‘As long as I can put duct tape over your mouth when you’re awake.’ He chuckled at my gasp of indignation. ‘Sorry, but I can’t make it tonight.’
I hesitated. ‘Is this because I won’t move in with you?’
‘No, I’ve just been assigned to a special operation, and I’m going to be out of communication for a while.’
‘Oh,’ I pouted, knowing I sounded like a spoiled brat but not caring. I really liked the sex-a-thon idea.
‘Are you jealous?’ He couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice.
‘Me? No way!’ I said, doing a damned good impression of not sounding utterly pissed off.
‘You are so bad at lying.’
‘That’s not true. Sometimes I can tell really good lies,’ I said.
‘Like when?’
‘Like the time you bought me that really horrible hookerish top.’
There was silence for a while. ‘You said that top was nice.’
‘It is. If you’re a hooker.’
‘I see. What about the terracotta plant pot I bought for your birthday, which you’ve just left by the front door for months, untouched? I distinctly remember you saying that was nice.’
‘No, I like that. I just don’t know what to do with it.’
‘I don’t know whether to believe you now,’ he said. It was his turn to try and not sound pissed off.
‘Sorry, but I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later,’ I said, not really wanting to get into a lying contest with him over the phone.
‘This conversation isn’t over yet. What about—’
‘Great. Bye!’ I hung up and dialed Brad.
‘Speak,’ Brad said.
‘Once upon a time there was a princess, and she lived in a far away land called Woogahumphta, with free clothes and shoes and chocolate that had no calories in it—’
‘What are you on, Foxy?’
‘Stop answering the phone like that, then.’ I pulled a face at him down the phone. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’
He let out an impatient sigh. ‘What’s the bad news?’
‘Fandango isn’t here.’
‘What’s the good news?’
‘There’s lots of crime scene tape everywhere.’
‘And why is that good news?’
‘I guess it isn’t,’ I said. ‘I just didn’t want to say there was only bad news.’
Brad sighed, and I could imagine him running his hand through his hair in frustration. ‘What was Fandango like when you saw him yesterday?’
‘Short, hairy, wearing a smoking jacket, can you believe that? I didn’t think they—’
‘Did he seem nervous or worried about anything?’ He broke in.
‘Why?’
‘There’s one other thing that I didn’t tell you before. Fandango may be connected to the mob. I’m trying to get some more information from my informant, but he’s gone missing, too.’
My jaw dropped. ‘The mob mob? Or another unrelated, totally nice kind of mob?’
‘Right the first time.’
I just had to think it yesterday, didn’t I? What else could go wrong, indeed?
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*
Barbara Silkstone
Have You Ever Lost a Hat?
I lost everything. My home, my car, and my retirement accounts. I was physically attacked inside and outside a court building. My daughter and baby granddaughter were threatened. I came at the bad guys like a mother tiger.
A few years earlier I had agreed to testify against a real estate developer in a civil racketeering case. He was obscenely rich and could afford a hanger full of Lear jets, four sneering lawyers, and a greedy judge. In an effort to discredit my testimony in his upcoming trial and to frighten me out of appearing against him, his team of legal manipulators pasted together a bogus suit against me designed to keep me tied up in court and unable to function. They underestimated my sense of justice.
I’d been sitting on the witness stand for the better part of a day… one of many in my five-year “trial.” The judge, forgetting her microphone was on, had just proclaimed me “a pretty tough cookie.” I’d given up expecting justice. It was much too late for fairness. I was in an out-of-body state observing my own funeral and laughing about it.
When the four-hundred pound lawyer asked me if I’d ever lost a hat, I thought one of us had lost our minds. I was pretty sure it wasn’t me. He blinked as if he realized the absurdity of what he asked and dropped the line of inquiry. The question struck my funny bone and sent me into giggle-fits. And that was the moment when The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters was born.
Within a few months the lawyers I hired to help me sucked up every penny I could muster. When I was broke, they walked off the case. Unlike in criminal cases, defendants in civil litigation must pay for their own attorneys. No money — no lawyers. I was on my own. I needed to defend myself. But how when the case was nonsense? How do you fight silly? The lost hat question was a perfect example of the charges brought against me. But the more ridiculous their charges, the stronger and feistier I grew. For each thing they threw at me, I came back that much harder, roaring and taking notes for my someday book.
Since I was a child my driving passion has been to write. In Catholic grade school I started an underground newspaper. When our nun forbade me to continue, I carried the paper further underground. While I continued to write as an adult, life eventually got in the way of living and my writing took a backseat. But now as I sat in the courtroom I was inspired and chomping at the bit to get this real-life fairytale on paper.
Anger boiled in me as I saw the precious time I had carved out for writing being eaten up as I defended myself in bizarre proceedings. I was spending all my time in the law library studying the Rules of Civil Procedure in order to write Motions and Pleadings and filing them against the court in such rapid fire I would have made Rambo back off.
Earning a living on commission sales is impossible when you are spending 14 hours a day fighting a pack of legal sharks. I had to take the creepiest part-time jobs… things that still give me nightmares. Things like working for a gold broker who brought us the teeth from dead people. We were expected to separate the gold from the molars — not unlike the lawyers I was dealing with. I needed the money but not that badly. I ran to the nearest exit.
