Never Too Rich

by Judith Gould

  Her fingers came up empty.

  Oh, hell! Squeezing herself closer against the sofa, she stretched her arm as far back as it would reach. Groped desperately.

  Still out of reach! She let out a little cry.

  Suddenly she froze. From somewhere in the distance came Billie Dawn’s and Hallelujah’s screams. That monster—What was he doing to them!—must have them cornered—Oh, God, what did he want with them! She jumped to her feet.

  Summoning an almost superhuman effort, she lifted one end of the heavy sofa a few inches. Gritting her teeth, she moved it out a few feet and let it drop. The floor shook. Then she jumped on the chintz-upholstered seat, clambered over the sofa’s back, reached down, and grabbed the revolver.

  Just feeling its hefty weight was somehow reassuring.

  Down the hall, the screams continued.

  Revolver in hand, Edwina ran.

  Below the helicopter, a low fog bank was rolling in from the Atlantic. Already it was obscuring the lighted windows in the expensive beachfront houses.

  The pilot pointed down. “If it gets any worse, we’ll never find the place,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “You could find a whore in pea soup, and you know it!” Babs Petrie yelled back at him. Then she twisted around in her seat. “Another five minutes,” she yelled at Fred Koscina. “You know the house?”

  “It’s supposed to look like a nightmare castle,” he shouted back. “All towers and turrets.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Some help you are!”

  “This craft got floodlights?”

  She smiled suddenly. “You’re in luck.”

  “If the fog doesn’t get any higher, that is,” the pilot grumbled to himself as he expertly nosed the whirlybird down to an altitude of a mere hundred feet. They were practically skimming the rooftops now.

  Watch the eyes, never the hand. Snake remembered the cardinal rule of knife fights. It’s the eyes that’ll tell you what the hand is going to do next.

  He kept watching Miss Bitch’s eyes.

  They were bleak with an unholy joy.

  Quick as lightning, Snake jumped forward and his knife blurred in an upward slash intended to disembowel. Just as swiftly he withdrew again. “Son-of-a-bitch!” he cursed aloud. His blade had met only air. Miss Bitch had leapt nimbly back out of harm’s way. Christ, that fairy can move! he thought.

  In a crouch, they circled each other warily again. Without warning, Snake’s knife flashed once more as he made a powerful lunge.

  Miss Bitch spun adroitly sideways and the blade missed him by a mere fraction of an inch. He screeched insane laughter.

  Snake cursed again, and scowled. How the fuck had the fairy managed that?

  From the sidelines, Billie Dawn watched the fight with growing alarm. Her eyes kept flicking to the open door—and safety. She was waiting for the right opportunity so that she and Hallelujah could slip out unnoticed.

  So far, the chance hadn’t come. Worse still, they would have to cover some fifteen feet in order to reach it: they were huddled in the far corner of the room, where they had taken refuge from the slashing blades.

  Hallelujah, unable to watch the violence, had her face buried in Billie’s breast.

  Billie stroked the back of the girl’s head. “We’ll be fine,” she kept repeating over and over, as much to reassure herself as Hallelujah. “We’ll be fine.”

  Snake pressed forward with intense concentration. But again Miss Bitch parried as neatly as if the short blades were fencing foils, and Snake’s blade missed yet again.

  “Fuckin’ shit!” Snake growled. Sweat was pouring down his face and stinging his eyes. Even worse, slowly but surely he could feel himself wearing down. And that fruit wasn’t even sweating.

  The next lunge Snake made met empty air yet again. So did the next. And the next one after that.

  Miss Bitch danced confidently in and out of his vision, screeching deranged laughter, his lunatic eyes filled with a brilliant crazed light. All he had to do was a few dance steps to avoid Snake’s knife; it was that easy. He had not once slashed at Snake—not yet. That would wait until he was weary of toying with him.

  Snake could no longer stand the hysterical, mocking laughter. “Listen, you fruitcake!” he snarled. “Why don’tcha fight like a man?”

  Miss Bitch placed both hands on his hips and looked Snake up and down. “Well!” he huffed. “Look who’s talking! If you’re such a man, why can’t you hit where you aim? Huh, honey?” Miss Bitch blew him a noisy wet smacker of a kiss.

