Serena was the only one almost totally unaffected by the melee, the only one now withdrawn in a corner, thinking only—as Louise was certain—about the father who would never again walk through the door, sweep his beloved Serena up into his strong arms, hug her and ask her what trouble she’d gotten into at school that day. Louise now painfully recalled how the ritual never failed to make his daughter break into giggles.
The closeness of the bond between father and daughter had been surprising, since Serena was not his child. The sixteen year-old Louise had run away from home, fallen in with a drug crowd in the Las Vegas area and drifted into a pointless and abusive affair with Walter Trapp. She was soon pregnant. Trapp quickly found a replacement and threw her out of his apartment long before the birth.
Most of the following year had been a harrowing one. The birth had been difficult, and the doctor told her the complications meant it would be her one and only child. Welfare, job training as a practical nurse which took her away from her baby, and her own dismay at having to use food stamps, to wear Salvation Army discards and to live in marginal public housing almost destroyed her. Giovanni Bianco’s fortuitous arrival on the scene made all the difference.
Kind, gentle, Big Joe, as they called him at the construction company, fell in love with the mother and was completely enchanted by the baby. Marriage soon followed, and Giovanni took immediate steps to adopt Serena. Finally locating Trapp, he found him reluctant to give up something he hadn’t wanted in the first place but had now changed his mind on learning someone else valued the child.
Trapp demanded money. Giovanni had laughed at the demand and, with only a minimal amount of persuasion, managed to get the necessary papers signed. Trapp was out of the picture and, so far as Serena was concerned, she was Giovanni’s natural daughter. Only the Bianco family members were aware she was adopted.
The Biancos were known all along the Nevada-California border as the construction clan. Enrico had started out as a hod carrier when he’d first moved to the Reno area. Hard work, careful nursing of every penny, honest dealings, and a flair for construction made the resulting company of Bianco Contractors, Inc. a firm to be reckoned with.
Louise had been uneasy at her first meeting with the Biancos, especially with Enrico. She had wondered how he would react, not only to her, but also to Serena. She need not have been concerned. Enrico had stated, unequivocally, “Serena is my grandchild.” The wrinkled face had then broken into a smile, and he went on in the quiet, commanding voice which he seldom raised, “I will see to it there will never be any doubt about that.” And he had.
Still active in the company now run by his three sons and son-in-law, Enrico knew every politician, law enforcement officer and businessman in the Truckee area. It hadn’t been difficult for him to have the birth records changed. Officially, Serena was now Serena Bianco, daughter of Louise and Giovanni Bianco—and had always been.
But Serena Bianco now needed help. The listless child tore at Louise’s heart. Less than a day after they arrived home from the ceremony in New York in remembrance of the crash victims, Louise decided something drastic had to be done to break through to her daughter. A week of harrowing listlessness, of tearless grief, of unspoken sorrow was just too much. Even Serena’s return to school seemed incapable of penetrating the barrier.
Louise found the document, debated with herself, then decided it was only fair to tell Enrico first before taking the drastic step. On her way out the door, the phone rang. The voice, even after a lapse of all these years, was appallingly familiar—the same sneering quality, the thinly veiled contempt, the underlying whine were still all there. “What’s the matter, Lou? Don’t you remember old Walter? Saw your picture in the paper. You and my nice looking daughter. I thought I’d call and renew old acquaintances now you’re single again.”
Louise’s hand froze to the phone. She couldn’t find words.
“I was wondering what kind of a settlement the airlines was going to make on you. Seems to me my daughter needs to have her future assured now she’s lost her adoptive daddy. Maybe she needs her real father back.” It was too much. She slammed the receiver down into its cradle, grabbed her purse and fled out the door.
Mama Bianco’s immediate reaction was to put on the coffeepot when her distracted daughter-in-law arrived. The Bianco front room was warm and friendly, with the lit fireplace completely dispelling the fall chill. Enrico waved her to a chair and waited for her to explain the reason for her sudden visit. The words poured out.
