“Which one is it, again?” I asked in my loudest “American” voice. I figured the sheik’s men already knew where Brenda was storin’ her bags, I just wanted to make sure.
“Three cars down, right in the middle of the train,” she answered back.
“Got it.”
She slipped into her suite and, making certain we’d been tailed, I slipped into mine . . . right next door. Sweet. Thanks, Frons.
Two minutes later I opened my window and, using the suction hand-grips from my utility belt, I crawled onto the side of the train. I reached Brenda’s window just as I saw a headlight in the distance. Eastbound engine on the next track and she was movin’ fast. Brenda was supposed to have opened her window for me, but I caught her sittin’ at the vanity, dabbin’ a little perfume behind her ears. I banged on the glass and she looked up, startled, then raced to the window. I fell into her suite just in time . . . five seconds later and some part of me would have been heading back into Hungary.
“Sorry! I’m sorry,” she said. “I just got caught up in this new perfume . . . it’s the one I’m advertising in Vogue. It’s called ‘Naughty Flowers.’ Do you like it?”
“It’s real special, doll. Now how’s about helpin’ me get my ankle out from behind my ear.”
I straightened up and poured myself a whiskey from the minibar.
“All right,” I said. “The sheik’s men think you’re all alone in here. Odds are they’ll try something soon. What they don’t know is that I’ll be waitin’. So right now, that’s all either of us has to do.”
I looked at her and caught the scent of “Naughty Flowers” as it settled on her skin.
“Unless, of course . . . you had something else in mind?”
“Nope,” Brenda said. “I’m good.”
She’d pulled out a stack of fashion mags, I found the pretzels, and that’s the way we’d played it since. I was beginning to think I’d read the sheik’s men all wrong, that they were gonna try some other attack, but then around six o’clock, when they assumed she’d be primpin’, I heard a noise in the passageway. We both saw the outer door handle turn slowly. It was locked, but I knew what they’d try. Brenda ducked into the lavatory while I slipped behind the door, just as one of the men fired a roscoe with a silencer into the lock. The knob popped off and rolled across the floor. The first man in didn’t notice me and made straight for the lavatory door. He opened it and got a face-full of “Naughty Flowers” and then a bean on the noggin with the big glass perfume bottle. The second man saw the first man fall and started to shout. That’s when I clobbered him from behind with the non-business end of my heater.
Two palookas on the floor of the suite: Pekingese and Cashews. Obviously, these two were the dirty-work guys, but London Sunday Times wouldn’t be far behind. The first two were probably sent to get Miss Barrett nice and quiet, then Sunday Times was gonna come in and get her to turn over the ruby . . . by whatever means necessary.
In a flash, we lowered the upper berth, stowed Pekingese and Cashews, then hid the berth again, locking it from the outside. I opened the window and told Brenda to get back against the wall. Then I closed the compartment door and leaned against it. Sure as my gal back home is named Mallory, the third man was at the door in less than a minute. There was no knob, so he pushed . . . and pushed. I threw my voice across the room.
“Help! She got the drop on us!” I said in muffled Arabic.
Sunday Times pushed harder and then, when I knew he was really gonna try and build a little speed in the two-foot passageway, I opened the door. Times went flyin’ across the suite and landed halfway out the window. He was pushin’ himself back in when I lifted his legs, ready to give him the heave-ho. But the guy was holding on to the casements. Suddenly, I saw a spark of light from somewhere west flash off the metal window. Another eastbound consist. We only had seconds.
“Brenda! Help me! Get his hands loose!”
She ran over and tried to pry his fingers off the casement. He went to strangle her, but that only made it easier for me to shove him farther outta the train. He struggled, but the delightful Miss Barrett and I were too fast. I heard the whistle from the approaching train, and just at the right moment I yelled for Brenda to let go and look away.
The next instant, London Sunday Times had a new front page story . . . make that front train story. We dumped what was left of him off the Express just over the Italian border and repaired to my suite for a private supper . . . where she told me all about Jason, Jax . . . and Sonny.
The next morning, Venice appeared out my window. Brenda had taken the bed, I’d taken the upper. She’d woken up first and I felt a poundin’ in the small of my back as she tried to get me to open my eyes. I looked over the side of the upper . . . no makeup, hair mussed, and this gal still looked like Snow White.
“Wake up! The bells of the Campanile di San Marco are tolling and it’s a beautiful day!”
She kinda lost the Snow White spunk when I told her that public transportation was out once we got off the train. Too risky, I said; we’d be thumbin’ it to Gay Pairee. In chicken trucks, if I could manage it.
You have no idea how many poultry and produce trucks are willing to stop and pick you up if you’re travelin’ with Brenda Barrett.
Did I mention that she had the legs of Claudette Colbert?
We made it to Paris in three days, she turned over the ruby to Interpol, and we treated ourselves to a little coq au vin. We said good-bye on the rue de Rivoli, right in front of Angelina’s, the place where they serve hot chocolate for ’round ten smackers a cup. I knew odds were I’d never see this dame again and I thought long and hard about plantin’ one on her . . . then runnin’ like hell.
But she was a lady and a fine one at that, so I shook her hand like a gent and strolled away.
(Aside to you, Brusque Lady: I’m sending a packet of cocoa to you . . . it’s pricey stuff, don’t spill it. And I spent two days lost between the 6th and 7th arrondissements before I found the cheese shop you’ve canaried about. Enjoy the brie. I should be home within a week, give or take. Hope you ignored my request and haven’t given the rest of these stories to Maxie . . . MAXIE! THAT’S her name!)
(Miller note: The tape ended there. But I found out what I needed to know: Spinelli was alive and trying to get home, bless his crazy heart.
I continued to wait and fend off Maxie. Finally, coming home or not, I realized I was losing the battle against Spinelli’s non-bride and her insistence to know what was going on. She deserved at least to be apprised of the facts. I had transcribed everything into my computer and was getting ready to make a printout of my scribblings.
Then, three days ago, four months to the day of my wild, sleepless night jotting down notes, Damian Spinelli showed up on my doorstep with several weeks’ growth of beard, a yellow Nehru jacket, and a chimpanzee. I ushered him in and he began to speak . . .
. . . but that is another story.)
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Debby O’Connor, Rosemary Rossi, Tom Stacy, Simon Lewis, Joselle Oldenkamp Gilvezan, Dominic Friesen, Sara Schedeen, and Donald “Hubs” Agnelli. Thank you also to all the members of the GH production team who lent their names to the pages of this book. Special thanks to Elizabeth Korte, Jill Farren Phelps, and Harriet Abraham. And, finally but most importantly, thank you to Robert Guza, Elizabeth Sabo, and Gretchen Young.
About the Authors
Damian Spinelli arrived in Port Charles in 2006. As the finest computer hacker around, he has decided to put his talent to good use as a private detective. The role of Spinelli on ABC Daytime’s General Hospital is played by Bradford Anderson.
Diane Miller is a high-powered attorney in Port Charles. She represents Sonny Corinthos and Jason Morgan, among others. The role of Diane Miller on General Hospital is played by Daytime Emmy–nominated Carolyn Hennesy. Carolyn also appears in the ABC prime-time series Cougar Town. In addition to The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli, Carolyn is the author of the Pandora’s M
ythic Misadventures series for tweens. She lives in the Los Angeles area with her fab husband, Donald, two cool cats, and one groovy dog.
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 Hyperion and ABC
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Hardcover ISBN 978-1-4013-2413-1
eBook Edition ISBN: 978-1-4013-2594-7
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First eBook Edition
Original hardcover edition printed in the United States of America.
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The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli Page 22
