Round Robin (20 page)

She left Bianca where she was.

She peeked out the front window. Manfred was out there clearing the sidewalk, huge and white in his overcoat of snow, looking like he was determined to shovel out the whole town. For the first time since she’d known him, Robin felt sorry for the man.

She left a note on his door, explaining where his daughter was.

Just before she was about to go to bed, a reply was slipped under her door.

Robin gave Manfred a minute to withdraw in peace before she picked it up and opened it. He apologized for his behavior. It was monstrous, he said. It would never be repeated. He was profoundly grateful that she’d brought him to his senses. He owed her a debt he would never be able to repay. Nevertheless, he would make every effort to do so.

He didn’t tell Robin what had set him off.

He also apologized that he wasn’t able to keep the snow off the sidewalk all by himself.

Chapter 18

“I am very sorry,” Bianca said. “My behavior yesterday was ...”

She frowned as if she couldn’t find the right word and looked up at her father.

Manfred had appeared at Robin’s door again that morning — not in the pre-dawn darkness, thank God — with Bianca in tow. Robin hardly recognized the kid. She was in a denim jumper over a white turtleneck sweater and matching white tights. Either her hair grew with phenomenal speed or Manfred had succeeded in scrubbing some of the blue dye out of it, because the brunette roots had made dramatic progress in overtaking the punk blue. She even had a barrette in her hair.

Bianca listened to her father’s whispered instruction.

“My behavior was atrocious. I am very sorry.”

The performance was obviously rehearsed, but Robin was quietly amazed that Manfred had been able to direct his temperamental little leading lady at all. Must be some kind of Otto Preminger gene in Germans, she guessed.

As if to confirm her suspicion, Manfred gave his daughter a gentle but prompting nudge.

“And thank you,” Bianca said, “for letting me visit your Magic Garden ... I really like it there.”

That, the last bit, was spontaneous and sincere.

Bianca looked up at Manfred to see if she was finished and how she’d done.

He raised his eyebrow, making Robin think that all he needed was a monocle, but the little girl took her cue. She turned to Robin and curtsied.

Robin kept a straight face, knowing that it must have cost the kid a lot of her pride to show respect to someone she really didn’t like. Robin couldn’t imagine what had gone on between the kid and her father last night to produce such a startling turnaround, but she knew it wouldn’t do to laugh or even smile at the kid’s efforts.

“Your apology is accepted,” Robin said, “and such a lovely young lady as I see this morning is always welcome to visit my park.”

Bianca looked up at Robin, and they both knew her message was crystal clear. Play ball, you get special privileges; be a jerk, forget about it.

“Thank you,” Bianca said.

Manfred took his daughter’s hand. He gave Robin his nod and was about to leave when she stopped him.

“In all the excitement yesterday, I didn’t have a chance to mention that there’s someone I’d like Bianca to meet.”

Both father and daughter looked at her with curiosity, and some small measure of suspicion.

“A young man. An absolutely brilliant student. Attends the University of Chicago even though he’s only fourteen. He’d be delighted to show Bianca the sights of the city.”

“What sort of sights?” Manfred asked guardedly.

“Museums, libraries, children’s symphonies, the zoo, maybe a boat ride on the lake in the spring.”

Manfred found himself nodding at Robin’s list of activities.

“Is he a good boy?” Manfred asked.

“Is he good looking?” Bianca asked. “Does he have lots of money?”

Manfred gave Bianca a frown, and she reverted to her coached demeanor.

“You’ve already met him,” Robin told Manfred. “If you feel like giving me a ride to work today, I’ll tell you all about him.”

Manfred nodded, and Bianca silently determined that she would listen closely to every word
Der Hexe
had to say.

Bianca presented herself to Nancy for her second day of work at the real estate office. Reprising that morning’s performance, Bianca curtsied to Nancy and everyone else in sight.

Unlike Robin, Nancy smiled.

Smirked even.

“Quite the little actress, aren’t you?”

For just a second, Bianca was about to snarl a reply. But she stayed in character and played the innocent.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“You understand,” Nancy said.

Heure,
Bianca thought.

If I don’t have you fooled now, I will soon enough.

By the time the giant had come for her last night, Bianca had mastered her terror. She’d made her plans. They were quite simple really. First and foremost, she would do nothing, absolutely nothing, as long as that nothing was not too vile, to infuriate the giant again. Bianca was sure that he’d been about to kill her — she still couldn’t understand why the hag had saved her — and that had been the worst fright of her life. Far worse than when Horst used to fight with Mama and shove Bianca aside if she tried to get in his way. No, this time a man was directing his anger at her. And she intended for that never to happen again.

So, she would do what all of her friends at the bordello had done. She would pretend that she was enjoying what was happening to her. She would pretend to everyone. They would love her for it. And soon she would return to Mama, as the giant had promised — and she would spit on them all.

Meanwhile, she would gain excellent practice at feigning enjoyment. It would serve her well when the time came for her to join the girls at the bordello. She would be the star and make more money than any other prostitute in the house. Just look how she’d fooled the giant last night.

Grosse dummkopf,
thinking that all his talking with her had made her act the way he wanted.

Still, this one, this American witch who looked so much like Geli, standing there in front of her, would be harder to deceive. But Bianca would manage it. She would fool them all.

“Please,” Bianca said. “How may I help you today?”

Iggy Gross played the opening line of “Help” by the Beatles on his radio show that morning.

“We’ve got somebody new on the show today, a new guy to help us do the sports ... a new guy who needs our help.”

