – the next time she was spanking his flabby white butt with a rolled-up copy of the United States Constitution.

  ‘Who cares about the Senator? Quit with the doom and gloom, will you? You’re making me nervous when there’s no need. Everything’s just fine.’

  ‘How do you know? You know what happened to Heidi Fleiss? Times aren’t so different. Someone like you would make a fine feather in an ambitious DA’s cap. It’s still illegal, all this, unless you’d forgotten.’

  ‘But my girls are loyal. I trust them all. Everyone is making too much money to rat me out.’

  ‘And I’m telling you you’re playing with fire,’ Tommy said. ‘Don’t expand the business any more. And make sure you’ve checked out the new girls. One snitch jacket, honey, or one plant, and they’ll slam you in the can.’

  ‘OK, OK. I hear you.’

  ‘Just do yourself a favour, Peaches. Get out. And soon. Before you’re taken out.’

  A few blocks later, Paul dropped Peaches off at the impressive atrium of Delancy Heights. The award-winning steel-and-glass tower was one of the most exclusive new apartment complexes in LA. Peaches had once lived here permanently, but now she just used it as her city base, and to hold her infamous parties.

  She paid a fortune to the building manager along with the promise that she’d never openly court anyone in the building, although it boasted amongst its inhabitants A-list actors, fashion designers, interiors moguls and rock stars. It didn’t matter. There were enough celebrities who’d entered the elevator and pressed the button for the nineteenth floor, as Peaches did now.

  She let herself into the soundproofed hallway, with its state-of-the-art surround-sound speakers. The walls were padded with diamanté-studded midnight-blue satin. The white carpet was sumptuous and thick. Peaches kicked off her heels and let her toes sink in.

  She walked through into the vast main lounge area, which she’d had modelled on her favourite private club in Miami. It was dominated on one side by a giant leather-topped bar with an impressive array of bottles and glasses stacked to the mirrored ceiling. Low curved white leather sofas were dotted around tinted glass tables. Behind them a raised area, backed by a sequined curtain, ran around the outside of the room, complete with ten silver dancing poles. Here the thick carpet gave way to a specially sprung dance floor with is own DJ booth and turntables. And finally a row of windows revealed LA stretching into the distance, block upon block of smog-covered hustle, bustle and cash.

  ‘Babe, I’m back,’ Peaches said, waggling her fingers at the discreet panel of one-way glass on the side wall. Peaches pushed the wall and the hidden door opened. Behind it was her private office.

  Angela, her secretary, was standing with her back to her, making coffee at the new machine Peaches had bought.

  ‘You want regular or cappuccino?’ Angela asked. ‘I think I worked out the cappuccino now.’

  ‘Whatever’s easiest,’ Peaches answered, walking past the desk, which was littered with a huge array of silks and lace samples that Angela had ordered in for the new lingerie line. ‘You sound cheerful.’

  ‘Danny got off. They couldn’t find enough evidence.’

  Peaches smiled. Angela’s kid brother was a reclusive computer geek, who spent his life in a darkened room fiddling with computers. Most recently the authorities had caught up with him for hacking into the LAPD network. The guy could probably make real money if he worked for a big organization and Peaches had suggested many times putting him in touch with someone who might give him a proper job, but Danny liked his shady nocturnal existence.

  ‘That’s great, honey,’ Peaches said.

  ‘Yeah, well, yes and no. He’s moving his operation, so he says. Going undercover for a while.’

  ‘Well, I guess that’s no bad thing. You can’t be responsible for him, Angie. He is a grown-up,’ Peaches said, gently.

  ‘I know.’ Angela paused. ‘I take it you’ve seen Tommy.’

  ‘It’s hard not to. He seems to be permanently installed in the limo,’ Peaches said, unhooking the original artwork for Boogie Nights off the wall to reveal the safe. ‘I think he’s been watching too much TV. He was saying something about the DA’s office.’ Peaches pulled out the thick bundle of Valentin’s hundred-dollar bills from her bag and put it next to the others inside the safe, before locking it again.

  She turned to face Angela, who grimaced, handing her a mug of frothy coffee.

  ‘Talking of trouble,’ Angela said, ‘Marguerite’s on the terrace.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Peaches said, smiling. She’d trained herself long ago never to flinch at Angela’s face, half of which had been burnt with acid by the owner of the first strip joint they’d worked in together. Peaches had taken care of her ever since. And always would.

  ‘Call Ross, will you, honey? Tell him I’ll stop by at twelve tomorrow. I want an appointment and then I’ll take him to lunch. And call Christoph. See whether he’s got costings on those nipple tassels. Oh, and tell him the silk basques are definitely a hit.’

  Angela nodded and sat back down behind the desk. ‘Got anything good planned for this afternoon?’

