I left her fondling the wontons and headed away from the cheap streets and into the expensive part of town. Quartermaine country.
Even through the downpour, one could tell that the Quartermaine mansion would take up an entire mid-city Manhattan block. And that was just the house. It took me a good fifteen minutes to navigate the winding drive in the wind and rain.
Big Alice answered the door on the first knock. And yeah, she’d slimmed down; she’d lost a whole person. Okay, she wasn’t gonna blow away on the next nor’easter, but she was, in a word, fine.
“Lookin’ good, bub . . . I mean, lady . . . Alice. You look real good.”
She grinned.
“Well, if someone messes with this family, I can still break them over my knee like a Luke Spencer promise, but thank you. Come in.”
She was about to lead me into the Quartermaine den, but then she sidestepped into the butler’s pantry.
“They’re all in there,” she said, noddin’ toward the den. “They know Mr. Edward is gone and no one is lifting a finger to do anything. That’s why I called you.”
“Are you sure he didn’t just step out for the evening?” I asked.
“Not a chance. First of all, it’s the night after Thanksgiving, which means leftovers; day-old pizza—his favorite. Also, I checked his closet; his evening suits are there but his yachting clothes are gone.”
“Why do you think he took the boat out?”
“Because of this.”
She held up a piece of paper with a few items listed in a tidy column. There was a childish scrawl underneath. I reached out to take it from her when the sound of glass shatterin’ in the den made her freeze.
“Alice!”
I followed her into the large . . . really large . . . silly large room. I had only been here once before when Maxie had delivered a fancy-schmancy dress to one of the Quartermaine dames and I went along for the ride. Bright daylight made the room easy on the eyes, but now, with the lights down low and all that expensive silk and satin, I thought I might have wandered into a mortuary.
And the stiffs were all there.
Monica Quartermaine: brilliant and beautiful. She was a sawbones once, and a pretty good one, but someone put the kibosh on that ever since she started hangin’ out with Jack . . . Daniel’s. Apparently she was a real firecracker in her day, but since the death of her husband, Alan, she was cold and sad, like a mackerel on ice.
Tracy Quartermaine Spencer: a tough broad, and also beautiful, but in a hard way. She was angular and edgy, like a Harley that would skid you off the road if you sat on her wrong. Tonight she was lounging in orange silk pajamas with two chopsticks poking out of a hair bun stuck on the back of her head . . . lookin’ like a bad dream you’d have after too much egg drop soup.
And Luke Spencer. Bad boy, rough and tumble. Made me look like a cream puff. His own man . . . and occasionally Tracy’s. Sometimes Laura’s, if she was conscious. Sometimes Skye’s . . . but mostly Tracy’s. So he was back in Port Charles. For how long? I wondered.
The shattered glass had been his, and now the mahogany slats at his feet were covered in whiskey.
“Hey, everybody!” Alice said, tryin’ to act chipper. “Look who’s here!”
“Alice, I seemed to have tumbled my tumbler,” Luke said.
“No problem, Mr. Luke. I’ll be right back with a rag and a dustpan.”
She slipped from the room like she’d been used to cleanin’ spilled hooch for a long time, leaving me standin’ in the middle of the waxworks.
“Why are you here?” Tracy asked.
“Your pop’s gone missin’.”
“Isn’t it delightful?” She grinned. I could see the molars filed down to fine points. “Will, will . . . where’s that will?”
“Not that you’ll be getting anything, you transparent, ungrateful witch. I happen to know it’s all going to the grandchildren,” Monica said, laying down a card on her solitaire game.
“Be quiet, you shopgirl-in-a-borrowed-dress,” Tracy cawed. “Or you might just find all your pretty things in the reflecting pond. You’re only still here, you know, because my father is too silly and sentimental to put you out on the street.”
“It’s MY house, tranny!” Monica shouted back. “Alan gave it to me! And when I go, Ned will inherit this whole mess and toss you out on your considerable derriere.”
She put a hand to her forehead as she turned toward the window. She was shakin’ . . . a little.
“If only I had the strength to do it myself.”
“Maybe another shot of bourbon, Monica, darling,” Tracy said, crossing to the bar. “Oh, that’s right . . . you really shouldn’t drink, should you? Oh, come on . . . what’s one little nip between us girls?”
