Never Too Rich

by Judith Gould

  Billie was back in less than a minute, a bemused expression on her face. “How strange,” she murmured, giving her head a little shake.

  “What is it?” Edwina asked from atop the runway.

  “The phones.” Billie looked up at her. “One moment I was talking to Doc, and then—poof! Like that, they were suddenly all dead!”

  “All of them? You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” Billie nodded. “I even tried the regular line. It’s dead too!”

  In his East Side town house, Duncan Cooper jiggled the cradle of the telephone. “Billie?” he said. Then, when he got no response, his voice grew louder and more urgent: “Billie! Are you there? Billie!”

  Dead.

  Not a sound.

  He hung up slowly. What the hell had happened? His phone had rung. He had answered it. She’d said: Hi honey—I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier.

  And he’d said: Hey, that’s okay. You all right?

  And she’d said: I’m fine. I’m having fun, actually. We’ve been—”

  And that had been it. Not another word. In fact, not another sound. Not even a click.

  He snatched up his receiver and checked it. His dial tone sang out loud and clear.

  So it wasn’t his phone.

  He grasped at straws. Maybe they’d been accidentally disconnected and she’d call him right back?

  As he waited, he searched his desk for the number she had given him. One minute passed. Two.

  She wasn’t calling back!

  Quickly he punched out the eleven digits of the showhouse.

  Nothing. The phone at her end didn’t even ring. It was . . . dead.

  He had the operator try for him. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said in that clipped nasal tone. “There seems to be trouble on the line.”

  Duncan’s blood suddenly ran cold. Not only was Billie out there, but Edwina and Hal were too!

  “No!” he yelled, scraping his chair back and jumping to his feet. Snatching up the keys to his perfectly repaired Ferrari, he tore out to the landing and leapt down the stairs three at a time.

  Nooooo . . . his mind kept screeching as he raced down to the garage. God, nooooooo . . .

  Fred Koscina and Carmen Toledo were burning the midnight oil. Putting in overtime was the only way they could deal with their backlog of paperwork.

  Paperwork. The department seemed to thrive on it. Come to think of it, so did the whole goddamn city bureaucracy. No matter what else you had to do, you just couldn’t get away from it. There was a form for every conceivable occurrence, from simple procurement to complicated arrests.

  After a while he irritably shoved the papers aside. His mind wasn’t on them. His thoughts kept wandering out to Southampton.

  Should he have allowed Billie Dawn to travel that far away from him? Not that he could have stopped her, but the question kept gnawing at him. Not that she shouldn’t be safe. He’d sent two of his best undercover cops out there with her. If anything untoward occurred, they had instructions to call him. ASAP.

  He tried to force himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. He snatched up another interdepartmental form. Rolled it into his decrepit typewriter. Lined up the spaces. Hunted for the D key. Pecked. Hunted for the E. Pecked again. He typed, he often thought, like a fucking bird searching for grain in Russia.

  “Goddamn pencil pusher, that’s what I am!” he growled. Yanking the form out of the typewriter, he crumpled it into a ball and tossed it across the room.

  Carmen Toledo looked up from her desk but didn’t say a word. She had learned to gauge his moods and knew when to keep quiet.

  Koscina stared at the phone on his desk. It was just no use. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep his mind on anything— at least not until he knew for certain that everything was hunky-dory out in Southampton.

  Picking up the receiver, he dialed the hotel where Billie Dawn was staying and asked for her room.

  Her extension rang and rang, but there was no answer. Maybe she was asleep. But the ringing should have awakened her. He didn’t bother leaving a message with the switchboard.

  Next he dialed the showhouse.

  Nothing. Not even a ring.

  Now, that was strange—downright worrisome, in fact. Frowning, he called the operator and had her check out the line.

  She told him to wait.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered impatiently, drumming his nails on the scarred desk. “I haven’t got all night. . . .”

  Finally the operator came back on. “I’m sorry, sir,” she told him, “there seems to be trouble on the line.”

  Aw, shit! Koscina shot his swivel chair back, jumped to his feet, and grabbed his rumpled jacket.

