Sandra Hill (21 page)

They had exactly two hours to flee the castle before the Cosa Nostra arrived.

To his amazement and consternation (anger would come later), Naomi had tried to negotiate her own deal for the stock offering…with the Mafia, of all things! Then she’d changed her mind. Apparently one didn’t change one’s mind with the Mafia. This had to be the dumbest, most dangerous thing Naomi had ever done.

“Naomi, this is the dumbest, most dangerous thing you’ve ever done.”

She clamped her lips tight and said nothing—a clear sign of how scared she was. He was beginning to get a little scared himself.

The metal links of the dog collar that had been wrapped around his ankle clanked to the floor. He took the key from Naomi’s trembling hands and proceeded to release Cynthia’s manacle, as well.

“Tell me again, how do you know that they’re
coming after you? Could it be a joke? Maybe you misunderstood. Are you sure they’re the Mafia?” he demanded.

“They probably sent her a horse’s head,” Cynthia quipped.

He shot her a scowl of reproval. She was not taking this situation seriously enough.

“There was a telegram delivered this morning,” Naomi replied. “I checked all the rooms, and there was no horse’s head.”

Gawd! She had to be kidding
. “You checked all one hundred and three rooms in this crumbling heap? For a horse’s head?”

“Yes, I checked every room in this
castle
, you creep. Can you think of anyone else who would have been willing to do it for me?”

When no one answered, Naomi went on, “The telegram said: ‘Deliver signed stocks. Noon. Alternative: Sleeping with fishes.’”

“How does a good girl from Hoboken get involved with the Mafia?” Cynthia asked, continuing to shake her head with confusion.

Naomi shrugged. “They approached me.”

“Where?” P.T. snapped.

“At the hardware store in Newark.”

He groaned and raked his fingers through his hair. “Why would the Mafia be interested in a shoe company?”

“Actually, the Mafia has been attempting to infiltrate a lot of companies lately, even brokerage firms,” Cynthia informed him. “Money laundering, drug fronts…that kind of thing.”

“Now you tell me,” he growled.

“I told you to let me handle this for you,” Cynthia scolded Naomi, who was, unbelievably, making the bed, muttering something about not wanting to leave her castle in disarray.

“You knew about this?” He straightened to glare at the strawberry-blond traitor.

“Well, Naomi hinted that she was going to sell off a large block of stock to break some trust fund, and I advised her—”

“How could you, Cynthia? Behind my back?”

“Now wait a minute, I’m not the guilty party here. I just—”

“Your own husband? You would stab your own husband in the back?”

“You weren’t my husband at the time. Hell, you’re not my husband now, either—”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Naomi yelled from the bathroom. She was draining the water from the tub and picking up the damp towels and the sheet. With a snort of disgust, she regarded the puddles on the tiled floor.

“Don’t be so sure about what?” he and Cynthia asked at the same time.

“The marriage.”

“Huh?” he and Cynthia said, like twin parrots.

“Elmer showed me some legal documents last night. I think…now don’t get all shook up…I think he might be an honest-to-God, licensed preacher.”

“A
real
marriage?” he and Cynthia exclaimed, instantly recognizing the implications. They
glanced at each other with horror. At least she appeared horrified. He was feeling a little thrum of pleasure that he was actually married to the woman he loved. And, yes, he was still in love with the Wall Street shark. Elmer’s love spell hadn’t worn off yet, and he was beginning to hope it never did.

“You swore he wasn’t a legitimate minister,” he accused Naomi, who was done with her housewifely chores and approached them rather hesitantly. “You said it would be a sham.”

He immediately wished he could bite back the incriminating words.

“When did you two discuss this potentially bogus marriage?” Cynthia asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Now, honey—”

She socked him in the stomach…for the second time that day. And it wasn’t even ten-thirty.

“Don’t you honey me, you…you rat! You planned this marriage all along, didn’t you…long before Elmer’s spell? Last night was all a setup.”

Though she hadn’t really hurt him, he hunched over at the waist and moaned, giving himself time to regroup. That was a buzz word Dick used a lot for creative lying. “It was not…I did not,” he protested, going for the wounded, hangdog expression.

He could tell she didn’t buy it. His eyebrow was probably twitching.

