Queen of the Trailer Park (Rosie Maldonne's World Book 1) (18 page)

Monday: Gaston Sees Red

51

During the night, I remembered that my mom’s last song was by the Kinks. She sent me another one by them, which was a good sign. She was on a roll. I woke up humming “Dedicated Follower of Fashion.”

The song was about a fashion enthusiast, someone who made the rounds of London shops to dress fashionably, refined, in the latest trends and styles. The meaning was clear: it was related to all the shopping I had to do. Elementary, my dear Watson!

It had only been a week since all this business began. I remembered what a state I’d been in, wondering how I was going to find enough food to feed the cubbies. And then I found myself waking up in sheets of woven gold, a world of utter opulence. A little imagery for you there! I guess Gaston wasn’t the only poet around.

But, alas, my fortune wasn’t to last for long. The hours ahead of me would be the grand finale.

I started out the day by deciding that we had to get a serious move on. I had a lot to do.

After getting a ride with Gaston in his Jag and dropping off the kids, we dived in to the day’s program.

At the first store, Gaston got out his credit card, but I stopped him. “Don’t you remember I got some inheritance from an old uncle?”

“That’s right,” he said.

“So don’t worry about a thing,” I said, wanting the last word.

For once, he didn’t protest. I wasn’t sure what had changed.

We managed to finish everything on the morning’s program except the driving school and the language courses. I’d insisted we get around to those last, and we ran out of time. Just as well. At twelve thirty, everything was closed, so we went for a bite to eat at an Italian joint.

Gaston hadn’t managed to find a driver—it had been too late in the game—so we’d had to spend the morning grappling with parking spaces, double-parking, hazard lights, delivery bays, disabled spots, and even stopping on sidewalks. Incredibly, we ended up with only one ticket.

Gaston wanted to start off the afternoon with the two things we’d missed from the morning’s list, but I refused. I said, “Let’s go to the garden center first, then the sports store!”

We could deal with the rest some other day.

Gaston didn’t understand this shopping frenzy. Of course, what he didn’t know was that from the next day onward, I’d never be able to buy another thing again for as long as I lived. He could never have guessed that my money would soon be on its way to someone else’s pockets, and that I wasn’t even supposed to be spending it in the first place. For the moment, nobody knew what was going on, but starting the next day, the media would be all over my ass, and I could wave good-bye to life’s luxuries in one fell swoop.

We bought a nifty garden shed. I’ve always loved the idea of a garden shed. Now my trailer wouldn’t look like a pigsty. We left the garden center and made our way to the sports store.

That’s where the summit meeting was about to take place. We found a parking spot in the shade at the far end of the lot.

I elegantly stepped out of the Jag, one foot in front of the other, when a monstrous limousine with blacked-out windows pulled up just beside us. The tires made a soft, almost restrained swooshing sound.

“Hey! Watch it! You almost knocked me off my feet!” I hollered.

The rear window rolled down. Gaston was already at my side. “Should we start with the ski equipment or judo?”

“Miss Maldonne?” whispered a husky voice with a strong Russian accent.

We both gasped and I leaned toward the window. “How do you know my name?”

Dopey and Dumbo shot out of the limo, slamming the doors behind them.

So it looked like this guy was their boss.

I said “Hey, guys!” Then I turned to the Russian. “So, are you the big boss, then? You must be a real hotshot, showing up like this in public and in broad daylight. Mamma, right?”

“Leave my motherrr outside of this, vould you please?” He laughed. “I vas told you be trrrrouble, but I see now you courrrrrrageous! Or perrrrrhaps irrrrrrresponsible?”

“Rosie, do you know these people?” asked Gaston.

“Yeah. This is Dopey and Dumbo. I don’t know them by any other name. They never introduced themselves. But it didn’t stop them from nearly mowing me down with their car just now!”

“What are you talking about? Rosie, is this some kind of joke?”

“I wish it was, but it’s not.”

I pointed to the Russian, then took a few steps toward the entrance of the store. “That one there, with the Russian accent, must be their boss. So they’re not really to blame for anything, they’re just minions. They obey orders, that’s all.”

Gaston followed me with a horrified look on his face.

52

We didn’t get much farther. I tried my hardest, but I knew from the outset it wouldn’t work. The two beefcakes blocked our way, hands in the pockets of their jackets.

“Let us pass, gentlemen,” said Gaston in a very calm voice.

