Dreams of Jeannie and Other Stories

by Catherine Dain

  "The end!" Bobby was yelling. "The plug goes in the end! Otherwise you can't pour the champagne into glasses the next day."

  "The top! Otherwise the champagne leaks during the night, and only half the watermelon is saturated!" Belinda replied in a tone that would have convinced me. "And if you carve it properly, you have a boat for fruit salad on Sunday!"

  "Leftovers," Bobby moaned. "You're worried about left­overs. There aren't any leftovers from champagne water­melon. I don't care how many you're serving!"

  "Three from the top, and three from the end," Stella said. "How's that?"

  "This is my show!" Belinda roared. "The watermelons will be cut the way I say they will be cut!"

  "You're right, Belinda," Bobby said meekly.

  Stella waited, knife still poised.

  "Stella, cut three plugs from the end, and three from the top. We'll start pouring champagne from the three with plugged ends, and we'll leave the other three, in case we want salad boats," Belinda ordered.

  Stella nodded and began cutting plugs.

  The same scene was repeated, with minor variations, as every item was prepared. Should the corn be cleaned and wrapped in foil or barbecued in its own husk? Should the sweet-and-sour cucumber have sugar or honey in the dressing? Should the herbed rice have oregano or what? What was the best ratio of olive oil to raspberry vinegar for the quail marinade? Belinda always won, although when Stella was able to come up with a Solomonic compromise, Belinda would take it.

  Except for the cookies. Belinda didn't argue over the cookies. It was late afternoon by the time they got to the cookies, but Belinda didn't even have to tell Bobby he could do what he wanted with them. That evidently had been a prior arrangement.

  The day had worn on without any formal breaks except for lunch, although coffee was available. Lunch had been kind of a disappointment. Bobby arranged some of the cu­cumber slices on white bread, after he cut the crusts off, laid a sprig of watercress diagonally on each, and cut up some carrots and celery ribs. He added small bunches of purple grapes. I couldn't understand how in the world Belinda had expected to pass me off as her assistant when she had Bobby, even though he didn't have the title.

  The plates looked pretty, but I would rather have had the bread crusts, which Bobby tossed out. A lot of food is wasted on a cooking show. After lunch, I still wanted a hamburger.

  Stella cleaned up the kitchen while Bobby dropped tea­spoons of cookie dough on sheets of metal. Belinda mo­tioned me out into the backyard.

  "Well? What do you think?" she asked.

  "I think if one of them is messing you up, it's not going to happen while I'm watching. We're going to have to see what goes wrong tomorrow, if anything, and I'll take it from there."

  "I'm paying you to see that nothing goes wrong."

  "You're paying me to do my best. If the Rottweiler does his, we should be all right."

  Belinda pursed her lips and let me go.

  I returned at the crack of dawn the next morning, or so it felt. But the worker bees were already hard at it. Stella, again in her straw hat, was giving instructions to the camera crew, and Bobby was carrying food from the kitchen to the picnic table, stopping every second trip to check the coals. Several clusters of folding chairs had been set up on the lawn, waiting for the "guests." Janice Turner was sitting in one, making notes. Belinda was nowhere to be seen, and Will had disappeared after letting me in.

  I wandered around, trying to watch everyone and stay out of the way at the same time. If I hadn't happened to stroll behind the refrigerator trellis, I never would have seen it. A watermelon was half-hidden by the grape leaves.

  The area seemed deserted—all the activity was in front—but I decided not to touch the watermelon. I kept strolling. A chair cluster was close enough to the edge of the set that by pulling one chair a little farther to the side, I could see anybody who walked behind the trellis. I settled down to wait.

  A few couples drifted in, the men mostly in polo shirts and slacks, the women mostly in blouses and skirts. I sus­pected Belinda had a dress code, and I was the only one vi­olating it. Janice didn't leave her chair, Stella stayed with the cameras, and Bobby kept up a frantic pace between the kitchen and the picnic table. No one stepped behind the set.