“Assassin!”
This crowd was rough.
“Would you mind very much shooting me in the head?” Luke asked me.
“I didn’t bring my pal,” I said.
“You’d never go anywhere without your pal, pal,” he said. “You’re a bad liar.”
I was a great liar . . . he was just better.
“Did any of you see Mr. Quartermaine tonight?” I asked.
I’d been in the room for less than two minutes and already I thought I was gonna lose my lunch: cream cheese and bologna on wheat with green-goddess dressing.
“Nope,” said Luke.
“Not me,” said Tracy. “Not that I wouldn’t have shoved him toward the door . . .”
“I saw him cross the foyer on his way out,” said Monica, playin’ a queen.
“It’s a pretty dangerous night,” I said, lookin’ at her cards. “The two goes on the three, not the nine. Why didn’t you try to stop him?”
“He’s a grown man. Besides, I have a game to finish.”
I was gettin’ nowhere fast. I headed back toward the front door. Alice was hurryin’ out of the kitchen.
“How long has he been gone?”
“I’d say two hours, tops,” she answered. “I was in the kitchen making myself some tofu tacos and vegan chocolate-and-peanut-butter pies when I heard the front door close . . .”
“Don’t paint me a picture, Rembrandt, just let me see that note,” I said. I didn’t want to stay in the House of the Living Dead any longer than I had to.
Alice shoved it into my hand as she rushed into the den.
“That’s Mr. Quartermaine’s handwriting on the bottom!”
I looked at the piece of paper: It was her shopping list:
Tomatoes
Eggplant
Lily-Fresh laundry detergent
Rutabagas
Sea salt
Yakatori sauce
Casaba melons
Code! Lila to rendezvous at sea with Cassadine on yacht! Must stop them!
So the old man’s cheese had finally slipped off his cracker, and the only one who’d really noticed . . . probably the only one who still cared . . . was the maid. He’d confused “rutabaga” with “rendezvous” and “casaba” with “Cassadine.” Yakatori meant yacht . . . and Lily was his own long-lost Lila. And now the poor devil was wanderin’ the high seas in a perfect storm, lookin’ for a pair of lovers that weren’t there.
I had to get to the harbor, but quick.
The Port Charlie harbor isn’t one of the biggest . . . anywhere; it’s low on the list. That’s the reason it’s one of the busiest. Any fed who’s tried to bring down Sonny Corinthos will tell you that and plenty more . . . but that’s another story.
The Quartermaine yacht, the Smilin’ Lila, was nowhere to be seen and the tie lines alongside her slip were lyin’ on the dock; they weren’t wound and knotted the way old man Q probably insisted every time he took her out. This told me he’d just thrown the ropes from the boat . . . which meant there was no one else onboard.
I went over my options. I coulda swiped another yacht . . . I’d “borrowed” enough cars (and how) over the years; I could hot-wire anything. But I needed speed and the eighty-footers all around me didn�
��t have it. Then I spotted a cigarette boat, a real speedster, down a few slips. She was bein’ tossed about in the storm like a Caesar salad; a few more bumps into her dock and her owner could use her for toothpicks. Hell, I was practically doing the guy a favor by takin’ her out.
Ten minutes later, the harbor jetty was three hundred yards behind me and I was racin’ into open water. The rain was comin’ down hard, like the sea was being punished. I flipped on the ciggie’s bilge pump and cursed myself for not buyin’ that waterproof trench coat Maxie had showed me in Manhattan. Too pricey at the time; now I woulda given my right nut.
“Really, Mr. Grasshopper?” I asked him. I could tell my eyebrows had gone into my hairline. “Your right nut?”
“Does the Smart and Sassy Solicitor feel that is too much?” Spinelli asked.
“Not if you’d do it.”
My only problem was: Which way was the old man steerin’? It was a toss-up, so I went with my gut . . . which is never wrong, only sometimes I don’t listen . . . like when Maxie says I should have that extra scoop of butter brickle ice cream and I know cow-juice doesn’t sit so well . . .
“Spinelli . . .”
“Profound apologies.”
