He said in a perfectly reasonable voice, “I wasn’t wearing gloves. I needed to wipe it clean. We don’t want any screwups, any way the cops can place us here.”
Mickey stopped halfway to her toes, bent back up so her body was at a perfect 90-degree angle from the waist, tilted her face. She used her sweet voice. “Doc, there’d have been no prints to leave if you hadn’t taken the car.”
He slammed the Miracle Whip down on the cabinet so hard it rang like a pistol shot. “Okay! You’re right, I’m wrong. I was wrong from the get-go on this one. So what do you want me to do? Kill myself?” He jerked open the drawer where he’d found the silver knife and pulled out a cold forged steel version, a chef’s blade, long and sharp. He held it to his neck. “Okay, Mick. Say the word. Go ahead. I fucked up, I’ll pay the price. One slice, the jugular, it’ll be a little messy for you to clean up, but so what? Yeah? That’s it? That’s why you’re taking your skirt off? You don’t want to get blood all over it?”
“No, Doc.” She gave him her slow grin. “That’s not why I’m taking my skirt off.” She paused. “My blouse.” It took a minute to undo the little glass buttons. She was wearing one of those lacy flesh-colored bras that could make a man’s heart stop. “My shoes.” Those were quick. “My stockings.” And those were real slow, her slipping the little rubber nip on the garter, letting the silk slide. Pulling them off over her red-tipped toes. You’d never catch a woman wearing pantyhose who worked a scam that depended on the weakness of men.
Olive had been right, Mickey was 28 years old. She’d only been at the grift for four years or so. Before that she’d been a college textbook saleswoman, fresh out of school. But she’d had to give it up. It was too dull for a cute redhead who’d only signed up in the first place to meet some professor whose brains would make up for her gene pool, riddled with incest from too many generations of Savannah blueblood.
She headed for Australia and Adventure, worked as a dance instructor in a disco; and one thing you could say about those big old Aussies was that they were just as macho as any bubba she’d ever met, which in a sicko way turned Mickey on even while she was spending her spare time reading Chaucer in Middle English. The Wife of Bath being her favorite, of course. In truth, Mickey was a genius, with off-the-chart scores in both verbal and mathematical aptitude, though her purest talents lay in the field of psychology, of which she had never read a word, but was a natural.
It was on a steamer trip from Sydney up through the Coral Sea with stops in New Caledonia, the Solomons, and New Guinea that Mickey encountered the Professor, a man of 80 years and vast experience, and realized that this was the one she’d been looking for, not to father her kids but to give birth to her whole new life.
The life of the grift, for which she had an innate talent.
On that slow boat to Sulawesi the Professor taught her many a pretty trick. Some of them were variations on the lost ring, cons that depended on an attractive girl looking like she was in a fix. Or she could use her youth and looks to sucker an older, wealthy mark into a hotel room, where they would be interrupted by her partner, the “cop,” who would shake him down.
There are a million variations on the con, but among Mickey’s favorites was the proposition bet. Bet I can tie this cigarette in a knot without breaking it. She was a prop hustler par excellence, with a large repertoire of challenge bets that seemed to give the mark the best of it. Bet I can light this match and hold it to fifty without letting go or extinguishing it. Smart gamblers were her favorite target. Bet I can toss one of these walnuts over that five-story building. She once snookered 10,000 bucks on a coin-guessing prop from a professional blackjack player who’d just hit it big in a Vegas casino, but those kinds of takes were few and far between.
She was a whiz at cards, too, and could clean your clock at poker. She cheated, of course, sometimes pulling the drunken mitt, where she’d appear to get a little tipsy on wine and expose her apparently losing hand, sometimes using a mirror called a twinkle or flick, a glim or light; but most of the players were so tickled by the notion of a beautiful young woman in evening clothes shuffling the cards while smoking a thin cigar (that was the Professor’s idea of cute) they never had a clue, and if they did, maybe that was the price of entertainment.
After the Professor, she’d had a number of partners, all men, all older. But she had never worked with anyone for more than six months. Conversation got awfully boring after that. She didn’t want anyone getting too close. Most of all, she’d never found a partner who shared her attitude about the job.