The two goons grinned stupidly. The noise of the car door being opened caused us to look back. The Russki stepped out of his vehicle. He couldn’t have been less than six foot five. He had shoulders the size of concrete blocks and wore a white alpaca suit. I say alpaca because I read it in a detective thriller; I’ve never seen one in real life, so I couldn’t be sure. His face was rosy, but his piercing, steel-blue eyes took something away from the innocent, childlike appearance of his complexion.

He stroked his blond mustache. He was taking his time getting himself together, preparing to speak, and we—we were all waiting for him to . . . to . . . I don’t know what. To just open his goddamn mouth.

I was so wound up, I cut him off before he even said his first word.

“Are you gonna spit it out, then, big guy? I have a lot of retail therapy to get through today. I’m a dedicated follower of fashion . . .”

He gave me an indulgent smile, then scanned me from head to toe.

“Prrrrrecisely! Concerrrrning yourrr shopping, Miss Maldonne. You have some crrredit, vith me, I believe . . . but I do not accept yourrr conditions of rrrreimburrrrsement.”

“Rose,” said Gaston, “what is this man talking about?”

“You! You must be morrre rrrrrrespect and quiet now.”

This was an awful way for Gaston to be treated. He barely flinched, but I noticed both his hands clenched into fists.

The man continued, “I learrrn of yourrr morrrning activities, Miss Maldonne! And now you carrrry on. And vith my moooney.” His smile suddenly froze and he continued, but in a much sterner tone, “And you believe ve vatch as you squanderrrr ourrr money vith no interrrrrvention? I do not even speak of the rrrrest—of my little pieces of jewelrrrry!”

I eyeballed his fly. “Are you talking about the family jewels, there? Or your bribe?”

His eyes shot daggers at me.

“As I already explained to your loyal lackeys here, I blew it all in the casino. Today, I’m spending my uncle’s money. He’s buying me a few small gifts. And why should it be any of your concern, you big pebble head?”

Why did I call him a pebble head? I knew full well it didn’t even mean anything, but it just popped out. To this day, I still don’t know what it is.

“Hand me yourrr purrrse!”

“No.”

He glanced over to Dopey and Dumbo, who both made a move to grab my purse. As soon as they put their hands on me, Gaston lost it. He kicked up his leg as far as Dumbo’s hand, spun on the other leg, and managed to kick Dumbo from behind. Straight in the nuts.

Who would have believed it?

“Gaston, are you a black belt in karate or what?”

“No, my dear, that was kickboxing.”

Dumbo let out a little high-pitched chirp and doubled up in pain.

Dopey rushed toward Gaston, screaming out what sounded like a war cry. Gaston welcomed him with a smooth uppercut to his chin, and then, taking advantage of the fact that Dopey was bending forward, grabbed a hold of his neck and blocked him.

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea you knew judo too, uncle!”

“No, this is wrestling.”

The Big Boss shouted, “
No mnogo ublyudkov!
Why I even pay you?”

He pulled a pistol from his pocket.

It cracked me up. “I was expecting that one. Watch out, uncle, he has a gun.”

Gaston smacked Dopey on the neck, which resulted in his falling flat on his face between the two cars. I had to take a few steps back so he didn’t fall on me. I moved closer to the Big Boss. I leaned forward and pretended I’d twisted my ankle.

“Ow! My ankle! Uncle, you really should be more careful before you dump a big pile of crap on my foot like that.”

Gaston’s movements had been hampered by the sudden appearance of the gun. He’d gotten dangerously close to the Big Boss.

I bent down to rub my ankle, removing my shoe. Heels are certainly an interesting choice when it comes to a lethal weapon.
Whack!
I smacked the Big Boss’s hand. The one holding the revolver.

“Well played, Rose!” exclaimed Gaston, which made me feel pleased, even though we still had a lot on our plate.

The Big Boss yelled and jumped in pain.

“But . . . You have done me vrrrrong!”

“Search all three of them,” yelled Gaston, throwing himself on the Big Boss, somehow managing to immobilize him.

I moved toward the two thugs and went for their pockets.

Gaston shook the boss. “Who are you?”

The boss didn’t answer. Then Gaston spoke to him in a strange language.

53

It sounded like Gaston was pretending to speak Russian.

He uttered,
“Poslushay, ty. Ostav Rozu Maldonne v pokoe, torgash, a to tebia poimeyut. Ponyal?”