  Carmen Toledo looked up at him. “Where you going, boss?”

  “Stay here!” he instructed her tersely. “Get hold of the Southampton P.D. and have ‘em send a car out to the showhouse. And pronto. Make sure they wait there until I arrive!”

  Then he was gone.

  Anouk was on the second floor in the “English country library” when she thought she heard the stealthy creaking of a floorboard somewhere behind her. She felt the hairs at the nape of her chignon rise and her skin begin to crawl. Frowning, she turned around slowly.

  She wondered: Did I leave the door open that far when I came in? Is someone lurking in the shadows behind it?

  She held her breath and listened.

  Nothing stirred.

  All was quiet. All seemed well.

  She laughed softly at herself. How absolutely silly of her! Of course she was alone among the shelves of antique books, the chintz-covered furniture, the brass club fender, and the Tabriz hunting carpet. She was only imagining things.

  She decided she would soon go downstairs and inform Billie Dawn, Hallelujah, and Edwina that it was time to knock off for the night. The sooner they all did that, the better. This was no place for women to be alone at such an ungodly hour. Strange that now, after all the months during which the army of noisy workmen and shrill decorators had swarmed over the house, the sudden emptiness and silence she had yearned for should be so downright eerie. Every creak suddenly seemed an ominous threat.

  It was so easy to let one’s imagination run away. . . .

  Enough was enough, she told herself firmly. After this room, she would call it quits.

  But for some reason, the hairs on her neck were still bristling. She shivered. Why wouldn’t they go down?

  Quickly she got busy. Moved some chairs away from the center table. Went along the shelves, pushing some books way in while pulling others further out. Tilted a lampshade so that it sat askew.

  She stepped back to survey her handiwork. There. Her deft little touches definitely threw the room off-kilter. Now it was much, much better. Mark Hampton should never have told her that she’d have to wait six months before he could redo her country house.

  She couldn’t resist a smirk. One never, ever made a de Riscal wait.

  Turning around, she was about to head back out when the door abruptly slammed shut in front of her. Even before the shock registered, Anouk jerked instinctively back.

  So someone had been lurking there!

  It was then that the crazed knife-wielding drag queen leapt out at her from the corner.

  Run! Anouk’s mind screamed. Runrunrun!

  But the monstrous caricature of a woman was too fast for her. The raised knife flashed as it descended. Screaming, Anouk threw up her arms to protect herself, but it wasn’t enough. The knife plunged in.

  Miss Bitch gave it a nice jerking twist and pulled it back out. Plunged it in again. Yanked it back out. In. Out. In. Chest. Arms. Belly. Throat. In.

  “There, my precious,” Miss Bitch crooned, “that feels sooooo lovely, doesn’t it?” Almost gently he slid a hand behind Anouk’s head and moved it forward so that she impaled herself up to the hilt of the blade. Keeping her head raised, he worked the knife around in slow circular movements.

  A jet of blood sprayed up, and An
ouk’s narrow face seemed to swell. Her eyes grew round with disbelief. Her throat gurgled.

  Miss Bitch sighed ecstatically as the rising spray of blood rained down on both of them. “Oh, how nice! Doesn’t it feel sooooo wonderfully, deliciously warm? Isn’t it fabulous, darling?”

  Anouk’s eyes grew paler and her tongue furled.

  Miss Bitch lowered Anouk’s head and withdrew the knife. Now a powerful geyser of blood pumped high and splattered down. He plunged his hands into the sticky liquid and smeared his bare arms crimson. Held them out and gazed at them admiringly. They looked so lovely! So slick! And felt sooooo warm.

  Anouk’s body convulsed one last time, her head fell sideways, and she lay still.

  Miss Bitch wiped the knife clean on his own stockings and yanked Anouk’s chignon loose. Swiftly he set to work.

  “Scalp number one coming up!” he sang. “Eva Gabor, eat your heart out!”

  Chapter 69

  “What was that?” Billie Dawn’s entire body had gone stiff. She turned to Edwina and Hallelujah. “Did you two hear it?”

