He had made his excuses as Maggie and Felicity were still arguing over the animal situation, which had proved problematic for some time, as the cats had cornered Brock beneath Maggie's desk and were refusing to let him out again. With Wellington on one side, Napoleon on the other. Brock had been industriously demonstrating the surprisingly copious capacity of his bladder by releasing some of its contents in occasional frightened spurts, all over Maggie's carpet.
Yes, it would be good to be out and about, doing more manly things. Gentlemen had needs. Gentlemen needed space, for one thing. Gentlemen needed to show that they were men, first and foremost, enjoying the company and manly pursuits of others of their gender. That's why gentlemen's clubs had been in vogue nearly since the beginning of time. He himself belonged to Whites, Brooks, and his own very exclusive club, the one he'd founded two years after coming into his majority—the club so exclusive it did not even deign to bother with a name.
Perhaps that's what was lacking in his life now that he was residing in twenty-first-century Manhattan. A club of his own. A dark and comfortable space filled with the smells of aged brandy, good cigars, fine leathers. A place where devoted servants pressed the morning papers with a warm iron before delivering them to the members, and even washed the coins a gentleman must by necessity carry in his pockets. A place where a wagering book was always available, and a gentleman could rely on the daily boiled dinner to be a reminder of his childhood if he deigned to partake of it. Boon companions with whom he could debate the politics of the day, discuss sporting events, play a few hands at whist or perhaps set up a faro bank—even brag just a bit about their accomplishments at turf and table. And all without the worry of women in their midst.
Who would he ask to join him? That was a bit of a dilemma, wasn't it? By rights, only those of the peerage, or with families that could be traced back to the time of William the Conquerer would be even considered for membership.
Then again, these were, for the most part, often dull-as-ditchwater gentlemen whose blood had been combined one too many times, leading to a propensity for weak chins, knobby knees, dreadful overbites, and the occasional peer who seemed happiest when dribbling into his soup.
Thank goodness for Sterling. Saint Just enjoyed Steve Wendell, and Socks was a near constant surprise to him. Then there were George and Vernon but, no, they wouldn't do. They were simply too young. He remembered the story—Maggie had recounted it in one of their books—of the disaster caused when a London gentlemen's club catering to younger members had been shut down for renovations and the members of one of the more prestigious clubs had offered to share their own space with them for the duration.
Rolls had been tossed, not passed, from one end of the dining table to the other. Noise and drunkenness had been a major problem. And then there was the young gentleman who had poked his nose against that of a slumbering member in the smoking room and then loudly inquired, "I say, is this old codger sleeping or dead? I want to sit down."
Saint Just stepped out onto the sidewalk, still pulling on his black kid gloves, for the day was turning to early December night and the temperature had dropped considerably. He'd have to discuss the idea of their own club with Sterling when next he saw him. Sterling understood the need for some sort of decorum, after all. Not too high in the instep, but an establishment required a certain level of dignity in order for it to be a comfortable haven.
"Sterling?" he said a moment later as his dignified and decorous friend approached along the sidewalk, all but skipping, still clad in his bright red Father Christmas costume, and flanked by his Merry Men, who seemed to be flagging slightly in their green elf suits. Ah, well, perhaps the idea of a gentlemen's club could wait for another day. "Vernon. George. Have you had a productive afternoon?"
"It was above all things marvelous, Saint Just," Sterling told him, giving his bell a hearty ring, at which time George, not looking all that merry, reached over and snatched the thing out of his hand.
"I hear that frigging bell ring one more time, Sterl-man, I'm going postal all over your pudgy little body," George warned tersely. "I warned you, remember? Ding-ding, ding-ding! Hour after hour! I can't stand it any more!"
"There, there, George." Saint Just lifted a hand to his mouth to hide his smile. "Don't you all look—festive."
"Vernon was a huge success, Saint Just," Sterling told him happily. "He brought that small folding table with him, and he put these three walnut-shell halves on top of it, with a dried pea—that's what it was, wasn't it, Vernon, a dried pea? At any rate, he encouraged everyone to watch him place the pea beneath one of the walnut shells and then he mixed them round and round on the tabletop and people gave him money to guess where the pea had gone. They hardly ever guessed correctly. Wasn't that a brilliant idea?"
