Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You (v1.2) (29 page)

Quinn reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “This is blackmail, you know, in some twisted way I don’t want to examine right now.”

“Now, now, no name-calling,” Uncle Alfred said, pocketing several one-hundred-dollar bills. “Everything is going splendidly so far, and will continue to do so, I’m sure. But now that that’s all settled, what do you say you find me a job? Nothing too involved, you understand. Just something where I can stand about and pretend to be busy. Jim said something about a company he called Wal-Mart, I believe. His uncle is a greeter there, as I understand it. I do believe I could do that, and I’ve brought my tuxedo.”

“A tuxedo for a Wal-Mart greeter? Damn, that tears it,” Quinn said, laughing as he went off to take his shower. A cold shower. With the faucets turned on full. In the hope he might wake up and learn that he’d only been having a nightmare.

But he’d been wide-awake, which he already knew as he walked back into the living room to see Uncle Alfred trying on a pair of whiter-than-white sneakers with enough purple and blue trim to hurt the eyes. He finished tying the second one, wiggled his toes a bit, then stood up and walked across the carpet as he kept his head bent, inspecting his new footwear, until he all but bumped into Quinn.

“Ah, son, what do you think? I’ve never worn anything quite like these. Oh, tennis sneakers, of course, but nothing like this. Still, Jim said they’re all the rage, and I do want to fit in. Even bought ten of these shirts,” he added, patting his flat stomach. “One in every color of the rainbow, plus two white ones. And slacks. These are new, too. Can’t go roughing it without the correct wardrobe; that’s what I say.”

“I thought you were broke.”

“I am, I am, my boy. And that’s the only thing one can do when one is financially embarrassed—buy something. It lifts the mood considerably, not to mention concentrating the mind.” He sucked in a deep breath, then released it slowly. “So where are you taking me to procure me this employment Somerton believes I must have to lift my morals, or scruples, or some such nonsense?”

“That depends,” Quinn said, walking over to the window and looking down at the street below. He knew every car that was usually parked there, and today there was a new one. Black coupe, but not a rental. Rentals didn’t have illegal darkened glass on the driver’s-side window.

“I think Tony needs a dishwasher,” he said as he turned to Uncle Alfred, grinning from ear to ear. “I think you’ll do nicely.”

Uncle Alfred put his hands out in front of him, as if to ward off a blow. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. I don’t think you’ve quite grasped this, son. Taites don’t
do
menial labor. Why, I just had a manicure… and I haven’t the faintest idea what a kitchen looks like—not that I have any burning curiosity to find out— and… and… Why do you keep looking out the window?”

“Because I think we have company, that’s why,” Quinn said, walking over to Uncle Alfred and ruthlessly pulling the man’s shirttails out of his two-hundred-dollar slacks. “Because if I’m going to watch you and Shelby, it’ll be easier to have you both in the same place. Now ruffle your hair a little. Okay, that’s good. And we’ll scuff up those sneakers when we get outside—we’re leaving by the back door, by the way. Do you smoke?”

“The occasional cigar. Havanas, of course. Why?” Uncle Alfred asked as he dutifully mussed his gorgeous mane of silver hair.

“You’re a cigarette man now, Alfred, that’s why. I’ve got a pack around here somewhere.” He found the pack in the drawer. He opened it, shook out three cigarettes, slipped a matchbook between pack and cellophane, then rolled the pack up in the sleeve of Uncle Alfred’s shirt. He stood back and inspected his creation. “No beard trimming from here on out, all right? Now, what shall we call you?”

“You can call me Al. I’ve always wanted to be called Al.”

“I’d rather call you a cah,” Quinn told him, “but Al it is. Al what?”

“Smith?” Uncle Alfred offered, then winced. “Al Smith. No, can’t do that. Democrat, wasn’t he? Yes, I’m sure of it. I’d have Taite ancestors for five generations rolling in their graves. How about O’Hara? I’ve always thought the Irish had such a good time, and nobody will mind my flask.”

“I’m Irish,
Al,
so don’t make me knock you down,” Quinn said as he reached into Uncle Alfred’s pocket and pulled out the flask. “This, my friend, stays here. Got that?”

“You’re not seeing this as the great adventure I’m seeing it as, are you, son?” Uncle Alfred asked as he followed Quinn to the door; then he gulped as Quinn turned and glared at him.