  “It sounded like a scream,” Edwina agreed slowly. Frowning, she cocked her head to one side. “But I don’t hear it anymore.”

  “I’m telling you, it came from somewhere inside this house!” Billie insisted. “I know it did!”

  “C’mon, you two!” Hallelujah said anxiously, at the same time trying to sound very adult. “It wasn’t anything but the wind.” She didn’t look very convinced, though: fear had a habit of being contagious. Besides, although she couldn’t speak for Billie Dawn, she could speak for her mother. And it was not like Edwina to get spooked in an empty house—no, not at all.

  “Now I don’t hear it anymore either,” Billie said in a strained whisper. “You don’t suppose it was Anouk, do you?”

  “Will you two stop it?” Hallelujah cried. “The next thing you know, you’re like gonna make us all totally freak out!”

  “I think we should leave,” Billie said grimly. “Now.”

  Edwina wasn’t listening; she was on her way out into the hall. Billie and Hallelujah looked at each other and followed. When they reached the grand foyer with its celestial theme, Edwina cupped her hands. “Anouk!” she called out.

  “Aaaa . . . noooouk . . .!” Billie echoed.

  They fell silent and listened. The house was so quiet they could have heard a pin drop.

  “Anouk!” Edwina tried again.

  “Aaaa . . . noooouk!” Billie echoed again.

  Still there was no response.

  “I know I heard a scream,” Billie said fretfully. “I wasn’t imagining it. You heard it too.”

  Edwina cut her off. “You two go back into the ballroom,” she told Billie and Hallelujah. “Don’t under any circumstances leave there. Is that clear?”

  Billie grasped her by the wrist. “Where are you going?”

  “It just occurred to me that Officer Moody hasn’t dropped by in at least an hour and a half.” Edwina paused. “You both heard him. He said he would come by every forty-five minutes. And he hasn’t.”

  “Eds . . .” Billie whispered.

  “Maybe he was, you know . . . delayed?” Hallelujah still wasn’t ready to admit just how spooked she really was.

  “Maybe,” Edwina granted. “But I’m going outside to take a look around anyway. It can’t hurt, and I won’t be gone long. Just you two stay together.” She paused pointedly. “No matter what.”

  “If you run across my two undercover cops—” Billie Dawn began.

  “I’ll make sure they tag along,” Edwina said briskly.

  “Ma?” Hallelujah looked worried. “Be like real careful? Okay?”

  Edwina smiled. “I will, sweetie.” Swiftly she hugged her daughter. “That’s one thing you can count on.”

  She walked toward the door.

  Carmen Toledo was insistent. “Well, can’t you radio him and make him go check? Maybe they’re not in the house. Maybe something happened.”

  “Officer Moody said he’d be looking in on them,” the Southampton dispatcher told her. “Since I can’t raise him by radio, he probably stepped out of his patrol car. He’s probably out there right now, having a cup of coffee with them.”

  Carmen was not mollified. “Send another car out there,” she insisted. “Just to make sure. Okay?”

  “Lady, how many cops you think we got on duty. This ain’t New York City.”

  Carmen was intractable. “I don’t care. Send one over there now”

  “Sure, sure.” The dispatcher’s voice was bored.

  “I mean it!” she said sharply.

  “Yeah.”

  Carmen hung up. She stared at the telephone balefully. Somehow she just couldn’t shake the feeling that she was only being humored.

  She would give the dispatcher exactly ten minutes and then pester him again.

  Outside, the night was chilly and a brisk salt wind gusted. Grit from the sand dunes pelted Edwina with sharp little stings. Overhead, the high shredded clouds raced across the umbrella of stars. To both left and right of the flagstone path, leaves and branches rustled and rattled.

  Edwina stood there a moment to get her bearings. She could feel her heart beating too rapidly, and she tried to still it by taking some deep breaths.

  She looked around. The landscaping was floodlit by concealed outdoor lighting that made for a rather bilious effect. Everything looked yellowish-green and unreal, more like a stage set than the moonlight it was intended to emulate. If anything, the combination of bright lights and long shadows made the grounds seem even creepier than if they had been entirely dark.

