Never Too Rich (64 page)

Snake read the paragraph laboriously, mouthing each
word while slowly running a filthy-nailed finger along the print.
Reading was not one of his strong points. Harley engines and
bustin’ ass were his particular areas of expertise—and pride.

“
What’s this say?” he demanded,
jabbing a finger at a word.

“
Lemme see.” Putting her hands on
his hunched shoulders, she leaned down over him. “ ‘Beau,’ “ she
said.

He twisted around to look up at her. “Yeah, but
what’s it
mean?”

“
You know . . .” She shrugged and
scratched a breast idly. “Like a boyfriend. Someone she’s
dating.”

“
You mean—like he’s her old man?”
he demanded. “That what you’re sayin’?”

Conchita could feel the meanness emanating from him
and knew it behooved her to be diplomatic. When Snake got riled up,
he could be frighteningly violent.

“
Well, not exactly,” she said
slowly, trying to diffuse his anger. “It could be they’re just
seein’ each other. Friendly-like. You know?”

“
Yeah,” he said, and added with a
sneer, “And I just might become President of the United
States.”

She decided to keep quiet.

To her relief, he grunted and turned his attention
back to the newspaper. For the moment, at least, he was more
interested in finding out the whys, whens, and wheres of what Shirl
was involved in. There was time enough later to deal with the
fuckface she was seein.

Moving his finger to the top of the column, he read
it through from the beginning, a process which took him the better
part of forty minutes and two more cans of Bud.

When he was through, he scraped his chair back and
burped mightily. Got to his feet and scratched his belly. “Go get
me the road map for the Island,” he told her. “I’m gonna ride out
there.”

Her eyes lit up. “Can I come too?” She did a series
of excited little hops. “Oh, Snake, honey! I always wanted to go
out there!”

“
Not this time, foxy,” Snake said
flatly. “This is sumpin’ ‘tween your ole man and a bitch that took
a hike. Ain’t none o’ your business.” He slapped her on the rump.
“Map,” he reminded her grimly.

She snuggled her ass up against his crotch and
wiggled her tight little buns against him. “I thought I’m your ole
lady now,” she purred with mock petulance.

“
Sure you are, baby. But see, I got
some unfinished business to take care of, and you’d be in the way.
Now, get your ass outta here.”

“
Oh, all right,” she said morosely,
moving off reluctantly and doing as she was told.

Outside the showhouse, in the unmarked police car
parked by the roadside, one of the NYPD undercover cops complained,
“God damn. Sure gets colder’n a witch’s tit out here during the
night. You’d never know it’s nearly goddamn June.”

“
Yeah,” his partner agreed. “But if
I turn on the car heater, we’re liable to fall asleep. You heard
our orders. No cooping.”

“
So what? Who’s gonna see us? And
who’s gonna care? There ain’t nothing doin’ out here anyway.
‘Sides, nobody knows she’s out here, right? The psycho’s back in
the city.”

“
Yeah, I guess you’re right. But
crack your window. I don’t want to get no carbon-monoxide
poisoning.”

“
You betcha.”

Both windows came down about an inch.

The plainclothes cop in the driver’s seat turned on
the engine and let it idle. Soon the heat and the gentle vibration
had their effect.

Both men’s eyelids drooped; then each began to
snore.

Same World/Same
Time

In the Realm of Miss
Bitch

“
Just one more itsy-bitsy stroke of
eyeliner . . .” Miss Bitch said softly aloud. Leaning into the
bulb-lined Hollywood-style makeup mirror, be carefully drew the
black eyeliner along his right lid. Then be put the eyeliner down
and sat back. “There. Now Precious is beautiful.”

He blinked his false lashes rapidly—just like Donna
Mills used to do on Knots Landing. “Give yourself a kissy-kissy,”
he said.

Hunching his shoulders forward, he puckered his
lips, lowered his eyelids, and blew his reflection a sexy Marilyn
Monroe air kiss. “Mwah. Mwah!”

He giggled and did it again. And again. And
again.

“
Mwah! Mwah! Mwah mwah
mwah!”

“
Hellooooo, beautiful!” he tinkled
at himself in his best falsetto.