He told me later it really was Russian, and that it meant: “Listen, you. Leave Rose Maldonne in peace, you peddler, or I’ll have you. Get it?”

My Gaston had style.

Oddly enough, the Big Boss didn’t respond in Russian. He gasped for air. “Thisss isss no fair. It is she who . . . She rrrrobbed us of ourrr cash . . . and . . .”

I jumped in. “Don’t believe him, Gaston! I haven’t stolen a thing! I found this money. It’s dirty money. A bribe for the mayor to build a casino.”

“Yourrr mayorrrr is an imbecile . . .” continued the Big Boss, his voice faltering.

Gaston was holding him by the throat.

“Ve vill build the fuuuuuucking casiiino somevherrrre else! Therrre is no shorrrtage of places! But ve neverrr leave our money and everrrything else for some whorrre to spen—”

Gaston added pressure to his grip, and the big guy lost consciousness without finishing his sentence. I helped Gaston lift the three bruisers into their car. We locked all the doors after putting all kinds of crap—sand, stones, grass, chewing gum, and even the contents of a box of candy—into the gasoline tank.

Then we threw their keys into a drain hole. Gaston started heading toward the store again, but I called him back.

“Gaston! Come back! There’s no point buying anything in there now! If they get free and call for backup, we’re screwed. Come on! Look at this—we need to get rid of all these!”

I had a pile of guns hidden under my coat.

We hit the road.
Vroom
, like a rat out of a sewer pipe. Every time we saw a trash can, Gaston stopped and I threw in a gun, wiping it first for fingerprints.

We got rid of four weapons this way. I also had a cell phone I’d picked up. It was sitting on my lap. Gaston stopped the car on the side of the road, put on his glasses, and began pressing buttons on the cell.

“Gaston! This is no time to play crazy games!”

“I’m not playing, Rose, you’ll see.”

His eyes were glowing, and he quickly put a finger to his lips.

“Shh! Yes? Is that Victor? Gaston Contini here . . . Yes, thank you . . . Well, hello there, old friend! Yes, it’s me . . . Well, you know, the fame . . . Yes, it’s true, time flies . . . No, I don’t know the guy. Yes, he lent me his cell phone . . . I’m sorry, I don’t have time to come by and see you, but I do have something to ask of you—or, rather, it’s an errand I’m running on behalf of a friend. Rose Maldonne . . . No, you don’t know her. Yes, one of your constituents. Oh, no, not that sort of favor! She wants to give you back something of yours that she found . . . No . . . It was a payoff . . . Yes, hush-money . . . That’s . . . The sort of stuff that comes in little brown envelopes? . . . Yes, yes, the pleasure is all mine . . . Interested? She wants to give it back tomorrow at your city hall meeting. It seems she’s furious about it all. She’s been attacked twice in a row by some seriously creepy people—of Russian origin, I think . . . Would you believe they don’t want her to give it back to you? . . . No, she wants to see you first. Afterward she’ll do whatever you tell her . . . OK. Tomorrow morning. Eight thirty at city hall.”

I signaled to him.

“Wait, no . . . Eight forty-five would be better for her . . . Wonderful! Bye, then, old friend! See you soon! That’s marvelous!”

He hung up the phone and threw it out the window.

“Gaston! Have you been talking to Saint Expeditus? Did he put you up to this? It seems like you never stop saving my ass. Do you really know the mayor?”

“Yes. We went to elementary school together. I never much liked him. Anyway, you have an appointment with him tomorrow morning at eight forty-five. Now it’s up to you.”

“But . . .”

“What?”

“I’m having a crisis of conscience.”

“What about?”

“Oh my God! Have you seen the time? Quick, drop me off at the Midi Health Insurance office—and you need to get the kids!”

While he drove, I went over my concerns. Either I was going to my appointment with the mayor, where I’d blackmail him—he’d have to give me what I wanted if he didn’t want me telling everything to the media. Or I forsook my personal goals so the truth could come out and justice be served. That would certainly put an end to this shyster mayor’s political career.

But who on earth would be elected afterward? Maybe someone even worse? Sure, but at least I’d have done something good for the community for once in my life. Like Joan of Arc. And wouldn’t Ismène be proud of me?

Ismène?

Why would I even want her to be proud of me? She wasn’t my mother, as far as I was aware.