by K. K. Beck
She’d better tell Nadia about this new development as soon as she could get her alone. She would, of course, go ballistic. Melanie found herself thinking a few of the lines from the latest version of the script, lifted directly from the canon. The Queen of Doom is displeased by this latest blunder. She must be paid in blood. A suitable sacrificial victim must be brought to the altar of the temple!
Yes, someone would have to pay. Melanie imagined that George was figuring out just who in his organization would be an appropriate victim for Nadia’s altar. The trouble with life imitating art was that when the art in question was written by Valerian Ricardo, the results were kind of sleazy.
Back on the terrace, Rosemary, wearing her white uniform, bare legs, and sandals, and smelling more strongly of patchouli oil than usual, flicked her heavy gray braid back over her shoulder as she handed around the drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Melanie sat down quietly and tried not to look preoccupied.
There seemed to have been a slight lull in the conversation, and now Caroline Cunningham leaned across the table, flashing cleavage, and said eagerly to Lila, “I’m kind of interested in Valerian Ricardo myself.”
Lila stared at Callie, apparently noticing her for the first time. “You!” she shrieked. “You’ve come back! You sly little minx with your wicked emanations!” She rose, shaking, and made a bony fist, then collapsed unconscious onto the bricks of the terrace.
“My God!” shrieked Nadia, throwing herself down beside the old woman with the same hair-tearing gesture she’d used in Frederic and Georges, the musical biopic, thereby stealing the scene where Chopin, weakened by tuberculosis, sinks to the floor.
Melanie was pretty sure that Lila had just fainted, but with someone her age, it seemed prudent to call the doctor. She asked Glen Pendergast to put some cushions under Lila’s feet so the blood would go back to her head, and went into the kitchen to phone.
The operator from the doctor’s service was just explaining that he was out of town and that another doctor was backing him up when Nadia rushed into the room and said, “She came around, but I’m so worried. God, I need her! The picture needs her! She’s our pipeline to Valerian Ricardo. I want a doctor here right now! She should have round-the-clock nursing care!”
Despite Nadia’s hysterical flapping around, Melanie ran down the backup doctor at a restaurant with some friends. Since he hadn’t driven his own car, Melanie arranged to send a car and driver around to pick him up. She gave Rosemary instructions to buzz in the limousine when it appeared on the gate video monitor immediately, and went back to the terrace with Nadia.
There, Lila was sitting upright, and although she looked perfectly all right, Dr. Pendergast was fanning her with what looked like pages of the script. Nadia rushed to Lila’s side. “The doctor is on his way,” she said. “I’m so worried about you.” Duncan Blaine sat drinking and looking put out that Lila had regained consciousness. Nick Iversen and his girlfriend seemed to be having an agitated conversation at the edge of the terrace out of Lila’s line of sight.
Caroline approached Melanie and whispered, “I don’t understand. I’ve never met the woman before in my life. I don’t know why she said those things. God, I’m really sorry!”
“Don’t apologize,” said Melanie kindly. “She’s very old, and to be honest, she’s come out with some other things that are pretty, well, eccentric.”
“Maybe we should go,” said Nick beside her.
Melanie patted Caroline’s shoulder. “Please don’t leave unless you want to,” she said. “I invited you to dinner, and I’m not going to have our guests driven away by the ramblings of a querulous old woman.” Lila was not going to be allowed to call the shots around here. If she’d taken an instant dislike to another guest, that was just too bad.
“Well, maybe it would be awkward . . . ,” began Nick.
Callie interrupted him. “Wow, that’s really nice of you, Melanie,” she said. “We’d love to stay.”
Duncan, glass in hand, drifted across the terrace and turned to Callie. “Well, my dear,” he said, “you certainly made an impression. The old girl went pale and keeled right over at the sight of your beauty. Real Kali-Ra stuff.” He drained his glass and said hopefully to no one in particular, “Maybe it’s her old ticker.”
Callie’s features took on a cast Nick hadn’t seen before. The sight gave him a strange frisson. There was a faraway look in her eyes, which had taken on an uncanny, greenish glow. Dreamily, and in that same low tone that had startled him so before, she said, as if to herself, “It seems that old woman has displeased the Queen of Doom. If so, I fear she may not last the night.”
