

Call Me Crash

by

Michael Bronte

Copyright ©: Michael Bronte 2017

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

To Crash, a good friend in the early days

Part One

The Christmas Season

CHAPTER 1... Click, Click, Click

Standing with his arms up against the circle rack, Tom Crandall examined the printout for vendor Chaus New York, thinking that the goods weren't flowing fast enough. He was tired of getting his ass chewed ten times a day because the waterfall racks had broken size runs on them. Chaus was a good line this year, selling like hotcakes, and it was all he could do to maintain the displays. As soon as he set one up, the garments would disappear—sold rather than stolen, hopefully—and he'd have to change it again. The reality was that the backup orders should have been in by now.

Looking down the columns, he was sure he'd find what he already knew: either the arrival dates were too far out or the fill-in orders weren't even placed yet. Either way, he'd have the same problem: the department would continue to look like crap and he'd have to juggle and schlepp goods all over the place to cover the holes. Making the floor look good right now was like putting lipstick on a pig and he'd had about enough of it. It was time to take the offense. He was determined to get some ammunition to defend himself this time.

He was about to head back up to the merchandising office when he heard the familiar sound: click... click... click. He knew it was her even before she turned the corner. The heels of her conservative black pumps echoed like gunshots off the sparkling marble floor in front of the elevator. Click... click... click... click.... Good, he thought. She'd saved him a trip and now she'd be able to see things for herself. He knew she was close as the rustling of papers and faint scent of perfume announced her arrival. He didn't turn around and continued to busy himself with the numbers on the printout. She came up right behind him... click... click... click. Vanilla. The perfume smelled like vanilla. He wondered if she'd cooled off at all from the first two arguments they'd already had today, and it wasn't even noon yet. One look at her face and he knew that wasn't the case.

"Listen Crash, you don't have to go through those orders to justify what you said this morning. I already told you, the purchase orders have been in for weeks. I did them myself."

Tom "Crash" Crandall finally turned away from the printout. What did he have to do to make his point? The floor couldn't look any worse, and he knew he was walking business because the selections were shot to hell. He was having a hard time making a single complete display. As usual her sassy professional attitude bubbled over.

"I know how to do my job," she snapped at him.

"Then where the hell is the merchandise?" he demanded bravely. He must have demanded a little too bravely, seeing as how a customer looked his way. Screw it. He wasn't going to take Ramona's attitude again. "You say that, but I don't see any reorders listed here. How come the POs aren't in the computer?" Hands on hips, he stared at her, expecting an answer as he tried to not get preoccupied by the defiance she was throwing off. Defiance wasn't a good look on her, and neither was the outfit she was wearing, he thought.

Ramona returned the stare. She, Ramona Kling, Associate Buyer, Ready-To-Wear, Rosenbloom & Starr, wasn't about to take any more grief on this either. "I don't know where the hell the goods are," she shot coldly. "I projected orders three weeks ago like I was supposed to, and I must have put fifty purchase orders for Chaus on Leona's desk. Maybe she's sitting on them." Arrogantly, she flipped her shoulder-length brown-black hair. It was all combed to one side this day in a thick curved "do." "And I don't have to stand here and listen to any more of your criticism, you know. I've paid my dues."

"Yeah, right."

"Listen Crash, I was getting coffee and repackaging returns before you even knew what the words ready-to-wear meant." She barked it out, and had no trouble feeling that she could act a little sanctimoniously. "I'm telling you it's not my fault."

Crash wasn't buying it, thinking he was the one taking the blame for the appearance of the department while everyone else played dumb. Fucking buyers. "Of course it's not your fault, it's nobody's fault. But while everyone on the seventh floor shuffles paper and tells each other it's not their fault, I'm the one holding my stones in front of Mercedes and Mister Starr." As soon as he said it, he saw Ramona's face tighten up even more. She sure could get her ass up on her shoulders sometimes.

"Screw you Crash. We do more than shuffle paper."

"You'd have a hard time proving that to me," he said with his own brand of contempt. The only thing they did up there was drink coffee and listen to the vendor reps' dirty jokes. That, and go to lunch—on the reps of course. Why did they need so many people in the buying office anyway? Christ, it was almost 1979. They had the damned computer to project sales and calculate open-to-buy. Anyone could do that job, but he knew he could do it better than most of the people who were doing it now. He had a better eye for the merchandise, and someday he'd get a chance to prove it.

He'd been busting his tail on the floor for three years now, and surely there'd be an opening up there sometime in the foreseeable future, even if it was as a lowly assistant buyer. He just hoped someone didn't have to die first. It seemed like once you got in there, nothing short of that could get you out. Even Ramona managed to hold on to her job and she was always on Leona's shit list. It was too bad in a way. She was better than Leona, but while Ramona was just bitchy, Leona was bitchy and an idiot. Crash vowed to himself that if he ever got the chance he'd never be the kind of buyer Leona was—one that took all the glory while the people on the floor did all the work and took all the blame when something went wrong. It had been that way ever since he started with Rosenbloom & Starr six years earlier as a helper humping furniture on the delivery trucks. There were plenty of times even then when he had to explain things to customers that should have been explained by someone else, usually the salesperson. Customers were nuts sometimes.

"What do you mean, why is that knot where it is?" he remembered asking of one particularly finicky woman as she looked down her nose at him. The wood on the armoire was full of knots. It was supposed to look that way. It was knotty pine, for God's sake.

"I don't like that knot there right in the middle of the door panel," she'd said, adjusting her bifocals. "The salesman said you could take care of things like that."

"Take care of it? How the hell are we going to take care of moving a knot?" That wasn't the right thing to have said back then, and he knew that, but he wasn't about to haul the three-hundred-pound armoire back to the truck without a fight. The driver, a huge black guy named Duke, didn't say a word. He knew better. He knew they'd take the blame regardless of what happened. Crash had gotten into hot water over that episode—among others—and this was the same.

"You know, I came down here to explain to you that this problem wasn't your fault either," Ramona said indignantly, "but after that last crack all I want to explain to you is how you can kiss my ass!"

Crash watched the curved hair bounce wildly as she turned and stomped back toward the elevator. He could hear those shiny black pumps clicking furiously all the way there... click... click... click. As usual, he'd done a masterful job of pissing her off, and, as usual, it was something he'd said to put her over the edge. Normally, he knew what it was. This time, watching her lithe body from behind as she walked away from him, the only words he remembered were ass, crack, and kiss.

* * * * *

Gino Starr looked down the monthly financial statement from Touche Ross, thinking the figures varied substantially from the ones he'd personally reviewed three weeks earlier from Rosenbloom & Starr's own accounting department. The corporate statement actually showed them making a profit for the month. It was supposed to have shown a loss, and a fairly healthy one at that. He punched down hard on the intercom button of his phone console.

"Leila, bring me the R & S financials for September."

"Right away, Mister Starr."

A moment later Leila laid the huge folder of printouts on Starr's desk. Flipping to the summary statement which totaled the individual monthly statements for all thirty-one Rosenbloom & Starr department stores, he compared the in-house figures with the ones that came back from the accounting firm. He was right: the figures were different. Again he smashed a thick finger into the intercom button.

"Yes," said Sherman T. Hatcherson, Chief Financial Officer, on the other end of the line.

"Sherm, have you seen the detailed financials from Touche?"

"Yes I have. I think I know what's on your mind."

"The figures are different from what we submitted."

"I'm aware of that."

"You are?"

"Yes, there were some changes."

"Some changes! They're nothing like what we submitted, for Christ's sake. Did you approve these changes, Sherm?"

"Most of them, yes." In reality, Hatcherson had approved every single one of them. He was on top of his figures like green on grass.

"This isn't what I expected, Sherm. Didn't we talk about this?"

"It's not as easy as you think," said Hatcherson. "The volume is simply too high for us to declare a loss for the month. It would be too obvious. We can't continually use the excuse of accumulated expenses time after time. They're starting to ask questions, Gino. We had to show a profit. I can explain it to you if you like."

"Why don't you, Sherm? Right now." Starr slammed the phone back into its cradle.

Sherman Hatcherson made the long walk across the seventh floor to the office of Gino Starr, President and CEO of Rosenbloom & Starr. He was beginning to really dislike these walks.

CHAPTER 2... Hook, Line, And Sinker

Morton J. Levine washed his hands and made sure the starched cuffs of his shirt protruded far enough for everyone to notice the diamond cufflinks. They'd cost him two thousand bucks and surely that should earn a couple of comments. He turned in the mirror and tried to stand outside himself, thinking how an uninitiated eye would describe him. He convinced himself quite easily that the words impressive or magnetic were proper adjectives. His thousand-dollar suit was hanging beautifully, and his tie was straight. He hated these damned wide ties. They made sloppy knots. Somehow a thousand-dollar Italian suit didn't go with a big wide tie and a pointy-collared shirt, but they were all the rage these days and one had to be fashionable. Looking to see that there was no toilet paper stuck to his shoes or any other of the wrong places, he passed his comb through his thinning hair, not noticing the guy next to him who smirked in amusement. He wondered if the red mark at his hairline was the beginning of a zit. It would only attract more attention to his rapidly vanishing follicles. Jesus, that's all he needed. Oh well, he was as ready as he was going to be.

Swaggering, he slowly made his way back to his table just as the introductory speech was beginning. He recognized the faces. There was Jack Walsh, CEO of Westinghouse; Bobby Wriston, Chairman of Ingersoll-Rand; Ross LeFebre, President of the United Auto Workers Union; and whose hand was that sticking out in front of him? Morty looked up, seeing that the hand belonged to F. Scott Burnside, Chairman of the Board of Craftmark Tire. Morty grabbed the hand good ol' boy fashion, playfully yanking Burnside's arm as he slapped him on the back. He ducked down to hear Burnside's whisper.

"Hey Morty, come on up later if you can shake Myra for a while. We got some entertainment, if ya' know what I mean." Burnside winked an evil good-ol'-boy wink as he laughingly squeezed Morty's hand. Burnside behaved just like the glorified grease monkey that he was, one who always made a point of saying the first initial in his name stood for Fucking. Fucking Scott Burnside, he called himself. That's how you get twenty-two hundred tire stores and repair shops nationwide, you fuck everybody and everything in your way.

Despite Burnside's rough exterior, he was a powerful man who was able to pull some very long strings, a true power broker whose balance of favors was always to his advantage. Business leaders, politicians, lawyers, entertainers, people of seemingly every profession owed Burnside, but he was slow to collect. Calling in a favor reduced the balance in the favor bank.

Morty knew what Burnside's entertainment would be, but he had mixed emotions about attending one of Burnside's little pussy parties with Myra around. His wife's feelings were secondary, however. One had to keep up appearances. There was always plenty of loose pussy floating around at these affairs. Some of it was professional pussy. Some of it was married pussy looking for some strange. Some of it was political pussy from the favor bank. And then there was the best kind—just plain party pussy looking for a good time.

"Buffet, or bring your own?" Morty joked as he gazed into the deep cleavage of the bimbo sitting on Burnside's arm.

"It's all you can eat," Burnside howled crudely.

Morty slapped him on the back and peeled himself away from the table. He didn't want to seem too chummy with the crass Burnside. He had an image to maintain. Morty walked back to his seat, sucking in his stomach beneath his Armani suit. Constantly adjusting his tie, he glimpsed from side to side to see whose eye he could catch. He waved to Jimmy Conroy, CEO of Burger World. MacDonald's was kicking his ass. And there was Roger Mulhaney, Chairman of Ray Computer, and Izzy Kaplan of Peterson-Stevens, and Mike Strickland of Mitchelsen Industrial. It was a regular Who's Who of corporate elite, and Morty meandered through the tables like a parade float, proud of himself for being there. He deserved it.

"Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me," he said needlessly, for there was plenty of room, but it made the barons of industry look his way. "Hi, Johnny. How are the kids?.... Why Amanda Sugarman, nice to see you again.... Hi Bruce, how's the golf game?.... Why hello Mrs. Barber, what a pleasant surprise. Nice to see you...." He finally made it back to his ten thousand-dollar-seat just as the introductory speech was concluding. Plenty of people noticed him; he was sure.

"And now ladies and gentleman, the man you've been so generous to support this evening, the next president of the United States, the honorable Senator Milton D. Hancher." Applause.

"Thank you ladies and gentleman," Hancher began. "Believe it or not, although it seems as if we're barely into Jimmy Carter's term as president, it's been almost two years now. I don't know about you, but I've already had enough!" Applause. "It's not too early to think about the election, if we can make it that far." Applause. "Inflation is eating away at our assets, but I'm sure you're all well aware of that. You are the most respected business leaders this country has to offer, and I promise, with your support, that when I become president...." Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Morty looked around, waving past Myra to the stunning blonde at the next table, the one with the dress the size of a handkerchief. She was looking at him; he was sure. Everyone was looking at him. He was chairman of the board and CEO of Associated Department Stores of America, and surely he was the most powerful man in the room.

Myra Levine quite easily detected her husband ogling the blonde. "Honey, do you want a spot of makeup to cover that pimple on your head?" she asked.

* * * * *

Vance MacHune flipped to the last line of the financial statement, which read Profit or (Loss), and saw that finally it showed a figure without parentheses around it: $326,841. That was chickenfeed, he thought, less than one half of one percent net profit before taxes, but it was better than the losses they'd been showing for the last seven months.

MacHune was a bulldog of a man, and he analyzed the statement with sleeves rolled up over burly forearms, his big weathered face creasing comically as his eyes tried to focus on the small print. He sat hunched over the report as if he were an animal hiding its kill, checking off the various entries of importance with a cheap Bic pen, the end of which he'd almost chewed off. He rolled the pen between fingers that were callused and rough as sandpaper even though he did no manual work as Vice President of Operations for Rosenbloom & Starr. His farm in Leesburg kept the hands rough, as well as keeping him in shape. The next line to be examined was Total Operating Expenses. Everything he did could be evaluated by this one line item. The figure was within twenty thousand dollars of what he'd predicted. He'd held up his end, and he'd been holding it up for a long time. He couldn't imagine how he could shave expenses any further with sales continuing to climb the way they were. Silently, he wondered how they could have shown losses for the last seven months. It was impossible. What they needed was more margin. He'd been trying to tell that to Mercedes for months, but it was like talking to a wall. Damned bitchy women executives, he thought for perhaps the hundredth time that month. This ERA stuff was starting to get on his nerves. It was one thing to be equal, but these broads were trying to be over-equal. MacHune shook his veiny, almost bald head and loosened his tie. The designer shirt looked like a potato sack on his chunky body, and the long collar looked like part of a clown shirt standing up on his shoulders the way it did. It made it look like his neck had disappeared.

Although she didn't look anything like him, Mercedes Flores, General Merchandise Manager, was like Vance MacHune in many ways, and it would have killed her to admit it. At the end of the day she could take off her Jones of New York suit and one wouldn't even have known she'd been wearing it. She was a walking mannequin, perfectly accessorized, never overdone, simple, smooth, neat, precise. Fads and radical styles never seemed to infiltrate her size-eight wardrobe. Her face always looked perfect, no matter what time of day or night, her skin perfectly smooth, hair always neatly coifed in soft feminine waves, never threateningly radical. She needed nothing artificial to maintain her business-like image, her steely determination coming through quite naturally on its own. She actually had to be careful not to intimidate people. That's why she made a point of never interrupting people when they spoke, and she always maintained the right blend of tone, pause, emphasis, and inflection in her words so as not to come across like the bitchy she-wolf many thought her to be. She hated that image with a passionate hate, along with the fact that many thought she was the token Hispanic minority plant.

Like MacHune, she flipped immediately to the last page of the financial statement, looking at the same Profit or (Loss) line, breathing an audible sigh of relief. The second line she examined was Total Gross Profit, seeing that the figure was $29.8 million dollars, representing a 44.7% overall gross margin. Tremendous, she thought. Like MacHune, but from a different perspective, she couldn't understand how Rosenbloom & Starr could have declared losses for the last seven months. Thank God this month's statement was in the black, although it was pretty measly. She'd argued with MacHune to cut payroll until she was blue in the face. With $29.8 million in gross profit, there should have been more on the bottom line. She pondered briefly that surely there was room to cut somewhere, but MacHune was stubborn as a mule. The gross margin couldn't go any higher, not if they wanted their prices to remain competitive.

Gino Starr made his entrance and dropped his folders on the huge rosewood and ebony conference table. Finally there was no cat fighting as there had been during the last four senior staff meetings. Amazing what a little taste of success could do. Inside, the guilt ate at him like acid eating through tin foil. He noticed immediately that Sherman Hatcherson was glaringly absent, and he didn't want to do this without him. He decided to wait a bit before beginning the meeting as Skip Antonucci, Director of Marketing and Advertising, and Mindi Blakemore, Director of Human Resources, also had not yet arrived. Skip and Mindi made quite a pair. Gino was sure they were getting it on with each other, which normally he would have frowned upon, but they were good at what they did and their departments seldom came into direct contact.

He unbuttoned the jacket of his Hickey-Freeman suit, swaying back and forth in his chair at the head of the conference table. He looked upward, daydreaming aimlessly, it seemed. Like Mercedes, the fad stylings of 1978 never seemed to show themselves on his body. Very much the traditionalist, he had an eye for style, a gift he discovered while working up displays in the Rhode Island Avenue store after the war in the late forties. He'd draped and accessorized blue and khaki work clothes, dungarees, and other everyday attire in the windows with fishing line in those days, and indeed many of the poor but hard-working men in the neighborhood bought the work uniforms, put a tie with them and wore them to church on Sundays. Gino knew that style was distinctly different than fashion, with fashion being the shorter lived of the two, and he always picked his own wardrobe with an eye for clothing that withstood the test of time. Style was never out of fashion, but fashion could go out of style almost overnight. Gino had style.

He was awakened from his daydream by the arrival of the rest of the staff members. Hatcherson, Skip, and Mindi all came in together, followed by Leila, his executive secretary of ten years, who carried a tray with two decanters of coffee and a stack of assorted donuts. Skip looked and dressed like John Travolta, but he was creative and had a good sense of what worked in advertising. Mindi was sort of an airhead, but she'd been with the company for twelve years and she knew exactly what combination of traits and experience made good retail managers and good salespeople. Momentarily, Gino wondered if he'd lose Mindi when he fired Skip, something he'd determined he had to do in order to execute his plan.

He paused, for he had no idea how he was going to start the meeting, and deliberated whether or not he should reveal his plan. Quickly, he decided that wasn't a good idea. First of all, it was illegal. Mercedes and MacHune might keep their mouths shut, but there was no way Skip and Mindi could be part of it. Leila was good as gold, but Gino was beginning to have doubts about Hatcherson, who was already beginning to crack under the pressure. Everyone got their coffee and donuts, two for MacHune, as usual, and settled into their respective chairs. Gino chuckled inwardly, amused at how everyone always sat in the same chair. He concluded they were all creatures of habit. He looked up to see everyone staring at him, waiting for him to start the meeting, and for a moment he visualized the six faces spinning around and merging into each other as if they were inside a kaleidoscope. MacHune had a little white sugar mustache from his jelly donut. Mercedes slid her fingers down the shaft of a pencil, then put the other end on the table and did it again, then again, and again. Say something, Gino thought to himself. Skip and Mindi were playing handsees. Unexpectedly, Hatcherson broke Gino's self-induced trance.

"We're being audited." It was a rude awakening. Everyone immediately shifted their attention to Hatcherson, sensing that his blockbuster announcement superseded anything on Gino's agenda. Gino's icy stare indicated his expectation as well. "I just got off the phone with the folks over at the SEC and with Boraski's office over at Associated."

"The Securities and Exchange Commission?" MacHune asked, adding immediately, "Who's Boraski?"

Gino answered instead of Hatcherson. "He's the CFO at Associated. What do you mean Boraski's office, Sherm? Did you talk to Boraski himself?"

"No, his assistant comptroller called. He said the audit was the direct result of a complaint by Levine himself." Hatcherson's scowl indicated his distaste for the situation. Something of this importance called for a direct communication from someone higher up the food chain than some lowly assistant comptroller.

"What else did he say?" Gino asked, his blood pumping little tidal waves inside his veins. "Did he say if the audit was going to be executed by SEC auditors or by an independent firm?"

"He didn't get into a lot of detail except that his office would be in touch. He said if we had any questions we should call back and talk directly to Boraski or Levine."

No one spoke for some time as the room took on a smog of concern that hung in the air like bug spray.

"Those bastards," Gino cursed. His tone was stinging and defiant, his façade of sophistication crumbling like a smashed windshield to reveal his street fighter instincts. He took on a sickly sallow color, his narrowed eyes reflecting his obvious anger. No one dared speak.

Mercedes looked concerned, yet confident, but she was confident about everything. MacHune looked like a puppy that had just been slapped for making a doody in the wrong place. Skip and Mindi were totally disconnected, oblivious as to what Hatcherson's announcement meant. Leila knew her boss well after ten years and took the initiative to suggest that in view of Mister Hatcherson's unexpected news, perhaps the senior staff meeting should be postponed.

"Good idea," Gino concluded for all of them. "Sherm, Mercedes, Mac, you three stay," he added when everyone got up to leave. He'd hand-picked the three of them to be the core of his company, a company doing in excess of $850,000,000 million dollars in annual sales; a company thirty-one stores strong; a company he had personally built into a retailing colossus. Now, those ruthless bastards were trying everything they could to take it over so they could carve it up like a turkey at Thanksgiving, probably to sell off the unwanted wings and drumsticks to keep the white meat for themselves.

When the door was closed, Gino turned. "What's it mean Sherm, an investigation coming out of the blue like this?"

"Well, it could mean several things. First and foremost, it means that the SEC has reason to believe that someone is manipulating the stock to take an unfair trading advantage; or secondarily, perhaps a stockholder has made allegations of irresponsibility or fraud. Thirdly, there might be a reason we don't know about."

Dumbfounded, "Like what?" MacHune asked.

"Like maybe someone pulled some strings with the SEC," Gino snarled. "Maybe greased a few palms, maybe called in a few favors just to give us a hard time."

MacHune persisted. "But how would the SEC even become aware of something like that?"

"There are any number of ways," Hatcherson answered. "My guess is that Levine is charging that we're manipulating the price of the stock, or that we're attempting to dilute his holdings by constantly issuing additional shares and preventing him from establishing a majority position."

"Damn it, Sherm, that's legal!" Gino said venomously. His brushes with Morty Levine and Associated Department Stores of America flashed in his mind's eye.

Associated owned or had major interests in eleven department store chains across the country including some very prestigious companies like Bernard's in San Francisco, Crane's in St. Louis, Janzen & Moore in Boston, and R. Metzger in Dallas. In 1975, Dalton's in Baltimore declared Chapter 11. Gino had always wanted to move into the Baltimore market, and with seven magnificent stores Dalton's was his opportunity to increase the size of his company by almost fifty percent with one strategic stroke. The problem was that he didn't have enough cash. Rosenbloom & Starr had several older, smaller locations like the one on Rhode Island Avenue which were no longer in prime neighborhoods. The stores were profitable because the buildings were paid for and had been for years, so there was little overhead. However, they weren't considered very valuable by lending institutions. Property values in those neighborhoods were low, and as such, Gino couldn't raise enough cash with his fifteen stores to take the seven Dalton's locations. Along came Morty Levine.

Associated had been on a rampage, gobbling up chains in the west at a voracious pace. Levine was ruthless, conducting hostile takeovers with absolutely no regard for the wishes of the founders or the communities, but altruism always gave in to greed and the stockholders always sold out to Levine when the price got high enough. He promised the founders and community leaders that he would continue to run the companies as they were with only some fine tuning to keep them profitable. The signatures weren't even dry on the contracts before Levine began dismantling the organizations, selling off the less prestigious free-standing locations usually located in the poorer neighborhoods where the stores meant jobs. He couldn't have cared less about that, and he grabbed whatever money he could get to pay down debt. Then, he took the remaining locations, dumped the existing inventory, and brought in his own mix of cheap homogenized fashions and products which could be managed easily via computer for reorder purposes. All of the local buyers, merchandise managers, advertising people, and others were dumped immediately, and store staffs were cut drastically to keep costs down. Thousands of people were put out of work. The stores lost their vitality, their appeal, and their sense of identity with the community. A Marshall Goode store in Cleveland was exactly the same as a J. Clarke & Paulson store in Miami.

Gino was determined that he wasn't going to let that happen to Rosenbloom & Starr, but Morty threw in an irresistible nugget. Morty said he was negotiating to take over nine Beemer's stores in Philadelphia and said he'd make a deal to expand the Rosenbloom & Starr empire to Philadelphia as well if Gino gave up half the stock to Associated. For Gino, it could have been a no-brainer. His father still held fifty percent of the stock in the company and if he used that to make the deal with Levine, Gino could have made Veneto and Tulia incredibly wealthy for the rest of their lives.

In exchange, Morty would have had to put up any additional cash needed to take over and convert the Dalton's and Beemer's stores. Rosenbloom & Starr would have gone from fifteen stores to thirty-one stores as quickly as the deals could be put together. To make the irresistible nugget even more so, Morty said that all Rosenbloom & Starr stores would be under the direct management of Gino Starr, and Gino would have a contract until age sixty-five. He could run the company as he saw fit, not subjecting it to Morty's chop shop tactics. It looked too good to resist, but Gino didn't go for it, taking the company public instead in order to raise the needed capital for the Dalton's stores in Baltimore and the Beemer's stores in Philadelphia.

Morty reeled him in, hook, line, and sinker, intending all along to mount a hostile takeover as soon as the dust from the public offering settled. Slowly but surely, Morty bought up shares and slowly accumulated his holdings up to almost twenty-five percent of Rosenbloom's & Starr's outstanding common stock. It was only a matter of time before Morty gobbled up enough stock to take over unless Gino could prevent the stockholders from selling, or could buy back enough stock to take a majority position himself.

"There may be another reason for an audit," Hatcherson said to no one in particular. They may have spotted some irregularities in our financial statement. Hatcherson's eyes met Gino's, each knowing what the other was thinking. "What do we do?" Hatcherson asked.

Gino didn't want to reveal what he was actually thinking. He'd already made up his mind that he'd have to meet with Tony Lopresti, and now that meeting would have to happen much sooner than he had anticipated. "We cooperate, for now," he told Hatcherson. There was no way Gino Starr was going to give up what had taken his lifetime and his father's lifetime to build.

CHAPTER 3... 1939

"Buona Pasqua, buona Pasqua!" Veneto Starvaggi exclaimed as he hugged his only son in front of the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle on Rhode Island Avenue.

