by Linda Sands
Berger? Ray looked up from his pad, pencil in mid-air. “Detective Hiram Berger? Of the Twenty-First?”
“There another one?”
Ray shook his head.
“Better not be, cuz one of those motherfucker’s enough, know what I mean?”
Ray knew what he meant.
Stash said, “Fuckin’ Berger beat me half-stupid with the phone book. The business section. When I finally came to, I was in lockup and going down hard.”
He looked in Ray’s eyes, “That was eleven years ago. I been all up and down the state, supposed to be for my own good. That’s bullshit! Had me doing diesel therapy, that’s all.” He leaned in. “When I came to Graterford last year, they hemmed me up in PC, then some bum rap landed me in the J-cat wing. They finally figured I wasn’t supposed to be there, so they put me back in the mainline. Now, from what this fish said, I think maybe I got something comin’.” He spread his arms and leaned back. “So, here I am, whatever you need, dawg, you just ask Stash. I can get you tailors, the real smokes, bro.” He looked around. “Or you want some more books?”
Ray stared at Stash Neely and saw more than books and cigarettes. He saw a loophole—one to approach cautiously.
Ray said, “Look Stash, I don’t know you or your people. But if I get involved in this, shit’s gonna roll, you understand? I’m telling you now, you better be straight up with me.”
Stash bobbed his head and smiled, revealing one gold tooth that seemed out of place alongside its yellow neighbors. “It ain’t no thing. Stash be a righteous con, lawdawg.”
Ray picked up his pencil. “All right, start from the beginning and go nice and slow. Don’t leave anything out.”
At Montgomery, Deluca, Banning and Scott, plans for the interns were underway. Len Banning pulled files from a box labeled ‘Pro Bono’. He remembered his early years, homeless advocacy, prisoners’ civil rights. The poor, the crazy and the forgotten. Now he was too busy nursing martinis on the nineteenth hole and totaling his Swiss accounts to care much about the indigent. But the work was good PR for the firm and hell, it was state-mandated. He finished separating the folders into three stacks, then adjusted his cufflinks and pressed the intercom.
“Helen, what time’s the meeting?”
“You’re in A at eleven, Mr. Banning. I took the liberty of ordering from La Famiglia. They’ll be here at one.”
“Very good. One more thing?”
“Sir?”
“Have you heard from Tiffany?”
“No, Mr. Banning. Would you like me to call Spa Royale?”
“No. I’m sure she just forgot to call. I’ll catch up with her at home. Thanks, Helen.”
“Anytime.”
Banning leaned back in his chair, ran his hands over his face. Tiffany, Tiffany, what the hell are you doing this time? Better yet, who?
They had been married in Bermuda on the beach at sunset. That was her idea. God, the younger generation could be so cliché. Len Banning had begun a pattern of running away from the hard things, and now he was stuck with the easy thing—a beautiful young wife with a wandering ass and a six thousand dollar chest. He missed his kids. He missed going home to a real house, with furniture you could really sit on. He hated to admit it, but money wasn’t everything.
Banning stood behind his desk, picked up the glamorous photo of Tiffany Number Three, all mink and lipstick. He kissed the glass, then dropped it in the wastebasket. He pulled the elastic from his ponytail and shook out his famous curls.
Down the hall in Conference Room A, the credenza overflowed with bagels, Danish pastry, coffee, juice and tall bottles of Evian. Helen entered pushing a cart of files.
Reilly and Sailor sat at one end of the long table, sipping coffee. They were weary, yet trying hard not to let it show. This was the life they wanted; hard work was part of the drill. Put in six or seven years, kick some serious butt and make partner. With a nice-sized starting salary and loads of comps, they could pay off school loans, buy their dream cars and vacations abroad. Sleep was highly overrated.
“Morning, morning.” Banning entered the room, hair flowing around his shoulders, eyes sparkling. He set his briefcase on the floor, pulled out a chair and sat down as if he were one of them.
Helen looked up from sorting supplies and saw Banning’s boyish grin and un-tethered hair. On her way out she paused to whisper in his ear, “Welcome back.”
“Thank you, Helen,” Banning said, as the door clicked shut.