  Shortly before airtime, Belinda appeared, wearing a dark blue dress with a red-and-white apron that made her look like a flag. With Bobby at her side, the two of them checked out everything that had been prepared the day before. Everything but the watermelon behind the trellis.

  When it came, the move was so subtle, so much a part of the action, that I almost missed it. Stella had started the countdown for the cameras, and all eyes were on Belinda. I sensed, more than saw, a blur at the corner of my vision.

  Will Blackburn was sliding the watermelon from behind the trellis onto the picnic table, next to the others.

  "All right!" I shouted. "What's in the watermelon?"

  I jumped from the chair and reached the table in two steps, grabbing his arms.

  His eyes were wide with fear, and his arms went slack. The watermelon fell to the concrete, shattering like a skull. Something bright red that wasn't champagne splattered all over both of us.

  "Kool-Aid!" he gasped. "It's just Kool-Aid!"

  "Kool-Aid!" Belinda screamed. "It's supposed to be champagne!"

  "There's champagne in the others, Mom, just not this one."

  He was struggling to get loose, but I had him firmly.

  "Why did you do it?" Belinda cried. Her eyes were as wide as her son's, an almost endearing family picture.

  "Ratings," Will said, still gasping for breath. "That's why people watch the show—to see you cope with every­thing that goes wrong!"

  Belinda was too stunned to speak, but her mouth kept moving. Suddenly, it formed a smile. She turned to the cameras, which had been running the whole time.

  "I think we all need a glass of champagne after this," she said sweetly. "Will, why don't you start pouring?"

  There was a chorus of cheers and laughter from the au­dience. Bobby and Will filled glasses from the unplugged watermelons, and I took one when they got to me, even though I don't normally drink that early in the day.

  The rest of the show went without a hitch.

  I waited until Belinda was free afterwards, even though I wanted to get out of my Kool-Aid stained clothes as soon as possible. They were sticky, and my skin was starting to itch.

  "What do you want to do now?" I asked her.

  "You did your job, and I can handle my son," she said.

  "Don't be too tough on him."

  Belinda shook her head. "Of course not. After all, he may be right."

  I could have offered her some confirmation from the messages on my answering machine when I got home. Mom put it the most succinctly.

  "Al thought you were even better than the rabbit," she chortled. "Come for dinner, please."

  I wasn't surprised when it turned out to be quail.

  Barbecued Quail

  Marinade:

  1/2 cup olive oil

  1/4 cup raspberry vinegar

  2 tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary

  2 cloves garlic

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Clean and split quail, soak in marinade for at least one half hour, drain, then barbecue over fairly hot coals, five to eight minutes per side, basting fre­quently with reserved marinade. Game hen does well in this marinade, if you don't have quail, but needs about fifteen minutes per side over the coals. Duck also barbecues well, especially if you start it in the oven, drain off the fat, and then finish it on the bar­becue. If you have a rosemary bush, add a branch to the coals before grilling the birds.

  These are great cold for lunch the next day.

  Billy the Goat

  A Freddie O'Neal Mystery

  The investment scam in this story is one that I had heard of some years earlier and had filed away for future use. When I decided the scam would involve Freddie's cousin, there had to be
a motive stronger than simple greed. And what could that be but passion?

  "What Cousin Billy? You mean the Cousin Billy who dragged me around Idlewild pool with my head under water when I was six years old? That Cousin Billy?"

  "You only have one Cousin Billy, the son of your Aunt Freddie, for whom you were named. Yes. That Cousin Billy."

  "She doesn't even send me birthday cards, and I wouldn't recognize either of them on the street. And Billy has to be fortysomething. Why would a fortysomething man still use the name Billy?"

  "I don't know. You'll have to ask him."

  "Why does he want to see me? And why doesn't he just call?"

  "I can't answer either of those questions," Ramona snapped.

  She was getting testy, probably because I was. Her rela­tionships with her sister, her sister's assorted husbands, and her sister's three adult children weren't any better than mine. So it wasn't fair of me to push her.