Mickey was always on the lookout for the main chance, whereas the big score is all that most grifters could see. Furthermore, all the grifters Mickey ever knew had spent more time than she cared to think about locked up, which made them age young, and Mickey had no plans to age at all. What she was looking for was a legal grift—like shysters or Wall Streeters—but not so cut and dried. Something with some juice to it. Some sizzle.
Now take Doc. Doc was good, but he didn’t have a clue about the main chance. She’d met him three months ago in Boca Raton, and it turned out they’d grown up on the same stretch of the South Carolina coast. He was the best she’d ever known since the Professor, who’d passed away in his sleep at the age of 82.
As grifters went, Doc was a real pro. Right now he was staring at her, slouched back against the counter, his feet wide in his cowboy boots. He was resting his elbows on the yellow Formica.
She watched him watch her. He watched her watch.
He took a deep breath. Watching Mickey undress was one of his very favorite pastimes. He really was gonna miss her.
She had one of those faces, Jesus, it was like an angel’s. Classy. That cap of red curls above that rounded forehead, smooth and cool, then those wide-spaced eyes of that incredible green, deep and pure with no flecks of gold or brown, just green. That turned-up nose with nostrils that had this cute little pear shape to them. Her mouth, God, her mouth was sweet as a plum. And what Mickey could do with that mouth, say with that mouth when you got down to the nitty-gritty, he’d never heard a woman say such things. And he’d known some women in his time.
Christ. Why wouldn’t he? He was old enough to be her father, easy. Maybe that was part of why she did it for him so much, that old thing about the forbidden, not that he ever would, of course, if he had a daughter, the very thought made him sick; but now there was her back, God, he loved her back, the tender bones of her spine, and though she had definition because she was such a nut about fitness, it was girl definition tapering down to a narrow waist, then flaring, there were those two little dimples, two of his favorite places in the whole wide world. Edisto, Folleys, those Sea Islands, they were great spots, but you couldn’t snuggle into them the same way you could into Mickey’s sweet places.
It hadn’t taken long, staring at her back, then watching the way her little ass moved as she walked up the stairs, before she had him in a bedroom.
“Isn’t that nice,” she murmured, “a king-size bed.”
“Clean sheets.” He pulled his boots off. Then he was out of the white shirt and khakis. “Very considerate.”
“Very thoughtful.”
“Very.”
A while later, Doc pretended that he was asleep when Mickey slid out of the big bed, silent as a ghost.
He knew where she was going, dressed only in his white shirt.
He’d known that was the point of this cute little display of gymnastics from the moment she’d given him the slow grin.
One thing he’d never been able to teach Mickey, and God knows she was a fast learner, was this: Never try to con a con man.
She didn’t get it. Just because she had an enormous talent for the grift, and maybe throw in the fact that she was beautiful, not to mention one hell of a great lay, she was always thinking she could pull one over on him.
He’d been working the grift almost 55 years, since he was five. His ma, Pearsa Miller, was a Machvanka, a tribe of Serbian gypsies whose good-lo
oking women were the sharpest at the bajour or con. Pearsa was among the best. She had to be, tossed out on her own after Doc’s father, a tall blond gajo carnie, seduced her, and from then on the other Machvanka spit when they called her whore. She’d taught Doc well, there was little about the grift that he didn’t know.
So everything Mickey did, she was clear as glass to Doc.
Like he knew she was heading for the Sunliner convertible now, but he also knew it was locked. Both doors, and the trunk especially. He didn’t want her to see what was in the trunk. She’d rolled his pants looking for the keys, just like he knew she would. He heard the Damn! in her mind, though she hadn’t said it aloud. She’d never find the keys, stashed under some towels in the hall closet.
He eased out of bed and slid into his khakis. He thought about his ostrich boots. Mickey teased him about them, called them his affectation. He smiled. He’d leave them here this time.