Tulia Starvaggi could see that young Luigino was embarrassed by his father's outgoing manner, but Veneto was like that. No one bought the few simple groceries that they did from him because his groceries were better than anyone else's; people bought groceries from Veneto Starvaggi because they liked him. He asked about the kids. He joked with the men, and flirted with the women. He understood when a family needed a little more time to pay their bill. He'd been there plenty of times himself.

Luigino V. (for Vito, his uncle) Starvaggi was eleven years old in 1939, and he was old enough to know the routine on Easter Sunday. First, they got up early. It had to be early, for the church said that no one could eat within an hour of taking communion. They had strong coffee into which they dipped some stale bread for breakfast, and then it was off to the cathedral for the eight o'clock mass. After that, they headed either to Uncle Vito's house on Benning Road, or back to their own home on 18th Street northeast where the relatives would join them for Easter dinner. The women cooked in the kitchen while the men played the egg game.

Luigino liked the egg game. A dozen eggs were hard-boiled the night before with scraps of colored paper in the water. Then, in the morning after church, he and his father, Uncle Vito, and cousin Remigio, who was only nine but nevertheless a man, each picked three eggs for themselves. One by one each man gripped an egg firmly in hand and tapped it against one belonging to another player. Heel to heel, then point to point, they tapped until one of the shells cracked. Proud were the owners of the unbroken eggs. They had the hardest shells.

One egg at a time, the eggs were set on the steps of the porch, or at the base of a tree, anywhere an egg could be propped up properly. A spot was designated six or seven feet away, and the men stepped away from the egg. Then, with whatever assortment of coins they had in their pockets, they took careful aim and flung a coin at the egg. In 1939, the coin was usually a nickel or a dime. Each missed fling meant that the owner of the egg reaped the face value of the thrown coin from his opponents. When one of the coins embedded itself into the egg, the contest was over, and the player who buried the coin got to keep the egg and eat it. It was a strange game, but it was fun, and Luigino looked forward to it every year.

This year the first course for the main meal was risotto, made with real Italian Arborio rice, onions, and chopped chicken gizzards. The dish was one of Luigino's favorites, cooked until the rice was so smooth and creamy it was like pudding. If the risotto was all that was served, that would have been fine with Luigino—if there was enough of it, but in 1939 usually there was never enough. His father's business was still very difficult.

It was all his father could do to pay the rent on the one room store on the corner of 18th Street and Rhode Island Avenue, two blocks from where they lived. There were many days when Luigino and his mother worked in the store together while his father picked up on some temporary work. Usually it was digging ditches at the gas company where Uncle Vito worked. Luigino dreaded the days when his father came home covered from head to toe in dirt and mud, smelling of oil and sweat. Veneto would be exhausted, but washed quickly in the kitchen sink and changed his clothes just as quickly so he could get to the grocery store and relieve Tulia who would go home and cook dinner. Veneto wasn't in such a good mood at the end of those days, especially if business wasn't so good. Young Luigino pulled the crates of fruit and vegetables off the sidewalk and swept the grit off the floor while his father emptied the money box of whatever they'd taken in that day. Usually it wasn't much, ten or twelve dollars at the most.

It was no surprise to Luigino when the conversation turned to business over the Easter dinner table. It always did between Veneto and Uncle Vito.

"I've been talking with someone about starting a business," said Veneto, pronouncing the word bus-ee-nuss in his broken Italian accent. He dipped a piece of fried polenta into his dish of baccala. Luigino looked up, as did his mother. His father was always talking about one scheme or another, but something in his voice was more serious this time. The statement was directed at Uncle Vito.

"You have a bus-ee-nuss," Vito responded.

"I have a stupid bus-ee-nuss," Veneto shot back strongly. "I try to sell Italian food, but there are no Italians in 'a Washington. The Italians, they live in 'a New York and Boston and Philadelphia. This Washington, it is 'a no place to make a bus-ee-nuss like this." Veneto switched constantly between his native Italian and broken English. The Italian was always more eloquent. "Washington is a place of extremes. It is a place without communities. The people with the government, they come here and they live here for a while, then they go home. There is 'a no Little Italy. There is 'a no Chinatown. The people they come and they go, they come and they go. The only ones that stay are the colored ones. More and more of them come every day from 'a the south, and look 'a where they live. They are all around us. They are so poor these people." Veneto did not talk about the colored people with disdain, only pity. "These people they 'a barely have food to eat and still it is better than where they came from. This Washington, this is 'a no place for a bus-ee-nuss like ours."

"What kind of bus-ee-nuss are you talking about?" Vito asked.

"I am talking about a bus-ee-nuss where the rich women who come from out of town, the wives of the senators, the wives of the congressmen, the wives of the ambassadors from the foreign countries, a place where those women would come and spend 'a their money."

Tulia spoke up for the first time, her accent even more pronounced than her husband's. "Veneto, we are still in a depression, remember? There is 'a no money. The people, they have 'a no money. We have 'a no money. How would we 'a get the money to 'a start such a bus-ee-nuss? You are such a dreamer."

Veneto respectfully but firmly disagreed. "Ah, but there is money, cara mia. There is always 'a money, but you must find it."

"And where will you find 'a the money, my dear dreamer of a husband?"

"I know a man who knows other men, men who have 'a the money. They also see the need for such a place in 'a Washington where the powerful people will come to buy their furniture, their clothes, their curtains. He knows 'a these people."

"And 'a this man, these 'a people," Tulia said dramatically, "they are going to give you the money?"

"Of course not. We would have to put in some money of our own, and he would have to put in some money also. Everyone has to put in a little."

"And how much do you have?" Vito asked.

Luigino noticed that Uncle Vito's wife, Milenna, didn't say a single word. Luigino and cousin Remigio each eyed the last piece of polenta on the platter. It was enough to distract them from the conversation.

"We have 'a the house," Veneto answered. "We also have 'a the bus-ee-nuss."

Tulia looked up uncomfortably.

"The bus-ee-nuss, it is not worth anything. You do not own the property," said Vito.

"Thank God," said Tulia. "The voice of reason."

"The rich people, the powerful people, they will come from northwest to buy on Rhode Island Avenue? I don't think so, fratello," said Vito.

"No, but their servants will, their gardeners will, their drivers will. We will start with the working people, and soon the rich people they will come as well."

"Why will they come? There are other stores."

"Because we will not have 'a the overhead. We can sell to them for less. It is 'a called discounting."

Luigino thought the plan made sense. No one argued as they put a few morsels of food into their mouths. The clinking of the utensils was the only noise as Luigino continued to eye the last piece of polenta. Finally, his mother followed up with another question.

"And this man you know, he will sell his house also? And the other men, they will sell their houses?" She asked the questions in English.

"They don't have to, cara mia. The other men, they have the money."

"And your friend, he has the money too?" she persisted.

"He has no money," said Veneto. "He has nothing except the knowledge about how to get the goods we need. He has 'a the knowledge."

"And you have your back and your arms and your hard head," Tulia said with a bit of exasperation.

"That's right," Veneto answered, unashamed.

Tulia pressed further and further into her husband's patience. "And who is this man?" she asked.

"His name is Meier Rosenbloom... a Jew."

Suddenly all the clinking from the utensils stopped, and Luigino finally took his eye off the last piece of polenta.

* * * * *

In November, 1939, Rosenbloom & Starr opened its doors on Rhode Island Avenue and 18th Street northeast, on the site of Veneto Starvaggi's grocery store, but it was bigger—much, much bigger. It took over the entire block. The store was eleven thousand square feet, a mammoth place, and it sold everything: work clothes for men and women, suits, hats, shoes, toys, yard goods, ready-made curtains, even furniture. The area had never seen anything like it. One could buy anything and everything for themselves, their children, or their house, in this one location—at a discount—except food. It was the first of two arguments Veneto Starvaggi and Meier Rosenbloom, rag merchant, ever had. Veneto had wanted to sell food.

"No," said Meier Rosenbloom. "There's no money in food. The margins are nonexistent and you are constantly scrambling to move the goods before they spoil. It's not like that in dry goods. If something doesn't sell right away, you move it, you put a new wrap on it, you mess it up a little and people think they're getting a bargain. You always make your profit—if you're smart." Meier Rosenbloom was smart.

He'd been a clothing wholesaler, a rag merchant, making a living of taking odd runs, leftover lots, canceled orders, anything that the New York Seventh Avenue sweat shop owners couldn't sell to the Macy's and Gimbel's of the world. He trucked the stuff down directly from New York, he told his customers, and sold it neighborhood to neighborhood from the back of a truck. He made his rounds among the colored neighborhoods of Washington, D.C. selling his New York fashions, cash only.

Over the years, he'd gotten to know every sweat shop owner between Washington and New York. He became an essential account for many of them. If the department store buyers wanted something taken back, the owners readily complied, knowing Meier would be there to pick up on the unwanted goods. The factory owners even became magnanimous.

"I'll take it back," they said to the department store buyers. "You are a very valuable, customer. I don't do this for everyone, you know." In reality, they did it for anyone they couldn't convince otherwise. But sometimes, even Meier Rosenbloom didn't want to take some of the goods they tried to unload on him. They were just too ugly, even for the poorest customers.

"Take it on consignment," one of the factory owners said to him one day. "Pay me when you sell it. Give me half of whatever you get." Meier Rosenbloom played that trump card for all it was worth. Soon, half his business was on consignment. He took the goods with no money up front, sold them for whatever he could get, and paid half to the owners on his next trip to New York—most of the time. That's when Meier Rosenbloom and Veneto Starvaggi met. Rosenbloom was looking for a location, a permanent one, to feed from the consignment business. He was sure he could funnel enough goods into a shop to be able to maintain an inventory. Rosenbloom walked into Veneto's shop, looking for the owner.

"Why 'a you wanna see 'a the owner?" Veneto asked of the small Jewish man with the round spectacles and the neatly pressed black pinstripe suit.

"I want to rent the empty shop next door," said Rosenbloom. "Are you the owner?"

"No," said Veneto, "but I give you his 'a name. What kinda shop you 'a wanna put up?" he asked of the inquisitive stranger. Meier told him. "Well, 'a the owner not 'a here," said Veneto, ending the conversation. "Maybe I see him tomorrow and I 'a tell him you wanna talk to him, okay? What'sa you name?"

"I'll come back," said Rosenbloom, and indeed he returned the next day. He and Veneto talked some more, then again the day after that. Soon the two of them had expanded the plan to include much more than just clothing, more than one location. The store on Rhode Island Avenue was only the first. Meier had the connections to be able to supply the goods, and Veneto had the willingness and the strength to keep them moving. But still they needed money.

The sweatshop owners jumped at the chance to invest in a place where they could get rid of their mistakes and perhaps even get a return on them to boot. Meier put together a group of five investor partners, three of them silent, with himself and Veneto managing the business. Veneto needed two thousand dollars, and he sold his house three months after Easter dinner in 1939 to get it.

The second argument between Meier Rosenbloom and Veneto Starvaggi happened one month later when they were ready to sign the lease for their new venture. Veneto acquiesced to listing the name Rosenbloom first as part of the name, but he wanted to call the new store Rosenbloom and Starvaggi. Meier Rosenbloom took a great deal of time to explain to Veneto if they were going to achieve their vision of having a store, or stores, where the rich and powerful would shop—in places like Chevy Chase, Friendship Heights, and Georgetown—then the name had to be Jewish. Jewish merchants were like Jewish bankers, Meier said. There was a good bit of instant reputation in being Jewish and being in the retail business.

"Baciami il culo," said Veneto. "Kiss 'a my ass. The Italianos, they are 'a good people. They work 'a hard, an' 'a de smart too."

"Show me one successful department store in this country with an Italian name," said Meier.

Veneto thought for a moment. He didn't know the name of any department store, but he assumed by the question that there weren't any. He did know, however, that there were a lot of Jews in the retail business, as well as the banking business, as well as the lawyer business, as well as the doctor business. Meier had a point.

"What about my name?" Veneto asked pleadingly.

"Well, why don't we make you a Jew?"

"Make me a Jew?"

"We could shorten it to Star... no, Starr—S-T-A-R-R."

"So the name would be 'a Rosenbloom & Starr?"

"Sounds as Jewish as they come to me," said Meier.

Luigino remembered the night his father came home and announced that from now on they were going to have a Jewish last name.

CHAPTER 4... The Building Of An Empire

Gino Starr returned from Korea one week after the armistice was signed that reestablished the boundary between North and South Korea at the 38th parallel. What a waste, he thought. He was twenty-three, and he'd seen enough of war, although it was officially called a conflict. Fifty-four thousand men didn't die in conflicts. He'd seen soldiers crack under the fear of death, while others spat into the faces of their captors just before a bayonet sliced through the sinews in their neck. He managed to live through it somehow. It was pure blind luck, he figured. Some were spared while others weren't. There was no rhyme or reason. He was alive and he felt it was his time.

Veneto Starvaggi, now Veneto Starr, looked at his son as he appeared before him on the floor of Rosenbloom & Starr. Gino hadn't notified his parents of his arrival. He thought he'd surprise them, and it worked. Veneto looked at the soldier the green uniform for almost a minute before he realized it was his son.

"Luigino? Is that you?" Veneto went into tears at the sight. He walked over, looking past the ribbons and stripes, past the name tag that said STARR, past the shine and polish. He looked into his son's eyes and saw that it was a different person than the one who'd left two years earlier. "You've changed," he said simply. Neither man made a move toward the other, each maintaining his own sense of decorum. The tears tracked down Veneto's face.

"It's me, mio padre. I'm back."

During the week following his return, Gino was treated like a king. His mother waited on him hand and foot, and he had use of his father's Ford sedan day and night. He was fitted with new clothes from Rosenbloom & Starr, the finest suits they carried, and it only took four days for Gino to become sick of the whole thing. His friends, the ones that were still around, had their own lives. He needed something to do. He figured his father would ask him to work in the business, and he would have accepted readily, but his father never asked. Gino thought it strange, and after a while he asked his mother about it.

"Your father thinks you have 'a to be 'a responsible for your own decisions," said Tulia. "He will help you in any way possible, but you will have 'a to approach 'a him if you want to work with him. I know nothing would 'a make him happier."

Gino asked him about it that very same evening.

Veneto was guarded in his response. "I can give you work my son, but I am not in control of the entire organization. You will have to start out just like anyone else."

Gino thought he understood. "But there's opportunity, isn't there? As I recall, the plan was always to open up a second store, one where you would sell to the rich people."

"That's 'a still the plan, but we would have to find 'a someone to run this store first, and we would have to 'a raise the money to open 'a the second store."

"What about Uncle Vito? What about the investors?"

"Your Uncle Vito is not the man to take over this 'a operation. He is a good man, but he is 'a happy doing what he's doing. We need 'a someone with higher ambitions. As for the investors, they are 'a small business men. We would have to 'a raise the money from the bus-ee-nuss."

Intrigued, "Can you do that?" Gino asked, the foundation of a business plan already solidifying in his head.

"It's 'a very difficult," said Veneto. The people they think of us still as a couple 'a foreigners, just a couple 'a paisanos. It will be difficult for us to do what 'a we originally intended to do."

"Isn't that why you changed our name?"

"I could 'a changed my name to John Smith, it wouldn't 'a mattered," Veneto said. "I am still an Italian, no matter what 'a my name is."

Gino thought about it. It was true. No matter what his father called himself, he would always be Veneto Starvaggi, just as he himself would always be Luigino Starvaggi. His father was never able to hide his Italian-ness, and Gino was sure he had misgivings about having disavowed his heritage. He could see how it weighed on his father' mind. It was done for a logical reason, but still the name was a lie. Gino remembered how it was.

What the hell kind of a name is Gino for a nice Jewish boy to have?" a soldier named Feldstein had asked him one day.

"It was changed," Gino answered truthfully.

"From what?"

"Luigino. My real name is Luigino Starvaggi."

"You're Italian? Why in the world would you go from being a wop to being a hebe?" Feldstein jabbed good-naturedly.

Gino went on to tell him the whole story, but he discovered that Feldstein had asked a logical question. He'd had run into all kinds of hostility because of the name Starr. It was no better than Starvaggi for avoiding the prejudices inherent in the society. They were woven into the fabric of the people. He'd heard the word kike so many times it hurt as much as it did when the kids had called him a wop or a dago when he was younger. He had to laugh when the subject of the treatment of the Jews in Germany during World War II was brought up. A lot of the people in this country secretly couldn't have cared less about the plight of the Jews, or the Italians, or the Negroes, or anyone else. It was a country of bigots and racists and he saw it everywhere he went. Every minority looked down upon others. It was a melting pot of separatists where all of the men who were created equal were not as equal as you were. Gino saw it, and knew he could conquer it.

"I can change that perception," Gino said to his father. "I can make Rosenbloom & Starr what you dreamed it would be. Talk to Mister Rosenbloom. Give me a chance."

"I don't need to talk 'a to Rosie," his father replied. "I run 'a the store, he buys 'a the merchandise. That's 'a the way it is. If I wanna hire someone, I 'a hire them, and I hire you if you 'a want the job. But you gotta start like everybody else. You gotta know 'a de bus-ee-nuss."

* * * * *

Two years and two months later, Veneto, Meier Rosenbloom, Uncle Vito, and Gino Starr stood in the middle of a two-story building at the corner of 12th and G Streets northwest. It was just a few blocks from the seven-story monster of the company that would turn out to be their main competitor: Woodward & Lothrop. To them, their little two-story space was a palace, more than double the size of the store on Rhode Island Avenue.

"How we gonna fill it up?" Veneto asked. "It's 'a gonna take a million bucks!"

"We'll get it," Gino said confidently, for he knew they would. If it wasn't before the store opened, then it would be after, but it didn't matter. He had it all planned out in his head, but he hadn't shared the plan with anyone else. He would, in due time.

"It's 'a easy for you to say," Veneto said. "It's 'a not you' money."

Gino planned to address that issue as well, all in due time. He'd become the leader of this now not so little organization, and it was his foresight and perseverance that had transformed the store on Rhode Island Avenue into the gold mine that it was. He had his fingers on every aspect of the operation.

The silent investors had long since been bought out and they'd purchased the building on Rhode Island Avenue at his insistence. Now they were landlords as well as retailers, an area that would prove to be as profitable over the years as the business itself. Although Veneto was still the official boss, everyone looked to Gino when there were complex issues at hand, including Veneto himself. Gino had even gotten into the merchandising part of the business, an area that had been off limits to everyone except Meier Rosenbloom since the inception of the store. It wasn't that the others didn't want to get involved, they simply didn't understand that end of the business and they put their complete confidence in Meier's expertise. Gino, however, started to have doubts as to Meier's ability to negotiate on the open market.

The inventory was no longer dominated by overruns and consignment goods with which they'd started the business. That type of inventory could no longer support the organization. They were now negotiating directly with manufacturers on first line goods. It wasn't long after Gino started working at the store that he heard the comments from customers. "This is too much," he heard more than once. "Why, it costs as much here as it does downtown," he heard again. He was too inquisitive to ignore the protests. He went on shopping expeditions, comparing the goods at their store with those at Woodward & Lothrop, and other stores. He found that their prices were no better, and in many cases higher, than the prices of their competitors. That meant that either their profit margins were too high, or they were paying too much for the goods themselves; but he didn't know which.

"How do we find out?" Meier asked when Gino informed him of his many discoveries.

"Give me fifty bucks," Gino replied.

Meier's eyes got real wide behind his round spectacles. "What are you going to do?"

"Just give me the money and I'll have your answer within a week."

The next morning Gino shaved clean as a whistle, put on his best suit and oxford shoes, and marched down to the Woodward & Lothrop store on F Street with the fifty bucks in his pocket. He combed his mane of dark brown hair and walked right into the buying office like he belonged there. He sat in the reception area as if he were waiting for an appointment.

"May I help you?" the pretty young receptionist behind the desk asked.

"I'm waiting for my partner," said Gino, tapping his watch. "He must be running late. Is it okay if I wait here? We have an appointment."

"Help yourself," said the pretty young thing.

Gino looked around for his victim. It was a busy office with people coming and going constantly. They dropped packages and papers on the receptionist's desk while she expertly answered the phone, jotted down messages, and ran from office to office, juggling fifty different things at the same time. She glanced at him suspiciously a time or two, and he just smiled and nodded, looking at his watch and pretending to be impatient. In reality, he could have watched her be efficient all day. He couldn't help but notice her shapely body as she trotted back and forth down the hall. Her fuzzy white sweater did a good job covering things up, but his eye didn't miss a thing. There was no ring on her left hand.

Finally she asked, "Who is your appointment with, Mister...?"

For Gino, that was the signal that his time was up.

Standing, he said, "I don't know where my partner could be. I'm sure he told me 11:45. Or was it 12:45? Gee, now I don't remember. Maybe I'd better come back after lunch. I'll be in big trouble if I mess this up," he added sheepishly. "I'm supposed to be in training." He could see that the training comment aroused some sense of sympathy as her face softened with just the slightest trace of a smile. "Would you like to have lunch?" he asked boldly.

The question was unexpected and she searched for an answer. "Well, uh, I'm not sure. Actually, I, uh, brought my lunch, and, I, uh...."

"I'm on expenses," Gino said. "I get five bucks a day for meals. C'mon, we'll get something good. Save that bag lunch for tomorrow." His dark eyes did all the work.

"What the heck," she said, blushing. "I've never been out for lunch."

Gino had hooked his fish. During lunch he found out that her name was Anne Mary O'Brien and that she lived with her mother across the river Alexandria. Her father was dead and she supported herself and her mother on her meager earnings as the secretarial assistant for the buying office. Perfect, he thought. She was exactly the person he wanted, in more ways than one. He became captivated with her in no time, watching her delicate fingers cover her mouth and twirl an auburn curl when she laughed. He looked at her full, curvy legs when she walked back from the ladies' room, and wondered if he could get his hands completely around her tiny little waist—as well as other parts of her body.

"You have an important job," he said, trying to sound impressed.

"I'm just a go-fer," she answered matter of factly, "but it pays the rent."

Perfect, thought Gino. He barreled forward. "How would you like to make a week's pay in an hour?" he asked with a sly little grin on his face.

"Listen pal. I don't know what kind of girl you think I am, but I don't do things like that." She slapped the napkin down on the table and prepared to bolt from the restaurant.

"Wait! That's not what I mean. What I mean is, well, what I want is for you to...." He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket which listed the thirty or so items that both Woodward & Lothrop and his own store carried. He confessed the whole scheme over lunch, watching her unmoving eyes the whole time. He was hypnotized by her gaze, and she was intoxicated by his power and ballsy air of confidence. "All I want is for you to tell me what Woodward & Lothrop pays wholesale for these items. If you can give me that information, I'll give you fifty bucks."

"If they find out, they'll fire me," she said with not a lot of concern.

"If they do, I'll hire you, at fifty percent more than you're making now." She took the list and no one ever found out. Gino hired her anyway.

* * * * *

Gino put the interoffice envelope down in front of Annie. It had a big red bow around it and she knew immediately that he was playing one of his little games. They'd been married for more than four years now, and she could tell when he was in an impish mood. Without asking questions, she untied the bow and opened the envelope. Inside was a long piece of black fabric that looked like it came from the floor of the alterations room at the store. Her curiosity got the best of her.

"Okay, I give up. What is it?"

Smiling like the cat that ate the canary, Gino said, "It's a blindfold. Put it on—and don't peek."

Annie played along, and Gino took her by the arms and spun her around like they were playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey. He led her around in circles, trying to confuse her. Finally, they stopped. Annie knew exactly where they were, but didn't let on. It wasn't often than Gino got playful. He undid the blindfold and there sat a brand-new 1959 Chevrolet sedan, two tone, powder blue and white, with wide white wall tires and tear drop taillights. It had a shiny chrome grill that one couldn't tell if it was an imitation of a smile or not, like the Mona Lisa.

Bursting with anticipation, Gino asked, "Do you like it?"

"Oh Gino, I love it. But we don't need a new car. The one we have is only three years old."

"Sweetheart," Gino said, "this isn't our car. It's your car." He took her hand and dropped the keys into her palm.

"But Gino—"

"No but Ginos today," he said. "You deserve it. It should really be a Cadillac, but that'll be next time. Okay?"

"Oh Gino, I love you so much," said Annie Mary O'Brien Starr as she hugged her husband with all her might. He was so good to her she felt like she didn't deserve it. But that wasn't the way Gino looked at it. It had been her idea to buy out Meier Rosenbloom in 1956 and become an equal partner with his father. Before that, it was had been her idea to no longer pay for shipments COD.

"Do it like the big stores do," she'd said. "Net thirty."

Soon after, Gino required that every vendor be set up for payment in thirty days if they wanted to do business with Rosenbloom & Starr. That way the company could maintain its cash flow and pick up two points in margin. It gave the company an extra $200,000 dollars in gross profit the first year the payables strategy went into effect.

Other things changed. Originally, his father and Meier wanted to set up a store downtown to sell to the rich and powerful Capitol Hill clientele, but Gino determined that the niche was already dominated by Woodward & Lothrop. Rosenbloom & Starr had developed a reputation of being a store that sold basic but good quality merchandise at low prices. They didn't have the frills and ambience of a high-class department store, and Gino felt it would have been a mistake to open a high-class store with the same name. Besides, there was much more money in the middle of the market than there was at the top. All he had to do was get people in the door. Gino had an alternative long-term strategy.

He believed strongly in the power of advertising, feeling that if people knew about their organization, sooner or later they'd come in, and if the merchandise was priced right, they'd be back. Early on Gino hired an old neighborhood friend named Tony Lopresti to do their advertising. It was Tony that had coined the slogan "Good Stuff, Great Price" for Rosenbloom & Starr. It wasn't polished and snooty, but it was effective. Everything the company put into the advertising marketplace—which was a lot—carried the slogan, and soon the store was positioned exactly as Gino intended it to be. If people wanted Valentino and Yves Saint Laurent, they could go around the corner. If they wanted Levis and Keds, there was no other choice except Rosenbloom & Starr. It worked like a charm. Rosenbloom & Starr became a powerhouse in the market, opening up eight stores in seven years and doing over seventy million dollars in volume.

During that time Gino determined that the company should upgrade its image on the inside without altering the perception it created via its advertising. People continued to come in droves for everyday basic goods and soon became impressed with what a nice store Rosenbloom & Starr was becoming. Soon, people started comparing them to Woodward & Lothrop, and gradually Rosenbloom & Starr began to take market share from them.