CHAPTER XV
TAKEN FOR A RIDE
The unsmiling young man standing at the door to Quentin’s hotel room had a neck the circumference of a beer keg, an off-center nose with the uneven contours of a root vegetable from the organic section of the produce department, small eyes set close together, and a bodybuilder’s physique squeezed into a black suit. He didn’t look like someone from the hotel staff who’d come to inventory the minibar.
“Mr. Fontana’s waiting for you in the car downstairs,” he announced in a voice out of Guys and Dolls.
Quentin put on his jacket and reknotted his tie, then grabbed his briefcase, thinking vaguely that as a prop it made him look and feel less like some chump being taken for the proverbial ride and more like a player. He followed the man down to the lobby and into a very long black car with tinted windows. This sinister-looking vehicle was parked out in front of a sign that said TAXIS ONLY. ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOWED.
Some German tourists peered at him as he climbed inside. Inside sat a tan, fat Vince Fontana. The dim lighting, reminiscent of a nightclub, illuminated his still-handsome chiseled jaw and his gleaming, oily black curls, considerably darker than his gray sideburns. He wore a silk suit and an open white shirt. Chains and religious medals nestled in silver chest hair.
“Okay, kid,” Fontana said in a wheezy baritone. “It’s all set.” The car pulled out into traffic, and the old crooner patted Quentin’s knee. “Anything for Maurice, ya know. He’s a pal, and a pal’s gotta help a pal. Now me and him went over all this, and I got it all down. You just sit there, and after I soften ’em up, you jump in with the paperwork.”
“You mean we’re going to talk to Nadia Wentworth now?”
“Sure. Swing into action immediately. That’s the way Vince Fontana does it.”
“I see,” said Quentin uneasily. “Did you talk to Melanie Oakley? What did she say when you made the appointment?”
Fontana smiled, flashing a lot of capped teeth, and gave Quentin a playful slap on the cheek. “Appointment? Ha! Vince Fontana doesn’t need an appointment.”
Suddenly, Vince Fontana’s slow-tempoed, heavily orchestrated version of “Que Sera, Sera” surrounded them. Fontana closed his eyes. “Doris was cute as pie, but she never got the real feel for this song,” said the old man in a confidential tone. “Fate. That’s a powerful thing. My people understand that. You gotta put more feeling into it. Phrase it like you get it. Destino. A kind of impending doom thing, ya know.”
“I know just what you mean,” said Quentin. The headache had started again. He leaned back in the leather seat and closed his own eyes.
Vince began to sing, accompanying his burnished youthful voice with the raspier one he had now, the voice of a slightly swacked traveling salesman at a karaoke bar. Quentin became aware of the sound of rattling ice cubes under this bizarre duet and opened his eyes to see that Vince was wielding glasses and a bottle of Chivas from the backseat bar. “You seem tired. You need a belt. God, these kids today, I’m telling you. No stamina.”
He handed over a scotch on the rocks. Quentin accepted it, thinking it might numb the pain in his head. He didn’t dare ask for soda or water. Vince Fontana would probably make disparaging remarks about his manhood and throw him out of the car.
“Hey, that Nadia Wentworth’s something else,” mused Vince, firing up a Chesterfi
eld. “Great boobs and they look real. Maybe me and her will hit it off tonight.” He exhaled extravagantly. The resulting blue cloud made the space seem even more like a nightclub. “Anyway, I need a photogenic date for the Golden Globes.”
Fontana jabbed Quentin in the ribs and gave a phlegmy laugh. “Maybe you’ll get lucky too, kid. You can have the other broad. The assistant. Melissa Oakland or whatever the fuck it is.”
“I don’t know if we should mix business and pleasure,” murmured Quentin, wondering how Nadia Wentworth would feel about being pawed by this tubby old man with a Brylcreemed toupee and nicotine-stained fingers. This was shaping up very badly. Maurice had been away from the center of action for too long. Vince Fontana might have been a good friend to have back in the Sputnik era, but now he was just quaint. Presumably, though, his Sicilian associates still had seriously menacing people on the payroll whom he could unleash. Quentin began to hope frantically that there was no one home at the Wentworth place.