He scooted in his chair then pulled a pen from his pocket. “Okay, gang. Let’s get to work.” He passed out the case files. It was shaping up to be a wonderful morning.
Ray Bentley was having a fine morning himself. Yes sir, the weather report was looking good at Graterford. Intermittent showers of hope mixed with a slight chance of luck. Having just read the file of his new pal, DeShawn Lincoln Neely, he felt he might have a chance reopening the case of Raymond Moses Bentley.
Now all Ray had to do was arrange a call to his long absent outside counsel. He’d need more than luck and hope, so he headed back to his cell to stock up on stamps and cigarettes.
In the suburbs, Berger put the finishing touches on his newly waxed car. He waved to the mail carrier then heaved three boxes of Goodwill donations into his trunk. Running back inside for his checkbook and sunglasses, he decided to rearrange the bedroom furniture.
The house smelled of lemon and pine. The furniture gleamed. Vacuum tracks were visible on the carpet. The sound of the dishwasher competed with the rumbling of the washing machine. Bags of trash stood on the back porch waiting for the next pick-up day. Shiny white counter tops in the organized kitchen displayed a dog-shaped cookie jar, a photograph of a smiling woman cuddling a white terrier and an overflowing tray of prescription drug bottles: Ativan, Noroton, Librium, Tegretol, Depakote, Lithium, all with the lids ajar, all half-empty.
CHAPTER 6
The Women
PARIS KENDRICK entered Spa Royale and signed in at the reception desk. The name above hers had been red-lined, but Paris could still read, “Tiffany Banning.” She smiled under her hat and dark glasses. Of course this was where she’d come. This was where everyone came.
Paris walked through the marble entry to one of several waiting areas. This one was a Chinese theme, deep red walls, black lanterns and rice paper screens, low tables and silk meditation cushions. The perfect balance of chi made you sigh as you entered. Paris helped herself to a cup of green tea and turned off her cell phone.
A few moments later, a perfect twenty-year-old brunette in a starched lab coat appeared beside the rice paper screen.
“Miss K.?”
Paris followed the girl to the room at the end of the hall. There would be no massage today, no vichy shower sea kelp scrub. Today, Dr. Simone would inject Botox into Paris Kendrick’s forehead, collagen around her lips and eyes, and transfer fat into her cheeks. It was a dance against time, a ploy some women used to remind them of the glory of youth. Paris wasn’t stupid. She knew she would never see thirty again, no matter what she did to her skin. But she was a vain woman, and working on her outward appearance was so much less painful than an hour on the analyst’s couch.
She imagined if she looked young and carefree, life would reciprocate. She missed that feeling of endless possibility, perpetual hope. She needed to believe something good was on the horizon.
Gina stopped wiping the counter top and leaned into Deluca’s face. “What are you saying Eddie? You know this has nothing to do with my kid.” She looked at him harder. “Jesus. Don’t tell me. Lou’s got something on you, too?”
“Gina, I swear I wouldn’t ask if I knew any other way. I’m telling you, he’s going down. Unless—”
“Jesus, Eddie. Unless what? Unless I lie?”
“I know, I know. It sounds like a lie, but Gina, come on. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before, right? Lou has spent the night. He has been drunk. These are all things that have happened, aren’t they?”
“We
ll, sure, but…”
“Listen to me, Gina. If he does the time, what will happen to you? What about Holly? Please. Do it for me. For old times sake.”
Gina snorted. “Old times, huh, Eddie? Yeah, I remember those old times.” Her voice was low and angry. “Turning tricks in the street, sleeping in the back of unlocked cars. Those were the good old days. Shit.”
“Gina. I need you.”
She stood there with her arms crossed, eyes on the floor, in her sensible waitress shoes and yellow pom-pom socks. Finally she tipped her chin to the ceiling and exhaled loudly.
“Only for you, Eddie. Not for him.” She looked Deluca in the eye. “Only for you.”
Deluca hopped off the stool, leaned over the counter and kissed her. “Thank you. I’ll need you in the office later. Call Mimi, okay?”
Gina nodded.