Gino had the touch. He was only thirty-one years old in 1959, almost a tycoon, but worked as if he had decades of experience to draw from. He'd grown to be a cautious, conservative man in many respects, but a reckless daredevil at other times, especially when it came to business. Although he and Annie maintained a less than ostentatious life style, he'd drop a $100,000 dollars at the drop of a hat to buy land so he could put up a store. He and Annie lived is modest three-bedroom house in North Arlington, and Gino drove a dull gray Ford. His father had told him that a man of his stature should drive something much more glamorous, but glamour was for Annie and Gino was happy he'd splurged to buy her the new car. It was her type of car: snazzy. She needed a car of her own so she could go out and visit Veneto and Tulia now that the baby was born.

Veneto loved his grandson immensely and played with him endlessly whenever Annie and little Nicholas came to visit in Annie's powder blue and white, two-tone 1959 Chevy with the smiling grill and the teardrop taillights. "Annie's here," Veneto and Tulia would yell out whenever they saw the car pull in to their driveway in Vienna.

It was in that car that Annie and young Nicholas died in the head on crash on Leesburg Pike in 1960. It was an accident, and Gino never got over it. He internalized it as if for some reason it was his fault. A widower at thirty-two, Gino would never marry again. Rosenbloom & Starr was his baby.

CHAPTER 5... Full Speed Ahead

Crash knew they were coming and this time he was ready. Sharon had called him from the Tysons Corner store and told him that Leona was on a rampage. Sure enough, right on time, they came off the elevator. He decided he'd better look busy, going over to help Raoul who was dismantling one of the mannequins. Crash wagged his head in the direction of the oncoming buying office caravan. Leona and Mercedes walked into ready-to-wear while the other buyers split off to their own departments. Ramona tagged along behind, weighed down with reports and attaché cases like a pack mule.

"Whatever you do sweet cakes, don't get me involved with those bitches," Raoul said in his effeminate gay lisp. "I've got enough problems just trying to make this shit look good." He shoved a support rod up a mannequin's butt.

Leona's hard-edged call came from across the floor like fingernails grinding on a chalkboard. "Mister Crandall, may I see you please."

Crash felt shivers run up his spine. Putting on his sincerest smile, he walked over to the threesome, preparing inwardly to field the barbs and insults that would surely come his way. He was right. It didn't take long. There wasn't even the usual perfunctory greeting.

"Didn't you get the merchandising memo that we wanted the long sleeved Evan Picone knits at the front of the department off the aisle?"

Leona looked kinda rough, thought Crash. Men thought this witch was sexy? Maybe it was the way she dressed. He looked away. The short skirts and low-necked blouses she wore were trashy rather than tantalizing. At the moment, she looked like a cinderblock with false eyelashes and red hair. "I'm sorry Ms. Ribling. We had them up there until yesterday, but the sizes were shot. We didn't have enough to even make a decent t-stand so I sized them in with the rest of the two-piece knits and broke out some of the tailored suits."

"But the tailored suits aren't selling, Mister Crandall, and the Picone knits are. That's why we wanted them up front." She was talking so downhill to him that sarcasm would have been a step up.

"I know they're selling," said Crash, adding smartly, "That's why they're gone."

Accusingly, "And who did you tell that your stock was low?" Leona asked.

The words dripped from Crash's mouth like maple syrup, disgustingly sweet. "I'm sorry that you're angry Ms. Ribling, but I discussed the reorder situation with you and Ramona the last time you were here. I've been diligent about submitting my ticket stubs from the registers every day, just like you told me. Don't you get those readouts the next day so you can react to them immediately?" Leona was completely disarmed. Crash was proud. He'd managed to fend off the attack without using the words blame or fault.

Mercedes turned away and giggled at the razor sharp jab, but she needed to find out what was going on with these ready-to-wear departments. She'd been observing Leona's high-handed attacks on the department managers all day, but she was more distressed with herself more than anyone else because she'd paid so little attention to Leona's area. As General Merchandise Manager, she'd been visiting stores all week with her buyers, and all of the departments looked like they were ready for the fall holiday season, except Leona's. Ready-to-wear, misses sportswear, juniors, lingerie, all of the departments looked terrible—thin and picked over, more like bargain basements than classy department store displays. It was impossible for the poor managers to make them look good. Mercedes was at a loss as to why the goods weren't flowing properly, remembering all the talk when Gino brought her in as GMM about how experienced Leona was, about how she, Mercedes, could learn so much from her. It was only when the on-order dollars dipped to alarmingly low levels on the open-to-buy report that Mercedes decided she'd better take a look. Now, here they were, entering the most important season of the year, and the highest volume and highest gross margin department in the company didn't look like it was anywhere near ready for business. They had to be walking business out the door to the competition. Hoping they could still pull it out, Mercedes decided to get to the bottom of things.

"Darling, would you excuse us please," she said to Leona in her most condescending tone, offering no further explanation. "We'll get together again later when I get back up to the seventh floor." Crash looked over at Ramona who was as astonished as he was at Leona's dismissal.

Leona's eyes flashed angrily. "I'll be in my office if you three need me." She wheeled, the tails to her suede shirt jac waving wildly in the wake of her pounding heels.

"I could use a cup of coffee," said Mercedes, changing her tone completely. "How about you guys?"

"Sure," said Crash, offering to carry some of Ramona's cargo as they started walking to the snack bar on the basement level. Walking behind her as she walked with Mercedes, he couldn't help but note the movement of her body inside her polyester pantsuit. He also couldn't help but think she dressed like an old schoolmarm when compared to Mercedes. A buyer should look classier than that, he thought, especially one with a body like hers. He offered to get the coffee, but Mercedes insisted on doing so, saying it was her invitation. Taking a seat while Mercedes went up to the counter, he tried to stop thinking about Ramona's ass for a minute and asked, "What do you think Mercedes wants to talk about?"

"Beats me," Ramona replied. "But Leona is gonna be pissed as hell. I can't wait to go back upstairs."

Crash watched as Ramona pulled off her jacket, catching a brief glimpse of the outline of her breasts before her loose blouse covered them effectively once more. He was a sick bastard, he thought, scolding himself, but he couldn't help it. There was something about Ramona.

Mercedes came back with the coffee and sat down confidently, the creases in her gabardine suit bending reluctantly. "So, how long have you two known that we've been short on merchandise?"

Looking at Ramona's awestruck expression, Crash thought, Oh-oh. He knew immediately that she was caught between a rock and a hard place. He decided to speak first, seeing as Ramona looked like she was about to choke. "Ramona and I had a discussion about it over a month ago. She said she's been filling out the reorder POs and putting them on Leona's desk regularly," he said, trying not to sound accusatory about anything.

Ramona didn't say a word.

"And what has she been doing with them?" Silence. "I guess I'll just have to ask Leona directly," Mercedes said when the situation became awkward. "So, Crash, tell me why they call you that," she asked, mercifully changing the subject.

Five hours later, Crash was sitting in the back row inside This Is It on 14th Street, watching a black dancer shake her booty and thinking how stupid his story had sounded. Explaining how he'd personally totaled three company vehicles wasn't his choice as the ideal conversation with the general merchandise manager of Rosenbloom & Starr. He was glad he hadn't mentioned anything about his desire to eventually get into the buying office. After that story, he was sure that now it would be very eventually. He ordered another beer, watching as a white chick came up on stage, making a mental note to try to have another, more professional conversation with Mercedes Flores. He couldn't help but remember how Ramona's body moved inside that pantsuit, then tried to imagine how she'd look up on the stage before scolding himself again. Get over it, he thought. You're becoming obsessed with her. But the scolding didn't last long as he concluded Ramona would look pretty good up there, although from the way that package was wrapped it was difficult to tell what was inside.

* * * * *

Standing at the foot of the bed inside room 323 of the Mayflower Hotel, holding a glass of Dewar's scotch, Morty Levine waited impatiently for her to finish her story, thinking the information was worthless to him. All she talked about were the bitchy little eruptions inside the buying office.

"Listen, I don't really care about all that petty shit," he said plainly. "All I want is for you to find out the end of month overall gross margin for the company. I don't care about the individual departments or the individual stores. Just the one line item, the inside number, raw, before anyone in accounting gets a chance to play with it. Got it?" There was no doubt that Rosenbloom & Starr was profitable—very profitable was more likely—despite the losses that had been showing up on the financial statements. Those losses were manufactured, contrived intentionally to drive the stock price into the ground. He just had to find a way to prove it. The diving stock price not only devalued his own holdings, but provided a juicy opportunity for someone else to come in and mount a rival takeover attempt by buying up all the undervalued stock. That could set up a bidding war, and that was the last thing he wanted. That Gino Starr was gutsy, all right. The prick.

"I think I can do that," said Leona, undoing another button on her blouse. "Do you think you can do something for me?" She pressed up against him and rubbed his zipper.

"I'm not much in the mood," Morty said callously as he sipped on the scotch.

"Maybe I can do something about that," she said as she unzipped his trousers and got on her knees.

Morty just stood there, watching as she pulled it through the opening and took it into her mouth.

"Feeling better?" she asked when it was three-quarters hard. Her lipstick was smeared and covered with spit.

"Just get it over with," Morty said crudely. The bitch certainly knew what to do with her tongue, he admitted, thinking she'd probably had plenty of practice. He felt himself getting harder and he began thrusting violently, sloshing and sliding his thing into the back of her throat. He felt his orgasm gathering and he stiffened even more before finally exploding into her mouth.

Taking it all before she pulled away, Leona casually took Morty's drink and washed everything down with the scotch. "I betcha Myra can't do that," she said, her chin glistening.

Morty took a napkin from the room service cart and wiped himself off. She was right. Myra certainly couldn't do that, and wouldn't in a million years. He was lucky if Myra even saw his cock these days, let alone suck it. "That was good," he said, displaying about the same amount of emotion as he did when picking out a tie. He threw the napkin back onto a dinner plate.

Leona got up and walked to the bathroom. Coming back, she toweled off and asked, "When are you going to take care of Mercedes? You promised a month ago you'd find a way to get her out of there."

"I will when the time is right. You just get me that information and I'll take care of it." He'd forgotten about that little promise, but he didn't have time to screw around with these petty issues. He had other, much more important things to take care of. After all, he was Chairman of Associated Department Stores of America, and he was a very important man.

* * * * *

Sitting, examining the columns of figures and checking rates of sale, Ramona couldn't help but be thankful that Crash had bailed her out of that sticky situation with Mercedes two days earlier. Leona would have fired her in a New York minute if there had been any repercussions from anything she'd said to Mercedes. Crash could have easily laid the whole mess at her feet, Ramona reflected, and logically so. She was the one responsible for reorders. Clearly, that was the point of the problem. Still, the bewilderment of exactly what the hell Leona was doing gnawed at Ramona overpoweringly. Not only was it making her look bad, but the company was suffering because of it. Then it hit her. Maybe the problem was in data entry, just as Crash had suggested in his own inelegant manner a month earlier. Walking purposefully down two floors to the stock records office, she decided to get to the bottom of it. She found Marion, the huge black woman with the nimble fingers who always did favors for her, and asked her where the still-to-be-entered purchase orders for her department were located.

"We ain't got none, child," Marion answered, adding, "We is all up to date." Her eyes gleamed with pride at her department's efficiency.

"That's not possible. I just went through the last exception report and there must be dozens of POs that aren't entered yet. Are you sure?"

"Not unless you brought 'em down today. Help yourself girl." Marion shook her massive head and pointed to the incoming basket where all new purchase orders from the buying offices were bundled and stacked awaiting entry into the computer.

Ramona pawed through the bundles. Men's, domestics, cosmetics, furniture, luggage, lots from jewelry, infants, electronics—lots of purchase orders, but none from ready-to-wear. Frustrated, she walked quickly from the stock records office, her body quivering from the furious gait of her walk. Frustration smoldered under her skin like the beginnings of a brush fire. She was tempted to storm into Leona's office and just confront her, but thought better of it. Still, as she walked by, she looked in and noticed it was empty. Looking up, then down the hall, she tiptoed into the office, baby stepping her way around behind the large fruitwood desk. She opened the bottom right file drawer, seeing only files of whatever. They were too thin to be the stacks of purchase orders she was looking for. Then, she opened the left file drawer and got the same result. She looked around, scanning past the ceramic statues, across the framed Rolling Stone covers, noticing the double center doors on the credenza located under the double windows. Tiptoeing to the credenza, she yanked open the double doors, spying the stacks of purchase orders inside, all of them filled out in her own handwriting.

Leona's shrill voice pierced the silence like a siren. "What the hell are you doing in there?" she bellowed.

* * * * *

Gino Starr sat at the bar inside the Round Robin at the Willard on Pennsylvania Avenue, sipping on his third Crown Royal and soda. He didn't bother to look at his watch even though he knew Tony was late. Tony was always late, always had been, ever since they were kids, but he always showed up eventually. That was the nature of these creative types, Gino thought, unflustered with the half-hour wait. When Tony Lopresti sauntered into the bar, Gino just pointed to his drink and said to the bartender, "And a Jim Beam on the rocks. Make it a double." He wanted to make sure Tony was in a good mood.

"Sorry I'm late," said Tony, not volunteering further explanation.

"No problem," Gino responded, not even looking at him. "Everything all set?"

"Yeah, but I don't feel good about it. Double billing is just not something that's good for an advertising agency."

"Listen, don't worry about it, okay? I need a place to hide some expenses. And besides, the money isn't going into your pocket anyway. You got the separate account set up for the duplicate billing?"

"Yeah. When you gonna make the move on what's-his-name?"

"Don't worry about that. Skip will be gone soon, this week probably. You ready?"

"Yeah, the staff is all set and we're ready to take over. I still don't like the double billing."

"Chill out. We'll discover the problem when all this blows over and you can reimburse us with the money from the separate account. Just a computer glitch, that's all. It'll all look completely above board. What about the overseas plan? Everything a go there?"

"As far as I know everything is full speed ahead."

CHAPTER 6... Double-Edged Sword

Truthful was a tough name to grow up with on the streets of Washington, D.C., but perhaps his mother knew she wasn't going to be around and that he'd have to grow up tough. He was just shy of seventeen when his mother died during the '68 riots. She barely had enough time to drop his six-year-old brother out the window before the floor beneath her collapsed, sending her to her death in the inferno that was the TV repair shop below. He grew up tough with that name, all right. After a while, not even the toughest of the 14th Street toughs dared tease him about it. He was an angry young man in those days. The anger of his mother's death, the anger of not having a father, the anger of being looked down upon because he was black, all of it percolated and boiled over into street fights and brawls, usually because some dumb-ass who didn't know any better teased him about his name.

Truthful and younger brother Justice were taken in by another family, the intent being that it would be temporary until either a foster home or an orphanage could be found for them. Neither situation developed, mainly because Truthful got into a hobby that paid handsomely: stealing cars. No one asked where the cash came from, and as long as he continued to bring it in, he and Justice had a home. At first he thought it was cool.

There was power in the money. But soon the nightmares haunted him—nightmares of his dead mother looking down on him from heaven, the rain of her salty tears falling on him from the sky. "Be truthful to yourself," his mother said in the dreams. "Be Truthful." He stopped stealing cars and dropped out of high school to work on the delivery trucks at Rosenbloom & Starr, delivering furniture in order to support himself and his brother. No one would have dreamed that he was only seventeen, his curly beard and muscular body belying his young age. It was on those trucks that he met Tom "Crash" Crandall in 1971, the skinny blonde white kid who became his best friend in the whole world.

Truthful remembered those days. "Hangin' with the bros," Crash used to call it. They drank cans of Colt 45 by the dozen at night, and wrestled furniture and sweated like pigs during the day. It was fun though, rocking at night to the Doobie Brothers and Marvin Gaye interchangeably, going to bed at two and being at work by seven, still half drunk.

"How is a pretty boy like you able to lift them china cabinets," Truthful asked one day, barely able to hoist the huge, glass laden cabinets from the end of the five-foot-high tailgates on the trucks.

"I got wire in my balls," Crash answered, his sinewy arms clamping onto the huge cabinets, his pencil thin legs straining under the weight.

They made a good team, each reinforcing the other, never letting themselves feel they were destined to be delivery men for the rest of their lives. There was more, they told each other, just ride it out, and at twenty-two it seemed like good advice for both of them. When the opportunities came up, each of them branched off. Truthful went into security, first becoming a guard at the anchor store, and later head of security at several of the branches. Crash stayed at the 12th Street store, eventually working his way out of the stockroom to manage the clearance department in the basement, and finally working his way up to manager of the ready-to-wear department on the main floor. It was the stepping-stone for any manager who had aspirations of getting into the buying office. Like, who knew the kid had fashion sense? Truthful and Crash still drank Colt 45 together after work.

Truthful sat in his office, something he rarely did, in the back of a converted stockroom on the fifth floor. He liked it there, away from the politics and maneuvering of the seventh floor where the rest of the executive offices were located. He was the only black executive above store level, and also one of the youngest, having become head of security for all thirty-one stores, with four security district supervisors reporting to him, having achieved all that at the tender age of twenty-eight. He got there not because of his arrest record, which was extraordinary in itself, but because he recognized early on that he was arresting many of the same people over and over again. He understood that by stopping this select, identifiable group, he could cut down on theft substantially. So, he became as much of a social worker as he was a security cop. He didn't know if it was his little sessions with the shoplifters that stopped them, or if it was because they went somewhere else so they wouldn't have to sit through one of his sermons if they got caught. Whatever it was, it worked, and the shrinkage was cut in half in any store where Truthful was stationed.

That's why the figures in front of him were so distressing. He looked at the results that had finally come in from the midyear inventory taken on August 31st, over sixty days earlier.

The shrinkage figure for the chain was over twenty million dollars. That was almost five percent of sales! That was impossible, he thought. No, he knew that was impossible. There was no way that $20 million-worth of merchandise could walk out of his stores in seven months; absolutely no way, no how, period, end of story. It had to be in paperwork: mishandled invoices, bad accounting, or maybe it was a bad count. But in all the stores? No, that wasn't possible either. Even a blind man wouldn't have been off by that much on the physical count. Still, the figure was on the paper, and he was the one responsible for controlling shrinkage in the stores. MacHune was going to kick his ass for sure. Twenty million bucks? No fucking way.

* * * * *

"This is insane," Hatcherson protested for the third time in ten minutes. "It's out and out fraud Gino! Both of us could go to jail over this, and I've got a family to worry about."

He should have known that Sherm didn't have the guts to go through with the plan. He could see it in his eyes. He knew he was asking a lot, but Sherm had been with him since '54 and Rosenbloom & Starr was almost as much a part of Sherm's life as it was his. Surely, Gino assumed, Sherm felt just as strongly about stopping Morty Levine as he did. He didn't entirely understand Sherm's reluctance at continuing with the plan, and he tried to console his bespectacled CFO. "If we go to jail, I'll make sure your family is provided for."

"It's not that easy," Hatcherson responded. "First of all, I don't want to go to jail, at any cost. It's not worth it to me, Gino. And second, you're not in complete control of this company anymore. Remember? We have stockholders now. We have a board of directors. If we get caught, what do you think will happen? You'll be removed as CEO faster than you could blink. You won't have the authority to provide for the family, Gino. You won't be able to provide for yourself!"

"I'll put the money away beforehand, just in case," Gino asserted, trying to placate Hatcherson who kept cleaning his glasses nervously.

"That's embezzlement," Hatcherson shouted. "C'mon Gino, this is nuts!"

Still Gino pushed, full speed ahead, damn the torpedoes. There was no turning back as far as he was concerned. "Sherm, listen. If we don't get the price of our stock to drop we won't be able to convince the institutional investors to sell off. They'll just hold on to it and we'll never be able to buy back enough to take a majority position. I can't get that much money."

"That's a double edged sword Gino. If we push the price of the stock down by showing a string of bad financial statements, what makes you think Levine won't come in and tender an offer of his own? He'd probably figure he could correct any existing operational problems by simply dumping existing personnel. Wouldn't you? The company isn't overleveraged Gino. Anyone looking at it from the outside would assume that any losses are short term and correctable. Don't you see? If we go forward with this plan, we'd be undervaluing the stock. We'd be giving Levine the opportunity for his hostile takeover. We'd be responsible for our own demise. I can only carry this double booking so far before someone out there starts sniffing around."

Hatcherson's logic was wasted on Gino, who let it pass over him. Hatcherson continued, "MacHune and Mercedes have been asking questions about the inventory levels for a couple of months now. I can only say 'I'll look into it' so many times. They're not stupid, you know. As we speak, they're probably screaming bloody murder at the shrink figure from the midyear inventory. Have you seen it?"

"No."

"$20.8 million. They're not gonna buy it. They'll know it's due to phantom inventory on the books."

"I can take care of that."

"How?" Hatcherson asked challengingly.

"I'll just take care of it," Gino fired back. The five-minute meeting was over.

Hatcherson walked to the door but spun around before opening it. "There's also the issue of your security as CEO if we continue to show such disastrous results. You could get yourself canned."

"Don't worry about me, Sherm. I'm a big boy. I'll take responsibility for my own actions." Gino waited for Hatcherson to leave before pushing a button on the intercom. "Leila, would you please get Skip in here right away... I don't care what he's doing."

Five minutes later Skip Antonucci, director of marketing and advertising, made his way into Gino's office. Gino didn't wait.

"Are you screwing Mindi?"

Skip was taken aback, to say the least. He didn't quite know how to answer, not that it mattered. "We've gone out a few times," he said sheepishly, fiddling with the gold chains around his neck.

"That's against company policy," Gino spat coldheartedly. "You're fired." Stupefied, Skip opened his mouth to defend himself, but Gino held up his hand. "Would six months' severance pay and a job over at Landsburg's for ten thousand more a year soften the blow?" He tossed an envelope towards Skip.

"Just as well," Skip said flippantly as he took the envelope. "It was only a matter of time."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Where have you been?" Skip shot back. "Word out is that the company is going under."

* * * * *

Crash didn't quite know how to react to the news. He wasn't happy that she got fired, but he understood it in a way. Maybe her story about how she'd been filling out those POs was a bunch of bull. Surely if she'd been doing her job properly she wouldn't have gotten the axe. Still, he was going to miss looking at her every day, despite her efforts at trying to tone down her looks and make herself look professional. He wondered: was she really doing that on purpose? He actually liked it when she tied her hair back and put on those big glasses. He knew that beneath that cool exterior was a steamy seductiveness that seeped out no matter how she tried to hide it, and trying not to look sexy must have been frustrating for her. That was probably why she was so moody all the time. That, and working for a demanding wench like Leona. What Ramona needed was a good hot beef injection from Doctor Crandall, he thought as he stood in front of the men's room mirror, making sure his tie was straight and everything was in the right place. But it was all water under the bridge now, and he'd never get the chance to administer his medicine.

It was probably too soon to go up to personnel and check into the obvious opening in the buying office, he figured. Maybe it would be better to inquire through Mercedes, who seemed to like him. As long as he didn't have to talk to that bitch Leona.

* * * * *

Surprised that he'd agreed to see her so readily, Ramona looked around the office while she waited for Mister Starr to return from down the hall. Leila said he was expecting her and to go right in. The office wasn't at all what she expected, even though she didn't know what to expect. It wasn't overly large, about the same size as Leona's, but it did have a window which looked out over, well, nothing, just the street. She wondered about the young woman in the picture on Mister Starr's desk who was standing with a baby next to an old car. She was too young to be his wife, Ramona judged, probably his daughter and his grandchild maybe. For some reason she thought Mister Starr's office would contain a lot of antiques and oil paintings, but it didn't. The furniture was worn, especially the desk which was really beat up, and there were a lot of old pictures of him standing in front of various stores with some baggy-looking folks, all of them smiling except for the guy wearing the yarmulke and the round granny glasses who didn't smile in any of the pictures. She noticed the framed one-dollar bill hanging on the wall behind his chair. She read the date: November 8, 1939. She guessed the chair was at least that old. She heard Mister Starr's voice in the outer office.

"Ramona, it's so nice to see you again," he said upon entering the office.

Ramona held out her hand. "Hello, Mister Starr. Thank you for seeing me."

"My, but you've grown up." He looked her up and down, and she was nothing like the young woman he'd hired on the spot, right off the floor of the K-Mart in Woodbridge. He had a habit of doing that whenever he ran into someone who was pleasant and seemed to have the servant's heart, as he called it. They were the type of people he wanted in his organization, and he'd hired dozens of them like that over the years, usually by simply offering them a buck an hour more than what they were making. The investment was worth it. "What can I do for you?" he asked, his demeanor that of a perfect gentleman.

"I don't know if you're aware of it, but I was fired yesterday. Before I left, I wanted to let you know what was going on in this organization." The tears welled up in her eyes. "I felt I owed it to you. I just hope you don't think it sounds like sour grapes."

"Oh my," said Gino. "I've never heard anything but the highest praise for you. What happened?" Emotionally, she told him the story, throughout which he nodded in affirmation. "Do you think there's any chance of my getting my job back?"

"As much as I'd like to help, I don't think it would be right for me to tell one of my executives how to run her department. She needs to be responsible for her own decisions—just like you need to be—but I might be able to help if you agreed to work in another part of the company."

"Where?" she asked. "I've worked hard to become an associate buyer. I shouldn't have to give it up because of that...." She hesitated. "...woman."

"Well," Gino began in his most fatherly tone, "I think it might be good for you to swallow some of that pride of yours and go to work on a sales floor someplace—at least through the holidays. Perhaps after the Christmas rush everything will have blown over and we can find a way to get you back into the buying office, even if it's in another department. You can pick any store you want if that makes it any easier."

Ramona thought for a minute, considering her words carefully. She didn't want to seem ungrateful. "Which store would give me the best opportunity to get back into the buying office?"

"That's the same as it's always been," Gino answered. "This one."

"That means that I'd be working for Crash."

"If you mean Tom Crandall, you're right. You might even learn something from him." Ramona rolled her eyes. Seeing this, Gino said, "I think he's the best ready-to-wear manager we've got. He's got a great sense of style, his department is always merchandised properly, and he's great with customers. The women love him, and you know why? He makes them feel important, is why. He truly loves the ladies, and he can be honest with them. Not everyone can do that without sounding unkind. You know, a lot of people think that buying and merchandising are what make an organization like this tick, but that's not all of it. The people on the floor are just as important. They're the ones that deal with customers. Crandall is as good at that as anyone we've ever had." Pausing, Gino added curiously, "You know, I've always wondered how he pulls it off. Is he gay?"

Ramona laughed. "I don't know. Why?" she asked. The question was uncharacteristic, from left field.