  On the other hand, it wasn't fair of Cousin Billy to call her after all these years and ask a favor. Especially when the favor he asked was to arrange a quiet meeting with me. Which meant my mother had to ask me a favor.

  Not a good start for a telephone call.

  "Okay." I figured I could give in on this one. Find out for myself what was going on with Billy. "Where are we supposed to meet?"

  "The Arcade at the Clarion."

  "The Arcade? You mean the place next to the ice cream counter where the video games are? The place where the kids are dropped while the adults gamble?"

  "That way you can spot each other. He'll be playing Space Invaders, tonight at seven."

  "He could be playing anything he likes. He'll be the only person over twelve."

  "I think that was the idea. He wasn't certain he could recognize you, either."

  "All right. I'll see what he wants."

  "Thank you." Her tone was icy. Asking me to help a nephew she hadn't seen in twenty-five years was tough.

  "And I'll call you tomorrow."

  She hung up without thanking me again.

  The Clarion wasn't one of my favorite places, but I could understand why Billy—or anyone else needing to set up a discreet meeting by way of a third party—might choose it. It was one of the newer hotel-casinos, built a couple of miles south of the downtown gambling center, and airport-handy. There were always at least three conventions on the daily schedule, and the crowd at the tables would welcome the space in a sardine can.

  Two people could have a conversation without the possi­bility of being taped in the din. Only a lip reader would have a shot at picking it up.

  I pulled the Jeep into the parking lot about fifteen min­utes early. The asphalt covered an area the size of a football field. Even so, the first space I spotted was against the back fence.

  The sun hadn't set, and the early evening air was still warm. By late May, the temperature swings run around forty degrees, dropping slowly from the mid-eighties in the afternoon to the low forties just before dawn. I figured this wouldn't take much time, so I hadn't bothered to bring a jacket.

  I walked down a long row of cars, vans, and pickups, mostly with California plates. I wondered where Billy had been living for the past twenty-five years. Not in Reno, I was certain of that.

  Scattered lines of people converged on the double doors from the parking lot to the casino, like ants discovering a chocolate bar.

  The inside was a sudden explosion of light, color, and sound. Another football field, with the center open for a couple of stories straight up, the floor jammed with tables and machines all swarming with people.

  A glass-encased announcement board welcomed the conventions of the day—orthopedic surgeons, travel writers, and the Arkansas Bar Association.

  I stayed on the outskirts of the pit as much as possible, working my way toward the corner escalator that led to the hollowed-out second floor, where the video games and ice cream counter were located.

  The post-World War II gamblers who built the city were probably rattling their dry bones in wonder at the new emphasis on family-friendly entertainment, and the way gam­bling had morphed from a pastime somewhere between sleazy and sinful to good, clean fun and a healthy source of state revenue to boot.

  The video game players were all minors, as usual. A sole adult stood just outside the area, a man about five foot seven, with reddish-brown hair, as twitchy as a pedophile watching for security guards.

  Ironically, I would have recognized Billy after all. With that small, tight mouth and pointed chin, he had to share Ramona's gene pool.

  The cowboy boots gave him some needed height, but he didn't seem comfortable in them, and they didn't exactly coordinate with his blue suit, white shirt, and burgundy tie. And he was still four inches shorter than I when he walked up and held out his hand.

  "My God, Freddie, it's good to see you."

  The hand was a little sweaty. I was glad he hadn't tried to hug me.

  "Hey, Billy," I replied. I was trying to reconcile this thin, nervous man with the teenager who had seemed so powerful when he dragged me around the pool.

  "We could have met at the bar. I would have recognized you—you look just like your father."

  I took my hand back.

  "I'd just as soon talk over a beer," I said.

  "Fine, fine. How about dinner? We need a little time to catch up."

  "I can't handle the line at the buffet, but the area that serves the little pizzas would be okay."

  "I was thinking about the restaurant across the way." He gestured to the area on the other side of the doughnut hole, where the exception to the rule that casinos serve inexpensive food hid behind a bright seafood menu and a dark door.

