Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  Kenzie called Charley at noon and spoke to his machine. "I don't suppose you want to take your rain check this soon?" she said. "But if you do, just whistle."

  Fifteen minutes later he called back, whistling.

  "I think I get the message," she told him.

  "What about your roommate?"

  "She was on the nine-thirty British Airways flight to London."

  "This mean we'll be alone?"

  "No, I'm expecting my Aunt Ida from Altoona," she said sarcastically.

  "Knowing you, it's not that impossible. Okay. When?"

  "Soon as I hop out and get some radicchio."

  "Tell you what. You put on the soft music, I'll bring the radicchio."

  "How romantic. Are we going to do for radicchio what Last Tango in Paris did for butter?"

  "I don't suppose," he said, "that you saved any of that champagne?"

  "You don't mean yesterday's champagne?"

  "Yeah, I do."

  "All gone."

  "Ouch."

  "Ouch yourself. Everyone knows champagne doesn't keep."

  "Don't you have one o' them special gizmos?"

  "Gizmos?"

  "You know. Those chrome corks you flip open? Seals it airtight?"

  "Oh, one of those," Kenzie said dismissively. "Yeah, but it's still not the same."

  "Shit. And today would be a Sunday. All the liquor stores are closed."

  He paused.

  "Lemme see what I can do."

  Kenzie hummed as she bathed and put on navy blue leggings and a vintage football jersey which reached to her knees. It was khaki, with navy blue stripes on the sleeves, and sewn-on pads at the elbows. Chopin on the CD player, a spritz of Chanel No. 19 on her person, and she was ready to break hearts.

  Charley arrived with another bottle of Dom Perignon. "And for Pete's sake," he said, "don't ask where it came from."

  She pecked him on the lips. "Well? Where did it come from?"

  "My favorite restaurant. The liquor authority finds out, it's liable to cost them their license. And speaking of costs, don't ask what I paid for it, either."

  "I wouldn't give you the pleasure! Awwwww. Just look at you." She ruffled his hair playfully. "My big spender. Guess I'll have to make it worth your while, huh?"

  Why was it, Zandra asked herself as she wandered the bleak Victorian hallways in search of Rudolph's room, that hospitals the world over always had to smell like hospitals? And why, more often than not, did they have to be housed in what looked like intimidating old armories?

  This one in particular was a direct throwback to Charles Dickens— grimy brick on the outside, grim and institutional on the inside—just what you'd expect from a nineteenth-century lunatic asylum. That this wasn't a mental health facility, and that the sick and the infirm were helped and healed here, rather than imprisoned, was somehow difficult to reconcile.

  Room 432 ... 433 ...

  Zandra's heels clacked on the worn, concave granite, echoed resoundingly from the vaulted ceiling and bare walls. In one hand, she was carrying her weekender, still stuffed with the balled-up clothes she'd never unpacked from the weekend; in the other, she held a drooping, pathetic little bouquet of overpriced chrysanthemums she had bought at the airport.

  She felt as wilted as they looked, if not worse. The royal hangover she still nursed, despite having thrown up on the plane, stabbed her head, made it feel as though, it were a confection of fragile spun glass and would, at any moment, shatter or splinter, breaking up into tiny, murderous pieces.

  Room 447 ... 448—

  There! 449!

  Unoiled hinges squeaked in protest as she slowly opened the heavy door.

  "Rudolph?" she crooned softly.

  One look inside, and she fell silent: it wasn't a room, it was a ward. Metal-framed beds of chipped, yellowed enamel seemed to stretch to infinity, and the buckling linoleum, waxed to a mirror finish, reflected the beds lining both sides, giving the illusion they were stacked bunks. At the far end, rain pelted the Gothic windows with the force of thrown pebbles.

  Whatever the sun was, or was not, up to on the other side of the Atlantic, she had landed at Heathrow to fog and rain; had arrived in London to see it at its absolute worst.

  Welcome home, she thought grimly, quietly shutting the door and making her way down the aisle.

  Her eyes scanned the facing rows of beds—all occupied—her gaze darting constantly from left to right, left to right, in search of her brother's familiar, handsome countenance.

  What if I can't recognize him? she fretted. What if his face was so badly damaged, or is so bandaged, that I won't even know him? What if—

  —her heart gave a symphonic surge. There he was! Sallow and pale, eyes closed. Her brother!