“Look, old man. Shelby likes you. I like you, too, although I don’t know why. If not, you’d be out on your ear right now, and whoever is in that car out there could practice their batting swings on you. But this is
not
a great adventure. Shelby is going to smell a rat, for one thing, and she’s already got enough going on to make her cut and run.”

Uncle Alfred automatically reached for his slacks pocket, then drew himself up and said, “She’s in some sort of trouble, isn’t she? You mentioned that the other day, but didn’t elaborate, so I thought you weren’t serious. But you’re looking far too fierce now for it to be anything else but real trouble. How can I be of assistance?”

Quinn looked at the old man with the full silver beard, sparkling eyes, and a nose as rosy as his cheeks. One of the Main Line’s finest, if most unique, dressed “down” to look like a dishwasher and still looking more like some visiting count or something. He took hold of Uncle Alfred’s elbow and drew him back toward the couch. “Sit down. We have to talk…”

A half hour and several dozen questions later, they were on their way out of the apartment once more, only to be met at the bottom of the stairs by Mrs. Brichta, who seemed to be wearing a newly ironed muumuu, and who definitely smelled as if she’d just taken a bath in perfume.

“Hello again, Alfred,” she all but cooed, patting her tightly permed hair. “Have you decided to rent one of my furnished apartments? You said you might, after you visited with your friend.” She looked at Quinn, her eyes hard, then looked back at Alfred, those same eyes melting and soft.

Uncle Alfred took her hand and lifted it to his lips, which set off a trill of girlish giggles that nearly floored Quinn, who had seen Mrs. Brichta in a lot of moods, but none of them had much to do with humor or any hint of girlishness. “My dearest Bertha, how could I not, after seeing Mr. Delaney’s exquisite quarters? In fact, I have my deposit right here…”

He let the words trail off as he slowly, so slowly moved a hand toward his trouser pocket.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Alfred. I certainly don’t need a
deposit.
Why, if I’m nothing else, I’m a fine judge of people. You can just pay me next week, or at the end of the month. Whenever,
however,
“she ended, tracing a finger down her chest, giving the neckline of the muumuu a slight downward tug.

“I am overwhelmed,” Uncle Alfred said, kissing the giggling, blushing woman’s hand once more, then allowing Quinn to lead the way down the hall toward the back door.

As he walked along, Quinn—definitely “overwhelmed”— wondered what good ol’ Bertha would think if she knew Uncle Alfred was flat broke, and would probably leave without paying his bill. “Gimme,” he said, turning in front of the door and holding out his hand, waiting for Uncle Alfred to cross his palm with the borrowed money.

“Now, son, you wouldn’t—”

“Give. Now.” He took the bills and counted them. “All right, you can keep the two hundred still in your pocket. But that’s it.”

“And to think that I liked you,” Uncle Alfred said, shaking his head sadly. “I can see now why Bertha said she made you pay your rent before she’d let you in. You don’t have a very trustworthy face, now that I consider it. Much too dark and brooding. No wonder Somerton demands Mr. Sullivan.”

Quinn bent down in the gravel parking lot and scooped up some dirt, which he smeared on the too-new, too-white sneakers. “Yeah, that Grady. What a prince. Okay,” he said, standing up and brushing his hands together. “Let’s go introduce you to Tony and get you settled before Shelby shows up for her shift. When, by the way, will be nowhere to be found. I’ll come in later, and we can meet for the first time. Are you up to this, Al?”

In answer, Uncle Alfred removed the cigarette pack from his sleeve, thumped out one cigarette, and lit it with the match held in his cupped hands. He took a deep drag, blew the smoke out his nose, then rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. Snorted. Spit. “Yeah, man, I’m ready.”

“Sweet mother of God, we’re all dead,” Quinn breathed quietly, then headed off down the street, bad boy Al following behind.

Shelby had stood at the window in her bedroom, the one overlooking the parking lot, and waited until she saw Quinn get into his Porsche and drive off. Only then did she grab a light sweater and head off to Tony’s for her shift.

He had come to the door, as usual, to escort her to the restaurant—or at least that was what she thought he’d say. But it wasn’t. He’d only wanted to tell her he had to go “interview” somebody for his book, and wouldn’t be back until closer to the dinner hour, and would she be all right in his absence.