“
Heeeeellooooo—oh! “

“
Hello-hello!”

Batting his lashes some more, he fluttered his
fingertips like frenetic, vibrating wings.

Oh yesssss! he was sooooo beautiful. So gorgeous.
So—sexy!

“
Mwah!”

Pushing back his little pink-and-gold boudoir chair,
he adjusted the pink lace bustier that corseted his spongy
flesh-tone falsies. Ran his palms over the smooth black nylon
stockings hooked to his garter belt. Delicately felt his penis,
tucked coyly out of sight under the Maxi Pad and held in place with
wide strips of adhesive tape. Raised his shapely legs to coo over
his feet. They were shod in his favorites—simply the most
devastatingly vulgar pair of spike-heeled pink maribou mules.
Frederick’s of Hollywood, of course! Nothing but the best for this
girl!

But it was his hair and makeup that were artistic
triumphs—it had taken him nearly two hours to get the look just
right.

He patted his elaborate hairdo. The scalp wig was
Vienna Farrow’s, which he had spent half a day styling just so.

And the makeup. Ah! The makeup was positively
inspiring: black slanting eyes and ruthless cheekbone shadows that
looked exactly like Obi Kutis . . . lips like Joy Zatopekova’s.

He was a pastiche of all his winsome little
beauties. All those bad, bad girls rolled into one!

He picked up the atomizer filled with Bal à
Versailles and spritzed himself. Oooooh! It felt so cold! Smelled
so yummy! More! More! Miss Bitch just loooooved smelling like a
French whore. Like a very, very bad girl.

Last but not least, he gave his crotch a squirt for
good measure.

Now he was ready!

He shivered deliciously with anticipation. It
wouldn’t take more than another hour for him to reach Southampton.
The showhouse must be crawling with sprightly bad girls. All
getting ready to kick out for tomorrows fashion show.

He could just see them. Lips pouting, hips snapping,
and splendid legs flashing as they strutted down the runway, and
twirl! strutted back out.

Popping up from the boudoir chair, he posed
momentarily in front of the bulb-ringed mirror and then prudently
turned off the lights before yanking aside the dividing curtain. He
leaned down to peer out the windshield of the Winnebago.

It was nice and dark out, and traffic was light.

So ingenious, this vehicle. So perfect for a Hellcat
on Wheels!

Miss Bitch plopped himself happily into the driver’s
seat and swiveled around to face forward. Turned the engine over.
Glanced in the side mirror to see if anybody was coming up on his
left. The coast was clear.

He sighed happily.

Miss Bitch was ready to roll!

“
Girls, here I come!” he shrieked,
and floored the gas pedal.

Chapter 68

“
Once again, gals. From the top.”
Edwina poised her finger on the play button of the stereo. “Ready?”
she asked. Then she counted to five and punched it.

Basia’s mellow bossa nova blared again. After four
beats, out Billie Dawn strode onto the runway in that leggy,
limber-limbed strut that is the hallmark of the high-fashion
model.

Edwina stepped back and folded her arms, tapping one
foot to keep rhythm with the music while she watched closely.

Billie Dawn moved with incredible perfection. With
every run-through, she repeated each carefully choreographed move
with the exact same precision as the time before, she was that
consistent.

By now, Edwina knew every move by heart. From the
doorway to the center of the narrow runway took twelve precise
strides. Then a twirl, and twelve more strides, then a double twirl
at the far end, and back again.

It sounded easy, but it wasn’t. One missed beat
could throw the rhythm off and create chaos—especially when there
were five or six girls out there at one time.

Billie Dawn’s double twirl was Hallelujah’s cue. Now
she came striding out. She didn’t possess Billie’s practiced
precision, but she had a way of moving that was all her own.

Watching her, Edwina felt a warm surge of maternal
pride. Until Hallelujah had first stepped out on the runway, she
hadn’t realized quite how leggy and slim her daughter really was.
Or that she was possessed of such inborn grace.

Do I have it too? she wondered.

As Hallelujah stepped out on the runway, Billie
headed back in.

They would pass each other at the midway point and
twirl simultaneously.

Edwina held her breath. Now came the tricky part.
There wasn’t much room for them both to maneuver.