Iggy grinned nastily at Tone to let him know his moment was coming. Tone, completely comfortable with studio work, kept his face impassive. Sure, he’d have to take a load of crap from this radio geek, but no way could it be worse than what had happened to him already. His name was mud right now, so he had nowhere to go but up.

And he was determined that with the first step he took on his comeback trail he’d leave a footprint right on Iggy’s head.

“This is a guy all you slobs out there know and love ... Toooone Mo-rel-lo. Say hello, Tone.”

“Hello, Tone.”

The joke hadn’t been funny since Burns and Allen had done it, but Tone’s part of the show was tightly scripted to say the least, and Iggy brayed like a jackass.

“Now, as many of you already know, and the rest of you are about to learn,” Iggy continued, “poor old Tone got his butt fired from that high-paying TV job he had. Why was that, Tone?”

“Moral turpitude, Iggy.”

“Moral turp-i-tude?” Iggy asked incredulously. “Geez, you get caught playing with your piccolo in the newsroom or something?”

“No, it wasn’t that.”

“Well, listen, even if it wasn’t, you feel like pounding off here, go right ahead. Just do it when we play a song, and keep the beat, okay?”

“Thanks, Iggy. I appreciate —”

“I mean, don’t worry. We got no stinkin’ morals around here, and there isn’t a dipstick in the building who can even spell turpitude.”

“I’m sure you’re — ”

“Damn right, I’m right. So what’d you do, anyway, to lose your job and have to come work for me?”

“I guess I dated too many ladies and got called on it.”

“Dated?” Iggy giggled. “Took’em to the Tastee Freeze or what?”

“Well, it wasn’t just that. I had sex with them.”

“Sex! S-E-X?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you imagine that? A man having sex with women. Who knows where that kind of thing might lead? You know what your mistake was, Tone?”

“No, what was it, Iggy?”

“Your mistake, you big gorilla, was being born straight. You’da hit the sack with a couple dozen guys, who’d dare to criticize you for that? I mean, some people these days, you just can’t object to any little thing they do, much less where they stick their wienies ... but unfortunately for you, Tone, you’re one of us poor white male clucks who like broads, and we can’t do anything right. Am I right?”

“Well, I’m certainly poorer than I used to be.”

Iggy shot Tone an evil look. There was no room to ad-lib on his show, and chumps like Tone damn sure didn’t get the laugh lines.

“But maybe not as poor as you could be. Anyway, who was it ratted you out for putting your thing where God intended it to go?”

“A woman named Robin Phinney.”

“Robin Phinney. Yeah, I heard of her. Fat broad. Supposed to have some mouth on her. Works in a deli not far from our studios. Heard she fills in pullin’ the Bud beer wagon, too, whenever one of the Clydesdales is sick.”

Not a bad line, Tone thought, but then Iggy didn’t do his own writing, either.

The radio was on in the kitchen at Screaming Mimi’s. The dishwashers liked to listen to Iggy Gross. That morning, they were joined by Mimi and Robin. Mimi had been tipped about Tone’s debut by one of her media friends.

“Yeah, that’s her,” Tone said.

“So this fat, nasty broad cost you your job for doing what every red-blooded male dreams about doing: getting laid as far, wide and often as he can.”

“That’s it.”

“Must’ve hurt you some.”

“It did.”

“No, I mean it must’ve hurt you bad right where it hurts the most.”

“I’m not sure — ”

“You know what I mean, Tone. I brought you on my show because I always liked your sports-grunts. Man, you sounded like Hercules with a hard-on. You still sound that way?”

“Well, I ... ”

“Quick, Tone. Jordan scored forty-five last night.”

Back at the studio, his eyes filled with glee as he looked at Tone, Iggy hit a sound-effects button.

“Squeek,” said millions of radio speakers, including the one at Mimi’s.

As planned, the predominant sound came from a rubber duck, but there was just enough underlay of Tone’s voice to leave no doubt as to its source.

“Oh, God,” Iggy said oozing sympathy, “this vicious broad, this Robin Phinney, she neutered you!”

Tone, as scripted, didn’t reply. Rather, an artfully done tape of a man softly sobbing was played.

“Don’t you worry, buddy. You stick with Iggy. We’re gonna grow you the biggest, hairiest set of
cojones
this city has ever seen ... Next to mine, of course.”

Everybody in the kitchen looked at Robin, waiting for a comment.

“The things people will do for money,” she said, shaking her head.

“He should be ashamed,” Mimi put in.

Robin didn’t correct Mimi, but she’d been thinking of herself.

Then, knowing she had no alternative, she went out front to open the deli and do it some more.

Manfred and Bianca showed up at Mimi’s at 2:30 that afternoon. Mimi gave her new favorite baker a hug and, charmed by Bianca’s curtsy, gave the little girl a cookie. Robin spotted them the minute they walked in, of course, even though she was unusually busy for that time of day. Robin didn’t miss anything that went on at work.

One of the year’s bigger conventions was in town — the Holy Roller Hardware Dealers Association or somesuch — and the lunchtime rush just kept going and going.

Robin was getting tired and cranky.

And your conventioneer–tourist type was not her favorite customer.

“Ma’am,” one corpulent, deep-fried, self-important gomer said, “I heard about you all the way down home. And your picture in the brochure, it just don’t do you justice. Why you don’t have no curly little tail at all.”

The gomer looked over his shoulder at a group of lesser trolls and they all guffawed.

There was, in fact, a brochure put out by the North Michigan Avenue Chamber of Commerce that mentioned Screaming Mimi’s, its modus operandi, and showed a picture of Robin holding her knife and fork, arms folded across her chest. All comers were invited to screw up their courage and try their luck against her.