Quentin was astounded when the gates to Villa Vera opened magically and the limousine slid right past the buzzer and speaker box. “Trust me, kid,” said Vince, knocking back his third scotch on the rocks. “Vince Fontana never needs an appointment.”
The driver pulled up to the front door. For someone so muscle-bound, he leapt with remarkable agility from behind the wheel and around to open the car door.
A middle-aged woman with her long gray hair in a braid down her back and a white nylon uniform covered by a tie-dyed chef ’s apron was waiting for them on the doorstep. “Please come right in,” she said. “Miss Wentworth is freaking.”
Fontana gave Quentin a what-did-I-tell-you look of triumph. To the housekeeper he said benevolently, “Hey, if she’s a smart broad and plays ball, Vince Fontana will see she’s got nothing to worry about. Lead me to her.”
Quentin looked over his shoulder to see if the beefy chauffeur would be following them into the house to loom menacingly, perhaps cracking his knuckles in a forbidding way, while Vince gave his pitch. Instead, the big lug had put on a pair of glasses and settled in the front seat with a book.
“But how did they know we were coming?” said Quentin as they followed the housekeeper down a long, dimly lit hall. “You said you didn’t make an appointment.”
Vince’s eyes narrowed. “My associates have ways of getting the message across to people they do business with,” he said. “Don’t ask so many questions, kid.”
Quentin stumbled after him out some French doors onto a sunny terrace, where a group of people were looking up at them. He had a vague impression of a pale old lady and a dark, sultry girl with what looked like a bedspread tied around her hips, before picking out Nadia Wentworth, who rushed toward them.
Fontana flung his arms out in a hammy way and said, “I guess you all know who I am. Allow me to introduce, um, hey, kid, what the hell’s your name?” He snapped his fingers impatiently.
Quentin started to mumble his name but Nadia Wentworth ignored him. Instead, she gave Fontana a pitiful look and said, “We’re so scared!”
“Hey, nothing to worry about, sweetheart,” said Vince, taking her hand and giving her an oily smile. “That’s why I’m here. We want to avoid unpleasantness, right? I’m here to tell you how you can do that.”
He looked around at everyone else who seemed to be waiting for him to do something. “Let’s go somewhere where we can have some privacy.”
Quentin wondered who all these people were. The old lady with white hair startled him by standing up and saying adamantly, “I’m perfectly all right and I’m not taking off my clothes.” Vince Fontana gave a tight smile but there was confusion in his eyes.
From over by a square lily pond, a rumpled middle-aged man with a red face stared at Vince and said in an English accent with a slightly slurred tone, “I do believe it’s that funny little dago who flogs records on the television.” He proceeded to quote from the ad, in a reasonably successful American accent. “Act now, and I’ll include my Christmas album, Carols for Lovers, absolutely free.” The Englishman closed his eyes, stepped up on the raised brick border of the lily pond, and began singing “roasting chestnuts on an open fire . . .” with a wide-armed gesture.
“Wow! It’s Vince Fontana,” said the girl in the bedspread. “Cool.”
A collective “ah” of recognition went around.
A guy with a baby face standing next to Nadia Wentworth cleared his throat and addressed Fontana in formal tones. “You were a symbol of a certain kind of postwar suaveness, continuing the Latin lover tradition pioneered by Valentino but with a more blue-collar take.” He added, “My mom is one of your biggest fans.”
A crisp-looking young woman with red hair, who Quentin imagined must be Melanie Oakley, stepped forward. “I’m sorry for the confusion, but we were expecting a doctor.”
“I’m not a doctor,” said Fontana, who was eyeing the singing Englishman in a murderous way. Duncan Blaine had run out of lyrics, but continued the song with some scatlike syllables and swayed to the music. “Da-da-da-da-dad-da-dum.”
Fontana made his hands into fists and lurched over to him. “But you people are gonna need a doctor, ’cause I’m gonna knock this limey asshole’s teeth down his fucking throat. No one calls Vince Fontana or any other Italian-American a dago!” He went over and pushed his clenched-jaw profile into the Englishman’s face.