  So thin he looked. So gaunt and drawn. So ill, hooked up to the IVs.

  And what were those machines with LED readouts doing at the foot of his bed? And those tubes snaking out of it and into those huge black leather and Velcro Robocop-looking things, like fat futuristic legs with calipers at the knee joints, which covered both his legs from crotch to ankle?

  Good Lord! What's been done to him?

  Her footsteps quickened as she rushed over to his bedside.

  "Rudolph!" she whispered, dropping her weekender and tossing the bouquet on the nightstand. "Oh, darling, I was out of my mind with worry—couldn't imagine what had happened—"

  He slept on, dreaming a deep, painless morphine dream.

  Oh, how the sight of him hurt her. How the sight of her dashingly handsome brother reduced to this pierced her heart.

  How could I have deserted him when he needed me most? she wondered guiltily. Why didn't I try to help him?

  Tears flooded her eyes as she bent over the bed and kissed his stub- bled cheek.

  His eyes opened slowly, but they were remote and unfocused. Narcotized.

  "Rudolph," she whispered, placing her cheek against his. "Darling, it's me, Zandra."

  "Zan ... dra," he murmured, his lids drooping shut again.

  She straightened and looked around. I have to talk to his doctor, she thought. Or at the very least his nurse. I must find out what, exactly's, been done to him.

  "Rudolph," she repeated gently. "Darling, can you hear me at all—?"

  "Doubt it," said a cockney voice from right behind her.

  She gave a start, twisted around, and looked up. In the excitement of seeing Rudolph, she hadn't even noticed the thin young man who lounged against the bed opposite Rudolph's. Who was cleaning his clear-lacquered fingernails with a penknife.

  Do I know him? she asked herself. Should I? He looks familiar, but ...

  Unbending herself, she straightened and frowned, trying to place him.

  He was hard-faced and well-built, with a russet complexion and beard-shadowed jaw. His features were almost feral and his eyes looked dead, but his shiny black hair was very much alive. No doubt he thought the retro-fifties pompadour made him look like Elvis.

  In truth, it made him look like a two-bit hood.

  Everything about him gave Zandra the willies. Even his expensive sharkskin suit and shiny, pointy black shoes.

  "Shot 'im up good in the operatin' room, they did," he said, pausing amid his manicure to nod at Rudolph. " 'E ain't feelin' no pain, I can tell you that."

  "Who are you?" she demanded, her forehead creasing. She tilted her head. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

  "I saw to it that your brother was brought 'ere," he said.

  "Well, then you're a friend of his," she assumed. "Why didn't you say so in the first place? It's nice of you to visit him, is all I can say. Frightfully dreary, these places. Can use jollying up."

  "Well, I wouldn't exactly call meself a friend, old girl," he said.

  "Oh?" The "old girl" had done it; her frown was deepening. "What are you, then?"

  "You know. Acquaintances, like?" he said, with a smirk. "Joe Leach's the name, an' burnin' pretty countesses the game?" He winked lewdly, and the smirk
turned into a mirthless, stretched grin. " 'Member me now, countess?"

  "You!" she gasped, the deafening memory shrieking through her mind like a runaway train. Unconsciously, she touched her left arm where, last October, he—this very monster!—had burned it with his cigar! Her skin was still paler where the burn had healed; always would be, too.

  How could I possibly have forgotten him? she thought. Did my mind try to bury that incident? No. It must be his hair. Yes, that was it. He'd worn it much shorter then.

  "Gave us the slip last October, you did." He winked again, displaying crooked little National Health teeth. "Din't you?"

  "Go away!" she hissed shakily. "Leave this place at once!"

  "All in good time, countess."

  He grabbed the curtain that was attached to overhead tracks and walked around the bed, screening off the space for privacy.

  "First," he said, "we're gonna 'ave us a nice little chat, right?"

  "Wrong," she said quietly, something hard and unfamiliar coming into her voice. "We have absolutely nothing to discuss, Mr. Leach. Now, if you'll be so kind and just leave—"

  He ignored her. "We can either 'ave our chat 'ere, or ..."

  "Or what?"