Locked in a deadly struggle with the notorious real estate developer, I chose that time to become romantically involved with a Brit who, it turned out was not what he seemed to be. I stepped into the perfect storm. The Brit’s upper-class accent and polished manners hid a not-too-clever conman, but clever enough to fool my starry eyes. The developer and the conman clashed in a rage of wicked deeds. I was sandwiched between them.
Is The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters true? Would Lewis Carroll say Alice in Wonderland was true? The emotions are real and still raw, but the journey was worth the results. Would I do it again? You bet your tushie. My sense of justice would not permit otherwise. But I would not be quite so naïve. I would expect slimy tricks and dirty pool. Merely because someone wears a robe and speaks of the law does not mean they abide by the law.
“The Hail Mary Pass” refers to any very long forward pass made in desperation with only a small chance of success. It’s used in football and occasionally courtrooms.
My Hail Mary Pass knocked the bad guys on their butts. I filed a Petition for a Writ of Certiorari, which is a request to the United States Supreme Court asking that Court to review the decision of a lower court. I cast a spotlight on their dark shenanigans.
And as my Petition worked its way along the queue in the United States Supreme Court, making it almost to the finish line, the judge on my case went strangely silent, the notorious developer disappeared, and the Brit wandered off. I had become a writer but not in the way I had
envisioned. I was a self-taught legal guerrilla who had managed to land her petition to be heard by the highest court in the United States… right through the goal post. Unfortunately, in the end corruption won and I barely escaped with a toothbrush and a change of clothes.
Were those five years tough? Yes. But I fought because I knew I couldn’t live with myself if I rolled into a ball. I fought with the wit and sarcasm of Alice in the original Alice in Wonderland. Standing on the outside watching the Jabberwocky operate on the inside. I knew that someday my story, fictionalized with absolutely no resemblance to anyone living or dead and the names changed to protect the corrupt, would make a darn good yarn. And each step of the way, like Lewis Carroll and my out-of-body ordeal, I would allow the action to the skate on the edge of logic.
In The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters, a few murders have been thrown in for comic relief, and the characters have been shaken and stirred, then presented in a Pythonesque light. Any similarities to the jerks I dealt with is purely coincidental.
Have I ever lost a hat? Probably.
But did I retain my passion for writing, and even kick it up a notch? Absolutely.
Every adventure contains a novel.
Sometime you have to pay dearly for it.
*
Quoting the Cheshire Cat:
“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?” (Alice)
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.
“I don’t much care where—” said Alice.
“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.
“—So long as I get somewhere,” Alice added as an explanation.
“Oh you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”
About the Chick
When you’re a freelance writer with a quirky sense of humor, being in the right place at the right time helps a lot. If I just stand still for five minutes… wham! Something funny and worth writing about will happen to me. I’ve accidentally sky dived, been elected president of the Japan American Society (I’m not Japanese), been stalked by crazies, and ran off with a real life White Rabbit. I was fortunate enough to take part in writing workshops with Stephen King, Robert B. Parker, and James Michener.
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The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland Age 42 and Three-Quarters
Barbara Silkstone
An Excerpt
Chapter 1
Curious how our lives can take on the shadings of a fairy tale, the line between reality and fantasy becoming fuzzy.
New Year’s Eve morning, fourteen hours to a fresh start. I parked my Jeep at the far end of the mall lot and speed walked toward Macy’s for a quick stop at the Lancôme counter to get my favorite wrinkle-poofer. The gentle Miami winter sun kissed my face.
A striped cat crossed in front of me, stopped and grinned. A full set of human teeth. I closed my eyes and shook my head. When I opened them, he was gone.
I heard the low idle of a car driving slowly behind me and looked over my shoulder. A dark limo with a tinted windshield was following me. Instinct kicked in and I broke into a trot. The limo moved forward. I had reason for concern. Two women had been murdered in separate incidents in that very parking lot the past year.
Halfway to Macy’s and still not sure if I was being followed; I zipped through the line of cars, stepped over the grass median, into the next lane, and ran.
The limo looped around. I fumbled in the side pocket of my bag and freed my cell phone, punching in 9 and 1. The phone slipped from my sweaty hand, hit my shoe and slid under an SUV. Screw it. Leaping over the bushy islands that stood between me and safety, I fell flat on my face, hitting my cheek against the turf. I pulled a clump of my red-blond hair away from my eyes.
“Ms. Harte.”
I looked up at a man’s face in the window of the limo. He had a droopy, walrus-like mustache.
“Ms. Harte, we’d like to talk to you.”
“Call my office.” I threw him a pissy look as I scrambled to stand.
“It’s about Leslie Archer.”
“Who?” I played dumb.
Before I could run again, two men stepped out of the car and grabbed me. Twins, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee dressed in dark clothes; both had noses that twisted to the right beneath scarred brows. They lifted me into the car by my elbows.