By now she was probably out in the triple carport. There was no locked garage, and he hadn’t been thrilled about leaving the Sunliner outside, but he’d figured come dark, there was lots of deep water around here, plenty of lakes, he’d just let the car roll off into one. Windows open, it’d go down fast. With any luck it’d be years before they found it, if ever, and by that time there’d be a skeleton in the trunk, and he’d be an old man meandering through the Sea Isles, minding his crab traps, fishing from his john boat, drinking the way he wanted to.
He tiptoed in his bare feet down the hall, down the stairs, past the kitchen, the pantry, the laundry room, a bath, and threw open the back door that opened into the carport.
“Surprise!” he yelled at Mickey, standing there in his shirt in the early dusk, the light softening just a little.
He had to give it to her. She didn’t even jump. Instead she turned like she’d been waiting for him to come down and try to sneak up on her checking up on him. She gave him another one of her slow grins. This one wasn’t about sex, though. This one was more sly. This one was about winning.
But winning what? She didn’t even have the trunk open. She didn’t…hey, that wasn’t even the Sunliner she was leaning against. Her hip was up next to the silver Mercedes, but where was the black-and-gold convertible? What the hell had she done, snapped her fingers and made it disappear? Doc looked around, his head bobbing like one of those celluloid ducks marks tried to plug at the carnival. Now come on, damnit, this wasn’t funny.
“I was just wondering,” she said, showing him her little white teeth, “where’s your car, sport?”
5
AS SAM AND KITTY approached the Palace Hotel’s Silver Ballroom, two footmen in gold knee pants, silver vests, powdered wigs, and golden pumps bowed and threw the doors wide. Before them was a stunning mirrored room, dappled in gold, the ceiling hung with a dozen crystal chandeliers. It was jammed to the gills with swells in full-out formal gear. This was going to be an even longer evening than Sam had thought.
“Good Lord have mercy!” said Kitty.
“Marie Antoinette or stay home,” said Sam in lieu of I told you so.
But Kitty got her drift. “You were right. I was wrong. Jinx is pulling out all the stops. And we’re both underdressed.”
Who knew that a party in Hot Springs, Arkansas, even Jinx’s engagement party, would call for sequins and bugle beads to the floor—the sort of thing any self-respecting beauty contestant kept at the ready in three or four colors?
But all one hundred of the other women guests seemed to be either from Texas—where women were serious about dress-up—or were former Miss Somebodies. Their big hair was done up with sequins and swirls and bows. Some of them had even dyed their tresses to match their gowns.
Sam was in the simple knee-length scarlet silk sheath she’d described to Olive. Kitty wore seafoam chiffon evening pants and jacket, nice with her red-blond hair. Kitty said, “We look like street people.”
“Good. Then everyone else will give us a wide berth, we won’t have to make stupid chitchat about Herself, and we can just eat. Jesus, would you look at those hors d’oeuvres!”
A platoon of white-gloved tuxedoed waiters stood in the center of a great circular table serving up chilled lobster, Beluga caviar, truffled pâté, pressed duck, three-vegetable mousse, soft-shell crabs, smoked catfish, skewers of snails and chicken, shad roe with lump backfin crabmeat, grilled spring onions, rare eye-of-the-round tenderloin, and a pan roast of oysters with wild mushrooms, spinach, leeks, and cream—all of which Sam intended to sample.
There was a 12-piece ensemble playing Viennese waltzes.
Silver cages of turtledoves.
A fountain of Roederer Crystal champagne.
And Sam didn’t recognize a single other soul.
But Kitty did. “Oh, look, there’s Loydell!” She pointed through the crush toward an old lady in the receiving line. Sam had long been curious about Jinx’s mother, who’d now turned out to be her new friend Olive’s best buddy, and there she was.
Loydell Watson was thin where Jinx was curvy and pointy-faced. Her iron gray hair was crimped into a series of stiff waves marching back like soldiers in formation from her forehead. And party or no party, she was wearing her sensible shoes.
Which might not be a bad idea, Sam thought. Her high-heeled pumps were killing her already. So you reached a certain age, like Olive and Loydell, you traded in cute for comfortable, stashed the pumps, the pantyhose, all the other folderol, bought muumuus, pants with elastic waists, let it all hang out.