  Billy had to be doing pretty well. Or be using someone else's credit card. It wasn't a nice thought, but the combi­nation of the twitchiness and the reference to my father brought my guard up.

  "Your choice," I said.

  We walked the balcony in silence. Billy was working hard at the cowboy boots, but they were pitching him for­ward, and I was reminded of the way a baby walks, almost falling with every step, half-running just to stay upright.

  Billy looked both ways quickly before slipping through the door.

  A smiling man in a tux who stood somewhere between Billy's height and mine showed us to a corner booth in a room so dim that I couldn't tell if it was full or empty or somewhere in between. He handed us menus and left.

  I set mine aside.

  "You know what you want?" Billy asked.

  "Catch of the Day and a beer," I said. "Now cut the crap and tell me what this is about."

  "I thought we might chat a little first."

  He looked hopeful, but I didn't help him out. He shook his head and sighed.

  "I need you to run an errand for me." The hazel eyes tried to look sincere, but the lids twitched.

  "What kind of errand? Why me?"

  "I need someone I can trust, and someone who can take care of herself in a tight situation."

  "Start from the beginning."

  He couldn't focus. He waved at a waiter and ordered for both of us. I didn't bother to react.

  "All right," Billy said, but he didn't sound as if he meant it. "I'm a stockbroker. I sell securities at a small, independent firm in Newport Beach—that's in Southern Cali­fornia. We do a lot of private placements for very wealthy people who want investments with an above average return. A few months ago a certain party approached me with an interesting idea—railroad tank cars."

  "What's interesting about railroad tank cars?"

  "These particular cars would be used to transport oil to Southern California. And they wouldn't be ordinary tank cars. These would be Cadillacs, not Chevys. With shining brass fixtures, and brass plates with the owner's name on the side. For a mere one hundred thousand dollars, a far-sighted individual could own a vehicle making continual trips from the oil-rich territories of Alaska to the automobile-dependent territories of Southern California. A can't-lose proposition."

 
; He pulled a folded brochure from his inside coat pocket and flipped it open to a photograph of a tank car. The brass fixtures glowed, even in the imitation candlelight.

  "This isn't a real tank car. This is a model," I said.

  "Right. Every investor got a model of a tank car, just like the real one, as a desk ornament. Terrific sales tool."

  "So what went wrong?"

  Billy sighed. "Nothing was wrong with the idea. I did all the due diligence anyone could ask. The SEC approved the prospectus."

  "So what went wrong?" I asked again.

  "It seems the persons who wrote the prospectus and the persons who created the brochure took the word of the same party who talked to me. That is, we all believed that the tank cars were lined up."

  "Whereas?"

  "There are no tank cars." Billy cringed as he said it, waiting to be hit.

  I shrugged. "You didn't create the scam. You didn't even write the prospectus. Turn the certain party in to the SEC. There might even be a reward."

  "That seems like good advice." Billy was twitching again. He must twitch off about eight hundred calories a day. "But the certain party wouldn't like that at all. I need to keep a low profile. Getting in touch with the SEC would mean drawing a little too much attention. I'm not sure who I can trust—except you."

  "Why me? You haven't seen me in twenty-five years."

  "Hey, Freddie, you're my cousin. Who can you trust if you can't trust your cousin?"

  Somebody who doesn't twitch, was what I thought.

  "There's something you haven't told me," I said. "Like who this certain party is, the one behind the scam."

  "I don't like the word 'scam.' I'd rather call it a mis­understanding." He looked around, making certain no one was within earshot, then lowered his voice anyway. "And I can't tell you the name of the party who put it together. You don't need to know. That isn't the problem here."

  "If you say so. But then the problem has to be one of the guys who bought a tank car on your say-so."

  "Right." Billy's eyes were starting to water. He reached up and rubbed them. "For whatever it's worth, there is only one. He's threatening to go to the SEC. And since I can't hand over the party behind the misunderstanding, a com­plaint means that I lose my license to sell securities, my livelihood."