So this is how it ends. I flashed on the headlines — Alice Harte, Miami Real Estate Broker, 42 and Three-Quarters, Found Murdered at Biscayne Mall.
A stocky guy sat shotgun. He had slicked back hair, a hard-set jaw, bull-neck and sunglasses perched on large ears. One Tweedle took the driver’s seat and the other sat directly across from me in the rear-facing back seat. Next to me was the man with the walrus mustache, a portly guy with prominent front teeth, a derby and pince-nez glasses. He said, “Ms. Harte, I’m an attorney. My name is Walter Lewis. I represent Marc Hare.”
My heart rolled over. I knew the Hare name.
“We’re going after your employer, Leslie Archer, for fraud and racketeering, civil RICO. You’ll be testifying against him.”
“Look, whoever you are, I know nothing about Leslie Archer’s business. I just work for him. I’ve been trying to quit. He won’t let me go. I’m no good to you.”
“Exactly why you are good to us — you’re part of his inner circle. We want everything you can dig up on him. You will take the stand against Archer.” He poked his fat finger in my face.
I reached up and smacked his hand, hard. The backseat Tweedle grabbed my wrist and bent it. I yelped in pain.
The thick-necked man in the front passenger seat looked at me through his sunglasses. “Enough bullshit. You know the name Jug Hare?”
Jug Hare had been a small time contractor with a wife and five kids. He was found beheaded days after he filed suit against Leslie Archer.
“Jug was my baby brother. I’m Marc Hare. I’m sure you’re afraid of Archer, but he’s the least of your worries.”
Leslie Archer scared me in many ways. But who was Sunglasses? Why should I be afraid of him? He talked lawsuit, but he looked and acted like a thug. I’d met his kind before. I narrowed my eyes and said, “I’m not going into court again, not for you, not for anyone.”
I felt like I had stepped into a gangster film. All I wanted was face cream, now I’m some sort of witness against Leslie for a guy who acts like he might be even more dangerous.
My gut churned. “Leslie has won every lawsuit thrown at him. What happens when you run out of money and can’t keep your suit? Where does that leave me? He’ll kill me.”
Sunglasses answered not trying to conceal his venom, “I’m taking the bastard down, one way or the other. And if you had a hand in my brother’s death, you’re going with him.”
My gut churned harder. For months I’d feared being accused of participating in Leslie’s slimy and possibly illegal shenanigans. I looked at Marc Hare. Leslie was dead meat and I might be the side dish.
“You’re testifying,” Sunglasses said in a bone-chilling hiss.
I wanted out of that car. “When is this going to happen? I need to get away from him before it does.”
“You don’t get it,” Walrus Mustache said. “You’re going to continue working for Archer and keep your eyes open until your deposition.”
My stomach was like a washer on spin cycle. “Deposition?”
“It’s a proceeding where my partner and I and Archer’s attorneys question you about your testimony.”
I wanted to barf on his shoes. Suddenly wrinkle-poofer was the least important thing on my list of things to do.
Sunglasses said, “You won’t be hearing from us but we’ll be hearing from you. And find out everything you can about a company called Red Queen, Ltd.”
A thorn lodged in my throat. “You want me to spy fo
r you?”
Sunglasses’ mouth curled up in the corners, but it was far from a smile. “It would be to your advantage to play ball with us. If you don’t…” he slid his finger across his throat. “Get out.”
I stepped from the black car onto the surface of a marshmallow. My legs buckled. I leaned on the nearest vehicle and set off its alarm.
“You’ll need this.” One of the Tweedles handed me my cell phone. I took it with shaky hands.
Going to the office was out of the question. No one would miss me on New Year’s Eve day. I drove back to my house in Westminster Lakes, a gated community just outside Miami.
My garage door came down with a reassuring thud. It would be easier to think clearly within my own walls. And I had a lot to think about — Sunglasses, Leslie… and what the hell was RICO?
I walked into the kitchen, threw my bag on the counter and grabbed a bottled water from the fridge. My cat Gem and I share a large contemporary Florida house on a tiny pristine lake. It’s an island of security in a crazy world.
What did I know about RICO? In the back of my mind sat the slippery eel of a thought I had heard that word attached to Leslie before today. I work for Leslie Archer, the worst human being on the face of the earth. He develops upscale resorts; I brokered the luxury apartment buildings that sit on the land he owns, mostly to pension funds and investment groups. In his fifty-three years, Leslie has managed to insinuate himself into the top slot on some impressive enemy lists.
At my computer, I typed RICO in the search bar and like a slot machine, the tumblers spun. Up came a definition that fit Leslie like his spray-on tan: Racketeering. If Hare won under civil RICO, he would be able to get all Leslie’s money, homes, and jets. Leslie was all about possessions. This was going to get ugly.
I was mouse-trapped. Leslie wouldn’t let me out of my employment agreement with Archer Resorts. And now I was supposed to be an undercover snoop for some thug.
Chapter 2
For many years I had promised myself I would find a way to live in England. It was the perfect time to split. I called my best friend Ron, a good looking guy with two great shoulders for my slender body to lean on. “I need to talk.”
Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories Page 50