Maybe that’s what she was going to do now that Harry was out of the picture. She’d shuck the lacy underwire bras, forget exercise class, race-walking. Not exactly let herself go, but get more comfy. Why not? She couldn’t compete with a 22-year-old blonde, no matter what. And those women who worked at it so hard, trying to keep the illusion of youth—well, they were nuts.
Like Jinx, the beauty queen. Kitty had said the last time she’d seen Jinx she hadn’t aged a whit, looked exactly the same as she had when she was first runner-up to Miss Arkansas.
Sam turned to Kitty now. “So where is Herself? You think she’s going to descend in a swing from the ceiling? Lope in on an elephant? Burst out of a giant cocoon and fly across the room?”
Kitty ignored her and peered at someone around a substantial blonde wearing half an acre of silver and jet beads. “Yes,” she said, pointing. “That must be Speed, the fiancé.”
The big blonde moved, and Sam saw a balding man with a curly halo of salt-and-pepper hair. He was waving his short arms like a helicopter, talking 90 miles a minute.
“Tell me it’s for real,” she said.
“Hush,” said Kitty.
“Oh, be still my heart. Jinx marrying a chubby mosquito. Promise me it’s not a joke.”
“Shut up, Sammy, or I’m walking right off and leaving you.”
Though he was kind of cute, if you went in for elves. He had bright blue eyes and a pink cupid’s bow of a mouth. For a little sucker he was built, she would give him that, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested beneath his cream-colored slouch tuxedo right out of the thirties. His tie, tiny black patent pumps, and shirt were black. Sam grinned. “I take back what I said about his being a pool hustler. He couldn’t reach the table.”
“You lied, didn’t you, when you promised to be nice.”
“I’m sorry. I’m tired, Kitty. Morose. Cranky. Just put up with me tonight, and I promise, tomorrow, I’ll kiss Jinx’s feet.” That was easy to say, since she knew they weren’t scheduled to see the happy couple the next day, what with Jinx’s raft of Texans. Kitty had promised the two of them could have a lazy morning, take another bath and massage, pack a lunch, and head for the mountains and a long hike. Nature therapy.
Just then the musicians struck up “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody,” and through a side door flounced a covey of them, all dressed in yards of floating white organza. A buzz flew around the room. And then the buzz grew as the guests realized that the eight girls—beginning with the tiny one who was no more
than three years old and working up to about 21—were blond, blue-eyed look-alikes who all, in turn, looked like Jinx. It was like watching the Breck girl grow older or the Ivory soap commercial where the baby grows into the woman. It was weird, is what it was. Beyond weird. It was bizarre. Sam tried to sneak a look at Kitty, but she was staring off into space. Trying to stifle a major choking attack, if Sam knew her Kitty.
Then, a long beat passed, and the orchestra struck up “There She Is,” which Jinx had never been. Miss America, that is. But it was her party, by God. And so tacky, it was definitely worth the trip.
A drum rolled, a spotlight hit a darkened area at the end of the room, and there she was indeed, Julia Alice Watson MacMillan Barnard about-to-be McKay, just as luscious as ever with the kind of blond, blue-eyed beauty queen looks that were everywhere you turned in the Atlanta and Dallas-Forth Worth airports. Maybe we were talking a contender for Mrs. America now, but she still had spaces between the curves. The only thing that was noticeably bigger was her platinum hair. Bigger than Texarkana, Sam would say to Kitty later. Jinx floated into the room with a rhinestone tiara atop her blond chignon, wearing a dangerously low-cut strapless gown of cloth of gold that looked like it had been spray-painted on. Jinx waved to the crowd as if they were her subjects as she made her way across the room toward the reception line.
“Too bad there’s no runway,” Sam murmured. “I guess they couldn’t get it built in time.”
Then suddenly, there she was, right in their faces. “Samantha Adams and Katherine Lee, I swear! Come here and let me hug your necks! I’m so proud y’all could come!”
Gag me, thought Sam, with an iced-tea spoon—in the bride-to-be’s silver pattern, of course.
He Was Her Man Page 5