“It’s the truth,” Naomi said, surprising P.T. by
coming to his defense. He reminded himself to mark this red-letter day on his calendar when he got back to the city. “I told P.T. that marriage would be a good idea, a way to bring you over to our side, but he said I should see a psychiatrist.”

Cynthia turned wounded eyes on him.

“Thanks a lot, Naomi,” he grumbled.

“Well, is everyone ready to rock ’n’ roll out of here? It’s TCB time,” Elmer announced brightly as he ambled into the room in a shocking pink pearl-studded jumpsuit, teetering on his high-heeled blue suede boots. Ruth followed him in a matching pink spandex jumpsuit, teetering on a pair of glittery gold Ferrama stiletto heels, appropriately named Midas Madness.

P.T. crossed his eyes, feeling on the verge of madness himself.

“Isn’t this exciting?” Ruth chirped, scooting over to Cynthia with the little birdlike steps necessitated by her high heels. She gave his wife a hug. “The Mafia! Just imagine. I bet we’ll be on ‘Geraldo,’ or something.”

“Have you got your dream back, Cindy girl?” Elmer slanted Cynthia a sly, knowing wink.

She blushed.

P.T. tried to catch her eye to see just what that blush signified, but she deliberately averted her gaze. Meanwhile, Elmer and Ruth dropped to the floor and began to put old 45 rpm records in a cardboard suitcase.

“What are you doing?” In the midst of a pre
sumably dangerous situation, these two dingbats were packing away records.

“I’m not leaving without my record collection,” Elmer asserted. “And my guitar.”

“I already packed your costumes in tissue and put them in the back of the limo,” Ruth informed him.

Elmer smiled his approval at her.

“And I’ve got to get the Winslow Homer,” Naomi said, heading for the door.

“Who’s Winston Homely?” P.T. asked. “You’ve got some guy stashed here? Where? And his name is Winston? Geesh!”

Naomi gave Cynthia a look that said “See?”

He didn’t see, at all.

“I’m taking the dining room chairs with me, too. No way am I leaving behind my Philadelphia Queen Anne chairs. And—”

“Have you ever thought about getting a real life, Naomi?” he snarled with exasperation.

“Have you ever thought about taking a good golly gander at your own life, brother dear?” Naomi snarled back. She addressed the remainder of her remarks to Cynthia. “Who knows what destruction those hoodlums might inflict on my priceless chairs!”

“Winslow Homer is a famous artist,” Cynthia explained to P.T. “His paintings are worth a fortune. And the dining room chairs are presumably valued at a hundred thousand dollars each.”

P.T. gaped at Cynthia and then at that sneaky
Naomi, who hadn’t bothered to tell him that
his
castle housed such treasures.

“Well, we don’t have the time or the space for that crap,” he decided, “worthless or otherwise.”

“We can take that orange truck of yours and the limo,” Naomi insisted.

“It…is…not…orange,” he said through gritted teeth.

“You could always let the dogs loose to guard the palace,” Cynthia offered as a compromise to Naomi.

If he didn’t already love Cynthia, he would now. What a doll!

“Uh-uh. No way!” Elmer said, straightening to his full five-foot-five. “Wherever I go, my hound dogs go.”

As they left the castle a short time later, each of them carrying a dining room chair, he made the mistake of tossing out a teasing comment to Cynthia. “Do you think we’ll tell our grandchildren about this one day?”

That was when she gave him his third sucker punch of the day.

The pickup truck was loaded high with bungee-strapped dining room chairs, not one but five paintings, a suitcase of records and a guitar. The driver was a short guy in a pink Elvis suit with his left elbow leaning on the window and his right arm wrapped around his big-haired sweetie in a matching Vegas-chic outfit. The two goofballs, oblivious to the danger sur
rounding them, were harmonizing—if it could be called that—on one Elvis tune after another.

In the lead of this two-vehicle caravan was a limo driven by a Spanish prince in a red Elvis suit, complete with wide lapels, black sequins, huge shoulder pads, mini-cape and an industrial-sized belt. His fuming princess sat beside him, wearing a purple spandex dress that would cause the royal guard in any kingdom to revolt. (She was still mad over the presumed marriage plot; but then, he was mad that she hadn’t told him Naomi was about to stab him in the back.) In the back seat, Naomi was trying her best to ignore the six smelly, wailing hound dogs shedding their mangy fur all over her. P.T. suspected the yip-yip-yipping dogs had some extra sense that tuned into Elmer’s singing behind them, like dogs hearing a high-pitched squeal that no human could.