  That did it. Snake had had it. Defeat was new to him—as was mockery. He had taken all he could take.

  Anger blinded him; his fleshy, hairy face grew beet red and his features twisted with rage. He wasn’t gonna let anybody else make a fool out of him in front of Shirl! Bad enough when that old bitch had invaded the Satan’s Warriors’ clubhouse, pulled a gun, and run off with her. But this fairy? Unh-unh. No fuckin’ drag queen was gonna get the better of him.

  Miss Bitch delighted in seeing Snake lose his cool. He hopped back, turned around to cut a momentary Betty Grable pinup pose, and then leapt out of the way when Snake attacked again.

  Billie Dawn watched in horror as Snake tripped on his own heels. The big biker had spent a lifetime relying upon being bigger and heavier and meaner than anyone else. Now he had met more than his match. His size and weight—always before a distinct advantage— were now working against him. He was like a lumbering elephant, while Miss Bitch was a gazelle dancing elegant circles around him.

  Please, God, Billie prayed. Don’t let Snake die. He’s all that stands between us and that monster.

  “Watch this!” Miss Bitch commanded and danced gracefully backward and then stopped, both legs pressed tightly together. He raised his switchblade high, the tip of the long blade pointing down, in a matador’s pose. Then he looked out from under his centipede lashes and blew Snake another obscene kiss.

  That did it! Snake charged him like a bull.

  Miss Bitch simply pirouetted sideways and hopped on tippy-toe. And Snake, unable to stop in time, barreled right past him, but not before Miss Bitch’s knife flashed down and jammed into the back of his neck.

  A shock geysered through Snake and his eyes bulged in disbelief. He staggered. The quivering knife was buried in his neck, all the way to the hilt. Instantly, thin spraylets of blood squirted up like pink veils.

  That was when Billie Dawn started screaming.

  Miss Bitch clapped imaginary dust off his hands. “See how easy it is, girls?” he called out to Billie and Hallelujah, while Snake, bellowing like a wounded lion, stomped around in circles. He was hunched over and kept trying to reach up behind him to pull the knife out of his neck, but he couldn’t reach it.

  “Big brutes really are all bark and no bite!” Miss Bitch clapped his hands in delight. “Don’t you agree, girls?”

  Billie couldn’t bear to look at Snake. Even he, vicious as he was, didn’t deserve this. Nobody deserved this.

  But Miss Bitch was not finished with Snake, oh no. Without warning, he advanced on him and kicked high, his toes dislodging Snake’s grip on the switchblade he was still holding. It flew up out of his grasp.

  Miss Bitch snatched it right out of thin air, just like a magician.

  He turned to Billie Dawn and Hallelujah. “Girls.”

  “Don’t look!” Billie whispered hoarsely to Hallelujah, and pressed the girl’s face closer into her breast. “You don’t have to look.”

  “Oh, but she does! Unless, of course, you wish me to fling this into her back?” Miss Bitch was now holding Snake’s knife by the tip of the blade, and he flung back his arm as if getting ready to toss it at Hallelujah.

  Billie waved a hand frantically. “No! No-no-no-no-no!” she cried. “She’ll look! She’ll look!” Then, softly, she said to Hallelujah, “You’ll have to turn around, honey. Just do as the . . .” She glanced at Miss Bitch. “As he says.”

  “I can’t!” Hallelujah sobbed, and gr
ipped Billie even tighter. Her sobs increased in volume. “I just can’t!”

  Tears were streaming down Billie’s face too, but humoring Miss Bitch demanded priority over everything else. Somehow, even if she couldn’t save herself, she had to try to save Hallelujah. Somehow she had to help her escape this slaughterhouse.

  Firmly Billie took Hallelujah by the arms, pushed her away, and forced her to turn around.

  Miss Bitch smiled. “There! That’s much better, my dear. Isn’t it?”

  Hallelujah stared at him, her eyes glazed with shock, her teeth chattering.

  Miss Bitch reveled in the girl’s fear. He could feel it coming right at him. Oh, he simply adored seeing his victims tremble! It imbued him with strength and glory; fear, that most spontaneous of emotions, made it all seem so worthwhile! Fear made him . . . yes! Happy! Oh, he felt so happy, so alive! So good that he felt like . . . dancing!

