Jimmy's ears perked up. 'That right?' he said.
'Yeah. Listen, pal. Anytime you wanna run up a tab again? It's fine by me.'
'Swell. You'll be hearin' from me real soon, Joel.'
As Jimmy hung up, his head was spinning. Would wonders never cease?
Hot damn! he thought. I'm cookin'!
That had been—what? Six, eight weeks ago now? Something like that, Jimmy thought as he bopped through Grand Central Station.
And so far all he'd been required to do was write down a name he'd been given, seal it in an envelope, and give it to the mother of some Eye-talian named Carmine. Getting an offshore bank account number in return, which he then passed along to the guy that called.
Sure enough. Two days later, one of his markers, torn in half, came in the mail.
Whoo-ee! Talk about gettin' something for next to nothin'! Only thing he wished, this guy would hurry up, have some more jobs lined up. Get those markers outta the way, since he'd incurred new debts on account of some football games.
Passing a newsstand, Jimmy Vilinsky stopped and bought both the Post and the Daily News.
Usually he didn't bother reading anything but the sports pages. Even the lurid headlines never piqued his interest. Yet something about these did. Which was weird . . .
But what was it had grabbed his eye?
Frowning, he stared at the screaming four-inch-high letters:
BILLIONAIRE'S PLANE STILL MISSING
SEARCH AND RESCUE ATTEMPTS
HAMPERED BY BLIZZARD
A grainy blow-up of a man's face accompanied the headlines.
Jimmy squinted at the photo, but it didn't ring any bells. And then the name in the caption popped off the page: Freddie T. Cantwell.
Jimmy drew a sharp breath. Could feel his skin start to tingle.
'Holy shit!' he whispered.
Taking his time, he studied the picture carefully now. Held the paper at arm's length, then brought it in real close, right up in front of his eyes, before moving it slowly back again.
Staring at the guy's mug. Feeling a strange kind of kinship, this being the guy whose name he'd passed along to Carmine—the guy now missing and feared dead.
'Now, ain't that a coincidence,' he muttered to himself.
Only thing was, Jimmy Vilinsky did not believe in coincidences. Something was going on . . . had to be. Something . . . fishy. Yeah. Come to think of it, something real fishy.
So he wasn't exactly a rocket scientist. So what? Neither was he a fool.
Next time I get a call from Mr. Smooth, Jimmy decided, I'm gonna lay it on the line. Tell him I don't mind passin' along contract hits, long as they up the ante—tear up all my markers each time!
8
Life slowed to a crawl. A lethargic, laggardly snail's pace in which seconds stretched into long minutes, and minutes into interminable infinity.
The very texture of reality had undergone a change. The air surrounding Dorothy-Anne seemed to have thickened and grown heavy, miring her in molasses like sluggishness, while a coarse-grained gauze descended over her vision, robbing everything of clarity, contrast, and color—as if her eyes had been substituted with poor-quality, out-of-focus 16mm lenses.
She felt numb and dazed. Punched, battered, pummeled, beaten; finally KO'd by one uppercut too many. That she still sat upright was by virtue of her hospital bed's having been in that position when Dr. Burt Chalfin, chief of surgery, came by—he of the smooth, well-rehearsed bedside manner—to explain why, despite what he had to tell her, she was one very lucky lady.
Whoever said that trouble always comes in threes is wrong. Trouble doesn't come in threes. It comes in fours. Freddie missing . . . then losing the baby . . . being told I had cancer—
And, as if that hadn't been enough, she'd now sustained yet another cataclysmic upheaval.
Her reproductive organs were gone.
Gone!
I've been spayed.
The thought burst in her mind like an artillery shell.
I no longer have a womb.
How can I be a woman when I've been neutered?
Somehow, Burt Chalfin's voice breached the sludge like pressure that threatened to crush her from all sides. 'Mrs. Cantwell? Mrs. Cantwell!'
Dorothy-Anne's eyes slowly focused. 'Life is a game of chance,' she whispered desolately, 'and I keep throwing snake eyes.'
'Aw, sugar,' Venetia, perched on the edge of the bed and holding Dorothy-Anne's hand, said commiseratingly. 'Honey, we're with you all the way. We'll help you get through this.'