The rat.
Of course she told him she’d be all right. After all, she’d only almost been kidnapped. Not that he seemed to be all that worried about her safety today. Which he wouldn’t be, if he was the one behind the kidnap attempt, the attempt to get her frightened enough to turn tail and run home so that he could get on to more exciting assignments. After all, he’d already bedded her. Already told at least a million lies. He had to be getting bored by now.

The rat.

She looked both ways before going down the steps from the apartment onto the pavement. She walked with her head up, her long legs striding purposely; alert, her key stuck between the fingers of her right hand, ready to use as a weapon. Every once in a while she remembered to breathe.

Quinn watched her from behind a bush he’d belatedly realized was full of inch-long thorns as one of the branches caught him on the face. He wiped blood from his cheek as he continued to watch Shelby, watch the way she walked, the way her hips swung, the way her sleek, shoulder-length blond hair bounced slightly, swayed with her every step.

“Oh, yeah, sweetheart. We bad, we bad,” he said under his breath, chuckling at her aggressive gait. God, how he enjoyed her, how he loved her.

Only when the door swung closed behind her did he relax, retreat to the Porsche he’d parked on a side street, and return to his apartment. He was getting too old for this; he needed a nap.

Shelby said hello to the police chief as he stood at the poker machine, using quite a bit of body English on it as the cards flipped over on the screen, then entered the air-conditioned chill of the restaurant proper.

She automatically checked the “Specials” board, wincing at Tabby’s inventive spelling, then grabbed one of the pile of inserts for the afternoon menu, which listed the entrees. Ostrich filet, she saw, shaking her head at Tony’s flights of fancy in a town the size of East Wapaneken. And yet, the alligator
had
gone over fairly well.

Still concentrating on the menu as she walked toward the service bar, she murmured a quick “Excuse me” as she bumped into someone holding a heavy gray plastic tub filled to the brim with dirty dishes.

“Yeah, well, watch where you’re goin’, all right?”

Shelby kept her head down, although her eyes somehow had gone right, looking at nothing in particular as her brain engaged, zeroing in on the voice she’d just heard. Then she looked up. “Uncle Alfred?”

“Al, honey,” Uncle Alfred said, a little more loudly than necessary. “Al O’Hara. And you must be that Shelley girl, whose always making the busboys nuts with all her ‘do this, now do this’ stuff. Wanna go out back and share a smoke? I’m up for a break.”

Shelby opened her mouth to speak, but found that she couldn’t get a single word past her lips. So she raised one hand and held up one finger at Uncle Alfred’s already retreating back. He didn’t even hold open the swinging door to the kitchen for her. Her mouth still open, her finger still raised, she stumbled after him, through the busy kitchen, and out the back door.

“How… why…
what are
you doing here?” she growled at him when she finally found her voice. She spread her arms wide, as if to encompass him in full busboy regalia, including a huge white apron that hung around his neck and fell nearly to his shins. “Like
that?”

“Why, darling, the esteemed Tony has seen fit to allow me employment as a busperson. I said busboy, but it’s really busperson, did you know that? Probably not. Pedro says he likes you well enough, but you can be a real pain in the butt. In fact, that’s the general impression around here. Lovely girl, sweet, kind. But a pain in the butt. Sorry, darling, it is what he said.”

Her head buzzing as if a family of bees had taken up residence between her ears, Shelby fought for control as she tried to listen to her uncle, to take in the fact that he was standing in front of her. “How? How did you find out where I was?”

Uncle Alfred unwrapped the pack of cigarettes from his sleeve and kept his eyes averted as he lit one. “Simple enough, darling. I asked Jim. If you’ll remember, you did speak of our dear family chauffeur with me before you did your absolutely inspired little flit. Not that I told Somerton what I found out. Oh, no. Not me. Not when I wanted you to have this little adventure. By the way, aren’t you going to kiss your uncle hello?”

“I, um, but—oh, come here, Uncle Alfred. I’m so glad to see you!” she said, opening her arms and walking toward him to give him a big hug. She felt tears stinging her eyes, surprised to realize just how much she had missed her uncle, still missed Somerton, and Jeremy. But not Parker. Strange. She really hadn’t thought much about Parker at all. Well, maybe not so strange…

Finally she pushed him away and inspected him again. “I still don’t believe it. You’re
working
here?”

“Honest labor, darling. Money earned for services rendered. The American way, and all of that. Do you think I look dashing? I really think I look dashing. Almost roguish. Except for the apron, you understand.”