"I don't know, just curious. Not that it matters, mind you, but for some reason I can't tell with him. Just being nosey, I guess. Well, anyway, what do you say?"

Ramona swallowed hard and took a moment. She finally sighed and said, "Okay."

Gino gave her a tissue and took her hand. "Good. Why don't you take a couple of days off and think about it—just to be sure. In the meantime, I'll arrange it with Mister Crandall."

Ramona nodded and dried her eyes, wondering momentarily why Mister Starr wanted to know if Crash was gay. Mister Starr wasn't gay, was he?

As soon as she left, Gino dialed the office of Mercedes Flores. As soon as she picked up he said, "I've just heard the most distressing news about Leona Ribling."

"I think I know what you're going to say, Gino, and I'm already working on it."

CHAPTER 7... Lawn Man

The contrasts of shiny black leather and white lacquer were put together by one of New York's top interior designers, who usually did a masterful job of reflecting the personalities of his clients. Accented in glass and chrome, the interior came off surreal, projecting a cold and rigid quality. It was a defined and disjointed world inside that office, where textures ended and others began as if there were barriers between them. Fluorescent lights burned from the ceiling despite the powerful rays pouring through the glass walls, and every grain of dust, every hair, every speck of lint was magnified into significance and subjected to scrutiny. The intended ambiance was of walking among the clouds seventy stories above Third Avenue. Instead, the overpowering impression one got when walking near the windows was of impending doom.

Morty Levine sat stiffly in his astoundingly expensive executive chair, examining a bootlegged copy of Rosenbloom & Starr's midyear financial statement. Hubert Boraski, CFO of Associated Department Stores, sat opposite him on the equally uncomfortable but trendy leather sofa, his silver pen glinting in the powerful rays that surged through the glass walls.

"Looks to me like someone is padding expenses," Boraski said. "No one could be so stupid as to not notice. The numbers are astronomical, and the shrinkage figure from the midyear inventory is almost five percent of sales. That's four, maybe five times what it should be. There's no way that much merchandise could be stolen in half a year, even from thirty-one stores. That would be like two or three entire stores-worth of goods walking out the front door. It's just not possible. And look at these inventory levels. They're unbelievable as well. I don't understand how they could be that high without affecting cash flow."

"That would be easy," Levine countered. "Their payment terms to vendors are probably net thirty, maybe even net sixty with some vendors. All they would have to do is not cut the checks."

"That's true, but their credit rating is still good as gold. They have to be paying their bills on time in order for that to be the case. None of this makes sense. In order for the shrinkage level to be that high, it would have to mean they forgot to count three stores-worth of merchandise. And correcting that situation would send the inventory levels even higher."

"Or maybe it's like they forgot to count three stores-worth of merchandise that's not there," Levine speculated. "As in phantom inventory."

That sparked another suspicious thought for Boraski. "You think they're double booking invoices? That's would explain the high inventory levels on the books and the high shrinkage."

Levine picked at a red spot on his scalp, making it more pronounced in the incredible brightness. "How do we prove it?"

"Someone would have to go into their computer and see if the same invoice numbers have been entered twice."

Gouging the spot, "Would the SEC boys know to do that?" Levine asked.

Unable to watch Levine digging into his scalp, Boraski looked away and said, "I don't know. It would be tough to track, especially if the duplicate invoices were entered in different batches. That would mean the same invoice numbers could appear on different receiving registers."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that the auditors would have to go into the paper trail, pull the actual bundled accounts payables by batch, and physically look through all that crap and try to find the duplicate invoices—which may not exist in the first place. Then they'd have to go back and show where they were entered but never paid, meaning someone created an artificial inventory. It could take months with the amount of paper involved in an organization of that size. It would be pretty hard to trace."

"And if they don't find it?"

"Then they'll show more losses, huge losses by year's end."

"How much?"

"A lot, in the tens of millions." Boraski cringed when Morty grabbed the computer printout and a drop of blood soaked into the absorbent paper. Disgusting, he thought.

* * * * *

Myra Levine watched him undress. Just as she thought: big schlong. She was looking forward to it. It had taken her quite a while to lure this one into her lair, and she'd had to change landscaping companies three times before they sent one over that was just right. He didn't get it right away when she made the come on, but the hundred-dollar bill finally got his attention. Obviously, he wasn't too bright, but that didn't matter as long as his dick was as hard and thick as his head.

He came over and got on the bed, grabbing one floppy breast while she grabbed his flaccid member just as indelicately. He responded instantly, his battering ram of a cock inflating like a life raft.

"I want it inside me," she said, wanting to get right to the main event and dispensing with any foreplay—as if he knew what foreplay was. "Put it in doggie style." She rolled onto her knees, her breasts dangling from her chest like Jell-O sacks. She felt the big knob pushing its way in slowly, then back out, then in again, the shaft lubricating itself with each poke. Finally, the lawn man barreled all the way in, ramming his entire length into her until she thought it would come out her ear. God it was good, she thought as she felt him banging in and out of her. He continued until she felt his sweat dripping onto her.

"Faster!" she screamed. "Faster, you animal!" He went faster, then faster yet until she came, and then came again. Torrents of sensation poured forth before she felt him jam a final thrust into her. She heard him grunt as he came. Pulling out and collapsing on the bed next to her, the lawn man's oozing body rubbed against hers, filming her with sweat.

"Is that what you wanted lady?" he asked, his breath coming quickly.

"That was fine, Tarzan," she said, and she flipped him the c-note from the nightstand. "Jesus, go take a shower, will ya'? And get me a towel from the bathroom. What a fucking mess."

It was what she wanted of course, and she'd have it again, then again after that, for as long as Morty continued his little trysts. In this case, what was good for the gander was good for the goose. She suspected Morty had been screwing around for some time, and probably with more than one woman. The perfume she smelled on his shirts after those late nights at the office was different every time, and he never answered the phone when she called on those nights. "Meetings across town," he'd said, probably forgetting he'd already used that lie earlier in the month—twice. Her suspicions would be verified soon if everything worked out according to plan. Soon she'd have Morty right where she wanted him. He'd settle out of court, of course, just to avoid the publicity, and she'd be rich. She could have any yard man or cabana boy she wanted when she was done with Morty.

The phone on the nightstand chirped. She put the receiver to her ear, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. "Hello."

"Hello, Mrs. Levine, this is Doctor Bergman's office."

It was her gynecologist's office. Thinking that they were calling to make a regular appointment, she spoke before the receptionist could say anything further. "I won't be needing another appointment. I was just there a week ago to check for a yeast infection."

"Yes, I know Mrs. Levine. That's why I'm calling. Doctor Bergman was wondering if you could come in sometime soon—very soon—so that he could speak to you in person."

"In person? Is something wrong?"

"Yes, I'm afraid there is Mrs. Levine. When would you be able to come down and talk with Doctor Bergman?"

"What's wrong? Can't you just tell me over the phone?"

"Well, in cases like these Doctor Bergman prefers to talk to his patients in person."

"What do you mean in cases like these? Jesus Christ, I'm not pregnant, am I?"

"No, you're not pregnant. It's just that—"

"What? Tell me, I said, and stop screwing around with me."

"Well, all right Mrs. Levine, if you insist, but Doctor Bergman will be very upset with me. I'm afraid your condition is much worse than just a simple yeast infection. I'm afraid you have gonorrhea."

The yard man came out of the shower just as she hung up. He was scratching himself, she noticed.

* * * * *

Tony Lopresti was the first to arrive, even though he was his usual fifteen minutes late. Something wasn't right. He'd never known Gino to be late for anything in his entire life, or at least in the forty-five years since first grade when they'd first become friends. Tony sipped his bourbon and wondered why they were meeting here. He hated this bar. It was one of those cookie cutter bars with old license plates on the walls and red checked tablecloths on all the tables, and ferns—all over the damned place—that poked you in the eye if you weren't careful when you went to the bathroom. He thought the drinks tasted watered down too. He ordered another Jim Beam, a double, keeping an eye on the front door.

Forty minutes later, Gino stepped through it and wove his way through the forest of hanging ferns as they tried to blind him.

"Where ya' been?" Tony asked, trying to be casual, but hardly so inside.

"Sherm's getting cold feet." Gino held up two fingers for the bartender. "Crown Royal and soda for me."

Tony tossed back the rest of his drink. "Can't say as I blame him. What you're asking him to do cuts against his grain pretty deep."

"It's for his own good, for the good of the company."

"Gino, you've got to stop with that 'for the good of the company' crap. These guys are employees, not owners like you. Hatcherson is just the keeper of the gate, a bean counter. What you're asking him to do is like asking a nun to become a hooker. Some things just aren't meant to be. Hell, the only reason I'm in it is because there's no connection to me."

"Yeah, that plus the fact that you stand to make a boatload of money for your trouble."

"Hey, it's just a broker's fee, that's all. Just like any commissioned salesman, right?"

"Yeah sure. Maybe you're right though. I don't think he has the stomach for it."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I don't know yet, but I think I need to get him out of the way as soon as possible."

* * * * *

Babe watching: it was what they did when they didn't have anything better to do after working late on Saturday night, but that was a long time ago and somehow it wasn't quite the same now. Truthful stood inside Scruples at 20th and M Streets, trying to groove to the pounding disco music while reflecting on the fact that he looked to be one of the oldest guys there. He wasn't digging this at all. The place was packed, and the strobe lights made it seem like some bizarre movie. Every song sounded like the one before it, and he'd given up trying to know who the artists were. All he knew was that he felt the beat blasting into his chest—thump... thump... thump until it became like audible Chinese water torture. That, and being jostled constantly by the surging crowd made the scene less than enjoyable, especially at two-fifty a beer. He would have been much happier sitting at a table somewhere casually munching on some Buffalo wings. Where the hell did Crash disappear to? Looking out on the dance floor through the sea of shiny polyester shirts, past the pounds of fake gold chains, around the huge hair, Truthful tried to spot him. All he had to do was to look for the spot where the crowd had cleared out so that Crash and his babe of the moment had enough room to do the hustle, or the bump, or whatever the hell dance the gay guys at the store had taught him lately.

He remembered the time when MacHune asked him if Crash was, "You know... that way." It was obvious that MacHune was uncomfortable talking about it, and it was anyone's guess as to why he'd even asked, but Truthful managed to set him straight. It wasn't the first time he'd heard the innuendo about Crash, however, and one day he suggested that maybe Crash should dress with looser clothes, "You know, not so tight around the ass like that." Crash didn't get it.

The crowd parted for a second and he saw Crash with his arm draped around some not-so-young honey who was clearly at the front of the line when God was handing out breasts that day. Crash was pulling on the collar of her top and she playfully slapped his hand away when he dug down a little too deep. She moved off with a wink and Truthful waited while Crash made his way back.

"You should see what I just latched on to," Crash said as he sat down.

"Yeah, I saw," Truthful shouted above the pounding beat of the next song. "The girl looks like the front end of a Buick, and I'm not talking about the bumpers."

"Maybe so," Crash responded. "If I get lucky maybe she'll take me for a ride later."

"Right. I take that to mean you're gonna hang around to play slap and tickle with your new friend."

"Are you leaving?" Crash asked.

"Think so. I think I've outgrown the disco phenomenon."

"Let's have one more beer," Crash yelled into his ear. He pointed to a less crowded area near one of the bars.

Truthful managed to find a couple of empty flamingo-pink lounge chairs while Crash did a beer run.

"Are you tired or something?" Crash asked when he returned.

"Worn out, man. I've been working on this shrinkage problem day and night. Damn thing's got me all tied up in knots. That's why I came in today. I wanted to check things out when a lot of the part timers were working."

"You gotta let go of that, man. All work and no play will make you old before your time."

"I'm already old before my time."

"You look it, standing around in that suit like some nerd. I can't believe you wore a suit to work on a Saturday."

"Yeah, well, I'm not gonna wear pimp clothes like everyone here is wearing. Did you wear that to work?"

"Yeah. Do you like it?"

"You look like a disco dickhead."

"You're just jealous. Oh, and speaking of work, you'll never guess in a million years who's working for me now."

"Who?"

"Ramona Kling."

Truthful almost choked on his beer. "How the hell did that happen?"

"I'm not quite sure. I'd heard through the grapevine that she got herself fired, and the next thing I know Mister Starr himself calls me and asks if I'd be willing to take her 'under my wing,' he says—whatever that means—until after the holidays. What am I gonna do, say no? I wanted to tell him, 'Yeah, I'll take her under... under the sheets is where I'll take her.'"

"You didn't actually say that... did you?"

"Of course not, but this should be interesting don't you think? Especially now that there's an opening in the buying office."

"You gonna go for it?"

"I've been thinking about it," Crash admitted. "What do you think?"

"It might be worth digging around a little, maybe talk to someone about it. Situations like that don't come up every day."

"I would, but I think the someone I'd have to talk to would be Leona."

"Ah, screw her," said Truthful.

"Not even with your dick."

"Listen, Mercedes runs the show up there, regardless of what you might have heard. You should talk to her. It wouldn't surprise me if Leona herself got the axe someday."

"Maybe you're right," Crash said as he swigged his beer. "But it sure will be nice looking at Ramona every day. She's hot, right?"

"She's okay, I guess. She looks pretty businesslike to me."

Crash winked. "Yeah, I'd like to do some business with her... no problem."

"Forget it, dude. There's no way you're gonna get any of that."

"What makes you such an expert?"

"Let's just say she's not your type. At least she doesn't think so."

"What the hell, man. What makes you such an expert?"

"I just know, that's all."

"What do you mean, you know? C'mon bro—spill."

"Listen, you don't need to go down that road."

"No, I do. You obviously think you know something, so out with it. We're not leaving until you tell me."

"She thinks you're gay. There, I said it. Are you happy now?"

"That's bullshit."

"I heard her say it with my own ears."

"You're out of it, man. I can't believe you'd think that. Gay? Really?"

"Hey, you don't need to get all shitty with me, bro. I'm not the one who thinks it."

"Where the hell would she get an idea like that? Damn!"

"Well...."

"What? What!"

"A lot of people think you're... you know."

"Screw you, man. I can't believe I'm even having this conversation." Just then, Crash's new-found love came over and snuggled into the chair with him, resting her bazongas on his forearm as if she were putting them on a serving tray.

Truthful decided to call it a night. "See y'all later," he said, excusing himself so Crash could pursue his quest to the mountain tops.

Crash looked at her and said, "Tell me the truth. Do I look gay to you?"

* * * * *

"Georgetown is an awful long way to go just for lunch," said Mercedes, still surprised that MacHune had asked her to go. She knew he usually dined at his desk on hero sandwiches and potato chips.

"I wanted to talk to you about this audit thing. Should we be worried about that? And what's with this Lopresti Agency? I thought Skip was doing an okay job."

"Gino's memo said the move with the advertising department was to cut expenses, but to tell you the truth I don't see how it would save us any money. The media costs are the media costs, no matter who books it, plus the agency makes a commission. I don't get it either, Mac."

"Don't you think we should have been informed about something like that?"

"It certainly caught everyone by surprise. It's not like Gino to dismantle an entire department and not let everyone know what's going on. I figure he kept it quiet because so many people were going to be put out of work."

Mercedes guessed that the situation had to be very hard on MacHune. He'd been with the company a long time and he had to be coming apart on the inside. The waiter arrived with the food, placing Mercedes's spinach and mushroom salad down first, his tray almost tipping over with MacHune's light lunch of steak and baked potato with butter and sour cream. She figured the chives were his vegetable.

"How long have you been with the company?" she asked curiously. She watched as MacHune loosened his tie as if he was preparing for a wrestling match. They hadn't really spoken much in the eleven months she'd been on board.

"Since '59..." MacHune answered, gobbling up a huge piece of steak. "...three months before Gino's wife and kid died in the car crash."

"Gino was married?" She assumed Gino had always been unattached, surmising it was probably for the same reason that she herself was still single. Her dedication to the career had cost her in many ways. That, plus the intimidation factor played a big part for her as well. When men found out what she did and how much money she made—which was sometimes double their salary—the probabilities of a long-term relationship diminished significantly. She drizzled her salad with some dressing and stabbed at a mushroom.

"Gino had a beautiful wife, and a great little guy name Nick. Looked just like him. They died when their car skidded on some ice and crashed head-on into another car. Just a dumb, stupid accident. Nobody's fault."

"He must've been heartbroken."

"Shattered is more like it. Stayed out of work for almost five months. He never really recovered from it."

"Gino? Away from the store for five months? That's hard to believe."

"Believe it. I've never seen anyone take anything so hard. I ran the company for him while he was out. You can imagine what that was like."

"What was it like?" she asked, delighted that they were having the opportunity to talk.

MacHune chuckled. "I found out I was no merchandise maven." He pointed at Mercedes's Yves Saint Laurent suit with his fork and a tiny piece of potato flicked off into the air. "Sorry," he said.

Mercedes smiled. "So, you're not a buyer, eh? Everyone wants to be a buyer."

"Not me. I couldn't tell a designer suit from a potato sack. I just get the goods in, and get the goods out—that simple. At least that's the way it was back then before all these newfangled computers and tracking systems and all the other technical crap we have to have these days. Back then operations was a lot simpler. Naw, I'm stuck where I am. That's why I'll never be president."

"But you'd be next in line if something ever happened to Gino," Mercedes noted as she twirled a spinach leaf.

"I could never supervise people like you—merchandise people, I mean. I wouldn't be able to tell if you're doing a good job or not. Gino can." MacHune cut the bone off his steak and almost picked it off his plate to gnaw on it; probably would have had Mercedes not been there.

Mercedes smiled and said, "Go ahead. My father used to do it all the time."

"Your father? You know, I don't know anything about you and you're probably going to be my boss someday. Tell me about your father."

Mercedes picked at her salad and for the next fifteen minutes she went on to tell how her father grew plants for the fragrance business in Guatemala, and about how they moved to the United States to avoid having their business nationalized by the vicious governmental forces marauding the country at the time. She continued, with MacHune glued to her words, about how she started in the cosmetics department at Macy's as a nineteen-year-old counter girl, barely able to speak the language.

"How did you manage to get the job then?" MacHune asked. "You must have been something as a nineteen-year-old."

Mercedes blushed slightly and said, "I knew more about the product than the people who were interviewing me. I've tried to do the same thing ever since. I'm not the token Hispanic everyone thinks I am."

"No," MacHune admitted, "I don't think you are. You sound like you know what you want out of life."

She pushed her plate away and sighed. "I wish that were true. I still have regrets about not having a family. At thirty-nine, I don't have much time left."

"I've got ties older than that, and you've got plenty of time if you find the right guy."

"Easier said than done. Do you have kids?"

"Three, all grown with kids of their own. I hate being called grandpa at fifty-four."

"You must have started young. I'll bet your wife loves being a grandmother."

Looking down, MacHune spoke into his plate. "Erma died four years ago. Breast cancer."

"I'm so sorry," said Mercedes, and she quickly changed the subject. "So, we're all a bunch of singletons running this company, eh?"

"Yeah, maybe that's why all these weird happenings cut so deep. For some of us, this company is all we've got right now." Tossing his napkin on the table, MacHune added, "If we go under, I'll never find another job at my age."

"Don't be silly," Mercedes responded. "Fifty-four is hardly the end of the line. Besides, we're not going under... are we?"

"I don't know. I sure as hell don't understand the financial statements for the last year or so. I can't cut expenses any more than I've already cut them. We're operating at bare bones and our volume is sky high. I don't think we have enough people on the floors as it is, especially with the holidays coming up."

Mercedes nodded in agreement. "I noticed that when I was traveling with my buyers last week. What do you think is going on? That is what we came to talk about, isn't it?"

"I guess we kind of got off the subject."

She smiled warmly. "Not a wasted conversation."

MacHune smiled back. "Hatcherson is tight as a duck's ass. He's not saying a word."

"Why don't we talk to Gino about it? What's the worst he could do, fire us?"

"Don't be funny," MacHune said as he picked up the check. "Stranger things have happened."

* * * * *

Looking at the number panel on the elevator wall, Ramona watched the numbers light up and go off, thinking those numbers were just like her career at Rosenbloom & Starr: on, then off, and this time it was certain to stay off if Leona's tone was any indication. She could still hear that craggy voice on the phone. "I'd like to see you, right away," it said—no greeting, no introduction as to who it was, no consideration that "right away" might not be a good time, just total and absolute self-centeredness.

Leona looked up from her desk. "Close the door," she ordered as she motioned for Ramona to sit down. "I just got a good chewing out because of your little chat with Mercedes," she hissed between clenched teeth. Her lips were white with tension despite the thick lipstick that didn't look right on her. "Are you happy now?"

Ramona didn't answer. It was obvious that Leona was aching for a fight, and another episode would cause her to lose her job for sure. No one would be willing to save her again, not even Mister Starr. Remembering his advice about swallowing her pride, she said, "I'm sorry Leona, but I never had any conversation with Mercedes. Whatever you two talked about didn't come from me."

"You lying little bitch!" Leona snapped furiously. Her jowls were trembling with anger. "Don't try to play innocent with me! I know you're trying to get me! Well let me tell you something. It won't work, do you hear? I've got connections higher than Mercedes, higher than that asshole Starr even, and soon all of you will be working for me. Do you understand?"

What connections, Ramona wondered. The woman was a raving lunatic. She couldn't believe that Leona had just called her a bitch, and what about what she said about Mister Starr? "I understand," she said peacefully, "but like I told you, I never had any conversation with Mercedes. You can ask her yourself."

"Don't you go getting mouthy with me," Leona snapped at her.

"I'm not getting mouthy, Leona. I'm just saying, very respectfully by the way, that I think you're mistaken."

Thinking about how much she despised this little tart and her sassy attitude, Leona saw that her plan wasn't working. The spirited little backbiter wasn't screaming back as she'd anticipated. Her kind was handed everything in life, girls like her and Mercedes with their designer suits and perfect hair and straight white teeth. They were two peas in a pod. They never had to work to get what they wanted, Leona thought bitterly, not like she did. They didn't have her years of experience. They weren't the pro that she was. All they had to do was spread their pouty little lips now and then and they got anything they wanted. What was the old saying? It's not who you know, it's who you blow. Well, she was playing that game now. Soon she'd be the one calling the shots, and this little wench would be out on her ass—and Mercedes would be right beside her. "Enjoy the company Christmas party Saturday night," she snarled condescendingly. "It will probably be your last day at Rosenbloom & Starr."

Ramona finally cracked. "Tom Crandall is my boss now, Leona. Unless I've said something insubordinate to you, he's the only one who can fire me." She held her head high, and as she opened the door to leave she added, "But this conversation is between you and me, isn't it, and here's what I think of you, Leona." She made no attempt to control the long middle finger that came up and hovered in midair, shooting it straight at Leona's face.

CHAPTER 8... The Christmas Party

Crash couldn't believe it. Truthful brought a date. He didn't even know Truthful had a girlfriend. She was a real fox too, he noted as he admired her moves on the dance floor. She made Truthful look good out there, twirling around and around and showing off those skinny legs of hers. The fact that Truthful danced like a farm animal didn't stop him from going out and having a good time, though. No one was watching him anyway as—what's-her-name, Lucinda—didn't miss a beat. Crash kept watching as she skipped about, her black patent leather heels flashing in the dimmed light of the ballroom's seven massive chandeliers. He figured he'd take her for a whirl later after he'd had enough to drink and show everyone that white guys could dance. Right now, however, he refocused on the conversation at hand and listened to one of the ready-to-wear managers from the branches whining about something totally unimportant.

"Can you believe we have to rehang all the category-nine tops on those silly foam hangers?" she complained.

Another dimwit who was into the debate about foam replied, "But it keeps the garments from sliding off the hangers."

Like he could care. Crash moved off and propped himself against one of the huge marble columns of the Shoreham's ballroom. There must have been a couple of thousand people there, most of them grouped in little pods, gossiping about this or that, all on their best behavior as if they were intent on not wrinkling their clothes. Shop talk: who cared? He needed a drink.

Making his way toward the drink line, he passed directly in front of the head table where all the senior executives were seated. There was Mister Starr, looking like he always did: healthy looking, gray-tinged hair perfectly furrowed, white teeth blazing as he nursed an amber drink. Behind him was Mister MacHune, wearing what looked to be a new suit, and an expensive one at that. He still looked goofy with those peaked lapels, but at least the suit fit well. He was standing with... was that Mercedes? Holy Jesus! Crash stopped for a second to take in the view. He didn't know which was brighter, her smile, or her dress, which looked like it was made from brilliant silver seashells and designed to show everyone there was real woman underneath. It hugged every curve on her body, and she had some curves now. Where did they come from? She laughed bawdily at something MacHune said and slapped him girlishly on the arm before covering her eyes in mock embarrassment. Crash thought: If I didn't know better....

The band stopped its thumping rendition of the Stayin' Alive and went into an Elvis song. It was amazing how popular Elvis got now that he was dead. Crash kept watching as Mercedes and MacHune passed within a few feet of where he was standing. He wished a girl, any girl, would look at him like that tonight. As it was, he stood there alone and sober, playing pocket pool and wishing he had a buzz on. He decided to press on toward the bar and get himself in a better mood. Unintentionally, he pulled into the drink line next to Leona Ribling.

"Ah, Mister Crandall," she sneered, obviously already on her way to a hangover.

"Oh, hello Ms. Ribling." He looked around to see if there was someone who could save him. He couldn't help but notice that she was alone and totally on display for the occasion. Her face was painted up like a Halloween mask, and her blouse was unbuttoned seemingly to her navel, revealing ample portions of her leathery breasts. Clearly, she wanted someone to notice her. Was she wearing a wig, Crash wondered. As long as he was trapped, he decided to do the civilized thing. "Care for a drink?"

"Sscotch, rockss," she slurred, handing him a glass full of pickled ice cubes.

Crash held up two fingers and handed Leona her drink as they made their way from the bar. Out on the dance floor, MacHune and Mercedes were the objects of everyone's attention. They were stepping and dipping on cue as if they'd been dancing together for years.

"They're pretty good," Crash noted, trying to make conversation. And they were, especially MacHune whose feet barely touched the floor as he expertly guided Mercedes into her moves. They finished with a double whirl and MacHune dropped her perfectly into a final dip on the last note. That's when Leona muttered, "bitch," under her breath. That was his cue to scram, but he didn't do it fast enough.

"So... where'ss your little employee tonight?"

Undoubtedly, she was talking about Ramona. "Ramona is not my employee," he defended, feeling that he had to.

Leona waved her drink dramatically. "That's not wha'she said. Sshe ssaid you were her bosss."