Dorothy-Anne looked at her through pain-racked eyes. 'No,' she said dully. 'No one can help me. Not with this.'
Burt Chalfin cleared his throat behind a cupped hand. He said, 'under the circumstances, Mrs. Cantwell, it's only normal that you'll be feeling depressed—'
A sharp pain shot through Dorothy-Anne's heart. For a moment the world stretched elastically out of shape, then suddenly snapped back into place.
'Depressed!'
She stared at him.
'Jesus and Mary on a bicycle!' she said thickly, blinking back tears. 'I lost my baby, dammit, and you just got through telling me I can't have another! This isn't depression! This is dying and going to fucking hell!'
He looked at her gently. 'But don't you see, Mrs. Cantwell? The child would never have stood a chance. At least this way we discovered the ovarian mass in time. Also, if you hadn't been brought in when you were, you'd have hemorrhaged to death. All in all, you might want to count your blessings.'
'My blessings,' she said sardonically.
'Dr. Chalfin's right,' Venetia said huskily. 'You're alive, sugar. Alive!'
Alive. 'My baby died, and for all I know, Freddie's dead, too! What the hell's the use of being alive?'
'Oh, sugar.'
Venetia glanced worriedly up at Dr. Chalfin and then back at Dorothy-Anne.
'Honey, you've got plenty of reasons to go on living. For starters, there're the kids . . .'
But Dorothy-Anne wasn't listening. She turned her head sideways on the pillow and looked away, past the irritating silver balloons, teddy bears, and floral arrangements worthy of a Mafia don's funeral, and stared dully out the window at the brick wall beyond.
Venetia fell silent and once again glanced up at Dr. Chalfin.
He nodded and said, 'The good news, Mrs. Cantwell, is so long as you take it easy, we'll have the catheter out of you by tomorrow. And discharge you in a few days.'
'Thank you,' Dorothy-Anne said listlessly.
And still keeping her face averted, she thought: Must I lose everything I hold precious? She wondered at the injustices of fate. Is this what life has in store for me?
'Mrs. Cantwell,' the doctor said.
Dorothy-Anne soughed a deep sigh.
Dr. Chalfin's voice was soft. 'It's not the end of the world, you know.'
But Dorothy-Anne knew better.
For me it is.
'Och! Now wha' the divil's come into the three o' ye?' demanded Nanny Florrie despairingly in her broad central uplands accent.
Fedora-ed, loden caped, and sensibly shod, she had her hands full, trying in vain to shoo the three obstinate little bodies, their feet planted in unyielding, wide-legged stances, out of the hospital room.
Apprehensively Zack blurted, as the firm Scottish hands came to rest on his, the littlest shoulders: 'Mommy! But we just got here! Why do we have to leave already?'
Liz, precociously attuned to the subtleties of mood shifts, however slight, cocked her head to one side, the corners of her lips turning down in a frown.
'Mom,' she said. 'Like this is really, really weird. I mean, there's something negative you aren't telling us. Y'know?'
And Fred, with a casual toss of his head to flip his longish, centrally parted hair out of his eyes, gazed at his mother through slitted lashes, his slim, model-perfect face, raven eyebrows, and sulky expression conveying suspicion.
'It's bad news, isn't it?' he asked gently. ' 'Bout Dad?'
Hearing the fear in their young, pure voices brought an ache to Dorothy-Anne's heart. Clearly, their alarm was a matter of transference, a direct result of her own numb listlessness rubbing off on them.
They're looking to me for strength and succor. They need me now as they've never needed me before.
But the fact of the matter remained that she wasn't here for them. Not this time. Too many disasters had piled up too fast, had taken too massive a toll. All her emotional reservoirs had been drained and squeezed dry; all her reserves had been used up.
They need me. But how can I help them when I can't even help myself?
'No, sweethearts,' she managed in a strained whisper, 'it's not about your father. There's still been no word of him.'
'Then what's wrong, Ma?' Fred persisted.
'D-d-don't you love us anymore?' blubbered Zack, on the verge of tears.
Dorothy-Anne felt her insides contract. Oh, God. What kind of mother am I? How can I let them down at a time like this?
'Oh, sweetheart.'
Dorothy-Anne held out a weak hand.
'Come here to Mommy.'
