Part 21 (2/2)
”My in-ter-view, Maggie, remember?” she said in a singsong voice, the kind where the you're so stupid is not actually heard but definitely implied. ”A new cable show, Noreen At Noon, except we're taping at two for tomorrow's show. Still, I need to be there early, to make sure everything is running smoothly. Well, if Sterling can't take me, how will I be able to go? Everybody says I can't be alone. Maggie, you'll have to go with me.”
”And you'll want me to carry your garment bag and open doors for you, right? Maybe run off and get you a sparkling water to ease your parched throat? Sure, like that's going to happen.”
Bernie stood up, raising her hand. ”Your intrepid publisher to the rescue, Felicity. I've got my driver waiting downstairs. You'll be safe with him.”
Felicity pouted. ”You won't go with me?”
”We're a little busy here, Felicity,” Bernie told her as, behind Felicity's back, Maggie frantically mouthed the word no over and over again as she shook her head. ”Just go down there and tell Clyde where you need to go.”
”Your chauffeur's name is Clyde?” Maggie said after Felicity wafted out of the condo on a nearly visible flying carpet of expensive scent.
”No, but I can't remember it, so now he's Clyde. Since they come and go so fast, I figure, from now on, they're all going to be Clyde. Hey, I tip well. Oh, and Jose quit to take a job as a roadie for some rock group, because I know you're going to ask-he said the fringe benefits were better. Now, why couldn't I go with Felicity? Not that I wanted to, you understand.”
”I'm not sure. I'm not through thinking yet.”
”Well, could you give us a clue about what it is you're not through thinking about yet?”
Maggie narrowed her eyes at J.P., considering the question. ”No, I don't think I should. I think I should wait for Alex. Not Steve, not until I talk to Alex because then Steve would know that Alex had-well, I can't think about that part yet.” She wheeled about to look at Bernie. ”The ma.n.u.script, when did Bruce give it to you?”
Bernie frowned. ”Why?”
”Bernie, work with me here-please,” Maggie said, putting her hands together in a begging gesture.
Bernie looked at J.P. and said, ”Oh boy, I haven't heard her sound this desperate since the night she wanted me to include her on my invitation to go backstage at Spamalot. Okay, Maggie, okay, I'm thinking-ten days ago? Two weeks? My a.s.sistant had to have logged it in, if you really need to know exactly. I was busy on something else-like getting ready to go to England with you to pick up a little bubonic plague-and let it sit until the other day. But that's probably close to the timeline. I know you authors think we're supposed to read something the moment it comes in-even if it comes in eight months late-but that's not how it works, and you know that, too. But Bruce has been bugging me by e-mail every d.a.m.n day, so I started it and called him just before we left for England and told him that at least for the first fifty pages it was pretty d.a.m.n good, and I'd get back to him when I was finished reading. Which I haven't done yet. Now tell me why you need to know this.”
Well, that wasn't making any sense. ”So the ma.n.u.script was in your office before even Francis was murdered, let alone Jonathan? And you told him you liked it so far, also before Francis and Jonathan were killed.”
”Yes, I think I already heard something like that somewhere. And you need to know this why?”
Maggie put out her hands, waved off the question. ”G.o.d, I wish Alex was here-not that I'd ever tell him that, because he'd never let me forget it. But I think-yes, I'm pretty sure I'm heading in the right direction. You have to do me a favor, Bernie. No, two favors, okay? One, do what I'm going to ask you to do-and two, don't ask me why I'm asking you to do it.” She took a deep breath and said the words quickly as she exhaled: ”I need you to call Bruce and tell him his ma.n.u.script stinks. And that's just for starters ...”
Chapter Twenty-One.
”I'm so sorry, Saint Just,” Sterling said, breathlessly skidding to a halt on the sidewalk near the headquarters of Santas for Silver. ”Brock was proving most uncooperative and all of that, and I barely had time to leave him with Socks before I donned my Father Christmas suit and met George and Vernon at the corner. I believe Socks requires a bit of remuneration, by the way. At least he was holding his hand out to me, palm up, as I raced by him.”
”Not a problem, Sterling,” Saint Just told him, nodding greetings to the Merry Men. ”George, how nice of you to carry Sterling's chimney for him.”
”Uh-huh. You said you wouldn't need us for very long today, Alex. Is that true? These costumes rent by the day, you know, so if we can get them back before one o'clock that would be solid.”
”Right,” Vernon echoed, looking past Saint Just to the two very large gentlemen standing about ten feet behind him. ”Hey, I think I know one of those guys. Wow, that's Tony Three Cases. Geo, you know who I mean. Tony Three Cases. Right over there-look. No, don't look! Oh, okay, look, but don't make it obvious. He walked away with three whole big cases of cigarette cartons from that trailer a bunch of guys boosted in Queens a few years back. Wouldn't drop the cases and run, even when he heard the sirens. Just kept his cool, kept on moving down the sidewalk carrying these three big cases, and the dumb cops figured he had to be legit and just drove right past him.” Vernon reverently lowered his voice. ”Tony Three Cases. He's a legend, Georgie-boy. We're in the presence of a freaking legend.”
Saint Just smiled in genuine amus.e.m.e.nt. ”You are such an endless fountain of delightful information, Vernon,” he said. ”However, for today, I'm afraid you must also reconcile yourself to forgetting that you've seen the gentleman and his friend.”
Vernon looked ready to weep. ”But ... but I was going to ask for his autograph.”
”Saint Just? You look quite serious. Is something amiss? Why did you want to meet with us here? And who are those two men?”
”No one for you to concern yourself about, Sterling. You do trust me, don't you?”
Sterling drew himself up very straight. ”I'm insulted that you would even broach such a question to me, Saint Just. Of course I trust you.”
