Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (98 page)

'Please, Mr. Harriman,' she said softly, 'don't spare me any
thing. I would appreciate it if you would put all the cards out
on the table.'

His look was one of growing respect. 'Very well, I will be
quite frank,' he said, and she braced herself for the worst.
'Between your income and your husband's, you are running
into debt at slightly more than two thousand dollars each
month. As of yesterday you owed the bank just over sixty
thousand dollars. That includes both secured and unsecured
loans, but does
not
include the overdrafts.'

'That much!' she exclaimed, staring directly at him.

'That much,' he agreed, 'with interest adding to the burden
each day.'

'But how could this happen?'

'I hope you do not think that I am speaking out of line, but
you have expensive tastes, Miss Tamara. You have been living
beyond your means for many years.'

She nodded miserably. 'What do you suggest I do?'

'Perhaps if you . . .' He coughed delicately again. 'I do not
know how to say this, Miss Tamara. You must believe me
when I say I find it distasteful in the extreme to have to men
tion it.'

She raised her chin. 'Please say what is on your mind, Mr.
Harriman.'

He took a deep breath. 'The major part of your problem
seems to stem from the power of attorney you gave your hus
band.'

'Power of attorney? What power of attorney?' She searched
her mind and then it came to her in a blinding flash. 'But that
was years ago!'

He inclined his head. 'Yes, but it is still in effect. However,
if you were to stop it, you might be able to gain better control
of your own income, which is quite . . . well, shall we say,
substantial?'

'But I don't see how that in itself would help any,' she said.
'Surely the only way to get things back on track and dig our
selves out of debt is to drastically cut back on our expenses.'

'Then you haven't been going through your monthly state
ments and cancelled cheques, I take it?'

'N-no,' she said carefully. 'My husband has been doing all
that. Is there some reason why I should?'

He reached for his briefcase, swung it on to his lap, and
unlatched it. He took out a thin sheaf of papers that had been
stapled together. 'If you will be so kind as to glance through
these
...
on the left of each you will find the cheque number,
next to that the date it was written, then the payee, and finally
the amount. The cheques have been paid. Incidentally, they are on your current account and were signed by your hus
band—which is legal since he has your power of attorney.' He
passed them to her and she quickly glanced through them.
Hundreds of dollars at a time, sometimes thousands, had been
made out to a single payee. She let the papers fall to her
lap and looked at him. 'I
...
I don't understand. Could you
explain this to me?'

He nodded. 'Those cheques were all made but to Persiani
Enterprises.'

'Yes, I can see that. But what is Persiani Enterprises?'

'You do not know, then.'

'Know what? Please enlighten me.'

'Persiani Enterprises is a local construction firm owned by
one Carmine Persiani, who came to this city from New York
some fifteen years ago.'

'Then they must be payments still outstanding from building
this house.'

'No, Miss Tamara,' he said softly. 'I see that you do not
understand. Persiani Enterprises is a well-known front. Oh,
the construction firm exists, no doubt about it, but that is
not where Carmine Persiani is said to earn his money. The
construction firm is probably just a way of hiding illegal funds.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'To put it bluntly, Persiani is an extremely unsavoury man.
He is suspected of being part of the underworld. Rumour has
it that he runs all the illegal gambling in this town.'

He watched the colour drain from her face.

'Gambling? I don't understand! Louie doesn't gamble.'

'Then how do you account for these cheques?' he asked
quietly.

She sat there completely devastated.

Louis was a secret gambler. Without her ever having sus
pected, he had been gambling their hard-earned money away,
pushing them further and further into debt. But when? And
where?

She took a deep breath, forced herself to rally her strength,
and pasted on a smile she did not feel. She rose to her feet in a studied, fluid motion. 'I appreciate your having informed
me, Mr. Harriman,' she said with dignity, holding out her
hand. 'I know it cannot have been easy for you. Now, if there's
nothing else . . .'

He hung back and lowered his eyes. 'Well, there is one
thing. Could I . . . My wife's sister . .
.'he
explained in dis
jointed embarrassment. 'She is out here from Pittsburgh. It's
her first visit and she asked if I knew . . . any film stars.
Well ... an autographed picture?'

A fan's request for an autograph was something Tamara
was eminently equipped to deal with. She summoned her most
dazzling smile. 'Of course, Mr. Harriman,' she said smoothly.
'I'll have one delivered to the bank first thing in the morning.'