But Zack didn't rush into her arms. Instead, he remained where he was, intractably wedged between the protective flanks of his older siblings. And how solemn, how uncharacteristically subdued they were, these usual bundles of high-octane energy!
'Sweetie?'
Dorothy-Anne kept her arm extended. Finally, when it became clear that he was determined to defy her, she wearily let her arm drop.
She glanced to either side of him. At Liz, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. Fred, impatiently shifting his weight from one foot to the other. And all three of them pinning her with their intense gazes. Waiting for the explanation they deserved, but which refused to come.
Burning guilt flooded through her. She just didn't have the strength to provide the necessary balm that would magically dissolve their fears. And saddling them with the cruel, additional freight of the truth was unthinkable.
Bad enough their father was missing and their mother hospitalized. That was enough to weigh on the strongest young shoulders.
Now if only I could weave some plausible white lie . . . some harmless explanation. But what? What . . . ?
She struggled to think, but her brain refused to cooperate. She could almost feel her mental cogs and gears mired in that grainy-textured, thick and heavy sludge that made it seem she was inhabiting a monochromatic world with a different, deeper atmospheric pressure.
It was Venetia who saved the day. Venetia who came around from the other side of the bed and to the rescue. Venetia crouched down in front of the trio and embraced them in her extraordinarily long, amazingly graceful slender arms.
'Hey guys,' she told them huskily, 'now listen up. Your mama's had a tough time. She's just as desperate for news of your dad as you are. And being sick on top of it doesn't make it any easier.' She held their gazes solemnly. 'Catch my drift?'
'Y'mean Mom's really sick?' Liz said, aquamarine eyes widening. 'Not just stressed to the max, but, like, sick sick?'
Venetia looked at Liz sternly. 'Child? You going around putting words in this girl's mouth?' she demanded, striking just the right balance between adult authority and one-on-one equality.
Liz shook her head.
'Good. 'Cause if I were you, I wouldn't. Just remember, you're being kept informed. Soon as we know something, we'll let you know. You can bank on it. You with me so far?'
She waited for their nods.
'Good. Meanwhile, your mama's exhausted. You can see that for yourself. And, as far as what's wrong with her, you know how medicine can make you feel kinda dopey or woozy? Like you're really out of it?'
Zack's head bobbed up and down almost immediately. But Fred and Liz weren't easily conned. Smelling a rat, their eyes probed Venetia's for signs of deception while their minds speed-searched instant replays of her words for implausibility. They had the ring of truth, but . . .
'Now, the doctor told your mama she can go home in a few days,' Venetia said. 'That is, if she gets enough rest.'
'Really?' The clear treble voice was Zack's.
'Really.' Venetia nodded. 'So you see? It's up to the three of you to see that she gets it.' She looked at each of them in turn. 'You do want her out of here pronto, don't you?'
Again they nodded solemnly, their heads bobbing out of sync.
'But Mommy will be okay?' Zack asked. 'You promise?'
'Your mama will be just fine, sugar.' Venetia removed her arms from around them, smiled, and held up a long-nailed, red-taloned hand. 'Scout's honor.'
They all stared at her.
'So. We on the same wavelength?' she asked.
'I guess so,' Fred said, speaking for them all.
'Great.' Venetia gave the threesome another hug and then stood up. She grinned at Nanny Florrie. 'Nanny? They're all yours.'
'Thank Gude. I dinna ken how ye dae it.'
Nanny proceeded to shepherd her charges around the bed and toward the door, clucking and scolding like a disapproving hen.
'Ah, come on now, laddies. An' ye too, lassie! I willna have nae more o' this nonsense. 'Tis no way to behave, yer poor mother needin' 'er rest an' all. Ye have to be braw. Now, what havena we seen? How aboot Alcatraz?'
Both Liz and Fred groaned.
'I want to go back to the Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum!' Zack piped up, tugging on Nanny's cape.
'Dae ye, wee laddie? Weel . . . '
'Oh, puh-leeze,' sniffed Liz, rolling her eyes heavenward. 'It's, like, yuck! Beyond grody and soooo immature. I'll go back to the hotel and my computer.'
'And I wanna pick up a new video game,' Fred mumbled.
Venetia stood by the bedside, her arms folded in front of her as she and Dorothy-Anne watched them troop out.