The Englishman stopped singing and blinked. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Perhaps I should have said wop.”
With a little squealing noise, Vince grabbed him by the collar and started shaking him. Quentin, his briefcase still in hand, rushed over to the enraged old man and tugged at his sleeve. Nadia Wentworth screamed, and Melanie Oakley yelled, “Stop it!”
Fontana had now pulled back his elbow in a pistonlike movement, and appeared to be deciding whether to pepper Duncan Blaine’s face or punch him in the gut. The Englishman seemed to have belatedly realized that he was being assaulted and had begun to wriggle. Quentin clambered around Vince’s burly form next to the Englishman so now he was facing the angry old man. “Listen to me,” he said, grabbing Vince’s shoulder. “Calm down. This is not helpful!”
“Aw, shut up,” said Vince, turning his attention briefly to Quentin. He put a big hand in his face and gave him a push. Quentin lost his balance and teetered on the brick edging for a second before falling backward into the lily pond.
CHAPTER XVI
TWILIGHT ON THE TERRACE
Nick and Callie took the brunt of the splash. The undignified dousing made Nick mad and that galvanized him into action. He rushed at Vince just as Duncan managed to writhe and duck, so that when the fist landed, it landed on Nick’s cheek.
“Ow!” he said, getting even angrier and pushing at the old man. Apparently emboldened by the better odds, Duncan gave Vince a kick to the shins, as if repelling a dog. By now, the guy in the lily pond had emerged dripping wet and festooned with bits of slimy greenery. He lurched toward Vince and put his arms around him. “Forget it,” he said. “Calm down.”
“Don’t touch me when you’re all wet like that,” screamed Vince. “This is pure silk, not some drip-dry suit. Jesus!”
“I’m sorry,” said Quentin.
“For Christ’s sake! It says ‘dry clean only’ right on the label!”
At this point, Melanie noticed Kevin waddling up the steps from the pool carrying a leaf skimmer. She rushed over to him. “We’ve got a situation,” she said.
“A situation?” he repeated stupidly.
“We seem to have a fight breaking out. Bust it up, will you?”
“Oh. Okay,” he said hesitantly, following her onto the terrace where things had now seemed to have reached some kind of a standoff. All combatants were stepping backward from the wet guy.
“This is our security man,” announced Melanie. Kevin stood there with the leaf skimmer like a spear-carrier in an opera and made no move to take charge.
“No he isn’t. That’s the pool man,” said Nadia, underc
utting his authority further. “What happened to Manuel?”
“Ask them to leave,” said Melanie to Kevin.
“Okay, you heard her. All of you guys go home,” said Kevin unconvincingly.
Melanie stamped her foot. “No, not all of them, just the wet guy and Mr. Fontana.” For the first time she wondered why the two of them were here in the first place.
“I don’t get it. Did Manuel quit or what?” said Nadia.
“Why should I leave?” asked Fontana poutily. “I was the one that was insulted. By him.” He pointed at Duncan.
“I’m sure Mr. Blaine will apologize,” said Melanie, giving Duncan a fierce look. “I don’t think he realizes how offensive ethnic slurs are.”
Duncan smiled. “Sure, sure. Sorry. Keep forgetting how sensitive you Americans are. I hope your leg will be okay where I kicked it.”
Fontana turned to Nadia. “Whaddaya doing hanging out with a lowlife like him anyway?” he demanded.
“He’s a writer,” said Nadia.
Fontana nodded with a look of comprehension, and Rosemary came in followed by a middle-aged man with dark hair, gray at the temples. “Another doctor’s here,” she announced.
“Thank God!” said Nadia, rushing up to him and leading him over to Lila’s side. She dragged Glen Pendergast along too, presumably because he also bore the title doctor.
The wet man sidled up to Melanie. “We’d better go,” he said. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”
“Not so fast, kid,” said Fontana. “We got business to take care of here. Are you the assistant? Melinda, Melissa, whatever.” He snapped his fingers at Quentin as if trying to get him to jog his memory for him.