  Suddenly she heard a twig snap in the bushes to her right. She whirled in that direction. What was that? A small animal? A human foot?

  “Is anybody there?” she called out.

  Nothing. Only the soughing of the wind, the rustling of the bushes, the roaring of the nearby surf.

  It had to be her imagination—didn’t it?

  She started along the flagstones.

  She hadn’t gone ten feet when the foyer door slammed shut.

  And the outdoor lights clicked off.

  Chapter 70

  11:46 P.M.:

  In the cool night air, the stolen Harley took the turnoff curve at a forty-five-degree angle. Under the chrome-plated Kaiser Willie helmet, Snake’s eyes glowed.

  Soon now, he thought. Four or five more miles and he’d fuckin’ be there. Right on!

  Coming off the expressway, he laughed out loud and opened up. The engine’s snap and growl rose to a roaring crescendo, and the tach and speedometer needles climbed steadily. He could feel the wind pushing back at him like an invisible fist as the machine surged forward.

  Live to ride an’ ride to live—that’s the motto, bro. That’s what it’s all about.

  The high beam stabbed ahead into the darkness. Set far back in the trees on either side of the two-lane road, some of the biggest houses he’d ever seen were aglow with lights.

  Who’d ever have thought it? A Satan’s fuckin’ Warrior out in the rich-ass fuckin’ Hamptons. All right!

  On a straight stretch, an oncoming pair of headlights switched from high beam to low, then flicked to high again to signal him to switch his down.

  He grinned to himself and narrowed his lids. Fuck you, citizen.

  The car flashed its beams again.

  “All right, motherfucker!” Snake hissed quietly. “You wanna push it? You wanna play chicken?” Abruptly banking the bike into the oncoming lane, he headed straight on a collision course with the car.

  The distance closed rapidly; it was as if he was hurtling into twin suns at supersonic speed. The horn blared and the car swerved wildly just in time.

  Snake caught a glimpse of a frightened white face in his headlights and then the Saab flashed past, hitting him with its warm air stream.

  He grinned again as he banked back into his own lane. All right! He was king of the road, lord of the miles. Flying above the asphalt, his steed
leaping from between his legs like a massive iron cock.

  Southampton village was coming up. The houses were set closer together now; then expensive boutiques suddenly lined both sides of the lamplit street. The 1200 CC’s of Milwaukee-made engine shattered the quiet.

  He was almost there now. He could practically smell her in the tang of the salt air.

  Her name echoed in his head like a staccato stadium chant:

  Shirl Shirl Shirl Shirl Shirl Shirl Shirl . . .

  Yeah. He was gonna show her who was boss.

  Even things out a little.

  No one, fuckin’ no one, crossed Snake.

  He glowered.

  The goddamn bitch owed him.

  11:48 P.M.:

  In a patrol car parked near the Sayville exit of the Long Island Expressway, two highway patrolmen were sharing a thermos of hot black coffee. “It’s dead out tonight,” the one behind the wheel muttered without much concern. “Don’t know why we had to set up the radar trap at this hour.”

  “It’s them complaints about them drag racers.” His partner blew on his coffee to cool it. “Damn kids.”

  Suddenly a set of headlights streaked past them like a speeding bullet; the red taillights receded almost immediately.

  “Shit!” the one behind the wheel swore as he sat up straight. “What the hell was that?” He turned to his partner with wide eyes.

  “Dunno, but look at the radar clock! That bastard’s doing a hundred and sixty! Must be soooome car.”

  The patrolman behind the wheel switched on the siren and turret light, and outside the windows the night suddenly flashed blue and red.

  “You’ll never catch him in this heap,” his partner told him.

  “Oh, yeah? Ten bucks says I will—if you’ll get your thumb out of your ass and radio him in. We can have him headed off before he gets ten more miles.”

  They dumped their coffees out the windows and, tires screeching, took off in pursuit.

  11:49 P.M.: