“What the hell?” he said, walking into the loft, where he saw that the twins, Lucy, Marlene, Jojola, and Gilgamesh were all smiling at the man with the gun.
“What the hell,” he repeated himself just in case he hadn’t been heard the first time. The gunman turned as he holstered his .45 Colt—the very pistol that a young Butch Karp had dreamed of owning someday as he’d watched the Saturday afternoon matinees with his buddies, dreaming of being a cowboy—and stuck out his hand as he walked across the floor.
“Mr. Karp, sir,” the young man with the tan, thin face and piercing blue eyes said. “Ned Blanchett, I’m…a friend of your daughter. Sorry if I startled you.”
“He’s my boyfriend, Daddy,” Lucy said, jumping into Karp’s arms. “You be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” Karp groused and tried not to wince when Ned shook his hand. He was no slouch and regularly hit the weights, but damn if the kid doesn’t have a grip that could crush a two-by-four. “I just don’t like guns.”
Ned’s smile disappeared. His face crumbled into that of the boyfriend who knows that he’s made a bad first impression on his girlfriend’s father and might never recover. He hurriedly fumbled at the gunbelt buckle. “I’m sorry, sir. You’re absolutely right, sir. I should have asked your permission. I’ll put it away, sir.”
Sir? Karp thought. Next thing I know, he’ll be asking for permission to marry my daughter.
“No reason to apologize to Mr. Grumpy,” Marlene said, who joined her daughter in hugging Karp. “We asked you to demonstrate. Or, more accurately, if you include the twins, begged you to demonstrate.”
“Ned’s in the Wild West Exposition at the Garden, Daddy,” Lucy said. “He’s going for the national title in the quick-draw contest.”
“He’s really fast,” Zak chimed in. “Less than a second to clear the holster and fire.”
“Ned won the regional contest in Denver last month,” Lucy added. “There’s a hundred-thousand-dollar purse and a sponsorship contract as a motivational speaker with Colt if he wins.”
Ned was turning beet red from all the praise. “I’ve just practiced a lot,” he said. “Some days there ain’t much else to do as a ranch hand.”
Lucy detached herself from her father and reattached herself to Ned. “He’s being modest,” she said, and let go the kind of sigh only a young woman in love can give. “My very own cowboy.”
“Ranch hand,” Ned corrected her.
Karp used the moment to study his daughter as if he were seeing her in an entirely new light. She’d never had many boyfriends, not until young Dan Heeney from West Virginia, but even that was a sort of puppy love. This was different and, he realized with a pang, part of the change he’d seen in her. It wasn’t just that she’d gained weight and filled out; she was a woman. He made a mental note to ask Marlene if…he hated to even consider it and forced any images out of his mind…she’d asked Lucy “the question.” Not my daughter, he prayed. Not yet. She’s too young.
Then his gaze shifted to Ned, who was looking down into Lucy’s eyes with adoration. Something passed between them, and Karp knew then that he was no longer the most important man in Lucy’s life. He fought off the jealousy by being overly friendly.
“Well, Ned, I’m glad to finally meet you. From everything I’ve heard, you’re practically the reincarnation of every matinee idol of my childhood.” The boy turned beet red again. Oh, man, ten bucks he says Aw shucks, Karp thought.
“Shucks.”
Close enough.
“I’m just a ranch hand,” Blanchet said, then wondered if that sounded too unmotivated for the father of the woman he hoped to marry someday. He quickly added, “If I win the contest, I’m hoping to use the money to go to college.”
Good recovery, son, Karp thought. It’s pretty tough to dance around the old man. He smiled, thinking about how he’d had to do a similar waltz with Marlene’s father, a good Italian Catholic who’d resisted the idea of her marrying a divorced Jewish lawyer whose only ambition was to remain a poorly paid prosecutor for the New York District Attorney’s Office.
Marlene had finally sat Mariano down and told him, like it or not, she intended to marry Karp, bear his children, grow old with him, and die in his arms. After twenty-five years, three grandchildren, and a lot of pushing by Concetta, Mariano had pretty much come around, though he couldn’t help but occasionally grouse—loud enough for all to hear—that it just wasn’t going to be right when the family met in heaven and his son-in-law wasn’t there because he didn’t convert, confess his sins, and accept Jesus Christ as his savior and the Catholic faith as the one true church.