“Giovanni insisted we keep the adoption papers showing Serena’s biological father. He said he’d heard how sometimes a person needed to know blood relatives if they come down with an inherited disease. So I put the papers away after we received the birth certificate saying Giovanni was Serena’s father.”
Enrico waited for her to go on. She took a breath and continued. “I thought maybe, if Serena found out Giovanni wasn’t her biological father, it would help her to get over his death.”
Enrico’s face was impassive. As she went on to tell him about the phone call, there was no change in his expression. When she’d finished, he said, “He will call again.”
“I know.”
“When he does, tell him you will meet him. Ask him where he is staying. Then call me.” The words and Mama Bianco’s coffee helped. Even so, Louise was terrified at what the next days would bring.
The call came the following evening. Choking with hatred and disgust, she promised to meet him. He was staying in Reno and gave her his address. Within moments, she’d placed a call to Enrico.
“Come over immediately, and bring those papers,” he told her
The Bianco front room had never seemed so small. Sergio and Marco alone would have filled it. With the added bulk of Angelo Freita, there was hardly breathing room.
“Come in, come in, Louise,” Enrico said. “I want you to listen close to what I say to my boys.”
She nodded, as he turned to the three young giants. “There is a Mr. Walter Trapp at this address.” Enrico handed Angelo the note he had written when Louise called, saying in his soft voice, “He is annoying Louise. The three of you will pay him a visit and explain to him he must not do so anymore. Tell him he must not so much as call her or come anywhere near her. Be gentle. I think he will understand.”
Turning to Louise he said, “Please give me the papers you spoke to me about?”
She handed him the adoption papers. With a casual motion he tossed them into the fireplace, and all five of the room’s occupants watched them flare up and disappear.
“Now I think it is time for us to help Serena.” Enrico said, his face creasing into a smile. “We will come together this weekend. The children, too.” His smile widened. “She cannot possibly stay unhappy with all of us telling her how much we love her.”
A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE
“Things are going to have to change.” Harry Sunforth’s coffee tasted especially bitter this morning, but coffee wasn’t what he was referring to.
Lowell Shea, his breakfast companion, was too involved with the racing form and his laptop computer to do more than grunt. And here he had been invited over specifically to listen to Harry’s proposal for drastically changing his life and lifestyle!
Harry was twenty-eight, had only yesterday been shocked to catch sight in the mirror of a thinning spot on the top of his head, and could see thirty looming in the near distance. It was already six years since college, and he hadn’t achieved any of the glowing goals held out to the graduating class at commencement.
Yes, it was time for something different. Time to settle down. Time to alter a lifestyle which was going places, all of them in the wrong direction. Lowell, seven years older, with a stint in the army behind him, had been more sophisticated, more knowing, and had always been the leader of the two-man team. They had been successful, by some standards, but life was no longer satisfying. Something was missing.
“I’m tired of penny-ante scams, of spending hou
rs at the track, of being nice to patsies. And one of these days the racing commission will catch up with us, kick us out of the clubhouse and even bar us from the track.”
The sudden burst of words momentarily took Lowell’s attention away from the racing formulas he’d been entering into the computer. “Those penny-ante scams have kept you in expensive booze, good-looking bimbos, your fancy sports car and this place.” Lowell waved a hand to indicate their surroundings. “You’d never find a forty-hour-a-week job paying half as well. If you’d invested your earnings the way I have, you wouldn’t be doing all this moaning and groaning. Besides, if we get kicked out of the track, we’ll go south. The weather’s better there, anyway.”
“I’m still sick of it.”
Lowell gave his attention back to the computer, saying, “So what are you going to do? Get a job on the stock exchange?”
“I’m going to marry a wealthy wife.”
The racing form dropped to the table as the click of the computer keys ended abruptly. “What?”
“You heard me. “I’m going to marry a wealthy wife. And I’ve already got her picked out. I met her at the track clubhouse. Her name’s Millicent Mohan. She’s a widow. Her husband left her with enough Dupont stock to paper the whole racetrack. I know she’s sweet on me, and she’s already making noises like marriage.”