”Ah, splendid. In that case, what I need you to do is to come inside Santas for Silver headquarters with me-you, too, boys-and stand flanking Sterling a few feet inside the front door while I conduct some business with Mr. Goodfellow.”
”Business? I don't-”
”Shhh, Sterling, I'm not quite finished. While you three are standing there, looking just as splendidly festive as you do now, my other friends will stand behind you looking, er, looking as festive as they know how to look, I suppose. Mr. Goodfellow and I will adjourn to his office for a few minutes, no longer than a few minutes, I'm sure, and then we will be on our way again, everyone back to their own individual pursuits. Is that clear?”
”No, Saint Just, it most certainly is not. But I've learned not to question you. There's something unpleasant afoot, though, isn't there? Something with Mr. Goodfellow ... something with Santas for Silver. Oh, Saint Just, please don't tell me he's decided to terminate my a.s.sociation with Santas for Silver because of that ruined costume! I've offered to pay for it, I really did, and-”
”This has nothing to do with your costume, Sterling,” Saint Just told him, and then shook his head. He was so new at this-this thinking more of others than he did of himself, the investigation of the moment, the pleasures of the moment. All this evolving, this business of becoming more real, more attuned to the emotions of others? Being mortal wasn't easy. Worth every problem, absolutely-but never easy. ”Must I tell you the truth, my friend? I will, if you insist.”
”No, of course not, Saint Just. I've never questioned you before, have I?”
”We're both expanding our horizons, the parameters Maggie set for us, aren't we? Yes, well, another discussion for another time. Are you ready?”
”At all times, Saint Just,” Sterling said, adjusting his beard, which had begun to sag slightly. ”Lead on, MacDuff!”
Saint Just longed to grab his friend's head, remove the red velvet cap and wig, and plant a kiss on the fellow's balding pate. ”The entire quote, Sterling, is 'Lay on, MacDuff, and d.a.m.n'd be him that first cries, Hold, enough!' and has to do with Macbeth's last words, shouted out as he challenged MacDuff to a fight to the death. I hardly think the quote fits the occasion, but I know the sentiment is there.”
Sterling frowned. ”It's not lead on, MacDuff? Well, now, why did I think it was, I wonder.”
”I believe, Sterling, that is because Maggie says lead. It is my conclusion that it's an American corruption of the immortal bard's words. This is, after all, a country that spells light 'l-i-t-e.' ” Saint Just halted just at the edge of the large window that made up the front of Santas for Silver, and peeked inside. ”Ah, and here we are, and there is Mr. Goodfellow, not in his office, but being extremely friendly with Miss McDermont. How convenient. Come along now please, gentlemen-you all know what you are to do.”
”Not really, Saint Just,” Sterling pointed out as Tony held open the door for them and Gino remained on the sidewalk, glaring at pa.s.sersby until everyone was safely inside the building, before joining them. They were, as Saint Just felt sure Maggie would term them, goons, but they were very well-trained goons.
He and Tony did have a small conversation before Sterling had arrived, one that had to do with the way Saint Just had ”made us look bad to Mr. Campiano,” and Saint Just had offered his profound apologies before inviting both men to ”take another turn at him” if they so desired-get some of their own back, as it were. ”I had the element of surprise riding with me, gentlemen, but I am convinced I could not be so successful again.”
Tony had declined Saint Just's invitation, if Saint Just would only tell him where he had procured the sword cane, because he was fairly certain he'd look good carrying one himself, to which Saint Just had agreed that the bodyguard would look fine as ninepence ... to which Tony had said, looking at Gino, ”Hear that? Ninepence? Didn't I tell you he's one of them aliens?”
Smiling at the recent memory, and still faintly puzzled as to why he'd offered to teach Tony how to use the sword stick to its best advantage, Saint Just a.s.sured himself that his cast of characters was in place behind him before he lightly tapped his cane on the floor and politely cleared his throat.
Marjorie McDermont reacted first, pus.h.i.+ng away from Goodfellow with some alacrity and pulling down her tight black sweater. ”Thank ... um ... thank you, sir. I believe the eyelash is out of my eye now,” she said, and then, her eyes wide as she looked at Tony and Gino, she bent down to pick up her purse. ”I think I'll go down to the corner to get some coffee.”
She brushed past Saint Just, turning only in time for him to see that her mascaraed eyes were not only wide with fright but also wise in the ways of the denizens of the street. ”I didn't see nothin',” she whispered to him as she went. Ah, yes, Tony and Gino had been a masterstroke of inspiration, at least now that Maggie had impressed upon him the need for him to avoid violence whenever possible. Violence nosed out most everything else in many cases, but a bit of carefully constructed deviousness ran a close second.
”What's going on here?” Goodfellow asked, his gaze also concentrated on the inestimable Tony and Gino as he slowly backed toward the door to his office. ”I don't want any trouble here.”
”Trouble? Indeed, no, who would, Mr. Goodfellow? Although I will say that you are in a bit of a pickle,” Saint Just said blandly as he advanced on the man, watching Goodfellow's hands that, happily, remained at his sides. ”A word or two, that is all I require. Shall we retire to your inner sanctum?”
”Huh? I remember you now. I'm not going anywhere with you. Nowhere I can't see them, anyway. What do you want?”
”Saint Just?”
”Not now, Sterling, if you please,” Saint Just said, stepping closer to Goodfellow and keeping his voice low. He would have enjoyed playing with the fellow, but Sterling appeared to be getting restless. ”Let's endeavor to do this as quickly and as painlessly as possible, Mr. Goodfellow. It has come to my attention, sadly, that you are not a nice man, sir. Nor are you honest, or concerned about the plight of widows, orphans, and the like. My friend Sterling Balder, however, is concerned. A good heart, that's what Mr. Sterling Balder possesses. A good and a pure heart.”
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