I turned the ciggie south and opened her up. I should always listen to my gut. It wasn’t long before a white spot appeared off to my right, but the rain was doin’ funny things to my perspective, and before I knew it, I was bearin’ down hard on the yacht. I pulled her up just in the nick of time: three more feet and Smilin’ Lila woulda been smokin’ the ciggie.
The boat was dark—not even her runnin’ lights were twinkling. Made me think I was pretty damn lucky to have spotted her in the first place. I saw the rope ladder bouncin’ off her side. I cut the motor on the ciggie, grabbed a tie line, and climbed aboard. There was no time to tie the speedster off at the back of the yacht, so I did a perfect monkey knot around the railing. Then I took a quick look around.
Eddie Quartermaine liked his toys big and expensive and the Smilin’ Lila was no exception. She wasn’t a racin’ yacht; this gal was pure pleasure . . . but she came from a different era, just like Eddie. This baby was more schooner than cruiser. She had to be ninety feet if she was an inch. She had three masts and huge sails . . . I could tell because they were still up and gettin’ shredded. The Lila was pitchin’ from side to side, back and forth, like she was the head on a jack-in-the-box. I had to hang on tight—one slip and I was shark food. I made for the wheel at the back . . . no Mr. Q. Then I saw a square shape farther toward the bow. Smart Eddie: He’d also built an interior wheelhouse.
Over the sound of the storm, I heard yellin’ as I approached. The door was locked. I didn’t want to smash it, but I had no choice . . . The lighthouse at Farrin’s Point was pretty damn close, which meant the rocks were closer. The Smilin’ Lila was gonna end up like the ciggie would have: toothpicks. Only there wouldn’t be an Edward to stick ’em between his chompers.
A coupla tries and I was in. The cabin was dark, but the instrument panel was glowin’ like a dozen stars. Edward Quartermaine was standin’ at the helm, straight as a rod. Even soakin’ wet, with his back to me, I could tell this man was a smooth operator. White pants, navy blazer, cap cocked at a jaunty angle. Smooth. Classy. His hands were at his sides and he was starin’ out the front window like he was lookin’ at a ghost . . . or lookin’ for one. He was mumblin’ to himself; then all of a sudden he screamed, “Lila, you won’t get away with this!”
“Quartermaine!” I yelled. “We gotta get you off this boat!”
He turned around and I saw the look in his eye. This was no billionaire, no capitalist tycoon, no captain of industry. This was only a broken man whose heart was in pieces all over the floor, like a crazy jigsaw puzzle. I don’t know of many loves like his and Lila’s . . . maybe Hollywood comes close with some of their flickers . . . all I know is that it was still there for this man, and the storm of the decade wasn’t gonna keep him from his gal.
“Quartermaine! Lila’s not here. We gotta get off the boat. The rocks! She’s gonna break up on the rocks!”
Then his look went from crazy love to plain crazy.
“Cassadine! Where is she!? You took her . . . probably by force, you conniving Greek! Where is she!?”
“I’m not Cassadine! He’s not . . .”
“I’ll sail all the way to your stinking island, you dog! I’ll go around the world for Lila! She doesn’t love you!”
I knew when to play along.
“You’re right, Quartermaine! What was I thinkin’, eh? She loves you! Only you!”
But he was on a roll.
“I’ll never stop, you hear me! Never! You’ll never get rid of me. I’ll be the shadow in the corner . . .”
There was a jolt and a splinterin’ sound as the Smilin’ Lila hit the rocks. I watched as the mainmast broke in two, then in two again.
“. . . I’ll be the face in the crowd. I’ll be the voice telling you not to order the ceviche. You’ll never take me. You think you’re smart, wise guy. Isn’t that right, soldier? But you’ll never take Rocco. There’s only one Johnny Rocco and Rocco’s smarter than all of you! Gay Dawn’s a lush!”
Any other time, I coulda played out Key Largo from start to finish, every line, every look . . . even Bacall . . . especially Bacall. But just then the yacht pitched to starboard and smashed sideways into the rocks. The wheelhouse windows blew inward and Quartermaine took a header into the wall.
I dragged him onto the deck, as unconscious of the world around him as a D.C. senator. The Smilin’ Lila was goin’ down, and I had to get Eddie back to the ciggie, but fast.