When P.T. pulled over to a roadside gas station to fill up, one customer after another did a double take on seeing his gang emerge from their vehicles like a troupe of carnival freaks. He would have laughed if it wasn’t for the sobering fact that on the far side of the interstate he saw a black Cadillac whiz by in the opposite direction. He couldn’t tell through the tinted windows if the passengers had seen him, but since the car didn’t slow down, he figured they were safe. For now.

He paid for the gas and the package of crackers and can of diet soda Cynthia slammed on the
counter in front of him. It would serve her right if her crackers crumbled. They were about to walk out the gas station door when the pimply faced attendant observed, “Do you guys know that you’re not wearing shoes?”

He and Cynthia looked at each other, looked down, then back up at the gape-mouthed kid. “No. Really?” they said simultaneously.

Their sarcasm was lost on the dimwit who replied, “Really.”

The final insult came when a gum-chewing woman with a grating Brooklyn accent came up to him. “Yo, sweet hips, whaddaya say ta givin’ a fellow New Yawkah yer autograph?”

“You don’t want my autograph, lady.”

“Yeah, I do. I collect Elvis impersonator autographs.”

“Nobody collects Elvis
impersonator
autographs.”

She puffed out her chest with pride. “I have seven hundred and seventy-six, including Elmer’s.” She waved to the beaming jerk, who was over at a roadside vendor’s buying six velvet Elvis paintings, along with one of those dashboard wiggly Elvis figures, all of which he proceeded to stuff into the already overloaded pickup. “Elmer said ya do the best Elvis hip swivel in da world. Will ya show it ta me, huh? That would be so soup-ah cool. I kin have Harvey haul out da Camcorder.” Noticing his glower, she added, “Oh, never mind ’bout da Camcorder, if it’s ax-in too much, but how ’bout da autograph.” She
shoved a ballpoint pen and a map into his hand.

Elmer had already signed, “Elvis Lives. Long live the King. Elmer Presley.”

While P.T. scribbled his own moronic message, after discarding the notion of writing “Screw Elvis,” the woman cracked her gum loudly and glanced idly over at the limo. A smirking Cynthia was leaning against the hood, drinking her soda and eating a cracker.

“Nice dress, hon,” the woman remarked, “but yer nipples are showin’.”

Yeeesss! There is justice in this world, after all
.

The apartment doorbell rang persistently. A long, uninterrupted buzz.

Enrique Alvarez had just emerged from the shower and was combing back his wet hair in front of the bathroom mirror. With a curse, he pulled a pair of black sweat pants up over his naked body and stalked toward the door.

It was only three in the afternoon, but he’d come home after a round of roadshow meetings with the antsy underwriters, who were insisting on the prince being available for the last few presentations. He was planning on heading up to the Catskills this evening to see what the hell had happened to P.T. It wasn’t like him to disappear for so long without calling. Even though Naomi had called him days ago claiming P.T. had gone to the Poconos with the shark, he figured the castle was as good a place as any to start tracking down his boss.

“Open the freakin’ door, Dick, or I’m going to kick it down.”

“Speak of the devil,” Enrique mumbled as he flicked the various deadbolts, pleased to know he wouldn’t have to leave the city after all. He thought he heard dogs barking on the other side of the door. For one insane second he wondered if P.T. had brought some dogs back with him, but then dismissed the thought. It must be that pet walker Mrs. Livingston had hired to exercise her poodles.

The door swung open, and Dick’s eyes almost popped out.

The first one to enter was a raging, barefooted P.T. in a red Elvis suit.

“Damn, you look good, boss.”

Luckily, he was able to duck at the last minute and avoid the punch to his smiling mouth.

Cynthia “The Shark” Sullivan walked in next, face flushed, chin held high. She was also barefooted, looking like sin-on-the-hoof in a dress, or almost dress, that could only be described as Forty-second Street haute couture. He also noted that she was not using crutches.
Hallelujah!

“Say one word, Alvarez, and you are toast,” she gnashed out.

He couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to.

But he had no time to dwell on her or what circumstances had prompted her arrival here with P.T. in their Vegas Strip attire. Elmer-the-loonybird-Elvis and his Bobbsey Twin girlfriend
Ruth, in matching pink jumpsuits, were being dragged inside by six leashed hound dogs.