"I think I'd call it inventive," Saint Just said, looking at the youth lately known as Snake, the one whose mother, a recent resident of the state's penal system, had given her son an engraved switchblade for his birthday. "And how much money did you earn this way for Santas for Silver, hmmm?"
"Uh ... well, I ... I don't know, Alex. I put it all in the chimney. Didn't I, George?"
"Yeah, that's right. That's what he did. In the chimney. All of it."
"Of course he did. Unless he forgot some of it? Perhaps slipped a few bills into his pockets for safekeeping and then simply forgot about them? All that money for the needy children—we wouldn't wish to overlook a penny of it, would we? I have a thought—why don't you just check your pockets, my friend. Now."
"Yeah, sure, Alex," Vernon said, digging in the pockets of his elf costume and coming out with a wad of crumpled bills in both hands. "Wow, look at that. I must have forgotten to put some of it in the chimney, huh?"
"A forgivable offense, as your heart was in the right place, wasn't it, Vernon. Now, if you'll simply hand the money over to Sterling?"
"It's all right, Vernon," Sterling said, stuffing the bills into the chimney. "Oh, this is so exciting. I'll wager Mr. Goodfellow will be handing out gold stars to the three of us tomorrow for collecting more money than any of the other Santas. Won't that be nice?"
The boys grumbled, their faintly sickly smiles failing to register as anything less than delight to the innocent, trusting Sterling.
"And there was no trouble?" Saint Just asked George, who shook his head.
"A couple of guys looked like they wanted to try something, but that's all. You need us again tomorrow? Please say no."
Saint Just reached into his pocket and took out his money clip, counting out two hundred dollars and handing the money to Vernon and George. "For your trouble, you understand, and you will still be paid your usual rate for the Street Corner Orators and Players. Now, I'm sure you'd like to be on your way and out of those charming outfits. I'll phone you in the morning if I need you. Thank you again."
"Yes, thank you, you're both splendid, splendid gentlemen. And didn't we have fun!" Sterling said, shaking their hands as they both looked at him as if he was a sweet, slightly slow fellow they would kill for if such a thing became necessary.
Once the boys were in a cab and on their way—even a Snake and a Killer, Saint Just supposed, would not readily wish to ride the subway in green elf suits—Saint Just told Sterling about the demise of Jonathan West and the new living arrangements he would find upstairs, including the resolution he had reached concerning Brock.
"Miss Simmons refused to be parted from her animal, so Napoleon and Wellington will for the nonce be residing with us. I've moved Henry's cage to the top of your wardrobe chest, where I'm sure he'll be safe. I'm sorry, Sterling, but it was the only solution I could think of at the time, as Brock seemed near to suffering an apoplexy."
"That's all right, Saint Just. I'm sure you'll discover the identity of the murderer soon enough, and we'll all be able to return to our usual routines. Is that where you're going now? To solve the murders?"
"I am nearly unmanned by your faith in my abilities, my friend. Actually, I'm off on a sm
all errand on an entirely other matter," Saint Just said, motioning to Paul, who had just come on duty.
The idiot boy waved at him.
"Allow me to clarify my gesture, Paul. Gratified as I am to see you, I was indicating that you should attempt to secure a cab for me."
"A cab? You want a cab? Jeez. All you had to do was ask. You didn't have to go all fancy talk on me."
"Remind me, Sterling, if you will, that I have decided to gift Paul with a lovely assortment of sugarless fudge for the holidays."
"How kind of you to remember him at all. Do you want me to come with you, Saint Just?" Sterling asked, hefting his Santas for Silver chimney. "I could just go upstairs and change. It would only take a minute."
"No, Sterling, thank you. You go see to the animals if you would, and then visit with Maggie and Miss Simmons until I return. Do try to keep them from clawing at each other, all right?"
Sterling frowned. "But you said you put the cats in our condo."
"Maggie and Miss Simmons, Sterling. I was referring to the ladies."