“Well, I should warn you that carrying a gun without a license for it in New York City is a felony,” Karp said, wondering why he felt like the school tattletale.
“But he does have a permit, Daddy,” Lucy said. “I already talked to Clay Fulton and it was here when Ned arrived.”
“Clay did what?” Never much of a drinker, Karp decided he needed an eggnog with plenty of rum.
“I suggested it,” Marlene said. “Ned’s awfully good with that thing and this family—your daughter—tends to need protecting.”
“Well, I don’t know how much use I’d really be, ma’am,” Ned said. “I’ve never had to shoot anything except targets and bottles. And to be honest, I’d just as soon I never had to, neither.”
“I need a drink,” Karp said, heading for the kitchen. He saw Jojola standing off to one side grinning at him.
“What are you smiling at?” Karp scowled. “What’s next, now that Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show has come to town with a cowboy and an Indian. Knife throwing? Scalping lessons?”
“That’s easy,” Jojola said, grabbing Zak and pulling his long curly hair up in a fist. “You just make a cut across the front and yank it off.”
“Cool,” Zak squealed.
Karp blinked twice and continued on to the kitchen, where he poured himself that eggnog with rum. Nothing like discussions about shooting people and scalping lessons to bring out the holiday spirit, he thought. I wonder what normal families talk about on Christmas Eve. He gulped the first drink down and just managed to pour another before he was dragged off to the bedroom by Marlene.
“I know that was a little bit of a shock, but now we need to get ready,” she said. “People will be here soon.”
“Couldn’t we close the blinds and turn off the lights, then not answer the door?”
“Come on, Scrooge. Quit with the bah humbug and lighten up.” She draped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “And if you’re nice, I’ll let you open your Christmas present early.”
“I’m always nice,” he said but was distracted by trying to imagine what his present might be. He chugged the second eggnog, then dutifully climbed into the dark gray turtleneck and khaki slacks his wife laid out for him.
One and a half more eggnogs later, he was feeling in the Christmas/Hanukkah spirit when the first guests, Murrow and Stupenagel, arrived. Murrow was wearing a red silk shirt with a green bow tie with red plastic holly berries attached, and a red-and-green-checkered vest. Stupenagel was dressed to kill in a slinky green satin dress cut almost to her navel to expose as much of her milk-white breasts as legally possible and a slit up the side to expose her mile-long legs.
Stupenagel walked over to Karp and held up a piece of mistletoe she was carrying in her hand. He tried to duck but was too late and she planted a long, firm kiss with just a hint of tongue on him. “I’m Jewish and that’s not a Jewish tradition,” he complained.
“Yeah, but you’re at a Christmas party, Butch, so get used to it,” the journalist said and held the plant up again, which sent him scurrying back to the kitchen.
Clay Fulton and his wife, Helen, showed up next, but Marlene had not even closed the door before V.T. Newbury and his blue-blooded girlfriend, Katrina Hairsmith-Dupont, “of the Massachusetts Duponts, of course,” stepped out of the elevator across the hall.
Katrina sniffed twice and hurr
ied past Marlene, muttering something about “some people.” Marlene then learned that “some people” were Ray Guma and a boozy blonde half his age who emerged from where they’d been making out against a wall of the elevator, unseen at first.
Guma saw Marlene and grinned. “Marlene Ciampi, I’d like to introduce you to my date and possibly the next Mrs. Ray Guma…Crystal ummm…Crystal, what is your last name?”
“Vase,” she said, and giggled. “Crystal Vase, you big dummy. Of course, dat’s my stage name. Sort of catchy don’t ya tink?” She stuck out her hand to Marlene. “My real name’s Breanna Buchowski, but I don’t like it much. Pleased ta meet ya, I’m sure.”
Crystal Vase, aka Breanna Buchowski, wiggled into the apartment, stripping her coat off and handing it to Karp. She was wearing a blouse that exposed cleavage that had Stupenagel turning green with envy, and her skirt was so short that Karp wondered if she could even sit down without revealing the color—or even presence—of her panties.
