Lady Boss Read Free Page A

even though he didn’t act it. Abe still had his balls, although many – including two ex-wives and countless lovers – had tried to cut them off.
    Abe rose every morning promptly at six. First he showered, then he put in his new set of brilliant white teeth, combed his few remaining strands of silver hair, swam the length of his pool ten times, and feasted on a hearty breakfast of steak, eggs, and three cups of bitter black Turkish coffee.
    Next he lit up a formidable Havana cigar and proceeded to read the daily newspapers.
    Abe loved reading anything. He devoured the
Wall Street Journal
and the English
Financial Times.
With equal enthusiasm he scanned the gossip rags, enjoyed every juicy item. It pleased him to have knowledge, however useless. From world affairs to idle chitchat, he absorbed it all.
    After his marathon reading session it was time for Inga Irving, his long-time companion, to join him on the terrace of his Miller Drive home.
    Inga was a big-boned, straight-backed Swedish woman in her early fifties. She never used makeup and had allowed her shoulder-length club-cut hair to grey naturally. Inga always wore loose-fitting slacks and a shapeless sweater. In spite of her lack of decoration she was still a striking-looking woman who had obviously once been a great beauty.
    Long ago, when Abe was
the
Hollywood tycoon to beat all Hollywood tycoons – including Messrs. Goldwyn, Mayer, Zanuck, and Cohn – he’d attempted to make Inga into a star. He had not succeeded. The camera didn’t like Inga Irving, the public didn’t like Inga Irving, and after several tries in three big Panther Studios productions Abe had finally given up. Every contract producer, director, and leading man on the lot had breathed freely again. Inga Irving was not destined to be the new Greta Garbo, in spite of Abe’s valiant efforts.
    When she so desired, Inga could be a prize bitch, moody, rude, and insulting. Those qualities might have been acceptable if she’d possessed talent and star potential. Alas, she didn’t. And during her rise to nowhere she’d made many enemies.
    Inga had never forgiven Abe for not persevering on her career. She’d stayed with him anyway: being the companion of the once great Abe Panther was better than anything else she could think of.
    When his last divorce had taken place he didn’t marry her. Inga refused to blackmail or beg. She was a proud woman. Besides, as far as she was concerned, she was his common-law wife, and when Abe died she had every intention of claiming what was rightfully and legally hers.
    Every day around noon, Abe partook of a light snack. He favoured oysters when they were in season, accompanied by a glass of dry white wine. After lunch he had a nap, awaking refreshed after an hour to watch two of his favourite soaps on television, followed by a solid dose of Phil Donahue.
    Abe Panther never left his house. He hadn’t done so for ten years – ever since his stroke.
    Six weeks in the hospital and he allowed them to wrest the studio from his grasp. Although technically he never lost control – and was indeed still President and owner of Panther Studios – he had not had any inclination to return. Making movies wasn’t the same as it once was. Abe had been in the picture business since he was eighteen, and at seventy-eight he’d decided taking a break was no big deal.
    The break had lasted ten years, and nobody expected him to return.
    What they did expect, Abe realized, was for him to drop dead and leave everything to them.
    His living relatives consisted of two granddaughters – Abigaile and Primrose – and their offspring.
    Abigaile and Primrose were as unalike as two sisters could be. They couldn’t stand each other. Sisterly love and affection failed to exist between them.
    Abigaile was pushy and grasping. She loved entertaining and big parties. She lived for shopping and glitzy social events. A true