Part 20 (1/2)

For the s.p.a.ce of two hours, as Saint Just discovered what he believed would be a lifelong pa.s.sion for something called meatb.a.l.l.s, the men discussed strategy, from Caesar's brilliance on the continent to Napoleon's tactical blunders at Waterloo. It wasn't quite his gentlemen's club, but he was enjoying himself to the top of his bent, a gentleman, in the company of another gentleman.

Using condiments and broken bread sticks as props, Saint Just then demonstrated a reconfiguration of the restaurant, making the path from door to main table one of staggered dining tables-a maze to be navigated rather than the current large center aisle, with all the tables against the two walls.

”Now, after removing that large front window and replacing it with something solid so that it isn't obvious from the street that you are at dinner, I would then place half-wall dividers here, and here-decorative, but of bulletproof gla.s.s, of course-I've seen something very close to what I'm thinking of on the Internet. The seconds gained by the maze, combined with the quick access to protection that still allows you to see your attacker should even the playing field, don't you think? Oh, and the ceiling is high enough for you to build a catwalk, as I believe is the term, from one side to the other, so that two men can be stationed up there, able to see everything that is going on below them. Well-dressed so as to not alarm your patrons, well-mannered, but discreetly armed, of course.”

”O'course,” Campiano said, poking Tony's gut with one of the bread sticks. ”Why you didn't think of this, huh? A catwalk? I like that.” He peered at Saint Just as a waiter took their empty plates. ”All this from watching G.o.dfather? You're more than a pretty boy, aren't you? I should have known that. And you say what you think.”

”I'm sorry,” Saint Just said. ”I fear it's a failing of mine. But, Mr. Campiano, in order for a gentleman to enjoy his leisure, it is, I believe, imperative for him to at all times be prepared for any ... contingency.” He smiled. ”e questa verita?”

”It is truth, yes,” Campiano said, returning that smile. ”But enough of this. You want to know about this Goodfellow? Not a nice man, not a gentleman of good heart, like us-you and me. I sent one of my boys by, just for a quick look-see, and he recognized him right away. Same cell block up at Attica a few years ago, capisca? Gino, tell the man what your cousin Johnny told you.”

Gino looked at Saint Just as if he wanted to break his sword cane over his head, but then he just shrugged, for his master had spoken. ”The guy's real name is Donny Dill-they called him Pickles. He was on the tail side of a nickel when my cousin knew him. Fraud.”

”A nickel?”

”A five-year sentence,” Campiano supplied helpfully. ”Now he's out, and back to his old tricks. You want me to take care of this for you, my friend? I cannot let this stand, now that I know.”

Saint Just shook his head. ”No, thank you very much, but I believe I should attempt to handle the matter on my own.”

”You sure? I'm no angel myself. But to steal from the poor at Christmas?” He shook his fist in the air. ”Vorrei per alimentare a questo uomo il suo proprio naso. Capisca?”

”My Italian has its limits, but I believe you said you'd enjoy feeding the man his own nose. I applaud the sentiment,” Saint Just said evenly, reaching for a small bunch of grapes from the fruit plate just deposited on the table. ”My plan is to pay our friend a small visit tomorrow morning, to see if I can point out the error of his way, persuade him to terminate this operation he is pursuing ...”

”Scam. He's working a scam-that's how we say in American. You foreigners maybe don't know that,” Campiano said helpfully, then took a large bite from a ripe apple. ”And the money?”

”It's my hope he will turn that over to my a.s.sociate-a very kind, trusting man-who will see that it is all delivered to a legitimate charity. That is a large part of my plan, Mr. Campiano-that my friend not realize he has inadvertently become part of a, as you said, scam. I wish to protect his innocence, and, yes, his almost childlike belief in the inherent goodness of his fellow man. This is important to me.”

”And if this Pickles dweeb says no?”

Saint Just tugged a single juicy purple grape free and held it in front of him, looking at it. ”Yes, I've considered that possibility. It's a ticklish thing, sir. You see, I have this other friend who does not understand that there may be times when one feels the need to handle things outside the boundaries of established law.”

”A woman, yes? It's always a woman. And you listen to this woman?”

”When possible, yes.”

”And when this is not possible?”

Saint Just merely smiled-a smile other men under stood. ”I'd appreciate being able to borrow these two fine gentlemen from you for a short s.p.a.ce tomorrow morning-them or someone with their same rather intimidating physical appearance.”

Campiano moved his chair closer, hunched his shoulders. ”You're thinking muscle? In the morning, you say. Gino's taking his grandmother to the podiatrist over in Hempstead at nine-she's got the hammertoes very bad. But he'll be back by ten. Come on, tell me more of what you want.”

”I'm thinking, sir, that a show of strength is rarely a bad thing. All I would need is for them to stand just inside the door, mute, while I negotiate with our Mr. Dill, feeling free to look as menacing as they wish. They could crack their knuckles a time or two, if you don't think that's too dramatic.”

”No, no, they're good at that. Aren't you, boys? And if this doesn't work? If this Pickles p.r.i.c.k says no?”