Listen dragon lady, he almost said, but didn't. "I'm not her boss, Leona. I'm just doing what I was told."

"What'dya mean, jus doin' whatchure told?"

"Just what I said. I'm doing what I was asked to do. Mister Starr asked me if she could work on the floor until after the holidays—until he found something for her in the buying office again."

"Sso thass it," she said to no one in particular. "So that fucker is behind it. Well thas jus' fuckin' great."

Crash stepped aside as she marched aimlessly into the crowd, nipples to the wind, talking to herself. No wonder Ramona had the heebie-jeebies about her. Speaking of Ramona, where the hell was she? He decided to cruise around and see if she'd made it. He was looking forward to seeing her, feeling that she'd actually been warming up to him lately. He walked past the head table again, and caught Mister Starr's eye.

"Merry Christmas, Mister Crandall."

"Merry Christmas, Mister Starr."

"Just wanted to let you know that we're proud to have you on board. We hear a lot of good things about you upstairs."

Really? "Thanks a lot, Mister Starr. I really appreciate it."

"Have a good time tonight. You deserve it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a speech to make."

Crash watched as Gino gathered all his executives and marched them to the podium. Mister Hatcherson was missing, he noticed.

* * * * *

"... And of course you all know our resident disco dance king, our Vice President of Operations, Vance MacHune." The crowd howled in appreciation as MacHune got up and took a bow. "Mac, your face is almost as bright as Mercedes's dress." The crowd tittered politely this time. Coming to the conclusion of his speech, Gino said, "And so ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to thank each and every one of you for the fine job you did this year. Every single one of you is an important part of this organization and I'd like to thank you all personally from the bottom of my heart. God bless you, and Merry Christmas."

Crash watched as Mister Starr stepped from the podium and began visiting the tables. It was a working night for him, and he was out among his people. Eyes sparking, teeth flashing, he was pressing the flesh like a consummate politician, shaking hands and slapping backs, being the man. And he was loving every minute of it, Crash observed, and the people loved him. It was his company all right, that was clear.

Noticing that Mercedes was just a few feet away, Crash debated on whether or not to have a word with her about the associate buyer's position, which still was unfilled. He canceled the thought when Mister Starr came up and stood next to her.

"Care to dance?" he heard Mercedes ask.

"But of course," Mister Starr replied as he rewarded her with an effervescent smile.

Mercedes led him to the dance floor and the band struck up its rendition of You Light Up My Life. The rest of the crowd began applauding as if they were watching the father and daughter at a wedding, which the whole affair was beginning to resemble. Crash moved off to get another drink.

* * * * *

"Is this song your idea?" Gino asked, looking into Mercedes's radiant eyes.

"It's everyone's idea. We thought it would make a nice Christmas present from the staff. Besides, it's cheaper than a real present." She laughed. "This the best job I've ever had Gino, and I know the rest of the staff feels the same way, right on down to the department managers. I never want to lose it."

"Lose it? You're doing a great job. Why would you think you're going to lose it?"

Suddenly serious, she said, "I hate to mix business with pleasure, but I've been elected as a sort of spokesman by the rest of the staff...." She hesitated as Gino waved the onlookers onto the dance floor. "Actually, that's not true. It's not the staff... it's me and Mac."

"That's about the whole staff as far as I'm concerned. You and Mac and Sherm are the ones that really make this company go. Speaking of Sherm, where is he anyway?"

"I don't know. I thought he was coming," she said, answering the second question first. "But Mac and I are just soldiers. You're the general here."

"I'm just a figurehead."

"Don't be silly. Without you this company wouldn't be the same. That's why we're so concerned."

"And you were elected spokesman by your committee of two to ask me about... what? I think I know what's coming."

"About the losses we've been showing. We've been bleeding a lot the last few months, and it just doesn't look right. Our volume is through the roof, our margins are strong, and Mac says our operating expenses are down to the bone. We shouldn't be hemorrhaging like this. Quite frankly, we think Sherm is screwing up big time. I know my inventory levels are not what he says they are, but he won't respond to my questions. Something has to be done Gino, for the good of the company. I know I might be talking out of school, but—"

"It's not Sherm," Gino interrupted. "I knew this conversation would come someday."

She looked into his eyes. "Are you acknowledging that what I'm saying is true?"

"You know, I promised myself at my first company Christmas party twenty-nine years ago that I would never talk shop at the party. It's time to have fun. What would you say if I put you off until Monday morning, and then the four of us—you, me, Mac, and Sherm—we'll all have a meeting and I'll bring you all up to speed on what's happening? Fair enough?"

She smiled. "Fair enough."

They clapped as the song ended and Gino made his way to the bar to have a stiff drink.

* * * * *

Crash's search ended in vain. It was almost eleven o'clock and obviously Ramona wasn't coming. He settled in with Truthful and his date, taking Lucinda for a spin on the dance floor during a couple of the fast numbers. Out of breath after their third dance, Lucinda gasped, "You dance pretty good for a white guy." It was a joke.

"I'm black on the inside," Crash joked in return.

Truthful started chuckling and said, "You're honky through and through." Suddenly, his gaze focused past Lucinda and Crash to someone coming up from behind. "Turn around, bro, and check this out."

Crash turned. It was Ramona, all in black, drifting along at the edge of the dance floor, stopping here and there to say a few hellos. "Hot damn," he said.

"I'll say," said Truthful.

Crash took the visual tour: black satin blouse open to the third button, pearls dangling teasingly down the opening, short leather skirt, all atop shiny four-inch heels. She looked sexy—the kind of sexy that made guys look twice and made women look like they were smelling onions. She mingled along, oblivious to the guys who turned to absorb a long look at her cheesecake legs. Her perfume arrived first.

"Learning how to dress from Leona?" Crash teased as she drifted up. She was anything but Leona.

"Shut up and get me a drink," she snapped back. "I've got a lot of catching up to do."

"And a Merry Christmas to you too."

"Make it a Screwdriver," she ordered, parking herself miserably at the table with Truthful and Lucinda. She crossed her legs and pumped one atop the other while Crash slouched off as her errand boy. He returned and she downed half the drink, pounding the glass on the table as she declared, "C'mon let's dance. I'm going to have a good time if it kills me."

Crash returned with two more Screwdrivers during the next hour, fetching drinks between heated sessions on the dance floor during which Ramona was determined to exhaust herself into fun. He didn't know if he was having a good time with her, or not. At quarter after midnight the band announced their final break of the evening. Truthful and Lucinda had left, and Crash handed his glass to Ramona. "Scotch, rocks," he ordered. "I gotta go to the bathroom." Ramona complied, albeit unsteadily, grabbing her own glass for yet another refill.

He spotted a couple of police officers on his way to the men's room and thought they looked odd amid the partygoers, looking like a bunch of blue Pillsbury dough boys in their bulky dark jackets. They were sifting through the crowd at the entrance of the ballroom, looking at faces as they did so. Crash guessed they were on the lookout for probable drunk drivers. He pushed his way through the crowd and found himself next to one of the officers.

"Excuse me, but can you tell me where I might find a Mister Gino Starr," the officer asked politely.

"Yeah, sure," Crash responded. "He's at the head table—over there along that wall." Odd, he thought. He wondered if something was wrong. Returning from the men's room, he walked into a strangely silent ballroom. All attention was glued to the two officers who were in the process of handcuffing Mister Starr.

"You have the right to remain silent...." the officer began.

Ramona was back at the table which was only a few yards from the scene, looking pale and totally stunned. "What the hell's going on?" Crash whispered.

Ramona handed Crash his scotch and said, "He's being arrested for murder."

"What?"

"Yeah. Mister Hatcherson is dead."

CHAPTER 9... Crunch Week

Crash was up early, his head still woozy from the night before, and what a night it was, he thought. He poured a cup of strong coffee and zeroed in on the headline on the front page of the Sunday, December 18th, Washington Post: CEO Arrested for Murder of CFO.

The story began: Gino Starr, CEO of Rosenbloom & Starr, the local department store chain, was arrested last night on charges of murdering his chief financial officer, Sherman T. Hatcherson. Mister Hatcherson's body was found Friday night at approximately 9:30 p.m. by his wife, Mrs. Louise Hatcherson, slumped over the desk in his den.

Crash took a sip of coffee and kept reading: A typed note was found indicating that Mister Hatcherson had taken his own life and that he was "sorry". The murder weapon was a nine-millimeter handgun registered to Mister Starr, whose fingerprints were on the weapon. Police became suspicious because the position of the entry wound was one that made suicide highly unlikely. Police felt immediately that the note was faked and that Hatcherson's death was definitely not a suicide, according to a reliable source within the department. Mrs. Hatcherson said while her husband was troubled by goings on at work, he would never have killed himself.

Also, an anonymous tip to police after the murder identified a blue and gray 1976 Oldsmobile Delta 88 parked in front of the Hatcherson home at about the time of the murder. The caller identified himself only as a concerned neighbor. Mister Starr regularly drives a company owned blue and gray Delta 88. News of the murder was suppressed pending notification and arrival of the Hatcherson children. Starr, who lives alone, has no alibi as to his whereabouts Friday night, saying only that he was home all evening, working, and that he did some reading before going to bed at approximately 11:30 p.m. Starr's only comment on Hatcherson's death was that he was innocent, and that Hatcherson was a dear friend.

Crash dropped the paper and brought out the aspirin and orange juice. He thought he heard some noise coming from the bedroom and decided to see if Ramona was all right. She'd gotten so drunk the night before that he thought she was going to fall off her shoes. There was no way she was going to make it home all the way to Woodbridge, so he'd decided to take her to his place, which was just as well because she'd forgotten where she'd parked her car. He remembered weaving down the curvy road through Rock Creek Park, and couldn't help but think of Ramona slumped over in the front seat, her long legs bared as her black miniskirt had ridden up somewhere up around her throat. Usually he was the one getting the ride home from someone.

"You want some coffee?" he asked, knocking softly on the door. Nothing. "You okay in there?"

A raspy, "Yeah," croaked out weakly, followed immediately by an even more raspy, "No."

He cracked the door and peeked inside, letting in a sliver of light.

"Please tell me I'm dead," she said, covering her eyes. "No one could feel this bad and still be alive." She sounded like she was gargling with sand.

"It's a new day," Crash called out obnoxiously. "Time to rise and shine."

"Fuck you."

"Stop. You're making me blush."

It took a minute, but she finally screwed on enough courage to sit up, only to realize that she'd moved too fast. That's when she also realized she was only wearing a t-shirt—not hers—and that she was naked underneath. Mortified, she asked, "Where's my underwear?"

Crash pointed to the jumbled pile of undergarments on the floor.

"Oh God." she said, holding her head. What had she done? She didn't... did she? "Would you mind?" she snapped out, and Crash wisely backed out of the room. Moving ever so slowly off the bed, she bent over to pick up her panties and immediately crumbled to the floor. With her head swirling as oxygen invaded her aching brain cells, she managed to pull her panties up to her thighs and sat there bare-assed on the cold floor while she worked up the energy to stand up. Struggling to her feet, Ramona managed to pull her panties all the way up and she staggered painfully toward the door. Where the hell were her glasses? There they were. She poked her head into the hallway. "Where's the—" she began, sensing her bladder was about to explode.

"End of the hall," Crash answered before she could finish.

Holding her stomach, she shuffled slowly to the bathroom. Some minutes later, the toilet flushed and she shuffled ever so slowly back up the hallway, making sure her feet never lost contact with the floor. She rounded the corner with her hair tousled into submission and her big glasses perched on the end of her nose. Beyond humiliation, she was suddenly aware that the t-shirt she was wearing barely covered her crotch.

"Hiya tiger," said Crash. "You were really something last night."

She sat down shakily and speculated on exactly what the hell that meant.

"You want some of Uncle Tom's hangover medicine?"

"What's in it?" Ramona asked, convinced that she was on death's doorstep.

Crash crumbled two aspirins into some orange juice and dropped in a couple of Alka Seltzers. "Drink this all at once," he said. "You'll start to feel better in about twenty minutes—if you don't puke. Here's a bucket just in case." He pushed a plastic wastepaper basket between her legs, observing the black V of the sexy lace panties covering the Promised Land.

Pulling down on the t-shirt, "Where are the rest of my clothes?" she asked nervously.

"In the bedroom," Crash replied, having no mercy on her. "Don't you remember taking them off last night? I gotta tell ya', it was quite the show."

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"You do look a little stressed. Do you remember what happened after you took your clothes off?"

Ramona shook her head, and it hurt.

"How about in the parking lot, after we left the Christmas party? Do you remember that?"

"No."

"Bummer. I remember it. Yesiree, Bob. I'll never forget it either."

The parking lot? What did she do in the parking lot? She couldn't remember any of it. And what happened in the bedroom? God; she didn't, did she? She couldn't have actually done it and not remembered, could she? Crash was gay, wasn't he? Jesus!

Crash reached for the fizzing orange juice. "I'll take that if you don't want it."

"No, I'll drink it," she croaked, feeling she needed something, anything, in her stomach. She managed to down about a quarter of it before she blew it into the wastepaper basket.

"Well, now I've seen you do just about everything."

Ramona wiped her chin with a napkin, "Did you and I... you know... do it?" she asked anxiously.

"Thanks a lot," Crash said hurtfully. "I can't believe you don't remember after all the moaning and screaming you did."

What moaning and screaming? She didn't remember any moaning and screaming. God! She'd done it! She must've been out of her mind. But he was gay... wasn't he?

Smugly aware that his charade was supremely successful, "Here, maybe you'll remember this," Crash said as he tossed her the paper.

* * * * *

"May I remind the court that it is exactly because Mister Starr is a prominent member of the community that bail should be set at an extremely high amount. The threat that he'll flee the country is a real one, your honor."

District Attorney William P. Davidson took this one himself. This was big, bigger than anything that had happened in the two years since he'd become the DA. Things like this didn't happen in Montgomery County. This was murder, real murder, with rich protagonists and big names. This was evening news material, and Davidson wasn't about to let some lowly three-year assistant DA take this one. "We request that bail be set in the amount of two million dollars."

"This is preposterous!" Marvin J. Stenner had been Gino Starr's personal lawyer for over twenty years. "Your honor, my client has been an upstanding member of this community his entire life. The evidence surrounding my client is purely circumstantial. My I remind the court—"

"Your honor, these proceedings are not a forum to debate the validity of the evidence. A grand jury has determined there is sufficient cause to hand down an indictment, and we believe—"

"Your honor, I am fully aware of the court's procedures. There is no need for the District Attorney to engage in such theatrics and exaggerations. Flee the country indeed! If it please the court—"

"Quiet! Both of you!" Judge Malcolm Bounders pounded his gavel mightily. "And quiet out there with all that junk."

Bounders was referring to the photographers and reporters jammed into his courtroom. The case had already turned it into a circus and he wasn't one to appreciate the notoriety. "Counselors, would you approach the bench?" Bounders waited, hands crossed before him as the lawyers approached. Both of them were prepared to endure the scolding that was sure to come. Instead, Bounders spoke in a low, calm tone, and in total control.

"Gentlemen, this is already turning into a spectacle. That's why I'm calling you up here. I believe that a request for bail is reasonable. While I personally don't think Mister Starr is going anywhere, I think it needs to be of a considerable amount so that it's at least inconvenient for him to jump bail. Now, I'm going to set bail, and I want both of you prepared to hustle your butts out of here as soon as I do, as there won't be any discussion about it. Do I make myself clear? I don't want to sit here for the next half hour while this side show continues. We have other work to do in this courtroom today and we're already running late."

Both lawyers returned to their seats. Bounders raised his gavel, waiting for a moment of reasonable quiet, and proceeded to announce in as few words as possible that Gino Starr would be remain in custody until bail could be posted in the amount of two million dollars. The gavel came down—bang—it was over.

Wondering what all this was going to do to the price of Rosenbloom & Starr's stock, Gino looked at Stenner and asked, "Where the hell am I going to get two million dollars?"

* * * * *

"Yes ma'am. I'll be right there," Crash had said for the hundredth time that morning. It was crunch week. It was the week of weeks in the department store business. Business picked up right at Thanksgiving and became an increasing surge that intensified into a tidal wave the week before Christmas. Everyone in the stores worked a six or seven-day week that week, often bell to bell, lucky sometimes to get a full hour for lunch and dinner combined. More often than not, the work was menial. Most managers spent hours next to their cashiers bagging and boxing at the registers, or busting freight to keep the racks or the shelves full.

Crash rather enjoyed it. It was the only time when the floor people couldn't be blamed if something didn't sell, which is what happened during the rest of the year. If something didn't sell the week before Christmas, however, it was because it was a dog, a bow-wow, just plain ugly. The sale racks had to be set up the day after Christmas, for there would be clearance ads in the paper that day, and the floor people loved it when the buyers had to come down and physically help mark down their mistakes.

The morning had been a zoo, as busy as he'd ever seen it, thought Crash. There had actually been lines at all the entrances at opening time, and customers had to wait to get into the fitting rooms. He played traffic cop, pointing and directing his salespeople toward unattended customers, and wheeled out racks of try-ons from the fitting rooms so they could be put back on the display racks. He remembered watching Ramona as she loaded up an armful of try-ons, shaking his head when she stubbornly refused to wear shoes with lower heels. She'd walk ten miles in those heels today, and he was sure she'd wear lower heels tomorrow—although he wouldn't have minded if she wore the high ones again.

Now, sitting on the flowered sofa outside Mercedes's office, Crash was glad to have a respite from the insanity for a few minutes. Listening to the soft music coming from the overhead speakers, he made small talk with Ginny, the secretary/receptionist that Mercedes and the buyers shared. He watched while she quietly made copies and sealed envelopes and answered calls with her little voice. It was such a distinct difference from the roar and chaos of the floor. It was nuts down there!

"So, are you here to talk to Mercedes about Ramona's old job too?" Ginny asked, guessing as to why Crash was there.

Too? "You mean others have been asking about it?"

"It's been like a revolving door up here."

Great. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all. Crash looked at his watch, noticing he was already twenty minutes late on his lunch hour, which meant he was holding up someone else's lunch hour. Deciding to wait another ten minutes, he asked, "Is there a phone I could use to tell my people I'm running a little late?"

"Sure, use mine," said Ginny. "I'm going down the hall for a second anyway. If it rings, just tell whoever it is that I'll be right back."

Crash had to walk behind the L-shaped desk to get to the phone. It was one of those large console jobs with two horizontal rows of buttons across the top, eight buttons in each row, a red hold button, an intercom button, and a conference call button. There was also a round black button about which he knew absolutely nothing. Each button was numbered with the line number as in 01, 02, 03, etc., that lit up when someone was on the line, blinked when someone was on hold, or flashed like a turn signal when someone was calling in. He hesitated before picking up the receiver, trying to figure out which line was available as buttons were blinking and twinkling and flashing all over the place. He finally decided to push button 12, as it was not lit. He pushed, and it lit up as soon as he picked up the handset. Suddenly, the console began making noise. It was beeping. He didn't know what beeping meant. He knew what ringing meant, and he knew what chirping meant, but not beeping. He thought it must mean intercom, so he pushed the intercom button and said, "Hello." Nothing. Well, it must not mean intercom, he thought, so he pushed down on button number 12 again, and once more, as soon as he was ready to dial, the phone started beeping again, then it immediately started ringing, or chirping, or whatever they called it with these new phones. He saw button 09 flashing. That meant someone was calling in, didn't it? He thought it did, so he pushed on 09 and tentatively said, "Hello?"

"Hello. Is this R & S?" the caller asked gruffly. "Who the hell is this?"

"This is Crash."

"Who the hell are you? Do you work there?"

"Yes. Who the hell is this?" Geez, some phone manner.

"This is Gerdy over at American Distributors. Is Donley there in small appliances?"

Donley was the small appliance buyer. "I know who Donley is," said Crash. "Just a minute." He pushed the hold button and tried to think of how to transfer a call. "Let's see," he mumbled to himself, "flash hook once, dial the extension of the person, then hang up." That was it, he was sure. He flashed hook once and the flashing light on button 09 disappeared. Gone. Cut off. "Shit. Oh well, he'll call back." He pushed on 12 again, and now the console started ringing, or chirping, and beeping again, but this time someone said, "Hello," out of the speaker phone part. "Damn it," said Crash. All he wanted to do was make a crummy extension call to tell someone he'd be late, and now the console was on the verge of blowing up on him. He pushed down on 14. Oops, someone was on that line. Then he saw 12 flashing. Wait, he was on 12 wasn't he? No, he was on—nothing. He had to push the 12 button to get on 12, so he pushed 12. The console was still chirping. Wait, answer the flashing line first, he thought—04. "Hello." Nothing again. "Shit," again. "The hell with this," he said aloud, deciding to let the damn thing ring and let Ginny take care of it when she came back. Where the hell was she anyway? He needed to make his call. He pushed 12 again, prepared to dial 071, which was the extension number of the phone in the ready-to-wear back office. He put the receiver up to his ear when suddenly he heard the craggy voice on the line. It was a woman's voice and he recognized it immediately.

"Damn, you didn't have to kill him for God's sake!"

The response was quick and urgent, a voice he didn't know.

"Shut up, you fool!" It was a man's voice, loud and angry. "And don't go spreading a rumor like that with that big fucking mouth of yours! Do you understand me?"

Who the hell was that, thought Crash. And were they talking about Hatcherson?

"Yes, I understand," the craggy voice said meekly.

"Did you get those numbers I wanted?"

Crash detected more than a bit of arrogance in the voice.

"I got them. It wasn't too hard with everyone gone for the funeral."

Holy crap! They were talking about Hatcherson. His funeral had been that morning. What numbers were they were talking about?

"What is it," the arrogant man-voice asked.

"What's what?" the craggy voice asked.

"The number, you idiot! The margin number! God almighty!"

"Which line is that on?"

"Listen, just send me the damned report, okay? You can do that, can't you?"

"Stop talking to me like that, you bastard!" The craggy voice was angry. "We had a deal, and I don't hear you holding up your end of the bargain."

"What the hell are you talking about?" the arrogant voice demanded.

Crash was a statue, glued to the phone. Ginny came cruising around the corner and Crash held his hand up, indicating: just a second.

"The GMM job, you jerk! Listen, I got what you wanted. Now when are you going to do something about Mercedes?"

"Just send me that report."

"Screw you! You do what you promised or it's no deal."

"Just send me the damned report and I'll take care of it, okay? It shouldn't be too hard with that dago out of there. Who's in charge now?"

"I don't know."

"You dumb bitch."

Crash pushed down on the handset cradle.

"Are you all right?" Ginny asked. "You look like you've just seen the devil."

"I think I have," said Crash. "Listen, tell Mercedes I'll have to reschedule, okay? I have to get back to the department."

* * * * *

Morty was proud of himself. He'd jumped another hurdle and he could be the white knight instead of the cannibal for a change. He already owned 24.6% of Rosenbloom & Starr's common stock. All he had to do was convince his board of directors to let him buy up another 26.4%, and he could ride in and save the company from certain bankruptcy. That, and take control in the process: a friendly takeover! It would be on his terms, and it would be brilliant. If he pulled it off and snagged a classy outfit like Rosenbloom & Starr—and a profitable one, he intended to prove, not like those other chains on the brink of death—surely he'd be reelected as Associated's chairman of the board next year. Chairman of the Board: a very important title.

Sitting in his room at the Mayflower—he was getting to be a regular there—he thumbed through the report and checked his notes again to be sure he had his facts straight. He hoped the dumb bitch had sent the most recent report. Assuming the sales and margin figures were accurate—they probably were as those numbers were almost impossible to alter—all he'd have to do to show a profit would be to bring expenses and inventory levels back into line. That would be easy. They were undoubtedly inflated, according to Boraski. The profit would be tremendous: fully a third as much as the entire Associated chain was currently producing. Now, he regretted pulling those strings over at the SEC and getting that audit under way. It would be more impressive if he came in and played the hero without the mandates of an accounting enema. Maybe he could get the audit postponed, seeing as the company's CFO was dead. That was certainly a good reason to hold off for a while, maybe until next spring. It shouldn't be too difficult to arrange. Government flunkies never passed up a chance to put off until tomorrow, and by that time he'd have gobbled up the stock and there'd be no need for an audit. That's what he'd do. The board at Rosenbloom & Starr would love it, and the public embarrassment of Starr's arrest would be over quickly. Just an executive who'd snapped, they'd say in the press, an unfortunate incident from which they could disassociate themselves by selling out. Meanwhile, they'd be viewed as working in the best interest of their shareholders by allowing the friendly takeover, especially after they learned how badly Starr had screwed up the company. All they had to do was look at the numbers. Manufactured or not, the expenses were through the roof, and the value of their shares was down through the floor. Morty mentally rehearsed his lines for the emergency board meeting tomorrow.

"Look at these financial statements, ladies and gentlemen. Based on these numbers, there's no reason to think the price of your stock is going to rise anytime in the near future. Your stockholders will be none too happy if something doesn't happen soon. I can save your company, if you'll let me, but in order to execute my plan I must be in complete control." They'd go for it. Then, he'd put in his own people and dump the losers who were in there now. As a bonus, it would give him a convenient opportunity to take care of Leona and he'd never have to listen to her whining again. She sure did give good head though. Speaking of head, where was the girl from the escort service? Thinking about acquiring Rosenbloom & Starr was giving him a hard-on.

* * * * *

Johnny Gold—short for Goldstein—checked his receipts as he rode the elevator: plane ticket stub, cab receipts, lunch and dinner receipts: they were all there. He added the receipt from the Mayflower and glanced at the babe four feet away who was adjusting her makeup. Hooker, he thought. She dressed well: nice jacket—fox, he observed—nice shoes, sexy dress; smelled good too. She wasn't one of the girls from down the block that worked K Street, but she was a hooker just the same. She must have felt his gaze because she shut the compact and smiled a lipsticked smile that only a hooker would cast at a stranger.

Nice teeth, thought Johnny. "Got an appointment?" he asked. No sense being unfriendly.

"Just going to see an old friend who's in town," she replied coyly.

Uh-huh. The elevator stopped at her floor—eight—the same floor Morty was on, Johnny noted. "You have a good night," he said politely as she stepped from the elevator. He noticed the business card on the floor after she left. That was her way of advertising, he guessed, subtle, but effective. He picked it up, noting instantly that it was perfumed, and saw that his instincts were right on the money. The only information there was her name and phone number: Chantelle—202-291-0001, along with Major Credit Cards Accepted. He mindlessly pocketed the card, thinking about getting to his room quickly, then coming back to get the lay of the land around room 812.