Deluca peeled a fifty from his money roll and slid it under the coffee cup just as his pager went off. He turned, halfway to the exit, shot back a wide grin and winked.
Gina had to smile. She watched him leave, then turned away shaking her head. “Fucking Eddie. You do it to me every time.”
“What’s that, Boss?’ The cook stood next to Gina, rubbing at a stain on his apron.
“Nothing, Chuck. Just talking to myself. So, what’s the soup today?”
Sonja checked the greenhouse, study and exercise room. Maybe Miss Chetta was enjoying one of her foreign films in the media room. She passed the kitchen where the chef stood at the marble workstation, his whisk tapping the sides of a deep copper bowl.
“Stephan, have you seen Miss Chetta?”
“Not since breakfast. She said something about going into town.” He dipped a spoon into the creamy mixture and held it out to Sonja. “Here, tell me what you think.”
The soft warm cream melted on her tongue. Honey and cinnamon mingled with a tart spike of something. She swallowed, licked her lips, then guessed, “Anise?”
“Very good. You’re learning, Sweetie. But, do you like it?”
Sonja blushed. Sweetie. “Of course. Of course I love it, Stephan. I love all your desserts.” She tugged her long jacket over her ample hips and watched him dip another strawberry into the bowl. The fruit rested on his full lower lip as his tongue darted out to lick the dollop of cream on the tip. Sonja sighed.
Stephan popped the fruit into his mouth and turned back to the stove. “She might be in her dressing room, Sweetie. Did you try there?”
“Um. No, I’ll just head over there, I mean up there now.” Sonja began backing out of the room. “Is there anything you need? That is, if Miss Chetta is going into town, is there anything you need her to pick up?”
He called over his shoulder, “Just one order of tall, dark, and handsome.”
Sonja laughed. “Yeah, me too.”
In the closet of her dressing room, Maria Chetta knelt in front of a large wall safe. She added a cassette tape and two envelopes to a bulging leather satchel then closed the safe door and pulled the evening gowns back into place.
Sonja knocked. “Miss Chetta? I have some papers for you to sign.”
Maria left the leather bag in the closet and walked to the door. “Come in.” She sat in the chair at her antique vanity as Sonja passed her the papers. “Is that it then?”
“Yes, Ma’am. I’ll get these out right away.” Sonja turned to leave. “Oh, one more thing. Will there be anyone joining you for dinner?”
“No. Not tonight. Just tell Stephan to serve something light, and not until seven.”
“Seven?”
“Yes, I’m going into town. I may be delayed.”
Sonja stood at the door, a question on her face.
“Was there anything else, Sonja?”
“No, Miss Chetta.”
Maria heard Sonja’s receding footsteps, waited a moment then retrieved the satchel.
Paris dimmed the lights and adjusted the volume on the CD player. Music filled the room mingling with jasmine incense. She checked her reflection. Hair perfectly tousled, makeup artfully natural, lips plump, zebra-print panties barely visible under the open wrap. Smiling and humming to Ravel’s Bolero, she sashayed on feathered mules into the living room then arranged herself on the divan.
A bottle of Veuve Cliquot Ponsardin peeked from the sterling ice bucket. Two crystal flutes waited to be filled as a key turned in the lock and the penthouse door opened.
“In here, darling.” Paris Kendrick twisted the diamond band on her finger, adjusted her robe and turned to welcome Ted Montgomery.
Maria exited the bank adjusting her sunglasses. She glanced up and down the street. Boys with green and purple hair on skateboards to the north. A scattering of obvious tourists complete with maps and walking sandals to the south. Just another summer day at the cape. She hurried across the street to the parking lot, the empty leather satchel hanging loosely at her side.
Sailor cradled the phone as she finished applying the top coat of nail polish. “No Dad, I don’t sound tired. I sound like I’m working hard and learning. Now stop worrying and tell me about dinner at the Smith-Houghtons.” Sailor wished she could be there with him, wondered what he’d think of his little girl in her grungy sweats with her home manicure. He’d always provided the best for her and expected the best in return. Dr. Beaumont was tough but fair, and Sailor respected and loved him. He’d been both father and mother the last ten years, and Sailor wanted nothing more than to please him, to make him proud of her.