  "Or we can 'ave it nice and civilizedlike, over dinner at the Ritz. Never been there with a real countess before."

  "Honestly," she declared, "I'd rather go straight to hell before I'd dine with the likes of you."

  "Yeah—" he winked again "—but would your brother?"

  She stared at him. "You wouldn't dare lay a finger on him!"

  " 'Ready did. Why you think 'e's 'ere?"

  Joe Leach sauntered deliberately back around the sickbed toward her. When they were face-to-face, he raised his penknife so that the blade caught the light and flashed.

  This is a hospital, she told herself, a place of healing. Keep calm. He won't dare do anything. Not in here.

  She held her breath and waited.

  After a moment, he snapped the knife shut and pocketed it. "You got more balls than your brother, I'll give you that."

  The relief she felt was almost unbearable.

  "Well, countess? A spot of dinner?"

  Zandra raised her chin stubbornly and shook her head. "Why don't you just say what you must and get it over with?"

  "Well, ain't we tough? Tryin' to make things 'ard fer us, that it? Well, best not blame me for what I gotta do. It's all your fault, see?"

  His gray slippery eyes winked obscenely again, and he reached out and took Rudolph's right hand in his.

  "Pinkie's first." He held Zandra's gaze. "But what's another broken bone, right?"

  "You're bluffing," she said weakly, feeling all sick inside.

  "Try me." He held her gaze. "Well? We goin' to the Ritz?"

  She wouldn't go with him—couldn't!—not after what he'd done to her in October; not after what he'd done to Rudolph!

  "No," she whispered.

  He did it then, his eyes watching her the whole time. Bent the little finger all the way back until it touched Rudolph's wrist.

  Zandra winced when she heard the unmistakable snap of the breaking bone. The sound went right through her, and she had to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

  On the bed, Rudolph barely moaned.

  Thank God he's full of painkillers, she thought. He probably doesn't feel a thing. At least, not yet, he doesn't . . .

  "His bleedin' index finger's next."

  Joe Leach smiled cruelly, like a maladjusted youngster pulling the wings off a fly.

  Crepe soles squeaked on the linoleum, and Joe Leach hesitated, then reluctantly let Rudolph's hand drop.

  A nurse drew aside the curtain. "Mustn't close these, luvs!" the matronly woman scolded reprovingly.

  "Sister," Zandra said anxiously, "how is my brother? Can you tell me anything? I just flew in from New York—"

  The nurse clucked her tongue sympathetically. "Poor luv," she said, eyeing Rudolph and shaking her head. " 'Ad two smashed kneecaps, 'e did."

  Zandra went weak.

  Kneecaps smashed by that smirking monster! And he's just standing there, cool as day!

  She glared at Joe Leach, felt revulsion and loathing souring her throat. She wanted to launch herself at him, claw at his eyes, rip out his throat.

  " 'E was operated on this morning," the nurse added, fluffing Rudolph's pillows.

  A terrible fear twisted Zandra's insides. "Will he ... " she began, and stopped to take a deep breath. "Sister, he will walk again, won't he?"

  "With therapy, the surgeons think 'e'll recover quite nicely. Replaced both 'is kneecaps with plastic and titanium, they did. But it'll be a few months before 'e's up and about, luv."

  It was all Zandra could do not to scream and scream and never stop screaming.

  "You all right, luv? You've suddenly gone all palelike."

  Zandra nodded. "Yes, I ... I'm fine, thanks."

  "If you're sure ..."

  "I'm positive."

  "Good." The nurse gestured to Joe Leach. "This nice gentleman 'ere 'elped bring 'im in, you know. 'E was there when the accident 'ap- pened, and 'asn't left 'is side since. Renews your faith in the 'uman race, don't it?"

  Zandra glanced at Joe Leach, who just stood there, smiling like an altar boy. She felt like vomiting.

  "Poor dear," the nurse continued, looking at Rudolph. "Imagine, stepping between a parked car and a lorry, and 'aving the lorry back up on you!" She shook her head. "Gives me the shivers, it do. 'Or- rible. 'Orrible!"

  It's a lie! Zandra wanted to scream. A damned lie!

  "Doctor will be making his rounds at half-past six," the nurse said. "You can talk to 'im then, luv. I'm sure 'e'll be able to answer all your questions."