"Oh," Sterling said, looking confused as Saint Just inclined his head toward his friend before passing a bill to Paul and entering the cab that would take him to Long Island.
The restaurant he entered forty-five minutes later could not have been more than twenty feet wide, but it was at least three times as long as it was wide, and the air smelled delicious; a mix of oils and sauces and, most definitely, garlic.
He saw Salvatore Campiano almost immediately, as the man, a large white square tucked into his collar, stood up and waved a spoon in his direction, summoning him to the table the man occupied alone, although the pair of pilot fish stood slightly behind him, one to each side of their employer.
"I'm fascinated by the Godfather movies," Saint Just said as he took his seat to the left of Campiano. "Do you mind that I am loathe to sit with my back to the door? Oh, and if you'd be so kind as to answer a question for me, as you told me earlier on the telephone that you own this restaurant."
Campiano spoke around a mouthful of linguine. "Anything. Anything you want to know. Of course, then I should have to kill you," he ended, laughing so hard at his own joke that he began to choke on his food and one of the man-mountains quickly stepped forward to slap him on the back as he glared at Saint Just. "Basta! Enough, Tony! What—I'm a baby here? You going to burp me? The man is asking me a question."
"Sorry, boss," Tony said, stepping back once more, him large hands folded in front of him as he stood, legs slightly apart, a near twin to the other bodyguard. Rather like Gog and Magog, the pair of straw giants that once stood sentinel outside the London Guildhall.
Gentleman that he was, Saint Just went on as if nothing had happened, and asked his question. "It is a matter of logistics, sir. As the history of your ... of your profession, shall I say for lack of a more fitting descriptive word ... is numbered by several occasions upon which a gentleman, such as yourself, is shot down by his enemies in an establishment such as this—why do you persist in taking your meals in such an establishment? That is, defensively, you're fairly without options here, aren't you? Only one way to go if under attack, and sitting here rather like a duck on a pond. What is it I'm not seeing, Mr. Campiano?"
Campiano shrugged. "My boys here, they're armed. Show him, boys."
Before Tony or his companion could pull their large personal cannons from their waistbands, Saint Just had captured Tony in a headlock, while the point of his unsheathed sword stick caressed the Adam's apple of the second bodyguard. The patrons at a table near them all hit the floor with an alacrity that brought a small smile to Saint Just's lips.
"Tell them I mean no harm, Mr. Campiano," Saint Just said, tightening his grip on Tony's thick neck as the man struggled to shake him loose. "Tell them I'm merely attempting to demonstrate my point, that point being that, were I serious, Tony here would already be shaking hands with his maker, this other gentleman would be skewered, and you, sir, would have swallowed your last bite of linguine."
Campiano sat back and applauded Saint Just's efforts, motioning for him to release his men. "Ah, my friend, but you would never have gotten so close if I had believed you dangerous."
"And that, sir, if you don't mind my saying so, along with the physical limitations of this narrow restaurant, is the problem. It is not enough to appear dangerous, as do these two fine gentlemen here. One must be dangerous, so that no one with assassination on his mind even dares to approach so closely."
"Like you, pretty boy, huh?" Campiano said, holding out his hands to take the sword cane, which Saint Just handed over without a qualm. "An unusual toy. I like it. I like you. But we're at peace now, and have been for years—just businessmen, you understand. All legit, capisca? Still, I'm curious. What do you suggest I do, besides training these two to be faster on their feet?"
For the space of two hours, as Saint Just discovered what he believed would be a lifelong passion for something called meatballs, the men discussed strategy, from Caesar's brilliance on the continent to Napoleon's tactical blunders at Waterloo. It wasn't quite his gentlemen's club, but he was enjoying himself to the top of his bent, a gentleman, in the company of another gentleman.
Using condiments and broken bread sticks as props, Saint Just then demonstrated a reconfiguration of the restaurant, making the path from door to main table one of staggered dining tables—a maze to be navigated rather than the current large center aisle, with all the tables against the two walls.