“Your mother is watching you, Sailor.”
“Dad. I wish you wouldn’t say that.”
“I know. You don’t want to talk about it. I’m just saying that she’s with you in spirit. Philadelphia is your town too.”
“Okay, Dad.” Sailor glanced over at the family photo on the end table. A smiling, nappy-haired girl holding a Pooh bear stood between a tanned, blond couple in tennis whites. “I’ll call you soon.” Sailor hung up, and then sunk back into the couch, blowing lightly on her drying nails.
CHAPTER 7
Who’s doing whom?
REILLY was on. The whites of his green eyes weren’t too red today, his clothes were neatly pressed, shoes shined, tie knotted perfectly. He wore cologne that hinted of scarf-draped women in exotic lands. In the secretarial bullpen, six young ladies leaned over the cubicle walls, all breasts and teeth. Five others stalled en route to urgent meetings.
Reilly said, “A guy phones a law office, says, ‘I wanna speak to my lawyer.’ The receptionist tells him, ‘I’m sorry but he died last week.’ Next day he phones again, asks the same question. The receptionist says, ‘I told you yesterday, he died last week.’ Next day, the guy calls again and asks to speak to his lawyer. By this time the receptionist is getting annoyed and says, ‘I keep telling you that your lawyer died last week. Why do you keep calling?’ The guy says, ‘Because I just love hearing it.’”
As the ladies laughed and repeated the punch line, Reilly searched the room.
Behind him, she said, “Looking for someone?”
Reilly smiled, turning around. “Good morning.”
Victoria wore glasses today, giving the impression of a studious Playboy centerfold. “Good morning to you, funny man. Don’t forget, you’ve got to run down that depo before the meeting with Harry.”
“Don’t worry Sweden. I’ll be right behind you and let me say, it’s not a bad place to be.”
“Hey, Reilly.” Missy broke in, touching Reilly’s arm. “Do you have it?”
Reilly reached in his pocket and pulled out a small square of paper. He passed it to Missy, his eyes still on Sweden.
Missy snatched it. “You’re the best!” She took off to the break room, waving the paper. “I’ve got Reilly’s top ten!”
Sweden raised her brow. “They all love you, don’t they?”
Reilly said, “I don’t know. Do they?”
Sweden shrugged, then pushed up her glasses and walked away, feeling Reilly’s eyes on her back.
Across town in Paris Kendric
k’s penthouse, Ted Montgomery felt obligated to ask, “How long will Arnold be gone this time?’
Paris rolled onto her side, propping her newly tightened face on her chemically treated hand. “The usual. Three weeks. He’ll be back just in time for the Van Gogh opening. Are you taking Alice?”
“Oh hell, probably. She hired a house manager last month, and already this broad has us committing to every damn invitation that comes along. Alice says we need to be seen at more charity and social events. Some crap about the firm’s importance to the community, and our commitment to mankind.” Ted tugged gently on the silk sheet covering Paris, drawing it down across her surgically enhanced forty-something breasts, past her lipo-suctioned abdomen, all the way down to her carotene-lotioned pseudo-tanned thighs of steel.
“Umm-hmm. Now that’s what I call mankind.”
Paris giggled as Ted buried his face in her breasts.
Deluca primped at the mirror, speaking into his headset. “Mariel, I swear, I’ll be there. You know how it is with these high profile cases, if they call at the last minute, I have to go. Why don’t you meet me at Le Bec Fin? The press will be there and you can show off your new stones.” He walked to the couch and lay back on the cushions. “So, baby? What are you wearing, now?”
“Chuck! I’m out of here!” Gina slipped into her sandals, while pulling bobby pins out of her loose bun.
“Okay, Boss.” Chuck poked his head through the order window. “Anything else you need done before the lunch rush?”
“No, I think we’re good. Susie should be here in ten minutes. Table eight’s already paid. He can sit there as long as he wants.” Gina shook out her hair and smoothed the front of her dress. “How do I look?”
“You look great. You got a date or something?”
“Hi’s coming around. He’s taking me to the zoo.”