'Her name is Charlotte. If you could . . . you know, write
a little message for Charlotte . . .'

'It's as good as done. Esperanza will show you out.'

As soon as he was gone, she sank numbly back down onto
the couch, leaned her head back on the cushions, and stared blankly up at the glass-domed ceiling. Her entire body was
shaking and she was physically and emotionally drained. She
knew that she had no choice. She would have to face Louis
about the gambling, and they would have to find a way for him
to stop it. Such a financial drain could not continue. God only
knew what other debts—to friends or merchants—he had run
up on top of what they owed the bank. There was really no
excuse for their being financially strapped all the time. None.

She shut her eyes. If only there was some miraculous way
she could wish away the unpleasant scene she knew was going
to result from all this.

But there could be no avoiding the issue. Like it or not, she
had to face it and do something about it.

She sighed heavily.

Why, she asked herself, hadn't she shown any interest in their finances? And how could he have found the time for
gambling? Above all, how could she have been so blind?

There were so many questions that needed answering. Oh,
Louie, Louie, she prayed. Please prove to me that Clifford
Harriman is wrong. But, she feared, too much evidence
pointed to Harriman's suspicions being true.

'Señora.'

Startled, Tamara opened her eyes and looked up. Esper
anza was standing in the doorway again. Tamara felt an
irrational surge of anger. The woman had the amazing ability, not unlike a cat's, to sneak up on you without making a sound.
'What is it now, Esperanza?' she asked wearily.

'Miss Rice. She here to see you.'

Tamara jerked upright as though she'd been electrocuted.
'Oh, my God!' she exclaimed, slapping her forehead with the
palm of her hand.

With all her worrying about Clifford Harriman's visit, she'd
completely forgotten that Marilee Rice, the scourge of the
stars, the same woman who had written the scathing article about the house for
Screen Story
several years ago, had been
scheduled to interview her over tea again this afternoon. She
felt a heaviness steal over her. She was in no mood to face
Marilee. Certainly not now. There were enough problems to
occupy her.

Still, wheedling out of it at this point would only raise the gossip's ire, which was something she didn't want. Marilee
Rice had become more powerful than ever. For the last years, as her column continued to appear in newspapers and maga
zines cross-country, she had begun hosting her own weekly
syndicated radio show as well. According to surveys, as many
people tuned in to her
Hollywood Talk
as listened to FDR's
'Fireside Chats'. More than ever, Marilee Rice was a woman to be reckoned with. There was really no way Tamara could
avoid the interview. Not this late. And she would have to be
on her toes—the gossip didn't miss a trick. Like a shark, if she
smelled blood, she closed in for the kill.

'Give me a minute,' she told Esperanza. 'Then show her
in.'

'Darling!'

The voice was a high trill.

The woman it belonged to came sweeping dramatically in behind it, blowing noisy kisses past Tamara's cheeks. 'Really,
how well you look
today,'
Marilee purred, emphasizing the
present as she took a step backward and smiled, showing two
rows of razor-sharp teeth.

Tamara squared her shoulders as though to do battle. She
hated interviews. She hated Marilee. Careful, she cautioned
herself. Simmer down and don't rise to the bait. Be kissy-
kissy, even catty, but keep it all on those arch feminine terms.

'You look splendid yourself!' Tamara lied effusively, hooking her arm through Marilee's and leading her visitor outside
to the sunny terrace.

In truth, there was no way Marilee could look remotely
splendid. Her figure could have been drawn by a six-year-old:
she was a stick figure with no breasts, buttocks, or curves. Despite its tailoring and cut, her exquisite silk dress, printed
with magnified African violets, seemed to hang as though from a scarecrow, but she'd dressed carefully as always nonetheless:
matching shoes on her pigeon-toed feet and one of her signature hats, for which she was justly famous, towering on her
head. Marilee's face was also singularly unattractive and
rather mannish, with a long straight nose and a lantern jaw. In
a pathetic attempt at beautification, violet eye shadow shone
thickly above her eyelids, and her mouth and nails were gashes
of bright vermilion. One would have expected her voice to be deep and mannish as well, but it was high-pitched and femi
nine, each drawn-out vowel sugar-coated in that special way
only true Southern ladies of breeding can confect the lan
guage.