* * * * *

Chantelle knocked softly and saw someone looking at her through the peephole. "I'm Chantelle," she said as Morty opened the door. He tried to be chivalrous by kissing her hand. It didn't work. Cheap-ass moneygrubber, she thought instantly. "Are you Morty?"

"The one and only," he answered. "You're not what I ordered. Where's Natasha?"

"Natasha had another appointment. Do you want me to leave?"

"I was in the mood for some dark meat tonight, but you'll do. Turn around." He watched as she removed the jacket and turned for his examination. "You want a drink?"

"I don't drink while I'm on the job." She tried to smile. Dark meat? This one's a real charmer.

"On the job," he repeated dryly. "Well then, business is business, right? How much?"

"Didn't the appointment service go over the rates?"

"I like to negotiate my own rates."

"You a cop? You look like a cop."

"I'm no cop."

"Are you sure you're not a cop?"

"You wanna do this, or you wanna fuck around?"

"Don't get so uptight. I gotta ask, you know? So, what'dya want, baby?" He told her. "That's a hundred, plus seventy-five an hour for the escort fee."

"I'll give you a hundred and a quarter, total."

She knew it. "One fifty, bottom line," she said, "and it's an extra fifty if you wanna come in the mouth, okay? And don't try to sneak it. I can tell when it's on the way."

* * * * *

In the building across the street, Johnny Gold held up the fake detective badge and checked to be sure he'd put the tool kit in his coat pocket.

The old security guard unlocked the heavy glass door. "What can I do for you officer?"

"Alarm ringing on eight," Johnny said officially.

Warily, the guard said, "You guys usually send uniforms for that."

"Yeah, but I was smack dab in front of the building when the call came through. Thought I'd just take it and get it over with. Probably a false alarm anyway. Most of 'em are. Where's the elevator, gramps?"

"Who's ringin'?"

Johnny glanced at the floor directory, which luckily happened to be just inside the entrance. He fumbled for a second as if searching for a piece of paper, and pulled out the hooker's card. Looking at it as if he'd written something on the back, he called out the first name listed on the eighth floor. "Beekman, Fuller, & Moore."

"Didn't know they had a system," said the old guard.

"Probably new," said Johnny. "We get lots of false alarms on new systems. This won't take long. Just wanna check it out real quick.

CHAPTER 10... Tender Offer

"I want you to tell her, that's what. She thinks I'm... you know."

"They call it gay, Crash."

"Whatever. You've known all along that's what she thought and you didn't set her straight? How could you do that to me, man? I thought we were bros."

"Hey, I hardly know her. Besides, it's none of my business. Why don't you tell her yourself?"

Crash frowned. "She's ticked off at me again."

"Now what?"

"I tried to fool her into thinking we had sex after the Christmas party. It was like a practical joke thing."

Truthful looked at him sideways. "First of all, that may not have been the brightest thing you've ever done. Second, how do you fool someone into thinking they had sex?"

"It's a long story, but it backfired."

"Okay, I'll bite. How did it backfire?"

"Well, the short version is: she got drunk, and—"

"That's all? I figure she'd have to shoot heroin to have sex with you."

"Are you finished?"

"I think so. I just had to get that in."

"Anyway, there was no way she was gonna drive home all the way to Woodbridge, so I took her back to my place and put her to bed."

"What a gentleman."

"I guess she got naked, and—"

Truthful perked up. "She was naked?"

"Sort of... under her t-shirt."

"How did she get naked under her t-shirt?"

"If you'd shut up a minute, I'll tell you." Truthful zipped his lips and Crash filled him in on the rest of the night, ending with, "Nothing happened, man. I didn't see her naked, and I didn't touch her."

It took Truthful a couple of. "Oh, I get it: she was naked, and you didn't touch her, so you figure she still thinks you're—"

"Right. C'mon, help me out here... buddy." Truthful looked at his watch and got up. "Where are you going?"

"I've gotta call the Springfield Mall store and make sure Kelly made it in tonight. If he didn't I'm gonna have to go down and cover. I'll be right back."

Crash watched him walk off, thinking about how a rumor about him being gay could have gotten started. It was the way he looked, he acknowledged secretly. He'd always been thin, and his light complexion had always made him look frail—okay, effeminate—but he'd outgrown that; or at least he thought he had. That was one of the reasons he'd gone to work in the warehouse years ago. He figured shoving furniture around would bulk him up, and it had, but not enough, evidently. The ten pounds he'd added since his warehouse days still didn't look like much stretched along his lean frame. He wished he were as big as Truthful.

Truthful had it all. Sure, he'd faced some adversity, having had to raise a little brother and all, but that was over now. Justice had a job and was doing well at Howard, and despite the fact that Truthful was always broke because of the tuition bills, his life was cooking along pretty well. It didn't hurt that he was black either. He was being pushed along in management like a train going downhill. Not like his own career, Crash reflected. After six years, he was only a department manager and he could take one of two paths. He could hope to get into the buying office as an assistant buyer and eventually work his way up to buyer—of which there were only twelve—or, he could stay in the stores and eventually work his way up to become the manager of... who really gives a damn? The buying office is where he wanted to be, and he knew he had what it took to do the job.

Any schmuck could pick goods that were fashionable—the manufacturers took care of that—but good buyers were able to pick styles that would sell. Fads were tricky. Sometimes they'd last for a couple of years, and sometimes they'd last a couple of weeks. The idea was to pick goods that people could wear every day, while at the same time giving the stores an image of being cutting edge. It was a fine line, and Crash knew he had the eye to make the distinction—if he could only get the chance.

Truthful reappeared. They were at the bar inside Henrietta's off Dupont Circle. "It would sound different coming from you," Crash said, resuming the conversation.

Truthful looked at his watch again and suddenly acted as if he was in a hurry. "Is this the serious talk you wanted to have?"

"No."

"What then? I've gotta get going pretty soon."

"What's the rush?"

"I've still got some work to do at home. MacHune is still all over me about the shrink figure from the midyear inventory."

"He can't pin that on you."

"Tell him that. He's on me like stink on a skunk."

"What did he say?"

"Something like, 'Maybe you'd better review the quality of your people, Mister Williams, and make sure they know what the hell they're doing.'"

"That doesn't sound good, bro."

"No kidding. You know, it's amazing how you cut right to the heart of things."

"Is that a slam?"

Truthful chuckled. "Yeah, it's a slam. Listen, I gotta go soon."

"One more beer, okay?"

"A quick one." Truthful held up two fingers.

"Didn't you try to defend yourself with MacHune?"

"Damned right I did. I asked him if he knew how much twenty million bucks worth of merchandise was. It's not possible for that much to walk out under peoples' coats. I mean, we'd be having trucks hijacked if that number was accurate. It has to be coming from paper problems."

"But he didn't buy it, I assume."

"Actually, he said he was looking into that, but in the meantime, 'make sure you're people are doing the job,' he says." The beers came. "Let's get to the serious talk."

Crash looked around to see if anyone could hear them. "I think I heard a conversation I wasn't supposed to hear."

"Yeah? About what?"

"You remember the chat we had last week about me talking to Mercedes about the position in the buying office? Well, I made an appointment to see her yesterday, and while I was there I needed to use the phone for a second. Ginny—you know, the secretary—says, 'Use mine.' So...." Crash went on to tell about the conversation he heard between Leona and the male voice he didn't recognize.

Truthful was hunched over the bar, clinging to every word. "Are you saying Leona Ribling is passing information about the company to someone on the outside?"

"Sure sounded like it to me."

"Are you sure about this? That's a pretty serious accusation."

"It gets better. The first thing I heard when it dawned on me that it was Leona, she said something like, 'You didn't have to kill him.'"

"Who were they talking about?"

Crash tapped himself on the head. "Think, security boy. Who just kicked the bucket?"

"Hatcherson?" Truthful put his hands out like he was trying to hold down air. "Wait a minute. You're saying Leona was talking to someone who had Hatcherson... killed?"

"I'm not sure. The other voice never admitted to it. That's when he called her a dumb bitch—which she is by the way."

"Never mind that. Do you have any idea about the other voice? Did you get a name?"

"Not a clue. All I got is what I just said. That, and the fact that she was supposed to send him some report that sounded like it was pretty important to him. Oh, and one more thing: they had a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"That's almost the best part." Crash waved his hands as if to dismiss what he'd already said as trivial. "Supposedly, the person Leona was talking to was going to take care of getting rid of Mercedes and putting her in as GMM."

Truthful recoiled in his seat. "Crash, are you sure about this?" he asked dubiously.

"Well, I'm sure I heard the words deal, GMM job, and do something about Mercedes. I'm sure about that."

"Did you tell Mercedes?"

"Are you kidding? I hauled ass. Haven't told a soul, except you right now."

"If what you say is true—"

"I know what I heard, man."

"Yeah, okay. Then that means Mister Starr didn't kill Hatcherson—doesn't it?"

Crash took a gulp of his beer. "Probably so."

"Do you think someone's trying to frame him for Hatcherson's murder?"

"Probably so," Crash said again. "Who do we tell?"

Contemplating, "I don't think we tell anyone right now," Truthful answered. "I think I'd like to check something out tomorrow."

* * * * *

"Mister Crandall! I don't think you understand me!" Leona yelled in her craggiest, most condescending voice. "I'm not asking you to do it, I'm telling you to do it! Now do you understand me?"

In a way, Crash was relieved. She was just threatening him about Ramona. Earlier, when he'd gotten her phone call, he was convinced she'd become aware that he'd listened in on her phone conversation with the voice.

"And what do you propose I put down as a reason?" he asked belligerently. "The fact that you don't like her isn't reason enough to fire her in my book."

"I told you, goddamn it! For insubordination! What are you, some kind of fucking idiot?"

She was so angry she was quivering, but he had deaf ears. "That's uncalled for, Leona."

"You're disobeying me!"

"Who do you think you are, my mother?"

"Fire her, damn it, or you're next!"

"Don't make threats you can't fulfill," Crash shouted. Then, sensing he was on thin ice despite the irrationality of what she was asking him to do, "Why don't we talk about this another time before this conversation gets any uglier." He got up to leave, adding under his breath, "Although it would be tough for anything to get uglier in this room."

What! That's it, Mister Crandall! Pack your bags! You'll be out of here faster than you can blink for that remark!"

"Yeah? What are you gonna do? Have your friend take care of me just like he's supposed to take care of Mercedes?" It slipped, but it was out. He couldn't take it back. The look on her face told him she knew exactly what he meant. She froze.

"Get out of here Mister Crandall. Your pink slip will be forthcoming."

Opening the door to escape from her now breath-befouled office, he turned to lob one last insult grenade. "Hey Leona," he said insolently. He had nothing to lose. "If I was less of a professional, I might just tell you to kiss my ass, but I would never say that."

It didn't faze her a bit. "That'd be the first time a girl put her lips on your body," she snapped back just as insolently.

He hadn't expected that. Now, it was war! He slammed the door and heard something fall off the wall and break. Well, he thought, that was a chummy little visit. He was toast. He wondered if she could indeed get him fired, and even if she couldn't he could kiss off any chance of ever getting into the buying office as long as she was around. He was still fuming when he stepped off the elevator and stomped through the department and into the stockroom. He grabbed his coat and stomped back out.

"Where are you going?" Ramona asked curiously.

"I'm going to lunch."

"But it's only nine-thirty in the morning."

"I'm hungry," he called over his shoulder, thinking he might just take the rest of the day off.

* * * * *

In room 627, Morty stood in his boxer shorts in front of the full-length mirror, holding up a blue serge suit, then a gray one with chalky pinstripes. He was running late but he didn't care. The lapels on the gray pinstripe were flared just a little too much for such a serious meeting; conservative would be better. He settled on a burgundy club tie and cordovan wing tips, adding diamond cuff links. He was appearing before some very powerful men, men who made decisions, men that other men respected—men like him, except for the fact that they were probably all gentiles. That dago Starr probably went out of his way to make sure of that.

He reviewed the names in his head: Joe Alminton, Chairman of Mercantile Bank; Lou Hollinger, President of the National Urban Council and token black on the board; Sam McKenzie, Executive Director of the Hirshhorn Gallery; and some other greaseball named Tony Lopresti who was probably Starr's connection to the Mafia. Then there was some broad and a couple of other names he couldn't remember, but that wasn't important. He would be the center of attention today. They would be listening to him. He was the savior. He had the plan.

There was a knock on the door and Morty checked his watch. It was probably Leibermann, his executive vice president. Quickly, he slipped one leg into the trousers of the blue serge, noticing what looked to be a drop of blood on the front of his white boxer shorts. How'd that get there, he wondered. He pulled up his pants and hopped to the door to let Leibermann in.

"We're late," said Leibermann. "The meeting starts in ten minutes."

"Who cares?" Morty responded. "They'll wait."

Twenty minutes later, inside the cab on their way to the offices of Rosenbloom & Starr, Morty asked, "You got the list of stores?"

"Yeah," Leibermann said hesitantly.

"What's the matter?" Morty asked.

Cautiously, Leibermann said, "I think we should reconsider this proposal. I'm not sure their board will go for the idea of closing ten stores right away, especially not the ones on this list. We need to remember that the board members are all locals and these stores are important fixtures in their communities. And they mean jobs. We might be underestimating their sentimental value."

"Sentimental value my ass. We're not going to have stores in those spade neighborhoods. Besides, we could use the money." Morty just glared when the black cab driver turned around.

Leibermann countered, "I would think that all the stores we're talking about are profitable. If I'm not mistaken, the locations are free and clear. The income they'd produce in the long run would probably be more than we could generate by selling them, provided we could even find a buyer for the buildings—in those spade neighborhoods."

"Listen Leibermann, that's the plan. Got it? Now, pay the driver." Morty stepped from the cab. He, Morton J. Levine, Chairman of the Board of Associated Department Stores of America, had made a decision and no pipsqueak executive VP was going to question him on it.

At exactly 11:51 a.m., Morty was finishing his proposal to save Rosenbloom &Starr from certain bankruptcy. "And so gentlemen, and lady—we can't forget you women's libbers, can we?" he added spontaneously, but the humor was lost. "I believe this plan will effectively extricate Rosenbloom & Starr from the current financial woes caused by the poor decisions of current management. You must approve my tender offer for an additional 26.4 percent share, and let the company become part of the Associated family. I know the prospect of closing stores is a painful one, but it's a decision that must be made if we are to save this company. Let's consider it a little corrective surgery." Morty smiled. He was glowing inside, sensing victory when the voice rang out from the back of the room, resonating off the walls.

"There's an old saying that says when a fish stinks, it stinks from the head down." Gino Starr strode confidently to the podium, forcing Morty to step aside. Waiting for the commotion to subside, he looked each of his board of directors in the eye before continuing. "Associated Department Stores of America won't exist as an organization by this time next year. It will be the biggest retail bankruptcy in the history of the United States."

* * * * *

The doubts began to rise again. Keep your head, Truthful told himself. Be cool; be certain of your information. Crash's word was good enough for him, but it probably wouldn't be good enough for anyone else. It would be Crash's word against Leona's if it came out now, and Leona would probably come out on top in that contest. After all, she was a respected executive, and Crash was just a lowly department manager with a smart mouth and a less than saintly reputation. Still, he knew that Crash was telling the truth, and someone had to do something or Mister Starr was going down for a murder he didn't commit. What they needed was to find out was who was on the other end of the phone with Leona.

The beam from Truthful's flashlight pierced the darkness inside Leona's office. In succession, various objects appeared in its halo of light: in basket, phone, calendar, legal pad, print outs—where the hell was it? He checked the étagère beside the desk. Not there. Then the credenza—pictures, paperweight with snow on the inside, pen and pencil set. There! Truthful pulled a pen and pad from his pocket. Following the flashlight beam to the credenza, he bathed the Rolodex cards in concentrated light as he flipped them one by one. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but something told him it was in front of him. Surely, the person Leona had been talking to had a phone number. The As went by. Nothing suspicious there. All the names had company names and addresses listed with them, neatly typed, dog-eared, obviously well used. Then the Bs. Nothing there. Under C, Truthful noticed a name, alone, a first name only, with a phone number underneath. He wrote it down, deciding to call the number the next day and find out who it was. Continuing, he carefully examined each card, looking for any clue that the card was somehow inappropriate for a business Rolodex. L, M, N, one by one Truthful flipped through the cards, writing down names and numbers, intending to call and find out who was on the other end. Nothing looked overtly suspicious. He opened the drawers to the credenza, briefly examining the contents inside each one. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. Credenza doors: just a pair of beat up shoes inside, on top of some printout binders. Then the desk: pens, sticky notes, rulers. Right drawer: order forms, blank purchase orders, forms, legal pads. Middle drawer: more stuff, and a stack of business cards with a rubber band around them. He removed the rubber band and examined each card, again looking for something that would ring his bell. To what kind of person or organization would Leona send a report?

Crash did say report, didn't he? What kind of report? A written report? A computer report? Who would want a report from a buyer's office? A vendor? A competitor?

He rewrapped the business cards in the rubber band, continuing to paw through the loose junk inside the drawer. There, another business card, loose. Picking it up, Truthful noted the name: Morton J. Levine. Underneath was printed Chief Executive Officer. Then, he saw that the card was from Associated Department Stores of America. That was a huge outfit, he thought. It was the company that owned all those department store chains around the country. He knew that because a company in Dayton that was owned by Associated had offered him a job a while back. Truthful fingered the card, flipping it over. That's when he noticed, Home: 212-837-6466, written on the back. Now why in the world would Leona Ribling have the home number for the chief executive officer of Associated Department Stores of America inside her desk? Maybe they were personal friends. Maybe. He wrote down the information from the card, and put it back where he'd found it. His search completed, Truthful gingerly turned the doorknob and shut off the flashlight, easing his way into the darkened hallway. He turned and looked straight into the surprised faces of Mercedes Flores and Vance MacHune.

"See, it wasn't my imagination," MacHune said to Mercedes. "I did see light flash from the crack under that door." He turned and looked at the flashlight in Truthful's hand. "What the hell were you doing in there?"

CHAPTER 11... The Velvet Room

Sitting in the back of the spacious Cadillac limo, Tony Lopresti's thoughts centered on the Pan Am flight and the cute stewardess who kept smiling at him and asking him if he needed anything. At first he didn't give it much thought, but after it happened for the third time the guy next to him nudged him and said, "Get her room number. They usually stay at the Holiday Inn." Obviously he'd noticed too.

"They have a Holiday Inn in Seoul?"

"They have anything you want in Seoul. Anything," the traveler added with a sly grin. He sounded experienced.

The traveler was right. She was staying at the Holiday Inn and her name was Michelle something, and Tony wondered how hard it would be to get a cab from wherever he was going to wherever the Holiday Inn was.

The streets passed quickly and they could just as well have been in New York City. He didn't expect skyscrapers. Then again, he didn't know what to expect, half-thinking he was going someplace where the people lived in shacks and traveled in rickshaws. Didn't people use rickshaws in Korea, or was that China? Oh well, it didn't matter. He probably wouldn't have the opportunity to use one anyway.

They were traveling next to a river, or maybe it was the ocean, but whatever it was there were tankers and cargo ships, huge ones, all along it, with cranes lifting and dropping loads into them like a mommy bird feeding her chicks. The car slowed and the driver said something in Korean as he pointed through the frosted side window. Tony turned, and the entire window was blue, taken up by the mammoth blue ship with the name Jong painted clearly on the bow. It looked brand new, like a huge plastic model that had just been freshly painted. The driver pointed to another big blue boat in the distance, and yet another as they resumed speed. Tony shook his head to indicate he didn't understand what the driver was saying. From the front passenger seat, his other escort turned and spoke for the first time since the airport.

"He says those three ships are our newest ones and that they are completely containerized." His English was quite good.

Tony had no idea what that meant, but tried to act impressed. Best behavior, Gino had told him. "Don't refuse anything they offer you to eat or drink, and do whatever they do. If they bow, you bow. If they sit, you sit. Got the picture?"

Speaking of food, he was starving. He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, and according to his watch it was tomorrow. He was still on Los Angeles time. He'd heard once that they ate dogs in Korea.

The limo pulled off, taking a sharp hairpin exit off the road. They passed a towering glass building and made their way through a huge plaza where people whipped around on bicycles, bundled up against the cold December air. They retreated politely into their own special lane in the roadway to make room for the limo. Abruptly, the wide boulevard became a narrow street where hundreds of signs protruded over the sidewalks in total disarray. Squiggly letters flashed and blinked, and neon-rimmed shapes glowed and fluttered through the dingy gloom. They had just entered another world. Smells from the street infiltrated the Cadillac's ventilation system, and Tony detected the odors of smoky grilled meat and the sour smell of urine in alternate breaths. The car rocked from side to side as it poked along through walls of people that all acted like they were in a hurry.

"Where are we going?" Tony asked as the car burrowed further and further into the tunnel of darkness formed by the looming buildings on either side of them.

"We have arrived," the English-speaking passenger announced. "Jong headquarters."

The Cadillac stopped in front of a shabby building with worn wooden steps jutting out to the sidewalk. The steps led to a dark rectangular hole where, Tony assumed, was a door. Two black-suited Koreans emerged, looking like little Korean hit men, and helped Tony from the back seat. This was it? Gino had told him Jong International was a multi-billion dollar company. They couldn't do business from this dump.

"You are hungry, yes?" the English-speaking escort asked.

Tony noticed for the first time that the man had an earplug stuck in his ear. "Yes," he answered tentatively, imagining himself poking into an unfamiliar stew and pulling out a cube of meat he didn't recognize.

Inside, the tenement was as dark and dingy as it was on the outside. Tony followed his escorts down a creaky hallway where a couple of bare light bulbs tried to make a difference. Closed doors lined the entire length of the hallway, and they stopped at a final door where a stunningly pretty Korean woman with perfect teeth greeted him.

"Mister Lopresti," she said in perfect English, "We've been expecting you. Mister Jong is waiting." Tony followed her, noticing that she was wearing a perfectly cut, bone colored business suit, clearly expensive and very westernized.

"Love your suit," he said, making small talk as she escorted him along another hallway, this one lined with brightly-lit offices with whirring machines and busy Korean people inside.

"It's one of yours," she said. "We make it for you."

"Ah," he said, realizing that she thought he was from Rosenbloom & Starr, which in a way he was. He said nothing further as she led him to yet another door in this strange maze. She knocked softly and then turned and left wordlessly. The door swung open as if a spirit were doing the work.

Inside, a small, spectacled Korean man was seated at a round table in the middle of the room. The table was draped in red and black velvet cloths that extended to the floor, and he seemed to be meditating. As Tony stepped inside, his feet sank into plush black carpeting that reached halfway up the walls, where it was met by draped folds of brilliant red velvet; black designs slashed across its shimmering surface. Tony stepped closer as the door closed behind him, thinking this was one of the strangest rooms he'd ever seen. So far, the whole trip was weird and off key. What the hell was Gino into?

Woo-Min Jong motioned to the other side of the round table. "Please sit down Mister Lopresti. We have a lot to talk about."

Tony took note of Woo-Min's traditional pinstriped suit and expensive striped tie. Except for the Korean eyes, he looked just like any successful American executive would look.

"I am sorry to hear about Mister Hatcherson's death. It is a most disturbing development." Woo-Min motioned for an invisible attendant to come forward, who did so, holding a tray. "Jim Beam on the rocks, correct?"

"Right." Tony took the drink and motioned a toast. It was two o'clock in the morning on his body clock and a stiff drink would taste pretty good right about now. "That's why I'm here. Gino is concerned that the entire plan will fall apart."

"Nonsense," said Jong, his voice absorbed almost immediately by the velvet room. "We must go forward."

Another attendant emerged from obscurity carrying a tray of cups filled with morsels of various kinds. Jong motioned for Tony to help himself, and Tony did so, taking the chopsticks and capturing what looked to be a piece of barbecued meat. He popped it into his mouth. It was delicious. He hoped it wasn't German Shepard or something.

"This is an opportunity," Jong said. "Mister Levine's avarice will come back to haunt him. As I have told my friend Gino Starr, Associated Department Stores of America will crumble, and we will be there to pick up the pieces if we stay the course. We must be patient."

"So the $150 million still stands?"

"It's $148 million now."

"Right," Tony noted, remembering that two million went for Gino's bail. "What if the murder charge sticks?"

"It won't. As we speak, I am making arrangements to avoid that problem. You may reassure my friend Gino Starr that I will solve that mystery, but he must repay me for my effort."

"How?"

"I will let him know in due time. In the meantime I will make arrangements for the funds to be ready and accessible so that you may strike quickly when the price is right."

The little cups were taken away and replaced by dishes of squiggly looking things that Tony looked at suspiciously, as if he were expecting them to move. "What is this?" he asked, trying not to be insulting.

Jong smiled and snapped his fingers. Literally thirty seconds later a still sizzling filet mignon appeared, along with a salad and baked potato.

Much better, thought Tony. "How long will it take to get the money together?"

"It will take another day or so to make sure the checks will be untraceable. That is yet to be arranged. You are able to stay, of course."

"No problem," said Tony, taking a bite of his food and thinking was the best steak he'd ever tasted. Remembering the stewardess with the pretty smile, he asked, "By the way, where is the Holiday Inn?"

"Ah, you have a friend you would like to visit," Jong assumed. "Tell me her name and I will have her brought to you. You will have a playmate for the next couple of days, Mister Lopresti. I'll arrange it."

"Actually, I think she flies out tomorrow."

"Don't worry about that," Jong said confidently. "I'll arrange it."

* * * * *

Smugly, Johnny Gold twirled one of the few curls on his balding head and sucked up on the Johnny Walker Black. It was only ten-thirty in the morning, but he made the most of it. What the hell, she could afford it. He watched her eyes carefully, waiting for the smug laughter that always came when he produced just the right pictures—pictures that would undoubtedly cause the settlement to suddenly be much more generous. He was waiting to hear, "Good job," and the offer of a five hundred dollar bonus—a pittance considering that pictures like these usually earned his lady clients at least another million. Instead, Myra yelled, "Shit!" for the third time.

"Something wrong?" Johnny asked, disturbed by her lack of enthusiasm. He hoped he wouldn't have to do it all over again. If he did, he'd be sure to jack the expenses on this surly witch. She was always quibbling about his expenses.

"You idiot! You don't have any with his face in the picture!" Myra threw the stack of pictures on the table and tightened the belt on her white satin robe with the fuzzy white cuffs.

Johnny looked at the first picture on the stack. It was one of the hooker with the fox coat he'd seen in the elevator at the Mayflower. "I didn't have a lot of time," said Johnny, offended that this wench would question the quality of his work. "That's all I could get. Besides, what's the problem? That's his dick in the picture, ain't it?"