Hallelujah’s cocked elbow knocked Billie.

Damn!
“No, no, no, no, no,” Edwina moaned.
She hit the stop button on the recorder. “Hal, my sweet,” she
called out. “Colliding just won’t do. It’s got to be timed
perfectly so that your elbow is a few inches behind that of whoever
else is out here with you.”

“
Sorry, Ma,” Hallelujah said
meekly. “I feel like such a geek. It may look easy, but it isn’t.
Y’know?”

“
I know, sweetie,” Edwina
commiserated, “I know. Except for this part, you seem to have
everything down pat. I tell you what. Why don’t we just practice
this part a few more times without any music?”

“
Before we do that,” Billie said,
“what’s the time? I forgot my watch.”

Edwina consulted hers. “Five past eleven.”

“
What? Yikes!” Billie squatted and
jumped neatly off the runway. She had to call Doc—she’d promised
him she would check in every couple of hours, and knew that if she
didn’t he would be worried sick. “I’ll be right back,” she called
out over her shoulder. “I’ve got a quick call to make.”

“
Tell Daddy hi for me,” Hallelujah
said.

“
Don’t forget to use one of the pay
phones!” Edwina called out after Billie.

“
I won’t!” Billie assured
her.

The pay phones had been specially installed by the
Showhouse Committee before the redecorating of the house had begun.
The one regular telephone line was taboo for everyone except the
chairperson of the committee—Anouk.

Billie was back in less than a minute, a bemused
expression on her face. “How strange,” she murmured, giving her
head a little shake.

“
What is it?” Edwina asked from
atop the runway.

“
The phones.” Billie looked up at
her. “One moment I was talking to Doc, and then—
poof!
Like
that, they were suddenly all dead!”

“
All
of them? You’re
sure?”

“
Yes.” Billie nodded. “I even tried
the regular line. It’s dead too!”

In his East Side town house, Duncan Cooper jiggled
the cradle of the telephone. “Billie?” he said. Then, when he got
no response, his voice grew louder and more urgent: “Billie! Are
you there?
Billie!”

Dead.

Not a sound.

He hung up slowly. What the hell had happened? His
phone had rung. He had answered it. She’d said:
Hi
honey
—
I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier.

And he’d said: Hey, that’s okay. You all right?

And she’d said: I’m fine. I’m having fun, actually.
We’ve been—”

And that had been it. Not another word. In fact, not
another sound. Not even a click.

He snatched up his receiver and checked it. His dial
tone sang out loud and clear.

So it wasn’t
his
phone.

He grasped at straws. Maybe they’d been accidentally
disconnected and she’d call him right back?

As he waited, he searched his desk for the number
she had given him. One minute passed. Two.

She wasn’t calling back!

Quickly he punched out the eleven digits of the
showhouse.

Nothing. The phone at her end didn’t even ring. It
was . . . dead.

He had the operator try for him. “I’m sorry, sir,”
she said in that clipped nasal tone. “There seems to be trouble on
the line.”

Duncan’s blood suddenly ran cold. Not only was
Billie out there, but Edwina and Hal were too!

“
No!” he yelled, scraping his chair
back and jumping to his feet. Snatching up the keys to his
perfectly repaired Ferrari, he tore out to the landing and leapt
down the stairs three at a time.

Nooooo
. . . his mind kept screeching as he
raced down to the garage.
God, nooooooo
. . .

Fred Koscina and Carmen Toledo were burning the
midnight oil. Putting in overtime was the only way they could deal
with their backlog of paperwork.

Paperwork. The department seemed to thrive on it.
Come to think of it, so did the whole goddamn city bureaucracy. No
matter what else you had to do, you just couldn’t get away from it.
There was a form for every conceivable occurrence, from simple
procurement to complicated arrests.

After a while he irritably shoved the papers aside.
His mind wasn’t on them. His thoughts kept wandering out to
Southampton.

Should he have allowed Billie Dawn to travel that
far away from him? Not that he could have stopped her, but the
question kept gnawing at him. Not that she shouldn’t be safe. He’d
sent two of his best undercover cops out there with her. If
anything untoward occurred, they had instructions to call him.
ASAP.