”Well, then, sir, I will have tried, won't I? My conscience-thinking again of my friends-would thus be clear as I hand Mr. Dill over to you with my compliments. I would not so insult you as to add that the money Mr. Dill has fraudulently collected would still be redirected to a suitable charity.”

Campiano gave Saint Just a shove that nearly sent him sprawling onto the floor. ”Why can't my niece Nikki meet a man like you? No, she goes for idiots, and surfboards. I like you, boy! I send you more fruit!”

”That would be very nice, sir. But, if I am not being too forward, I would prefer the possibility of a container of meatb.a.l.l.s. I fear I am in love ...”

Chapter Twenty.

Maggie went from asleep to awake in the s.p.a.ce of a single heartbeat, her arms and legs thras.h.i.+ng as she tried to get away from the hand covering her mouth.

”Shhh, sweetings, it's only me. I didn't wish to wake Felicity. Can I safely take my hand away now? You won't cry out?”

She nodded furiously.

Alex lifted his hand.

Maggie punched him, hard, in the chest.

”Well, that was only to be expected,” he said, rubbing at his chest as she kicked back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed-then hauled back to hit him again. ”And even condoned,” he added, neatly sidestepping the intended blow so that a still groggy Maggie sort of pin-wheeled back down onto the mattress. ”Once, that is. I didn't expect you to retire so early, my dear.”

Maggie pushed her fingers through her hair, then rubbed at her eyes. ”Faith thought we were going to have a pajama party-talk about boys and braid each other's hair, so I told her I had a headache and came in here. And it wasn't a lie, either. Still isn't, as a matter of fact. What time is it?”

”Nearly midnight,” Alex told her, holding out her slippers, the white ones embroidered on the front with the words left and other left. ”Please forgive me. There's something I feel I should show you, but I was detained on my errand quite a bit longer than I'd intended.”

”Detained, huh? That's pretty Englishman's code for you ran out like a coward and left me here with Faith.” Maggie pushed away the slippers and headed for the bathroom, wis.h.i.+ng she could accomplish that feat in one straight line, but she couldn't. Sleep always turned her sense of direction and her balance temporarily stupid, and she half staggered toward the door, scratching at an itch on her left side. ”Don't say anything else until I get back. I've got to brush my teeth and-I've got to brush my teeth. I'll meet you in the living room, okay?”

”Only if I can control my pa.s.sion, my dear,” Alex called after her quietly.

”Bite me ...”

Once blinking at the bright light in the bathroom, Maggie tried to focus on her reflection in the mirror above the sink. How many times had she written that her heroines woke wonderfully sleep-tousled? How many times had she continued at dawn a love scene that had begun the evening before and ended with the lovers sleeping in each other's arms?

Good thing she wrote fiction, because reality was a whole other bag of worms. Imagine how her readers would like it if she wrote a morning love scene filled with spiky, ratted hair, sleep-creased cheeks, a mouth that tasted like something had died in it-oh, and a crus.h.i.+ng need to use the facilities?

Yeah, that'd sell a lot of copies. Critics complained that romance novels gave an unrealistic vision of life. That wasn't true. Happily ever after-or at least lifelong commitment to each other-wasn't a fantasy. Heroines that didn't rumple, who were always freshly combed and dewy-eyed? Now that was a fantasy someone really should address. Just not her.

Still widely opening and closing her eyes in her attempt to s.h.i.+ft her brain into gear, Maggie entered the living room to see Alex standing at her desk, holding a floppy disk by its edges.

”What's that?”

”Something I happened to discover this afternoon at Jonathan West's apartment, actually.”

Okay, she was awake now. ”You what?” She turned to look down the hallway, then repeated in a near whisper. ”You what? That's ... that's evidence, Alex. For crying out loud, you took evidence? Where was Steve? He doesn't know you have this, does he? No, no, of course he doesn't. Cripes, Alex, how many times are we going to have to go through this, huh? There are rules. Laws. Consequences. You can't just-where exactly did you find it? What makes you think it's special?”

”Fifteen seconds,” Alex said, replacing the large gold watch he carried on a chair and tucked into his pocket. ”I believe we're making progress.”

”If I were more awake, I'd have a snappy comeback for that,” Maggie said, carefully taking the disk out of his hand before sitting down at her desk and waking her computer. ”Now tell me all about this thing before we look at it.”

Alex's recounting of what had transpired at Jonathan West's apartment took only a few minutes, and by the time he was finished Maggie's curiosity had completely overcome any thoughts about the legality of what they were about to do. She slipped the disk into the machine and double clicked on the icon to open it.

”You know, I couldn't do this if I hadn't bought that new program-Microsoft Office for Macs-because this is a Word program. I use AppleWorks because it comes free with my Mac, but I bought the Microsoft stuff because I'm always getting files in Word and then I have to tell the person I can't open them. Well, maybe I could, but I don't read manuals because I don't understand them. Click here, stupid-that I understand. Ah, here we go.”