'They're good kids,' Venetia observed softly.
'Yes. And I've let them down,' Dorothy-Anne whispered thickly, tears trailing a rivulet down each cheek.
Venetia heaved an exasperated sigh. 'Girl!' she exclaimed, placing her hands on her hips and spiking Dorothy-Anne with her eyes. 'You are one fiiiiine piece of work! Have you taken a good look around you lately?'
'Have I . . . ?' Dorothy-Anne blinked.
'Where are you?' Venetia grilled.
'In the hospital.'
'My point exactly. And you're in here for a reason. Right?'
'But I'm their mother!. It's up to me to—'
'It's up to you to get better,' Venetia interrupted with no-nonsense finality. 'And there's no way you can help them without doing that. Now get some rest. You look like you sure do need it.'
Dorothy-Anne sighed and nodded and turned her head sideways on the pillow.
A major mistake. Floral arrangements, teddy bears, and balloons filled her vision and grated.
'Venetia,' she sighed. 'See all that stuff?'
Venetia looked toward the window and nodded. 'What about it, sugar?'
Suddenly Dorothy-Anne felt bone-weary. Venetia was right. She needed to rest. She turned her head in the opposite direction and shut her eyes. 'Get rid of it,' she said.
9
High atop Pacific Heights in the Beaux Arts mansion overlooking the bay, Gloria Anne Watters Winslow anointed herself with dabs of Jaipur. Slowly, she touched the cool wet glass stopper to the backs of her ears, the hollow of her throat, both the fronts and backs of her wrists and, finally, to the cleft of her bosom. As she buttoned her scoop- necked, flesh-tone silk blouse, she inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring appreciatively. She loved smelling expensive, just as she loved dressing expensively and living expensively. She almost loved it as much as drinking. But not quite.
Gloria reached for the flute of champagne on her lace-skirted vanity, lifted it, and then, frowning, put it shakily back down. She eyed it balefully.
Enough was enough. It was not even half past noon, and she'd nearly demolished a bottle of Cristal '79—on an empty stomach yet. Any more, and the cloud of well-being she moved around in wou
ld start playing havoc with her equilibrium.
That decided, she headed for her room-sized walk-in closet. She was halfway there when the telephone began to chirrup. Gloria gnashed her teeth and decided to ignore it. It was still chirruping when she entered her boutique like closet. At least from in here the insistent sound was distant, muted.
Gazing around, she wondered what she was going to wear. Lunch at Act IV. With the Queen of Toad Hall. Definitely not an occasion she looked forward to.
At last the telephone fell silent and the house was once again blessedly quiet. Thank God. Now she could select her outfit in peace. What to wear, what to wear . . .
She started a slow circumference of the closet, rippling the expensively laden, silk-padded hangers with outstretched fingers. The overstuffed, built-in racks of brilliant patterns and colors soon hurt her eyes. Damn. She should have lit a cigarette before coming in here. She should have finished the champagne, too. A maintenance drink never hurt.
Out in the bedroom, the intercom clicked on and she could hear the butler's voice. 'Mrs. Winslow? Mrs. Winslow?'
Oh, damn! Now what?
Gloria stalked back out into the bedroom and hit the intercom button. 'What is it, Roddy?' she snapped.
'Your mother-in-law is holding on line three.'
Mother-in-law. The elder Mrs. Winslow. The Queen of Toad Hall.
Gloria sighed mightily. 'Oh, all right,' she grumbled truculently. 'I'll take it.'
Gloria clicked off, downed the rest of the champagne in one swallow, pressed extension three, and picked up the phone. She hoped the old bitch was calling to cancel. Now that would be welcome news.
'Hello? Mother Winslow?'
'I'm just leaving the house, Gloria.' As always, her mother-in-law's voice was full of starch, vigor, and disapproval. 'Are you dressed yet?'
'Of course I'm dressed,' Gloria lied.
'Well, I hope you're wearing an American designer. You know the press will pick you to pieces if you don't.'
'You didn't tell me this was going to be a press conference.'
Althea Winslow's voice turned hard and cold. 'It isn't. But you never know who we'll run into. It's important always to give the right impression. Must I continuously remind you that Hunt's political future is at stake?'
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