  She moved off to attend to other patients.

  Joe Leach picked up Rudolph's hand again and gave Zandra another stretched grin.

  "Funny, innit? It don't even matter if the curtain's open or drawn. I can break every bleedin' finger of 'is, and 'e won't make a sound."

  Zandra watched in horror as he took hold of Rudolph's index finger.

  "Well, countess? You still turnin' down my dinner invitation?"

  And he slowly began to bend Rudolph's finger back.

  Suddenly Zandra couldn't stand it any longer. "For God's sake, stop it!" she whispered. "I'll have your bloody dinner!"

  Joe Leach let Rudolph's hand drop. "Now, why did I 'ave the feelin' you'd see it my way? Well, come on, then. I'm bleedin' 'ungry!"

  Zandra followed him in disbelief.

  How can he eat after what he's done? she wondered. How can I?

  The dining room of the Ritz is probably London's most beautiful public room. All period armchairs, pink tablecloths, and an abundance of gold leaf and crystal, its soaring windows look out at Green Park.

  They had an alcove table under one of the murals of Ionic columns wrapped in garlands. That Joe Leach should be sitting opposite her in this otherwise soothing setting was, to Zandra, both discordant and obscene.

  Despite his expensively tailored suit, he did not fit in among this sleek, well-dressed crowd. Everything about him shouted lack of breeding—his garish, purple-and-pumpkin striped tie, his gauche manners, his piercing cockney voice. One look, and it was obvious that eating fish and chips out of greasy newspapers was more his style.

  Not that he seems to notice or care, Zandra thought.

  "I always assumed reservations were necessary here," she said.

  "Sure they are." He grinned. "But not if you go puttin' on the Ritz."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Slippin' the maitre d' a hundred quid."

  "How much?" She stared across the table at him. He's got to be crazy!

  The unsettling thought occurred to her that he probably was.

  "What I want to know is," he said, "if 'e'll give us a table fer a hundred quid, what d'you think 'ed do for two hundred? Drop his undies in public?"

  And he laughed so loud that heads turned.

  Zandr
a wished the floor would open up and swallow her. Please God, she prayed, don't let me run into anyone I know.

  Leach snapped his fingers to get a waiter's attention. " 'Ey, guv! Bring us a good bottle of shampoo, and not tomorrow!"

  It was all Zandra could do not to get up and leave.

  "Figger out what you want to order?" Leach asked her when a bottle of Taittinger Brut Reserve was popped and poured.

  "I'm really not hungry."

  He ordered for her anyway. "We'll both 'ave the marinaded salmon on the salad of ginger and lime," he said, reading from the menu. "Then the rib roast with Yorkshire puddin'. And sherry trifle for dessert."

  Zandra didn't touch a bite. In fact, she didn't even bother pushing the food around on the pink-and-white plates.

  "You're wastin' good money," he reproved, talking with his mouth full.

  She couldn't bear to watch him. He ate like a pig, with his napkin appropriately tucked into his shirt collar.

  She'd never spent such a miserable dinner in her life.

  "Now that's better," Leach said, when he finished both their desserts. He pushed his chair back. "Ain't civilized to discuss business on an empty stomach, right?"

  She was silent.

  He burped noisily, fished a wooden toothpick out of his pocket, and began to clean his teeth.

  "Y'know, your brother's a right card 'e is, owin' money and runnin' off like that. Caused my people a ton o' grief."

  "Why don't you just leave him alone?" she said quietly.

  "Maybe I'd like to. Maybe I'd like to do lotsa nice things for a pretty bird like you." He winked again and laughed. " 'Course, pity's I can't do that. 'E owes my people too much."

  "How much?"

  "Let's see ... countin' interest, I'd say it's up to about a flat million pounds."

  Zandra was staring at him in shock. When she spoke her voice was hoarse. "A million! You must be joking!"

  He kept picking his teeth while he talked. "Interest 'as a 'abit of pilin' up, you know."

  She sat there, trying to digest the enormity of the sum.

  "Funny, innit? We'd never 'ave found 'im if 'e wasn't so bleedin' stewpid. 'E 'ad 'imself 'idden away where we couldn't find 'im. But 'e just couldn't stay away from the tables. It's 'is undoin', gamblin' is."