I got him to the railing and went to find the tie line.
Gone.
The speedster was lost, and so were we.
Then I spotted the dinghy floatin’ in the water on the starboard side. She was all wood, but well cared for: She was our only chance. I dragged Eddie across the yacht, the sea comin’ in at my feet, and loaded him into the dinghy. Jeez, I thought to myself, the man even crumpled with style.
Then I remembered seein’ somethin’ in the wheelhouse . . . somethin’ I might need later. Quartermaine was startin’ to come ’round by this time, and I told him to hold on and not to move . . . that we were gonna go get his lady-love. Then I hightailed it back to the middle of the yacht.
It was tough findin’ what I was lookin’ for, with the sea water lappin’ at my delicate unmentionables . . .
“I’m not writing that,” I said, putting my Uni-ball on the table.
“As you wish . . .”
. . . with the sea water up to my waist. I got turned around pretty fast. But then I saw it, just above the radio. I made a grab and headed back to the dinghy.
“You planning on telling me what ‘it’ was?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” Spinelli said. “Perhaps it will appear in another tale.”
“Perhaps I am missing out on spoonfuls of Häagen-Dazs topped with Max sprinkles and I should be heading home!”
“Indulgence, I beg of you, Lady of the Law,” Spinelli pleaded. “All will be revealed . . . or most of it, I assure you.”
“Keep going.”
Quartermaine was still there, lookin’ like Little Lord Fauntleroy . . . or some other equally scared kid.
I loosened the ropes and took up the oars. Seconds later, a wave took out what was left of the Smilin’ Lila, sendin’ shrapnel flying. A plank missed me by inches, but the top section of the quartered main landed in the dinghy, nearly capsizing it.
I rowed for hours, wrackin’ my brain trying to remember if there was a small strip of beach anywhere close to the lighthouse. Nothin’ . . . but rocks . . . which is probably why they built the lighthouse there. Quartermaine was out cold again . . . so cold that I checked his breathing once or twice.
Finally, close to dawn, the rain stopped, and the sun came up but beautiful. It was such a beautiful morning, I thought if I stuck my finger out, a little bird might land on it. And there was the
Port Charlie harbor in the distance. I rowed hard, but an hour later, I realized we hadn’t budged. The Atlantic currents were keepin’ the dinghy trapped at sea.
Quartermaine woke up around eight, by my calculation, with no recollection of the night before. He was a little peeved at first, until I set him straight. Told him I wasn’t no hero, just a gumshoe doing a job, but that if it wasn’t for me and the dinghy, he’d be playin’ nine-handed poker with an octopus in the Marianas Trench right about then. That softened him up, like butter.
Two hours later, the sun was doin’ a little softenin’ of its own, and I was gettin’ worried for both our noggins. Big Alice knew I was out here . . . She, at least, had some concern for her employer. If she hadn’t lost her smarts when she lost that weight, she’d send help. I had to believe that.
Quartermaine and I spent a few hours discussin’ the weather, fishin’, the best way to unhook a brassiere, and the markets; he talked stock, I talked black.
Then, around three, Eddie’s eyes got all glassy, and I saw the sweat roll down outta that silver hair. We hadn’t eaten all day, and I thought he might have been lookin’ at me like I was a big roast chicken.
“I went out too far. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, but your family will send . . .”
“Nothing has defeated me . . . I went out too far. But pain does not matter to a man!”
It mattered to me . . . and the fact that Eddie was losin’ it.
“It was the sharks. They took my fish.”
The Old Man and the Sea. Just perfect.
“Okay, Santiago,” I said, goin’ along. “But you still have to get this boat ashore. Gotta show the villagers what those sharks took from you . . .”
“It was a big fish . . . Christ, I did not know he was so big. I could not let him know of his own glory.”
Quartermaine was wringin’ his hands, tears streamin’ down his face. But even as the sun did its worst to his sunburnt face, I could tell they were tears of joy. That’s when I saw movement off to the right.
A Coast Guard cutter was makin’ fast toward the dinghy . . . and none too soon.
Eddie was still talkin’ Hemingway when they brought him aboard, gently, like he was a dame. I watched as they took him into the infirmary.
The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli Page 3