  And without warning, Miss Bitch broke into a quick-stomping flamenco and danced around and around Snake. Then, raising the biker’s knife high, he drove it viciously down into Snake’s thick neck, right next to the other. When he let go, the haft quivered like an arrow.

  “Arrrrrgh!” Snake didn’t bellow this time; he bucked and gurgled. Dropped heavily to his knees in writhing agony and cradled his head in his arms.

  Miss Bitch continued dancing madly around him, then grabbed the hafts of both knives and, quick as a flash, drew them out.

  Snake bucked again and fell flat on his face. Blood geysered powerfully up out of the open wounds.

  Miss Bitch took a few flamenco steps backward. “In Spain, sometimes a matador dedicates his bull to a member of the audience,” he told Billie and Hallelujah. “Do you know how he does this?”

  “No,” Billie said in a strained whisper.

  “Then I shall tell you. He presents someone with the animal’s ears.”

  “No!” Billie gasped, and let out an anguished moan. Her eyes, wide and frightened, stared pleadingly at Miss Bitch. “Oh, God, please don’t!”

  “This bull”—Miss Bitch’s foot flashed out and kicked Snake right in the face—”is dedicated to the both of you. Just think! The matadors chose people like Picasso. But I choose you!”

  “Nooooo,” Billie moaned. “Nooooo ...”

  But Miss Bitch was already jumping into a crouch, and in mere seconds had sliced off both of Snake’s ears. Blood gushed from the wounds in a torrent.

  It was at that moment that Billie and Hallelujah both started screaming and screaming and screaming and—

  “Here’s one for you!” Playfully Miss Bitch aimed one bloody ear at Billie and threw it. Billie ducked and it flew past her. “And one for you!” He tossed the other at Hallelujah, who was too frozen to move. It hit her in the face and fell to the floor. She stared down at it wildly, her mouth open as she continued screaming, but now no more sound would issue forth.

  Miss Bitch looked at them narrowly. Then, holding one knife in each hand, he carefully wiped each of the blades clean on his stockings. “You are not grateful little girls,” he chided. “In fact, you are both very, very ungrateful!” Then he did his little trick again, spinning the two knives as if they were silver pin wheels.

  Abruptly the blur stopped.

  He clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. “Now it’s your turns, sweethearts! It’s time for one of you to offer yourselves to Miss Bitch!” He did his knife-baton trick yet again, then abruptly stopped and held the two blades up like a cartoon character’s knife and fork. “Well? Which of you would like to be first?”

  “You, you bastard!” an altogether different voice suddenly said from behind him.

  They all turned, even Miss Bitch. Edwina stood in the doorway. She had taken a wide-legged stance and held the revolver with both hands, just like Angie Dickinson on Police Woman.

  “Drop the knives,” Edwina told Miss Bitch. “And slowly.”

  Deliberately Miss Bitch placed the tip of his tongue in one cheek and moved it around and around in a slow circle, so that his cheek stretched out and moved obscenely. Showing her he wasn’t scared.

  “You heard me,” Edwina said through her teeth. And she thought: Put them down, please put them down! Oh, God, don’t make me shoot. I’ve never shot anyone . . .

  “Did you hear me?” Her voice rose a shrill octave. “Drop them!”

  Instead, Miss Bitch did his little knife-propeller trick again, slowly turned his back on her, and advanced on Billie and Hallelujah. As he neared them, he raised both knives high, preparing to bring them slashing down, when—

  “Ma!” Hallelujah screamed, and flung her arms up over her face.

  And Edwina pulled the trigger. The noise exploded in her ears as she blew a hole through Miss Bitch’s left thigh.

  Miss Bitch was whirled around by the impact. His arms were still raised, and he still gripped the knives, but there was a look of total surprise on his ghoulish face. He teetered toward Edwina, the knives ready to slash down, when—

  Edwina clenched her teeth and squeezed the trigger again.

  This time his shoulder seemed to explode; bits of bone and flesh and wet red blood erupted and went splattering.

  Miss Bitch was whirled around by this impact too. But somehow his arms were still raised, and, unbelievable as it seemed, he kept on teetering toward her, until—

  “Die!” Edwina screamed, and pulled the trigger one more time.