“C’mon, Harry. Grow up! I’ll bet she’s a con-artist, just like you. She probably thinks you’re a millionaire, yourself. Have you been wining and dining her?”
Harry nodded.
“Did she ever offer to pick up the tab?”
“No. But she isn’t a woman’s libber. She isn’t one to insist on paying.”
“So what makes you think she’s rich, besides your believing her Dupont story?”
“You should see the limo she drives around in. With a uniformed chauffeur. And she has a luxury apartment—and I mean luxury.”
Lowell sneered at the evidence. “So she’s looking for a rich husband, and she’s splurged on a fancy rental car and a month’s rent among the city’s affluent. It doesn’t mean a thing. When are you going to see her again?”
“Tonight. We’re meeting at the Market Bistro for dinner, and then we’re off to a night club.”
“Hmm. Pretty fancy. Tell you what, I’ll check on her. Maybe she is who she says she is. And if she isn’t, I’ll bring you the proof.”
The evening went very well. Millie—she had insisted he call her Millie when they had first met—was no raving beauty, perhaps, but also not a bad-looking woman. Tall, almost as tall as Harry. Dark hair; brown eyes, somewhat on the small side; a rounded nose, maybe a bit too large; the chin, perhaps too determined—but, taken all together, she was still attractive. She hadn’t volunteered her age, and Harry estimated she had a ten to fifteen year advantage over him. He didn’t mind.
Much of the evening was spent trying to determine the best way to play the game. They flirted, and he wondered how much further to push the budding relationship at such an early stage. Weighing the alternatives, he decided the danger of coming on too strong outweighed the danger of appearing too restrained. But the way she clung to him when they danced had him convinced advances would not have been unwelcome. Still, discretion won out. A peck on her cheek was her reward for what he called a “wonderful evening.” The action and the sentiment were reciprocated with considerable ardor. Harry drove off in his Lexus, satisfied the game was going well, though he could see problems ahead.
Lowell showed up again at breakfast time, brimming with enthusiasm, and with neither his laptop nor what until then had been the inevitable racing form. “You’re right, Harry. I hate to admit I was wrong, but I think you’ve got your money on an odds-on favorite. Millicent Mohan not only owns a tidy portion of Dupont, but she’s a major stockholder in Metropolitan Life. She really has the bucks. Believe me. And the way she was hanging on to you last night—I think you’re going to end up in the winner’s circle.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I was there, Harry. Just outside the Bistro. I even took her picture, several of them. Here’s one right here.” He pulled out a glossy black and white photo showing Harry emerging from the restaurant with a smiling and admiring Millie on his arm. “I was going to do a complete check on her, but I didn’t have to. The maître d’ knows her and knew her husband. She’s for real.”
Lowell suddenly realized how Harry, strangely silent, was not sharing his own growing enthusiasm. “What’s wrong?” Lowell asked. “You’re sitting on a gold mine—or will be, if you play your cards right.”
“Which is exactly the problem. My cards are running out. My credit cards, that is. I’ve borrowed up to and over the hilt to keep Millie entertained. I won’t even be able to pay this month’s rent.”
“Not to worry. I’ll underwrite you. Four thousand should snow her with flowers, fancy chocolates, and some of Philly’s restaurants that’ll make the Market Bistro seem like Denny’s.”
Harry looked skeptical. Lowell’s shrewdness and success in the trade was matched only by the tight hold he maintained on his earnings. “What’s the catch?”
“Seven for four by payday. That’s what we used to charge in the army. I’ll be there on payday. And if there’s no marriage, you can pay me back from your regular earnings. But I’m so sure my money is on a winner, I’ll settle for the four if you lose—no interest. Well?”
Harry’s face lit up. “I’m sure four thousand will do it. And, what the hell! I’ll double your investment.”
The pace of the courtship accelerated at a rate Harry actually found alarming. In less than two weeks he was standing in front of his full-length mirror, staring at himself in a rented and ridiculously expensive dress suit. The day of the wedding had arrived. It was to be a quiet affair. Millie had few friends or relatives, and none whom she felt were interested in anything other than her money. She quickly agreed when Harry mentioned a friend of his who would be best man, and who had already promised to find an old girlfriend to fill in as bridesmaid.
A pounding on the door interrupted Harry’s uneasy reverie. It was Lowell, disheveled and out of breath. Several moments passed before Harry’s visitor could speak, and then the news poured out.
“We’ve been conned. Millicent Mohan is in her chateau on the Riviera. You’re about to marry Sylvia Marcotti, a small-time operator.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Neither did I when I found out. But you don’t have to believe me. Get your coat and let’s go to the track. I began to get suspicious this morning, and I called Jim Dandy. He knows damn near everyone who bets at the track, so I figured he’d be able to tell me about your girlfriend. He knows her all right, and he said he’ll be happy to tell you in detail about her. He’ll be there early. He said to meet him at the clubhouse.”
Jim Dandy, born James Danforth, had moved up from the betting windows to full managership of on-track betting. Always dressed impeccably, with a necktie stickpin—too large to be a diamond—which had contributed to his nickname, Jim had frequently been the source of inside information to Harry and Lowell’s benefit.
Today, Jim met them in the track’s cocktail lounge, which had just opened for the pre-race customers who were trickling in.
“I couldn’t believe it when Lowell told me about you and Sylvia.” Jim shook his head several times before continuing. “I’ve known her for years. We were in the same high school class. Her father owned a small truck farm in Jersey. He never made much off of it, and boozed what little he did make. His son got into a lot of trouble with the police, and Sylvia just drifted. She showed up here a few months ago, and tried to hit me up for some money when she recognized me. I shied off, but she found enough somewhere to place a few bets. Managed to hit it lucky, but you know how those flukes are. They never last.
“So, when Lowell here told me about the rich dame you were courting and started describing her, I was almost sure I knew who he was talking about. The pictures he showed me cinch
ed it.”
Harry’s mouth had become parchment dry, in spite of the drink he’d downed almost immediately.
Lowell called for another round, as he described what he’d done once he became aware of the looming disaster. “I made a few quick phone calls, and found out Millicent Mohan is in Europe. I talked to her secretary at her home on Long Island, and he told me she’d left weeks ago and didn’t plan on coming back until after the Cannes film festival.”
Both Jim and Lowell did their best to calm their companion, who was working himself up into a bewildered but towering rage. “But what about the limo, the apartment? What about the maître d’?”
“The limo is what tipped me off,” Lowell said. “When I went to rent one for the wedding, I recognized the chauffeur. And I checked at her apartment. It’s already empty and available for rent. And, even though he won’t admit it, the maître d’ was just paid off, I’m sure. He claims he might have been mistaken. Says she looks just like the Mohan woman. Bullshit!”
Harry began to describe in some detail the mayhem he was planning to wreak on the woman he’d been scheduled to marry within the hour.
Only the combined efforts of his companions, along with several more drinks, could persuade him not to risk an assault charge for the satisfaction of a particularly bloody revenge.
“Look at it this way, Harry,” Jim said. “Just being left at the altar will be more than enough punishment. Believe me. I’ve seen it. You couldn’t do anything worse to a woman than to leave her there high and dry, standing around with the justice of the peace, wondering why in hell you haven’t shown up.”
Jim took off for work, while Lowell continued to commiserate with a partner who was now rapidly becoming maudlin. The drinking continued.
The next morning, Harry could only dimly remember the events of the previous day. Still in bed, and fully clothed, he made a few feeble attempts to keep the room from moving clockwise. The morning sun, which was shining through the window where the shade had been left up, didn’t help. What success he had only made the room move counter-clockwise, and it took him several minutes to realize the pounding wasn’t entirely inside his head. Groaning, he stumbled toward the door to find a Lowell who looked very much as he himself felt.
Expect the Unexpected Page 6