"Yeah it's his, but what are we gonna do? Have him drop his pants in court so we can compare his cock to the one in the picture?"

"Listen, I've done this lots of times. These pictures are gonna earn you a lotta money. You show these to your lawyer and I'll be back in a week or so with some more. Don't worry, okay? I'll get you what you want." What the hell. It would be easy work, and he'd be sure to tack on an extra day or two. Johnny Gold swaggered, or staggered—it was hard to tell which—out the door, his polyester suit shiny with the grime that came from wearing it twelve days in a row.

The sleazebag was milking her for money, thought Myra, but if he came back with what she wanted, the extra seven or eight hundred would be worth it if she could be assured that she'd get the house and at least half of the millions in their various accounts. That, plus the Jaguar and whatever alimony she could squeeze out would be sufficient, even though she knew the alimony wouldn't last forever. Morty always reneged on his commitments. It was the way he did business. By that time though, maybe she'd have found another sugar daddy, one with a big wallet—and a big wanger to match. If not, there were plenty of Roto-Rooter guys around. Myra picked up the phone and dialed the offices of Sachs, Pfieffer, Del Gallo, and Moore to let her lawyer know about the pictures.

"That's perfect," the lawyer said. "He'll settle out of court just to avoid the embarrassment. They could prove to be quite harmful to him if, say, his board of directors happened to get hold of them."

Myra hadn't thought of that, and she was thankful she'd picked a lawyer who was just as sleazy and devious as the private detective. Next she dialed the office of Doctor Bergman, impatiently drumming her bubblegum pink nails while she waited for Bergman's receptionist to answer. She'd tried to think of a plausible excuse for what she was about to ask. Tears and sobs would get her through right away, she figured.

"This is Myra Levine," she said, sobbing and sniffling and slurping into the phone as convincingly as she could. "I need to talk to Doctor Bergman right away. It's an, slurp, an emergency!" She imagined there couldn't be too many emergencies in a gynecologist's office. Sure enough, Doctor Bergman came on the line immediately.

"Is everything all right, Mrs. Levine?"

"I'm afraid that I, slurp, lost the bottle of penicillin. I don't know what I did with it."

"Oh is that all? Well, just come on down and I'll give you another prescription. You can pick it up at the receptionist's window."

"Oh, thank you Doctor. You don't know, slurp, how much I, slurp, slurp, appreciate it."

"It's no problem. By the way, did you tell your husband to have himself checked out?"

"Yes, it's, slurp, all taken care of," said Myra, certain that by now Morty had a good dose of the clap.

* * * * *

...Starr has maintained his innocence since his arrest last Saturday night. Out on two million dollars bail, Starr maintains that he was framed, and he intends to prove his innocence beyond the shadow of a doubt. In a dramatic board meeting in the offices of Rosenbloom & Starr yesterday, Starr predicted that rival organization Associated Department Stores of America would be bankrupt within a year. In his words, "It will be the biggest retail bankruptcy in the history of the United States." Chairman of Associated Department Stores, Morton J. Levine, could not be reached for comment.

It was a small blurb on page seven of the Wall Street Journal, and not at all like the sensational headlines on the front page of the Washington Post. He hadn't seen the Times, but Morty determined that it didn't matter what the Times said. The business community already knew all the gory details, and the price of R & S stock was beginning to shoot up like mercury in a hot thermometer. That pompous guinea bastard was going to make it difficult for him, to say the least. Morty banged out Leibermann's extension on the phone. "Where the hell is the price of the stock now?" he asked furiously.

"Last quote on the ticker was a twenty-six and a quarter."

"Shit!" Morty barked. "Get in here! Now!" He calculated that it would now cost him an extra $11.5 million dollars to acquire an additional 26.4 percent of R & S stock. For every buck the stock went up, it would cost approximately another $3.8 million, and the stock had just begun to move. The word takeover was like pouring blood into the water. It drew sharks from miles away, and pretty soon it would be a feeding frenzy. The institutional traders would buy blocks of R & S stock at any price, looking to make a killing in the short term. That action alone would drive the stock up by a third; and if enough of the institutional traders latched on to big blocks, they could squeeze his nuts to make a deal with another investor. By the time it was all said and done, Morty figured the stock would double—hit thirty-five at least—and he'd have made a bunch of the stockbroker cocksuckers rich—for a while, at least—while he bent over and took it up the ass. Of course, he could always walk away from the deal, but then Starr would launch his faked annual report, the price of the stock would fall through the floor, and Starr would be there to scarf up enough shares to take control—if he could get the money. At that point, he could try to move first, Morty calculated, but then it might become a bidding war. Meanwhile, he wouldn't be able sell the shares he already had. As soon as he put them on the market—indicating that the takeover attempt was dead—he'd be lucky to get back what he'd paid for them.

Leibermann came in and interrupted Morty's thoughts by handing him a copy of the New York Times. It only served to add fuel to Morty's incendiary mood.

Smashing his hand upward into the paper, Morty sent the sheets into the air like giant New York Times confetti. "Where the hell did that prick get two million bucks to bail himself out?"

"We don't know," Leibermann answered. "All we could find out was that some Chinese guy showed up with the two million in cash."

"Chinese? What's the connection?"

"Well, Chinese or Japanese—something. The guy showed up with a suitcase full of hundreds. We've got someone on it now trying to find out who put up the money."

Morty's mind churned. What possible connections could Starr have? The guy with the cash was probably a messenger boy, which meant that someone else had an interest in Rosenbloom & Starr. Maybe someone else was looking to launch a takeover. Suddenly, Morty's mood brightened. That would mean that he would be in a position to make a killing as well. If someone else mounted a takeover attempt, it would mean that his block of R & S stock would suddenly become very valuable, wouldn't it? He could walk away from his own takeover attempt and make a fortune; and the higher the stock was bid up, the more he'd make. A competitive takeover attempt could be perfect for him. He'd bid up the price of the stock. That's what he'd do, and one of two things would happen. Either he'd get enough to take over Rosenbloom & Starr, or he'd sell his block to the competitive bidder and make millions, no, tens of millions. Either way he'd be a hero. But the millions would be made for Associated, wouldn't they? How could he get blocks of stock into his name without it being insider trading? There had to be a way.

"Is anyone else bidding up the price of the stock?" Morty demanded.

"Not that we're aware of," said Leibermann. "It's just rising on speculation right now."

"Sweeten the pot," Morty instructed. "Go to thirty."

Leibermann's face said everything, but Morty wasn't looking. He was standing before one of the rectangular windows of his New York office, silhouetted against dense charcoal-colored clouds that seemed to be hovering only feet away.

"If we do that, it'll send it to thirty-five in a heartbeat," said Leibermann. "Besides, it may be looked upon as a hostile move. We haven't convinced their board to sell out yet, you know, especially after Starr's theatrics yesterday."

"Just do it!" Morty roared.

Leibermann retreated, shaking his head just as Morty's secretary poked her head into the office. "There's a Ms. Ribling on the line, sir. She says it's important, but she won't tell me what company she's with. She sounds rather concerned about something. Would you like to take the call?"

"Put her through," Morty said with some irritation. He walked to his desk and waited for the phone to ring. Then, he thought of it. That stupid bitch would do anything to get that GMM job. Hell, she'd sucked him off for it more than once; what the hell was buying a little stock compared to that? The call came through.

Her voice shaky with tension, Leona said, "Someone knows what you're trying to do."

"About what?" Morty asked guardedly, not quite sure what she driving at.

"Someone here knows that you're going to get rid of Mercedes."

Is that all? Sometimes these people thought the most trivial things were so damned important. Brushing aside her concern, he said, "Forget about that. I want you to do something for me. Do you own any R & S stock?"

"Yes, a little."

"Well, you're about to add substantially to your holdings."

* * * * *

Leila brought the box containing the gift wrapped presents into the conference room, placing it in front of the empty chair where Gino normally sat. She then proceeded to do as she normally did for a senior staff meeting. She put out two decanters of coffee and a tray of donuts, both of which were far too much for the senior staff, which now consisted of Mercedes Flores and Vance MacHune. Mindi Blakemore had decided that Skip Antonucci's departure was just too inhuman and unprofessional for her to stand, so she'd given notice.

There was no agenda on the table. None would be needed for this meeting. MacHune and Mercedes sat quietly, waiting and speculating separately about how Gino would approach the obvious topic of discussion.

Mercedes squirmed as she reviewed her resume in her head. It was fairly current, she thought. All she had to do was add her eleven months—actually it would be a year next week—at Rosenbloom & Starr, and it would be ready to go. She really didn't know if the title General Merchandise Manager would look good on the resume or not, depending on how the takeover battle played out. It was all over the papers.

Somehow, the status of Rosenbloom & Starr's current financial situation had been discovered. Specifically, the fact that the store had been declaring heavy losses had been written about six ways from Sunday. She pondered whether or not any prospective employers would put some of the blame on her shoulders. She'd better be prepared to explain it anyway, she decided as she debated whether or not she should make a copy of the company's latest statement. That way she could show that she'd done her part—the margins were strong. Then, dismissing the thought, she decided that revealing company figures would be unprofessional. Where would she end up? Marshall Field? I. Magnin? Wanamaker's, maybe? Someplace warm would be nice. Maybe Miami.

MacHune absentmindedly chewed the end of a Bic pen almost swallowing the little blue plug. Defiantly, he spat the piece of plastic into his hand. He would have spat it across the room had Mercedes not been there, his anger clearly evident. It was all bottled up inside him, ready to explode like a shotgun shell and blast toward some target, some villain, for surely someone else besides Gino was behind all this. Gino would never let the ship sink. He was too good a captain. But it sure seemed as if it was going down, especially after what Truthful had told him. For himself, it would be the same whether he looked for work now, or if he waited it out, whether he left voluntarily, or was fired. The idea of moving somewhere else to take a job was so foreign that the thought never really entered his head. His children and grandchildren were here. His life was here. Hell, the store was his life now. That, and his beloved farm in Leesburg. No, if Rosenbloom & Starr went down, he'd go down with it, scratching, kicking, and swinging all the way, content with the knowledge that if he lost the battle he might be shoveling horseshit and mowing hay the rest of his life. He wondered how much a bushel of sweet corn was going for these days.

Gino's entrance roused MacHune and Mercedes from their respective funks. He looked haggard, his permanent tan faded like colored sheets that had been washed a hundred times. The fabric of his confident personality was strained and threadbare. In subdued tone, he called for Leila to join them, and quietly handed out three packages from the box Leila had put on the conference table a few moments earlier.

"Please open them before I speak," he said somberly.

Leila went first. Inside was a ring. It looked like an engagement ring. She was stunned. "This looks like a diamond," she said, a little short of breath. She slipped the two-carat rock on her finger.

"It is," said Gino. "I hope your husband doesn't mind. I just didn't know how to say thank you for your many faithful years of service. I've often thought I felt married to you, and I wanted to express my gratitude. I couldn't have asked for a better assistant."

Leila got up and hugged Gino. Tears welled in her eyes, her mascara leaking down her cheeks.

MacHune was next. It was a tie, a fish tie, one where the entire tie was a fish, pointing downward, and the knot was the tail. It looked stupid. MacHune loved it.

Mercedes went last, noting that her package rattled. She tore away the wrapping and inside was a box of candy hearts, the kind little kids eat at Valentine's Day with the cute little sayings written on them. All of the hearts were different colors, but all of them had the same message—Don't Ever Leave Me. It was as if Gino had been reading her mind. She too felt emotion pushing up in her chest.

"I'm guilty," Gino said, beginning what he had to say. The comment froze them momentarily. "I'm guilty of trying to save Rosenbloom & Starr from the vultures who are trying to swallow it whole. I am guilty of trying to provide jobs for people; people like my father, and my uncle, and Meier Rosenbloom, God rest his soul, who weren't born with a silver spoon in their mouths. I'm guilty of doctoring our financial statements so that the price of R & S stock would plunge."

"But why?" MacHune asked.

"So that I could afford to buy back enough to gain a majority position and prevent Associated from doing it first. And I'm guilty of getting Hatch involved in the scheme." Gino looked down, waiting for responses. There were none.

Finally Mercedes said, "And now you're going to be guilty of getting us involved as well."

"I'm not asking you to do that," said Gino. "I just wanted to explain what's been going on. I owed you that. I forced Hatch to be part of something he didn't want to be part of, and now he's dead because of it."

"We're already part of it," said MacHune.

"What do you mean?"

"Someone's been feeding confidential information about the company to someone on the outside," Mercedes revealed.

"I've suspected that for a long time," said Gino. "But I've never been able to figure out who it was."

"We know," said MacHune.

"How do you know?"

"Do you know Truthful Williams?"

"Yes," Gino answered, "Fine man." Then, surprised, "Do you mean it was him?"

"It's not him," said MacHune, "but he's a friend of Tom Crandall from down in ready-to-wear."

"What's Crandall got to do with this?" Gino asked impatiently.

"Well...." MacHune went on.

CHAPTER 12... A Line In The Sand

Crash had protested to no avail. "You're kidding, right? You're going to put me in the lingerie department on Christmas Eve?"

Exasperated beyond words, the store manager didn't want to hear it. "Listen Crandall, just get yourself and two of your most experienced people up there and man those counters right away. Everyone in the department called in sick, including the department manager, and it might just be the biggest single shopping day of the decade. I need people who know what they're doing in there right away, and I don't have any choice. You're it."

"What about my department?" Crash had asked no avail.

"Ready-to-wear won't be anywhere near as busy, and it will be fine for a few hours. Now move it," the branch manager had ordered. "I promise to try and get someone in to take your place as soon as I can."

This he didn't need. Customers were looking at him funny—especially the men—and he knew exactly what they were thinking. Who wouldn't think it? How many men did one see bagging and boxing frilly little things behind the counter of the women's lingerie department? And what could he do about it? Say, "I'm straight," to every guy that came up to the counter? "Goddamn lingerie department," he cursed crudely as he tried to hide the insecurities clearly displayed on his sleeve.

Crash took Ramona and Linda, his most experienced part timer, with him. He took Linda because she could work a register like a mad demon. He took Ramona because he wanted something to look at, especially with the way she looked in the emerald green dress she was wearing. It was tighter than the clothes she usually wore, with a blazing double strand of pearls draping into the valley of her chest. Maybe she was changing her image, or maybe it was just her way of decorating herself in Christmas colors, but whatever it was, it was working for her. The shiny silk clung to her slinky body, and surely every guy who came to the counter would visualize her in whatever outfit they were buying for their intendeds. Fantasizing again, as he had a thousand times before, he wondered what she'd be like in the sack. She was becoming a lioness—no, not a lioness—a panther—a sleek, svelte, sultry female panther. God, she looked good. And whatever brand of perfume she was wearing sure made his winkle twitch. Him? Gay? Hardly.

Reinforcements finally arrived at about two o'clock, allowing them take a break. "C'mon, I'll buy," Crash offered, hoping Ramona would accept his offer for a late lunch.

"Oh, sorry, I already agreed to go with Ginny from the buying office. She waiting for me, but you can come along if you like. Want to join us?"

It was nice of her to offer, but somehow the magic he wanted wouldn't be there with another person along. "That's okay. You two girls go," he said, tossing his wrist skyward as if to dismiss his insecurities. Besides, he knew Ramona and Ginny were good friends and he'd only get in the way of their gossip.

Later, after lunch, the grease from his chiliburger hadn't yet coagulated in his stomach when Ramona steamed toward him. "You snake!" she growled, her panther like claws almost swiping at him. "You didn't bother to tell me you went up to Mercedes's office to ask about my job! You act like my best friend to my face while you stab me in the back when I turn it!" Ginny must have said something. He didn't quite know how to respond, but he didn't have to. "Merry fucking Christmas to you too!" she blasted.

She stormed off furiously, high heels digging into the carpet. It occurred to him that about half the time he was with Ramona he was wet-dreaming about her, while the other half he was watching her walk away in anger. He wasn't after her job specifically. He was just after a job, the job, in the buying office. But there was no sense in trying to explain things. She had no idea she was an inch away from being fired—again—but there was no sense in telling her that, or anything else, now. It would look even more two-faced.

He needed to chill out. Maybe he'd call Truthful and ask him if they could get together for a Christmas Eve drink—or ten. Where was Truthful anyway? He hadn't seen him since their little talk at Henrietta's.

* * * * *

Leila decorated the conference room as best she could, given the last minute notice. Anything to brighten up the room and put the board members in a good mood would be worth the trouble. They probably weren't going to be in a very good spirits, given the double inconvenience of the hastily called Christmas Eve board meeting which also happened to be on a Sunday. She debated whether or not she should have some booze on hand, maybe just a taste for a Merry Christmas toast at the end. Champagne would be good. She looked at her watch, noticing she had about fifteen minutes before the start of the three o'clock meeting. Taking her coat, she calculated she had barely enough time to make it to the liquor store across the street and back.

One by one they filed in. First was Jessica Baylor Stewart, Executive Director of the Greater Washington Home for Women, followed by Lou Hollinger of the National Urban Council, then Joe Alminton, Sam McKenzie, Ruth Anne Booker of Washington Hospital, and finally Jasper Burke, the only board member who was not president, or executive director, or chairman of anything. He was just an ordinary citizen, a welder from Fairfax, Virginia, with whom Gino had somehow become acquainted years ago and had appointed to the board to have the working man's view of things. "Jasper keeps us down to earth," Gino had once said. Jasper had become a very influential member of the nine-member board over the years. As usual, Tony Lopresti was late, the only member to whom punctuality seemed unimportant, and the only board member who would not be present was Sherman Hatcherson. That fact cast a sullen mood over the room that was reflected in knit brows and self-absorbed detachment.

Leila returned with the champagne just in time to see Gino entering the conference room and sliding the Do Not Disturb sign into the panel on the door. He closed it behind him. She was locked out. There would be no minutes or transcript of this meeting.

Gino surveyed the faces of his board members. The air was heavy. No one except Jasper was looking at him, all of them gazing avoidingly into the conference table. This was not a good sign, and he needed their support right now. His company was on the verge of being swallowed up by the Associated monster, which would spit the skeleton of his company back out like so many bothersome bits stuck in its teeth. The stock was at thirty-one and the monster was gobbling it up like a bear going after a picnic lunch.

Gino's own demeanor was less than the regal posture he usually displayed at these meetings. The strain of the eight days since Sherman's death was evident. He looked thinner than normal, gaunt even, his face devoid of the confidence which usually beamed like a beacon of strength and security. His normally dapper suit and perfectly trimmed hair both looked a little more wrinkled, a little more disheveled, a little less Gino than usual. He needed the board on his side if he was to save his company, yet he couldn't help but begin any other way.

"It was more than a touch distressing to learn about our last board meeting from jail," he said, not benignly.

"What did you expect us to do?" Alminton responded. "There was an offer on the table. We thought we should at least listen to the man. You were in jail, Gino. We have a responsibility to the stock holders."

"You could have waited until I posted bail."

"We didn't know if you were going to do that, Gino. Two million is a lot of money and we didn't know how long it would take the company to gather that much cash."

"It's not company money," Gino said dryly. "I would never use company money for something like that. This is a personal situation."

"Personal my ass!" Alminton objected, almost to a shout. "The future of the company hangs on the outcome of this matter. Of course it would have been appropriate to use company money."

A minute into the meeting and already they were hung up on a technicality. "Who gives a damn!" Jasper shouted. "Nobody here's got the guts to ask the important question because you're all so worried about some legal mumbo-jumbo. Gino, look me in the eye when you answer this. Did you do it?"

As usual Jasper drove to the heart of the matter. Dramatically, Gino walked through the gauntlet of silence and put his hand on Jasper's shoulder. "I swear on the graves of my wife and my son, I didn't kill Sherm."

Jasper waited while Gino's words settled on other board members. "I believe you," he said, shaking Gino's hand, but it was obvious that not everyone felt the same way.

Alminton and a couple of the others were clearly uncomfortable. "What about the gun, Gino? And what about the report about your car?" The doubt in his voice was palpable.

Gino looked at the faces of his board members. The resentment of having to defend himself was rumbling inside, and the pressure was building. "That shouldn't matter to you, Joe. My word should be good enough. You're either with me, or you're not." The eruption was coming. It was like a high tide: inevitable and unstoppable.

"Of course your word is good enough," Alminton said skeptically. "But we have to consider the effect of the situation on our stockholders."

"The effect," Gino responded angrily, "is that Morty Levine is taking advantage of the situation and fooling you into believing that the best thing for this company is for him to take it over."

Taking Alminton's side, Lou Hollinger said, "Maybe it is."

"I agree," said Ruth Anne Booker, piling on.

The opposition had formed quickly, and the heads of the other board members came up as if in preparation for a charge. "He'll dismantle the company," Gino said strongly. "He's done it to every organization he's gotten his hands on. Hell, he's already put forth a plan to close ten of our stores. May I remind you that those stores are in the neighborhoods where you come from. That's why you're on this board—to give something back, remember? Those stores mean jobs! They put food on the tables of your own people! They provide opportunities, often where there are none."

Buoyed by the comments of the other board members, "This altruism is all well and good," Alminton continued, "but this is a business. We have to be able to make profits. Listen Gino, I'd like to be as selfless and considerate as the next guy, but the bottom line is that we have to make money. What we do with the money after it's made is a different matter, but we have to make it first. It's our job, the job of any board of directors, to act in the best interest of our stockholders."

Gino's inevitable explosion filled the conference room. "Our stockholders are getting rich off speculation! They're trading our stock like kids trade baseball cards!"

"What would you do?" Alminton asked with the other board members nodding behind him. "We're showing losses, the stock was plummeting. Any stockholder would be foolish not to take an offer like Associated's."

His support was vanishing before his eyes. His scheme had backfired. "Our losses are only temporary," Gino said in desperation. "I'm positive that we'll be able to bring the company back to profitability."

Alminton drew a line in the sand. "We've been listening to that for almost a year now, and there's no sign that the situation is improving. Associated's offer might be less difficult to resist if we weren't leaking like a sieve. That, and the negative publicity surrounding Sherman's death is bound to drive the stock into the ground. Honestly Gino, if this offer weren't on the table, I'd have to raise the issue of a vote of confidence for you and your management team. It's only out of respect that I haven't brought it up before now."

The comment hit Gino like a left hook. He looked around. His board members were staring at him threateningly. Even Jasper's expression, while not as challenging as the others, showed concern. Alminton had won. Gino had the distinct feeling that if the board were to vote right now, they'd vote to sell the company. The image of Morty Levine strutting into his office and taking his nameplate off the door flashed in his mind's eye, and it sickened him thoroughly.

"Levine doesn't have the money," Gino responded desperately. "He'll leverage the buy so heavily that he'll put us out of business. He's going under."

"And on what do you base that assessment?"

"I just know it!" said Gino, pounding his fist angrily. "You've got to believe me!"

The board members looked at him pitifully. He'd snapped. He wasn't the man they needed right now to guide them out of this turmoil. It was only out of respect that Alminton stopped the charge he'd mounted.

"Listen, if you're that convinced that selling out to Associated is a mistake, then I'd suggest we move quickly to find a white knight to prevent Associated from taking us over. They've moved to a more hostile position and bid up the stock, and moved their holdings to about a third. At forty dollars a share, maybe forty-two, they'll take control and there's nothing we can do about it unless we find someone else to buy us. I personally would urge our stockholders to even accept a lesser offer if that makes you feel any better Gino, but something's got to give. I move we disband for today and come back the day after tomorrow, after the holiday, and take a vote with the full board present. Where is Tony, anyway?" Alminton added.

"Motion seconded," said Sam McKenzie, speaking for the first time and putting his footprint on Alminton's side of the line in the sand.

"Tony's out of town on business."

"On Christmas Eve? What's he doing?"

Defiantly, Gino said, "It really doesn't matter, does it? Even if he sides with me, we all know how the vote will turn out. Why don't we just do it now and get it over with?"

Alminton looked at his watch. "Nothing's going to happen until the stock exchange opens back up day after tomorrow. Why don't we meet then, early, before the exchange opens and decide what to do?"

It was a token compromise, and an unneeded one for Gino. The outcome was evident and he'd already made his decision. He just hoped that $150 million—no, now it was $148 million—would be enough. He barely responded when each of his directors shook his hand and said, "Merry Christmas," as they exited the conference room.

Leila sat at her desk with an unopened bottle of champagne and a tray of cocktail glasses. "You want a drink?" she asked when Gino came out.

CHAPTER 13... Christmas

At quarter after five in the morning, the girls roused him from a semi-sleepless night. He didn't mind; that's what Christmas was all about. Eventually he'd teach them that Christmas was more than just presents and fancy food, but now it was time to enjoy their innocence. The beaming smiles and squeaky giggles were his reward, which he savored, knowing their innocence wouldn't last long. It was a fact he knew from experience.

Pretending to be asleep, Ernie Price smiled into his pillow as six-year-old Erica, his youngest, tugged on his arm.

"C'mon Puffy. We have to go downstairs and see if the reindeer ate the carrots. C'mon Puffy, let's go."

Puffy was an FBI agent. He cuddled with his girls during the day, and cracked heads at night, and no one outside the house used the name Puffy. The girls called him that because he used to pick on his old guitar and sing Puff the Magic Dragon when they were younger. They always fell asleep when he played it, which was good because it was the only song he knew.

Scratching the sleep from her eyes, older daughter Bridgette wandered into the room, hip to the game they needed to play. At eleven years old, going on eighteen, she was old enough to know there was no Santa Claus, but young enough to still be excited by the prospect of some cool new clothes waiting under the tree.

"C'mon Erica, Mom and Puffy will be down in a minute. Won't you Puffy?"

The late night bottle of cheap champagne he and his wife had split while wrapping the presents the night before had given him a tiny headache behind the eyes. Price waved the girls out of the room, then rolled over and grabbed a handful of ass. "Mister Puffy is awake," he whispered into Sandy's ear. "Does Mrs. Puffy feel like saying Merry Christmas?"

Sandy rolled over and grabbed Mister Puffy under the covers. "Oh my," she said. "If you're a good boy, maybe I'll take Mister Puffy for a walk later, okay? C'mon, the girls can't wait to open their presents."

Price pinched his wife on the behind, knowing she was right. This wasn't the time. He hauled his compact frame from the bed and stretched the kinks from his back. At forty-four years old and ten pounds heavier, his body wasn't quite as limber as it was during his twenty-three years in the Marines when quarter after five in the morning was the normal rise and shine for then Colonel Price. Back then it was thirty push-ups, thirty sit-ups and five eight-minute miles around Quantico by six a.m. Now, it was no push-ups, a cup of strong black coffee, and maybe three twelve-minute miles once or twice a week. Still, his burly form bespoke his no nonsense personality, an image he maintained without much effort.