  ‘Oh, you know, I thought I’d turn off my phone and take the rest of the day off,’ Peaches joked. They both knew that there was no such thing as a day, or even a night off, in this business. Peaches was always working: sorting out girls who’d missed their flights to Paris; finding someone for a guy in New York who’d suddenly decided he wanted a threesome at five a.m; calming down a limo driver who’d thrown some girls out in Miami; sorting out the squabble over a half-million-dollar tip between twenty girls. It was endless. And that was all on top of trying to launch the lingerie line.

  ‘You should take the day off, you know,’ Angela said.

  ‘I know. One day I’ll take a whole bunch of
them off.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot,’ Angela said, handing Peaches a courier’s package. ‘This came for you.’

  Peaches ripped open the package. Inside was a thick manila envelope. She turned it over in her hands. It looked official and Peaches didn’t like official letters. Was some son-of-a-bitch trying to sue her?

  Peaches picked up the silver letter-opener from the pot on Angela’s desk and slit open the envelope. She read down the neatly typed letter inside, her face clouding with confusion.

  My name is Ron Wallace and I am currently representing a prisoner called Mikhail Gorsky . . .

  ‘Who the hell is Ron Wallace?’ she asked, showing Angela the letter. ‘He wants me to go to Texas, to some prison. There must be some mistake. Call him, could you, sweetheart? Tell him that he’s got the wrong person. Tell him I don’t care who his client is, I don’t do prisons. I don’t care how much money he’s willing to pay.’ She smiled. ‘Unless, of course, it’s enough to pay for a whole bunch of those days off we were talking about.’

  But despite her joke, her hands were perspiring as she slid back the tinted glass doors leading to the pool terrace and stepped from the chilled air-conditioning out into the heat. If some lawyer called Ron Wallace could find her all the way from Texas, the DA shouldn’t have any trouble at all.

  But no, she told herself, she was just being paranoid. The DA would still need proof first, as well as people prepared to talk. And with so many people making so much money, and having their sordid fantasies so readily fulfilled, Peaches couldn’t quite see that happening.

  Have faith, she told herself. Keep them all rich and happy and they’d keep their mouths shut. This was LA. The city of secrets. She should relax and concentrate on what was important: her business.

  On the terrace, the blare of horns from the street below and the distant sound of sirens filled the humid air. Marguerite was sitting at the far end by the black pots of pampas grass, shrinking in a chair under the grey electric sunshade, her bare feet up on the square steel rail.

  She was wearing large Dior sunglasses and a floppy sun hat that hid most of her face. But even covered up, Peaches could tell that she was freaking out. Seeing Peaches, she jumped up.

  ‘Peaches, I’m so fucking sorry.’

  ‘What were you thinking? You can’t sell that shit on my watch,’ Peaches said. ‘Do you want us all to get busted?’

  ‘No, no . . .’

  Everyone knew that sex and drugs went hand in hand. It was expected that there would be a free flow of cocaine and ecstasy at the parties Peaches threw here, even though she never used any herself. Not any more. And never dealt. Never had.

  But Marguerite had slipped up and had tried to sell crystal meth to a client, who’d then complained, and refused to pay up, claiming Marguerite had been too high to satisfy him. Marguerite was stupid to have thought she’d get away with it.

  But she was just a kid, Peaches thought, with an exasperated sigh. And Peaches knew she needed help. Besides, Marguerite was undoubtedly one of the best in the game. She had a fragile look that drove men wild.

  Marguerite took off her glasses. Her big doe eyes were red and puffy. ‘Peaches, I’m begging you, please don’t cut me off,’ she said. ‘I’ve got no money. Nothing. I’ll end up back on the street—’

  ‘OK, calm down,’ Peaches said. ‘First thing, I’m going to get you cleaned up. I’ve organized for you to go to Santa Fe to the clinic. Then when you’re clean, you can work here for me. Answer phones. Help Angela out. And when you’re better, you can start going out on jobs again.’

  ‘You don’t have to be so nice to me,’ Marguerite said, her face crumpling as she started crying. ‘You’ve done so much for me.’

  ‘Hey, if we don’t look after each other, we don’t have anyone. But remember: you owe me one.’

  Peaches turned, hearing the hiss of the door behind her. Angela was holding the phone out towards her.

  ‘It’s Ron Wallace,’ she said. ‘His letter isn’t a mistake. This client of his needs to tell you something important. About your past. About where you’re from.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  From Pushkin’s top saloon, Frankie could see the shimmering lights along St Tropez harbour front way below. The sunset had been stunning, and now, as the sky started to darken and the stars come out, everything seemed to be bathed in hazy silver light. The new crescent moon hung in the sky like a smile and Frankie breathed in the scented Mediterranean air and smiled with it.

  This was more like it. Looking down on the world, soft jazz coming from the floor speakers built into the teak deck, it was easy to see why the super-rich behaved as if they were gods.