"Now, after removing that large front window and replacing it with something solid so that it isn't obvious from the street that you are at dinner, I would then place half-wall dividers here, and here—decorative, but of bulletproof glass, of course—I've seen something very close to what I'm thinking of on the Internet. The seconds gained by the maze, combined with the quick access to protection that still allows you to see your attacker should even the playing field, don't you think? Oh, and the ceiling is high enough for you to build a catwalk, as I believe is the term, from one side to the other, so that two men can be stationed up there, able to see everything that is going on below them. Well-dressed so as to not alarm your patrons, well-mannered, but discreetly armed, of course."
"O'course," Campiano said, poking Tony's gut with one of the bread sticks. "Why you didn't think of this, huh? A catwalk? I like that." He peered at Saint Just as a waiter took their empty plates. "All this from watching Godfather? You're more than a pretty boy, aren't you? I should have known that. And you say what you think."
"I'm sorry," Saint Just said. "I fear it's a failing of mine. But, Mr. Campiano, in order for a gentleman to enjoy his leisure, it is, I believe, imperative for him to at all times be prepared for any ... contingency." He smiled. "И questa veritа?"
"It is truth, yes," Campiano said, returning that smile. "But enough of this. You want to know about this Goodfellow? Not a nice man, not a gentleman of good heart, like us—you and me. I sent one of my boys by, just for a quick look-see, and he recognized him right away. Same cell block up at Attica a few years ago, capisca? Gino, tell the man what your cousin Johnny told you."
Gino looked at Saint Just as if he wanted to break his sword cane over his head, but then he just shrugged, for his master had spoken. "The guy's real name is Donny Dill—they called him Pickles. He was on the tail side of a nickel when my cousin knew him. Fraud."
"A nickel?"
"A five-year sentence," Campiano supplied helpfully. "Now he's out, and back to his old tricks. You want me to take care of this for you, my friend? I cannot let this stand, now that I know."
Saint Just shook his head. "No, thank you very much, but I believe I should attempt to handle the matter on my own."
"You sure? I'm no angel myself. But to steal from the poor at Christmas?" He shook his fist in the air. "Vorrei per alimentare a questo uomo il suo proprio naso. Capisca?"
"My Italian has its limits, but I believe you said you'd enjoy feeding the man his own nose. I applaud the sentiment," Saint Jus
t said evenly, reaching for a small bunch of grapes from the fruit plate just deposited on the table. "My plan is to pay our friend a small visit tomorrow morning, to see if I can point out the error of his way, persuade him to terminate this operation he is pursuing ..."
"Scam. He's working a scam—that's how we say in American. You foreigners maybe don't know that," Campiano said helpfully, then took a large bite from a ripe apple. "And the money?"
"It's my hope he will turn that over to my associate—a very kind, trusting man—who will see that it is all delivered to a legitimate charity. That is a large part of my plan, Mr. Campiano—that my friend not realize he has inadvertently become part of a, as you said, scam. I wish to protect his innocence, and, yes, his almost childlike belief in the inherent goodness of his fellow man. This is important to me."
"And if this Pickles dweeb says no?"
Saint Just tugged a single juicy purple grape free and held it in front of him, looking at it. "Yes, I've considered that possibility. It's a ticklish thing, sir. You see, I have this other friend who does not understand that there may be times when one feels the need to handle things outside the boundaries of established law."
"A woman, yes? It's always a woman. And you listen to this woman?"
"When possible, yes."
"And when this is not possible?"
Saint Just merely smiled—a smile other men under stood. "I'd appreciate being able to borrow these two fine gentlemen from you for a short space tomorrow morning—them or someone with their same rather intimidating physical appearance."
Campiano moved his chair closer, hunched his shoulders. "You're thinking muscle? In the morning, you say. Gino's taking his grandmother to the podiatrist over in Hempstead at nine—she's got the hammertoes very bad. But he'll be back by ten. Come on, tell me more of what you want."
"I'm thinking, sir, that a show of strength is rarely a bad thing. All I would need is for them to stand just inside the door, mute, while I negotiate with our Mr. Dill, feeling free to look as menacing as they wish. They could crack their knuckles a time or two, if you don't think that's too dramatic."
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