She looked up at Karp. “Oh, my, you are certainly one tall drink of wadda,” she giggled. “Now you’ll have to excuse me, I have ta find the liddle girl’s room ta tinkle. Ray’s been pouring drinks down me all afternoon, and I’m about to pee on your floor.”
“Down the hall, first door on the left,” Marlene said hastily.
As soon as she was out of sight, Marlene and Karp turned and looked at Guma.
“What? What?” he said. “She’s an actress.”
“Off-Broadway I take it,” Stupenagel said, walking up. “Any show I might have seen?”
Guma stuck his tongue out at Stupenagel, a former lover and longtime mutual antagonist. “Well, she’s not really an actress. She’s more of a dancer.” He looked around at all the raised eyebrows. “Hey, she once tried out for the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall.” There were more raised eyebrows. “Okay, okay, I met her last night at the Manhattan Gentleman’s Club on Forty-second. You wouldn’t believe what she can do with a—”
“Guma!” Marlene hissed, nodding at the twins who had joined the group. “Young ears.”
“Aw, Mom,” Zak complained. “Uncle Ray’s already told us about the three Bs.”
“Three Bs?”
“Yeah, the birds, bees, and broads,” Giancarlo said innocently.
Ducking Marlene’s glare, Guma headed back “to check on my future ex-wife.”
By now everyone was listening to the conversation at the door and laughing except for Hairsmith-Dupont, who had maneuvered herself over to the bookshelf, where she pretended to be vastly interested in the Karp-Ciampi collection. V.T. joined her with two glasses of wine.
Last to arrive was Harry Kipman. His wife had died of ovarian cancer five years earlier. They’d been sweethearts since their high school days, and he’d still not gone out with anyone after her death, to Karp’s knowledge. He’d initially turned down this invitation until Marlene called and begged him to come.
“Well, okay, but don’t be trying to set me up with anybody,” he said. “I’m not ready.”
Two hours later, well lubricated on a half-dozen bottles of red wine and eggnog and fueled by Marlene’s famous veal parmesan, roasted Italian sausage with sautéed red and green peppers with onion, and gnocchi, as well as several loaves of bread, the conversation was roaring right along. Even Katrina had loosened up to the point of asking Crystal, who, when not dancing for folded dollar bills, was a hair colorist, what she recommended as far as putting highlights in her blond-going-to-gray hair.
“Oh, honey, let me do you in copper—with those green eyes, you’ll have every man in New York wanting a go at that cute little chassis of yours,” Crystal promised.
Katrina, whose “chassis” resembled a surfboard with two peas on it about breast high, blushed but looked pleased. “Well, I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never been a redhead.”
The twins had been ordered off to their room a half hour earlier. They’d gone under protest and only after their dad, who’d had a couple more than his usual, had very nearly given his permission for them to hold Ned’s Peacemaker in the morning. To their delight, John Jojola had gone with them. “Come on guys, I’ll tell you some stories about Christmas at my pueblo,” he said.
When Marlene tried to get him to stay, he shook his head. “It’s really not a good idea for me to be around alcohol,” he said. “It’s not that I’d take a drink. But I don’t like the feeling of wishing I could have one.”
“We’ve had enough,” Marlene said. “We’ll stop. Just stay.” She reached for his arm.
Jojola smiled and patted her hand. She sensed the almost electric bond that there’d been between them from the first time they met. It wasn’t a man-woman thing. It was more like two old souls who recognized each other.
“Go back to the party,” he said. “I need my rest anyway.” He hesitated, then added, “I have something I need to do. So if I disappear for a couple of days, don’t worry about me.”
“This have to do with your dream about David Grale?” She shivered saying the name.
Jojola nodded. “It may be nothing. But I can’t ignore the spirits.”
“What if it’s more than a couple of days?” she said and tried to smile but just managed a small one.
“Send the cavalry.” Jojola smiled. “Or better yet, send the Sioux.”
When Marlene walked back into the living room, Lucy and Ned were getting up from the couch where they’d snuggled in to listen to “the old folks.” They put on their coats, as Lucy explained, “We’re going to Rockefeller Center to see if we can ice-skate if the crowds aren’t too bad.”