  The guest saloon was much more minimalist than she’d imagined. No clutter. Just big squashy leather dining chairs and an ornate mahogany table with gold inlay, polished to a glass-like finish. There was a second, higher table at the far end surrounded by white leather bar stools. Three men sat around it, playing cards.

  Two of the men were Eugene and Dieter, the bodyguards who’d arrived yesterday. They were difficult to miss. Eugene was like a blond cartoon sumo wrestler, bound in a bronze body suit of muscle. Frankie had seen him pumping weights when she’d been cleaning the gym early that morning. She’d tried to tell him that if he carried on lifting them the way he was, he’d damage his back, but Eugene wasn’t the kind of guy to listen to a woman. Particularly not a lowly stewardess like her.

  Dieter gave her the creeps. She hadn’t heard him utter a word. He had a black crew cut and sallow skin and eyes that seemed to follow you everywhere. Frankie couldn’t begin to imagine what dark secrets he had in his past.

  Hamish, the chief steward, was polishing glasses behind the discreet semicircular bar tucked away at one end of the saloon. Frankie thought back to her first week on board, when Hamish had tried to kiss her late one night in the crew mess. He’d told her that she reminded him of his wife back home. He reminded her of a jerk, she’d answered back. Ever since he’d been surly and offhand with her, as if she were the one who’d stepped out of line.

  ‘So who’s the guy in the cream suit again?’ Frankie asked Hamish, nodding towards the poker table.

  ‘Sonny Wiseman. Big Hollywood producer. The boss financed his last film.’

  There it was again. The boss. So he had his finger in the movie pie too. The more Frankie heard about him, the more intrigued she was. She imagined him to be very serious, perhaps a little frightening. After all, how exactly did you get to be this rich? And have this many associates you entertained for free on your yacht? Hardly by just being a nice guy.

  Hamish nudged Frankie and nodded to the table. Taking his cue, Frankie approached Sonny Wiseman, whose glass was empty.

  ‘May I get you another drink, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, you most certainly can.’ Sonny Wiseman turned to hand her his glass and his eyes locked with Frankie’s. ‘Well, my oh my,’ he said, his wrinkly face breaking into a charming grin, ‘I cannot believe they’ve been hiding such a beauty downstairs.’

  Frankie smiled at his compliment. ‘Just a gin and tonic, then?’

  He pointed a chubby finger at her. ‘You’re from Jo’burg, right?’

  ‘Cape Town. Originally.’

  ‘Ah, Cape Town. I go whale-watching there. Great place. One of the most beautiful on earth, I’d say.’

  Frankie smiled again. ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  Sonny Wiseman lit a long, fat cigar. ‘Problem with South Africa? Most of the talent leaves.’

  ‘I guess so,’ Frankie mumbled.

  ‘You guess so? I know so. You’re living proof of it.’ Sonny grinned as a blush spread across Frankie’s face. ‘So what’s your story, sugar? Why did you fly the coop?’ he asked, puffing out smoke whilst Dieter shuffled the pack of cards.

  Frankie was caught so off guard that she nearly blurted out the truth. ‘It’s complicated. Let’s just say I felt like a change. And I ended up in the Caribbean in the winter season when Pushkin w
as there and—’

  Hamish coughed loudly by the bar. Frankie abruptly closed her mouth.

  Sonny looked her up and down appraisingly, then nodded in approval. ‘A mystery girl, huh? All the better.’

  ‘Gin and tonic, right away,’ she said, turning to go, ignoring Dieter who’d been staring at her legs, and now grunted something to Eugene that she didn’t catch, but which made them both laugh.

  ‘Make it a weak one,’ Sonny Wiseman called after her.

  Back at the bar, Hamish glared at her. ‘Don’t talk to the guests,’ he hissed.

  ‘I thought it was polite to answer when someone asks me a question. It’s called manners.’

  She reached for the blue Tanqueray gin bottle and a fresh glass to fix Sonny’s drink. But Hamish snatched the glass from her.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ he said, half filling the glass with gin.

  ‘He said he wanted it weak,’ Frankie pointed out.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ Hamish told her, topping the drink up with a splash of tonic and a hefty squeeze of lemon.

  Frankie took the drink back to Sonny Wiseman and, ignoring Hamish’s warning look, took a seat at the table when Sonny offered her one, insisting that she stayed a while. She knew it was a risk, but she didn’t care. Why shouldn’t she sit down if she was invited? Sonny Wiseman was the first human being to have a decent chat with her in two months and she wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. Besides, he was interesting.

  ‘So I hear you’re in the movie business,’ she said. ‘I love the movies. Living downstairs turns you into an amateur buff. I’ve watched loads of DVDs since being on board.’

  Sonny Wiseman stared at her face. ‘You ever thought of acting?’ he asked.