  This time the shot punched Miss Bitch in the belly and slammed him back against the wall. His mouth opened to say something, and then the knives fell from his hands and clattered to the floor. Slowly he slid down along the wall, leaving a wide red smear, and ended in a grotesque sitting position.

  “You shot me,” Miss Bitch whispered. “You killed me.” His head slumped forward and Anouk’s hair slipped off and fell between his legs.

  Edwina dropped the revolver and took staggering steps forward. “Oh, my God!” she whispered, and reeled. She clapped both hands over her mouth. “It’s Leo! It’s Leo Flood! Oh, Jesus! Oh, God!”

  Leo slowly raised his head. “Not . . . Leo,” he slurred.

  “What?” Edwina looked down at him. “What are you saying?”

  “Not . . . Leo.”

  “Then who are you?” She dropped into a squat and her fingers dug into his blood-encrusted arms. She shook him savagely. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Miss Bitch.” His voice was losing its power, and the life was slowly dimming in his eyes.

  “Why?” Edwina asked. “Why were you after us, Leo? Why did you want to kill us?”

  “Leo . . . did not . . . kill. Leo . . . loved. It . . . was . . . Miss Bitch.” His voice was weakening even more. “It was Miss Bitch!” he repeated, and shut his eyes wearily.

  “What are you saying?” Edwina demanded. “I don’t understand!”

  “Oh, God,” Billie Dawn whispered, and she looked at Edwina. “Oh, God!”

  Suddenly his eyes popped open, and for a moment the crazy light was back in them, gleaming insanely at Billie Dawn. With one last massive effort he reached up, grabbed at Billie Dawn’s hair, and pulled. “Mine . . . !” he rasped. “Mine!”

  Billie screamed and jerked her head back.

  Then his eyes dimmed and his hand let go.

  Miss Bitch was dead.

  There were shouts from the hall now: “Billie! Billie!” And racing footsteps. “Billie! Eds! Hal—”

  Then Duncan Cooper burst into the room.

  And as if on cue, the night outside the windows suddenly glared with a dazzling white floodlight and the air was filled with the clattering roar of a landing helicopter.

  By the time they got downstairs, R.L. had arrived also.

  It was over.

  Chapter 75

  May 29 was a day for funerals.

  Three of them took place—one in the morning, one at noon, and one in the afternoon.

  Leo Flood was laid to rest in the morning. He was buried quietly in a cemetery in Connecticut, with only Edwina and H
allelujah in attendance.

  R.L. waited in the limousine with Leslie. “It may not be nice to speak ill of the dead,” he’d growled, “but I’d gladly roast in hell before I’d stand at that bastard’s graveside.”

  Edwina didn’t argue. She couldn’t blame him for the way he felt. Leo had been a butcher—and had been in the process of attacking Hallelujah when she’d killed him.

  The irony of Leo’s split personality was not lost on her.

  The part of him that was Leo Flood had taken him to the pinnacle of wealth and power, while the part of him that was “Miss Bitch” had plunged him into the depths of hell itself.

  Neither of Leo’s two business partners, nor the battalion of executives, nor any of the hundreds of employees of Beck, Flood, and Kronin, Inc., put in an appearance, figuring it impolitic to do so. A massive restructuring within the company would be taking place, and no one wanted to go on record as having been seen mourning a monster.

  After the coffin was lowered, they all rode back into the city— heading straight for Frank Campbell’s on Madison Avenue and another funeral.

  Services for Anouk were held at noon.

  The coffin was open—a testament to the skill and artistry of the morticians.

  Nevertheless, there were a few complaints.

  “Anouk never wore that much makeup,” intoned Lydia Claussen Zehme, the very picture of elegant mourning in black silk, a black platter of a straw hat, and long black kid leather gloves—exactly the kind of outfit Anouk herself would have worn.

  “And her hairstyle and color are not quite right either,” Dafydd Cumberland added.

  It had not occurred to anyone to get Wilhelm, Anouk’s hairdresser, to style and color the wig she would wear to her grave.

  Needless to say, all of society had turned out for Anouk’s sendoff. And of course, nobody had a nasty word to say about her. Not even Liz Schreck or Klas Claussen.

  A stranger listening to the eulogies would have thought she was Mother Teresa.

  Everybody there knew better.