“Hey,” Karp pouted. “I wanted to take you and the boys ice-skating under the Christmas tree. That’s our tradition.” He hadn’t meant to sound so petulant, but, by God, a father just didn’t have to let his daughter start breaking family traditions with the first cowboy who came along.
Lucy walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “We’re going to be here for at least three weeks. There’ll be plenty of time to go ice-skating as a family.” Then out the door they went.
Karp turned to find Marlene smiling knowingly at him. “Daddy’s having trouble letting go,” she said, wrapping an arm around his waist and leaning her head on his shoulder. “Come on, deep breath.”
“I am not,” he argued, mostly because there was something else on his mind. “By the way, where’s he going to sleep? John’s on the futon in the boys’ room. Out here on the couch?”
Marlene gave him an amused look.
Then he understood what that meant. “Oh no…they’re not…you’re not thinking it’s okay for them to…,” he sputtered. “Not in my house.”
Marlene gave him a squeeze. “It’s her house, too,” she said. “In Ned’s defense, he offered to sleep on the floor of the boys’ room—said he sleeps on worse when he’s riding herd. But Lucy won’t hear of it.”
Maybe it was the wine, but Karp felt like crying. This is why I don’t drink, he thought, it turns me into an idiot.
Marlene steered him back into the living room. Guma was sitting on the love seat next to Crystal, who’d passed out and was snoring like an old man. Green thong, Karp thought, his theory about the skirt having been borne out by the physical evidence. Marlene noticed too and tossed an afghan over the sleeping woman. “She looked cold,” she said when she noticed that now he was the one with the amused look on his face.
Murrow and Stupenagel occupied a single overstuffed chair, though it was difficult to see him with her on his lap; they were talking to Kipman, who’d done a number on the brandy and swayed as he stood next to them. Meanwhile, Fulton, Newbury, and their female counterparts were engaged in a lively discussion about the war in Iraq.
Looking for something less meaty than politics, Karp glanced at Guma. “So what was the big secret you couldn’t make our meeting for?” he said.
Guma extricated his hand from under Crystal’s ass and got up. “Well, maybe this isn’t the place, but since the new love of my life has already
embarked on her beauty rest, and I’m feeling generous, I guess I’ll give you an early Christmas present,” he said loud enough that the other conversations stopped and everyone turned to listen.
“I’m Jewish, but go ahead, it can be a late Hanukkah present,” Karp said.
“Well, it’s not true that I’ve been pouring drinks down my beloved’s throat,” he said. “I didn’t even get over to the club until four o’clock on my way over here. I’ve been working. And as it turns out, the I. Kaminsky down at the morgue is not the I. Kaminsky we thought he was. It’s his brother, Ivan; as far as I know, Igor Kaminsky is still alive.”
“Good work, Guma!” Marlene exclaimed.
“Thank you,” Guma said, giving a little bow. “But to be honest, it didn’t take any great detective work. I knew that our boy was missing an arm. But the guy in the morgue had both of his…or at least he did before he got slammed by the train, but most of the pieces were present and accounted for.”
“Wow, just like in The Fugitive,” Stupenagel said. “I just love Tommy Lee Jones.”
“Hey,” Murrow complained. “I thought you loved me.”
“And you’re right, my little sugar plum,” she cooed. “I love you lots more than Tommy Lee Jones, Honey Buns.”
“Sugar Lips,” Murrow replied.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” an awakened Crystal said before Karp could voice a similar sentiment.
“It is pretty icky,” Karp said.
“No, I mean I’m going to be sick for real,” she said, scrambling to her feet and wobbling down the hall to the bathroom from which loud retching noises emanated.
Guma hurried after her but soon returned. He had a sheepish look on his face. “Uh, sorry, Marlene,” he said.
Marlene patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t be. She’s a nice kid. Probably too nice to be hanging out with a lecherous old fart like you. I believe I’ve had my own intimate conversations with the porcelain god in my younger days. Anyway, back to the fugitive. Anything else?”
Fury (The Butch Karp and Marlene Ciampi Series Book 17) Page 36