It didn't take long for the living room to become a sea of shredded paper. By six-thirty the hugs and kisses had been exchanged, the clothes had been held up to everyone's chests, and all the presents had been opened. The girls were off with Sandy to try on their sweaters and skirts, while Price took a happy moment to relax with a cup of high-test coffee. He picked up the day-old Sunday Washington Post that was still on the coffee table and leafed through the paper, reading about how OPEC was going to raise the price of oil to thirty bucks a barrel. He knew what that meant, which was that gas would now go from forty cents a gallon to eight-five cents a gallon, but hopefully it didn't mean lines at the pumps like it had a couple of years earlier. He couldn't understand how there could be famine in West Africa when there was so much food in the world, then he stumbled across the lead article in the Style section, titled: Is the Starr Tarnished? He read with interest about the trials and tribulations of Gino Starr, CEO of Rosenbloom & Starr, and the struggles of the company his father had founded. Price couldn't believe what the article said, that the company was losing money. What a shame, he thought. He liked those stores, especially the downtown store where he'd done his usual Christmas Eve last minute shopping. The people were always nice, and the stores carried good merchandise at some pretty good prices, it seemed. They even had the foresight to put a guy in the lingerie department to help other guys do their Christmas shopping. It was so much less embarrassing, and the guy picked out two perfect nightgowns for him—a sexy romantic one, and a warm comfortable one where Sandy could cuddle up inside it. Price wondered how often Sandy would wear the sexy one. Hopefully later, when she took Mister Puffy for a walk.

* * * * *

Even while taking communion, Gino's thoughts dashed about wildly. The looks of admiration he was used to receiving from the familiar parishioners had been replaced by looks he couldn't quite comprehend. Each time he caught someone's gaze, there was a downward drift of the eyes as if the avoidance of eye contact would somehow lessen his discomfort. Surely Veneto and Tulia felt it as well. The article in the Washington Post the previous day had been devastating, making him out to be a first class fool and blaming him for the "imminent downfall" of the empire his father had built. If it wasn't for him, Rosenbloom & Starr would still be a neighborhood store on Rhode Island Avenue instead of the almost billion dollar colossus it had become. Still, it was important that Veneto and Tulia knew what was going on even though neither had mentioned the article or anything else about the situation, including his upcoming trial. Gino thought about Christmas in the Hatcherson household this year.

After mass, they rode home in silence and Tulia broke it just as they pulled into the driveway of their modest home in Vienna. "I am making lamb and risotto—your favorite," she said to neither man in particular. "The risotto will take a while. It will give you a chance to talk."

Taking the hint, Veneto grabbed three wineglasses from the cabinet in the living room and poured some wine. He carried one into the kitchen and returned to find Gino swirling his wine uneasily. He sat expectantly.

"I'm no murderer," Gino said directly.

Veneto nodded. "I know that, but this is 'a very serious matter. You must 'a be sure to get a good lawyer."

"I have a good lawyer."

"That's 'a good." More silence.

"Do you want to know about the article?"

"I'm 'a curious," Veneto admitted. "Is any of it true?"

"The part about the takeover attempt, yes. The part about the company on the verge of bankruptcy, no. I manipulated the financial statements to make them look bad. I did it on purpose."

Veneto nodded but held his silence, and the unasked question hung around Gino's neck like a scissor hold. He debated whether or not to mention the upcoming board meeting the next morning. He could lie and say that there was nothing to worry about, but the thought of facing Veneto again if the company was taken over, or if he was ousted as CEO—something that was a distinct possibility, he now realized—was unbearable. No, it would be better to tell the truth, regardless of how reckless his plan seemed in hindsight. When he was finished, Gino looked Veneto in the eye.

"I feel the burden of your troubles, my son, but I feel relieved now that I have heard it from your own lips. You did 'a the right thing." It was that simple. Veneto stood. "Let us have a nice meal and then we will have a nice sleep and these troubles they will seem not so important, for one day at least. What do you say, my son?"

As he drank wine and ate risotto, Veneto talked little about the imminent doom at Rosenbloom & Starr, saying to Tulia that he would never eat risotto as good as this risotto for the rest of his life. Veneto was right, for he never woke up from his nap that Christmas afternoon.

* * * * *

Ramona just picked at her food. It was obvious that she was preoccupied, probably work, her mother concluded.

"Ramona sweetheart, whatever it is, it'll be there tomorrow. There's no sense in ruining Christmas over it." Connie Kling knew darn well that Ramona sure could be high strung sometimes—as in most of the time.

There was little distraction as there were no other guests. Like Ramona, Connie had worked the day before at her own tough-hours job as a waitress, and both of them had to work the following day so Christmas was in town this year, just the two of them. Connie had encouraged Ramona to invite a friend—preferably a male friend—but such a friend was nowhere in sight. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

Ramona looked into her plate and pushed some peas around, and Connie figured it would be best to leave it alone. She was concerned sometimes about how things were going for Ramona—her lack of friends, the lack of a romantic presence in her life—but this was something she had to work through on her own. Still, it was hard to understand. Ramona looked just like she herself did when she was that age: long, lean, fashion model-like, but with more curves. She had to drive the men away with a stick when she was Ramona's age—still did actually—but that didn't seem to be the case with her daughter. As far as she knew, there hadn't been anybody special in Ramona's life for a couple of years now, ever since she'd been promoted into the buying office.

"I worked hard to get that job," Ramona said tersely, "and I was good at it. Now I'm back to where I was three years ago doing run-outs and rehanging freight. It's just not fair."

"Life isn't always fair," said Connie. She took Ramona's hand. "It wasn't fair when your father died. It wasn't fair when we had to sell the house. It wasn't fair when I got that lump in my breast and, well... you know. You'll be better for it in the long run. You'll see." It didn't do any good.

"I just can't take the thought of going back there, Mom. It wouldn't be so bad if I knew I had a chance of getting back into the buying office, but now Crash is horning in and trying to get my job... the shit!"

"It's Christmas, sweetheart. Don't talk that way. I thought you and he were starting to get along."

"We were, but yesterday I found out he was in Mercedes's office asking about my job."

"What if he was? I thought you couldn't stand working for that Leona woman anyway. Let him have it. You might be better off."

"I might not be working there at all according to all the rumors flying around. I can't believe the company is on the verge of going under."

"Then ultimately you would be in the same situation, whether you worked in the buying office or not. Right?"

After a bite or two of the Christmas turkey they'd be eating for the next week, Ramona concluded that her mother made some sense, with one exception. "Yes," she agreed, "except for the fact that now I'll never get a reference if I have to get another job, certainly not from Leona."

"Well, then you better make peace with your boss. You might need him sometime soon."

Ramona swallowed hard. "Maybe you're right."

* * * * *

This was the fifth Christmas Vance MacHune had spent without Erma, and he still wasn't used to it. This year his daughter had told him Christmas would be celebrated at her house, sensing that the elaborate preparations he went through every year would be a strain on his time, given what was going on at Rosenbloom & Starr. He still decorated the barn, however, and the farmhouse, and the old antique horse-drawn wagon the kids loved so much. It was Christmas, and that's what he did at Christmas, no matter where he spent it.

His grandchildren climbed on him like he was a ride at an amusement park, and he loved every second of it. Despite the activity and the distraction, he speculated on the outcome of the previous day's board meeting. He hadn't spoken to Gino since the last staff meeting, and he was wondering if Gino still maintained the same flash of intensity he showed when he learned that Leona was passing information to someone outside the company. That someone was probably Morty Levine, he guessed, whose card Truthful Williams had found in her desk.

"Fire her now!" Gino had demanded.

He remembered how Mercedes jumped at the chance to do the dirty little chore. "I'll take care of it," she'd volunteered, but Leona had already left for the day. Mercedes said she'd take care of it her first opportunity, having no reservations about performing such a vengeful deed on Christmas Eve, if need be. Her eyes actually lit up at the thought, but MacHune had not heard back and he was wondering if Mercedes had actually done it. The curiosity was killing him. He decided to call Gino at home: no answer.

The head from little Andrew's new GI Joe toy rolled between his feet, and MacHune debated whether or not to call Mercedes at home on Christmas day—to find out about the Leona situation, of course. He'd been thinking about Mercedes a lot lately, and he admitted to himself that not all of the thoughts were work related. He saw her again and again in his mind's eye, remembering how she looked at the Christmas party. He could still feel her in his arms as he whisked her around the dance floor. He could still smell the intoxicating perfume. He could still hear her laugh. The anticipation of seeing her again had been with him day and night since then, and he felt like a teenager again. But he was too old to be this infatuated, wasn't he? The thoughts of inviting her over for Christmas were foolish, weren't they? After all, he was a grandfather. He had no business feeling these feelings. Then he asked himself, why not? He was a man, and she was a woman. She seemed to enjoy his company, and he certainly enjoyed hers. Certainly it would be polite to wish her a Merry Christmas, and certainly it would be professional to follow up on the situation with Leona. That would be most professional.

He turned to his daughter. "Monica, would you mind breaking out a few appetizers and maybe holding the roast for a while?"

"Not at all Dad, but I thought you were starving."

"I'll let you know in just a minute," MacHune said as he picked up the phone.

* * * * *

Cooking for one was difficult. Cooking a Christmas dinner for one was doubly difficult. She felt the solitude, especially after being on the phone half the day expressing Christmas wishes to her parents, her two brothers, her sister, and the other relatives who happened to be in the house when she called. She should have been with them, and she chastised herself for not being there. New York wasn't that far away, but she'd used every excuse in the book not to be there, and now she regretted it. She went to the refrigerator and took out the package of beautiful snapper fillets, pouring her third glass of wine as she did so. There were four fillets, and she considered why she'd bought four. To freeze them, she rationalized. Then, without even unwrapping the expensive fish, she shoved all four into the freezer. Eating alone was the pits. Maybe she'd take in a movie. She found the previous day's Sunday Washington Post.

"Let's see," she said aloud, her voice sounding like it was echoing off the walls. She flipped on the stereo, breaking the deafening silence inside the apartment, but the cheery Christmas music just served to deepen her funk. Continuing the one-way conversation, "Okay, some sequel to Star Wars," she considered, adding, "Not a good choice unless you want to be with a million screaming kids throwing Milk Duds at the screen." She looked down the list of theaters reasonably close to the Friendship Heights neighborhood where she lived. She'd walk. A brisk walk would do her good. Romeo and Juliet. No, that wouldn't do either. Too depressing. Annie Hall was still playing at the discount theater on Wisconsin Avenue. That was a possibility, except she really didn't like Woody Allen that much. Not man enough for her. "Oliver's Story," she said. That was good. She had no idea what it would be about, but it looked like a chick flick. She literally jumped off her seat a little when the phone rang. Another relative, she assumed. "Hello."

"Merry Christmas."

She was surprised, but pleased. "Merry Christmas to you too. Are you at your daughter's place like you said?"

"Yes. Just playing with the kids. You?"

"I'm sitting here getting drunk."

"Oh my. It's not good to drink alone."

"Too late. Actually, I was going to take in a movie."

"What's playing?"

"Oliver's Story."

"Never heard of it. Who's in it?"

"Ryan O'Neal."

"Never heard of her."

"It's a him. Wanna go?"

"Do the actors have English accents? I don't go to movies with English accents." MacHune hadn't seen a movie in six years. "Besides, my daughter's got a roast."

"Take a doggie bag."

He weighed the alternatives. A huge, artery-clogging meal with his daughter, during which the kids would spill stuff and her husband would talk endlessly about his work, versus conversation and companionship with a smart, attractive woman who was alone and had just invited him to her apartment. "I'm an hour away," he said.

"So that means you should be here at exactly 3:27 p.m. if you left right now. Is that correct?"

"You're good with numbers."

"Yes, I am. That's why I'm a buyer."

"I see. Then answer this. If I bought one bottle of wine, should it be white or red?"

"Whatever goes with seared snapper and curried bananas. Why'd you call anyway?"

"I can't talk now. It's 2:28 and that means I'm going to be a minute late."

"I'll wait," said Mercedes, taking the snapper back out of the freezer.

When his daughter asked him where the hell he was going in such a rush, MacHune just told the truth.

"Oh?" was all she said.

* * * * *

Her head was swimming, but she was used to drinking alone. She was used to doing everything alone. Men: who needed them? She could do just fine on her own. Naked on the bed, Leona reached over to the nightstand and poured herself another scotch. It was a strong drink, for a strong woman. She downed the drink and put her hand between her legs, basking in the alcohol buzz that was quickly turning into a roar. She felt her own slippery moistness. She was ready. Once again she reached to the nightstand, this time opening the drawer and pulling out the Christmas present she'd bought for herself. Lovingly, she coated it with oil and flicked the On button, feeling the soft bbzzzzzzz as the device came to life. She worked it slowly at first, then faster as the sensation intensified. The big black invader disappeared over and over as she felt the oncoming tide of her first orgasm. She didn't need anybody else. She'd do it alone. She did everything alone. "Merry fucking Christmas," she said to herself, glassy eyed.

* * * * *

Morty Levine rushed through the lobby of the Fontainebleau Hotel, looking for the men's room. Goddamn diarrhea. Mexico was where you weren't supposed to drink the water, not Miami Beach. He barely made it. "Damn!" he said out loud as he urinated. The burning was getting worse. What the hell was wrong with him? He looked down, and noticed the red splotch on his penis.

In the dining room, Myra fanned herself, trying to evaporate the perspiration on her neck. Somehow, Christmas didn't seem the same at eighty-eight degrees. She smiled at the Cuban bus boy as she analyzed his anatomical attributes. The bulge in his tight pants reminded her that she needed to take another pill. "Merry Christmas," she said, handing him a ten spot with her room number inked onto the bill. She could almost smell the musky odor of his probably unwashed body. Control yourself, she scolded, but she was getting excited just thinking about it.

"Than' jyou, senora," the bus boy said as he set down the glass of water she'd asked for.

His English wasn't too good, but that didn't matter, thought Myra. He wouldn't need to do any talking.

* * * * *

Upstairs in room 724, Johnny Gold asked, "How much?"

"A hundred," the gorgeous California-girl hooker responded. Her name was Bambi.

"A hundred!" What a bargain, he thought, for two hours even. Not like New York. She'd cost three times that much there.

"Okay, eighty," she said, mistaking his words as protest. "Just trying to get a little extra. It's Christmas, ya know?"

"Don't get shook, baby," said Johnny, acting like the big shot that he wasn't. "A hundred is fine. Just gimme a receipt."

"A receipt? What do you think I am, Macy's?" Bambi took the c-note and shoved it into her cleavage.

Johnny handed her a blank stub from a restaurant check. "Here, use this one. Just fill it in for a hundred and a quarter." She looked at him oddly. "I don't want it in my own handwriting," Johnny said as he walked over and put his hands on his Christmas presents.

* * * * *

"So how did you get the name Crash?" Justice asked.

"I kept putting my head through the windshields of company vehicles, and your smart-assed brother here thought it was a cute name."

Truthful laughed and turned from the oven, holding a stemmed glass filled with Colt 45.

"So that's what happened to you," Justice joked.

"Another wise ass," said Crash. "You're just like your brother."

"He's not so wise," Truthful commented seriously. "He's talking about quitting school."

Crash looked at Justice, making no attempt to hide his disapproval. "That true?"

"It's boring," Justice answered. "I thought maybe Truthful could get me in over at Rosenbloom & Starr. You guys seem to be doing pretty well. It seems like things are happening over there."

"It doesn't sound like that's going to last too long if you believe what the paper said yesterday," Crash responded. "Truthful, did you read that article?"

"Sorry, missed it. What'd it say?"

"Said R & S was going down the tubes and losing tons of money, stuff like that. Said Mister Starr might end up in jail for murder. There were some quotes from Mercedes in there denying everything, of course, saying that even if there were some problems, she was sure they could correct them. Too bad she doesn't know she's about to get axed."

"Yes she does," said Truthful.

"She does?"

"I told her."

"You told her?"

"Most of it."

"How most?"

"Well, she knows about the phone conversation you heard on Ginny's phone."

"Wasn't it you who swore me to secrecy?"

"I did," said Truthful, handing Crash another drink, "but it didn't quite go the way I planned. I got caught snooping around in Leona's office."

"Nice going. Head of security, huh?"

"That's me," said Truthful. "A regular Sherlock Holmes."

Part Two

Executive Decisions

CHAPTER 14... Call A Meeting

It was 8:05 a.m. and Leila distributed the morning figures. It was her first duty of the day and perhaps the most anticipated by the staff. She slipped one under the door of the conference room where the board of directors meeting was already in progress. Everyone would be pleased with the numbers. The company did over $6 million in business on Christmas Eve, and it was a fitting culmination to the season. Business had been strong for a while, but it just went gangbusters after the company aired the new TV campaign that the Lopresti Agency had done for them. It was much better than anything Skip ever dreamed up.

"Good morning," said Leila as she handed one of the sheets to Mercedes.

"And a very good morning to you."

Mercedes was certainly bright eyed and bushy tailed. "Have a nice Christmas?"

"I had a wonderful Christmas. How about you?"

"Very nice, but I kept thinking about the Hatcherson family."

Mercedes nodded as they made small talk but focused on the bottom line of the sales report as soon as Leila left her office. She compared the This Year figure to the Last Year figure and noted proudly that the company had increased thirty percent over the previous year's Christmas Eve. The month-to-date figures were almost as good. She contemplated the juxtaposition that in the conference room the board was probably haggling over ways to dismantle the company, while in the stores business was off the charts. Her thoughts were interrupted as MacHune entered the office. She smiled widely and said, "I had a good time yesterday." His glum exterior wasn't the reaction she expected.

"Did you hear?" he asked seriously.

"Hear what?"

"Gino's father died yesterday afternoon."

She felt her glow drain away. "Oh, my," was all she could manage. "How's Gino? Have you talked to him?"

"No. There was a message on my machine last night. I tried calling him but there was no answer. I guess he was with his mother." MacHune looked as helpless as a lost kitten.

"So you don't know how he's taking it?"

"I have no idea, but it can't be good, especially with what must be going on in there." He thumbed toward the conference room.

"What do you think they're doing?"

MacHune hunched his shoulders. "I have no idea," he said again, "but you can bet your bottom dollar that something heavy is coming down."

"Gino must be a wreck."

MacHune nodded. "He's tough, though—one of the toughest guys I've ever seen."

"No one can go through what he's going through without cracking. First the thing with Hatch—I still don't know what to believe about that—and now this. No one can take that kind of pressure."

"He can. And don't worry about the thing with Hatch. Gino is no murderer. It'll all come out, you'll see. One must have faith."

"I wish I had your confidence."

"I wish I had your...." MacHune never finished the sentence as voices came from the hallway. Gino flashed by the door as he escorted the departing directors to the elevator, and its ding hung in the air forever before he reappeared looking like his own ghost. His voice weak, he came right to the point.

"The board has decided to seek out a white knight if we can't fight off the Associated attempt. Either way it looks as if we're going to be swallowed up."

The enormous weight of his troubles was clearly trying to flatten him into submission. He was going through the motions, but clearly his thoughts were somewhere else. He waited glassy eyed for their response.

"Who are we going to approach?" MacHune asked.

"At this point, I don't think it matters. Levine has accumulated a thirty-two percent stake and the only thing that can save us is for someone or something to come along and stop him. We might buy some time if some of the shareholders listen to rumors and hold out in hopes that Levine will up the ante, but sooner or later they'll all sell."

"Where do you think the stock has to go before that happens?" Mercedes asked.

Gino plodded forward. "Hard to tell. I think forty, maybe forty-two is the magic number." Pausing, his words turned icy. "But Levine will be out of the picture before the stock ever gets there." He left the comment hanging, and switched gears. "Mac, when is inventory this year?"

"Same as usual, first Sunday in February."

"Move it up to this Sunday."

Totally surprised, MacHune said, "That's impossible. Sunday is New Year's Day, but besides that setting up an inventory that quickly is unfeasible in an organization this size."

"Then do it the week after. Make it happen, Mac, no excuses. I know you can do it."

"What's going on Gino?" MacHune felt he had a right to know, but Gino was in no mood to explain.

"It will suffice to say that if we don't find a way to reverse the financials at year end, I'll be gone as CEO even if we manage to escape this takeover battle. We need a good inventory, and the sooner the better. I'll tell you more on Wednesday. Right now I have to prepare for tomorrow's funeral—my father's funeral." Gino turned and left.

Mercedes and MacHune looked at each other. Something had to be done. The takeover attempt was like a river rising toward flood stage, gaining momentum and speed with each passing day. Both of them knew Gino would never sell his thirty-three percent share of the company's common stock, but with virtually an equal share under its belt, Associated had a real chance of taking over if enough of the remaining shareholders caved in. And now, for the first time either of them could remember, Gino expressed the unthinkable: his job was on the line.

"Do you think Associated will take us over?" Mercedes asked uncertainly.

MacHune wagged his big head. "Don't know. There's a ton of speculation out there, and with that kind of action the stock price could shoot to the stars. If that happens, it's like Gino said: sooner or later, they'll all sell."

"Unless someone or something comes along to stop it, right? Isn't that what he said?"

"Yes."

"Well, why don't we do that?"

MacHune paused. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Dead serious."

"How?"

Mercedes settled into a thoughtful pose. "Didn't Gino say the market reacts to rumors?"

"So?"

"So, let's start one—a good one, one that would stop everything in its tracks. What have we got to lose?"

MacHune mulled it over for some moments. "It would be like trying to stop a freight train," he finally said, but he could sense Mercedes's mind whirring away.

"What do you think Gino meant when he said Levine would be out of the picture?"

"I have no idea. What's the rumor?" MacHune asked, getting swept up in her momentum.

"I don't know yet."

"This is like the blind leading the blind. Neither one of us knows a damn thing."

"How are you going to pull off an inventory plan by Sunday?"

MacHune admitted soberly, "I don't know that either. I guess we should call a meeting or something."

Slyly, Mercedes said, "That's just what I had in mind."

* * * * *

Standing in line at the service desk, listening to all of the complaining customers, Ernie Price thought retailing was a tough business. The one in front of him was particularly boisterous. He listened as she seemingly blamed the poor clerk behind the counter for the fact that the clothes she purchased for the fat little kid next to her didn't fit.

"These size labels can't be right," she argued. "Don't tell me I bought the wrong size, young lady. You should really buy from more reputable manufacturers. Jennifer is definitely a twelve. These clothes just don't run true to size. You should really tell your buyers."

What a witch, thought Price. Get the kid off the pork and beans, lady.

"I'm sorry ma'am," the clerk said. "I didn't mean to imply anything. I'll be sure to pass your comments along to our buyer. Perhaps you'd like to fill out one of our Customer Feedback forms. Here's a blank one if you'd like to do that. Just drop it in the mail at your convenience. Here, I'll even put our buyer's name on the front for you. Now, would you like to get a credit toward other merchandise or would you like a refund?"

Smooth, thought Price. He was next. "I'm afraid I bought the wrong size," he said loud enough for the witch woman to hear. He gave the clerk his package, along with a little wink and an understanding smile. He felt the flush around his neck when she opened the box and looked at the frilly lingerie.

The clerk moved professionally through the transaction. "Would you like a refund, or an exchange, or a credit?" she asked, smiling an understanding smile.

"I'd like to buy something else, but I don't know much about ladies' sizes," he said, certain that the people behind him saw the sexy underthings.

"Would you consider a gift certificate?" That way she'll be sure to pick out something she likes and you won't have any problem with the size."

Price was thankful. It was a good solution. "Good idea."

She handed him the finished certificate in a nice envelope. "It's good in any store, and there's no time limit on when she can use it. Is that okay with you?"

That was easy. "Yes, thank you," he said having no possible objection, not even to the fact that the clerk had managed to bump up the sale by another thirty bucks by selling him a higher denomination. Remembering the article from the newspaper, Price thought it was too bad about the difficulties the CEO was going through. It was hard to believe that anyone who ran a company like this would have the kinds of problems described in the article. He hoped the service wouldn't deteriorate if the guy was convicted of murder.

CHAPTER 15... The Old Ebbitt Grill

Squeezing his legs together and thinking his bladder was going to explode, Crash suffered through the Wednesday morning breakfast meeting at the Holiday Inn in College Park. He wasn't a happy camper sitting there on his day off after he'd busted his ass the day and night before setting up the clearance racks. He'd gotten the entire project done in one day. It usually took two, sometimes three days of nonstop work to get all the tagging and moving and signing done, but between him and Ramona they'd whipped it off in no time. He had to admit that the girl knew what she was doing. He remembered how she blazed through the racks and picked out the markdowns, hardly even looking at the tags to make sure the SKU numbers were the same as the ones on the markdown sheets. Remarkably, she knew almost every piece by sight. She did the tagging; he shifted the racks. First, they did Misses, rack by rack, then Sportswear, then Ready-To-Wear, then Juniors, then boom—they were done, ready for the new shipments of spring fashions that were already starting to roll in.

It was only seven-thirty in the morning, and MacHune's voice droned on with no sign of stopping by the end of the century. Crash looked across the table and observed that Ramona was actually taking notes. Really? Inventory was inventory, he thought: you just go out and count the stuff. What's to know? What he needed to know was how far it was to the nearest bathroom. Looking around at all the other managers, buyers, and operations people from the Washington division, he knew he couldn't hold out much longer. He only half heard the words everyone else found so extremely important.

"... Poor financial performance... rumors... computer glitches... good inventory... untrue... leadership... blahda, blahda, blahda." MacHune was duller than white bread. Finally, after ninety minutes of nonstop procedure-covering, he stopped, announcing a ten minute, and ten minute only, break. The mad dash to the bathrooms for pees and smokes was on.

Standing in front of the porcelain convenience, enjoying that wonderful stream of relief, Crash paid little attention when someone stepped up next to him.

"Good morning Mister Crandall," MacHune said politely.

Crash recognized his voice immediately, having been bored to tears by it for the last hour. "Mornin' to you too, Mister MacHune," he responded curtly. He figured MacHune was just making small talk.

"Are you available to meet with me today in my office?"

Shivers raced up Crash's spine and he peed on his finger. "Yeah, uh, gee, sure, I, uh, guess so." It was all he could muster.

"Good," MacHune said as he zipped up. "Is around four o'clock okay? After the funeral?"

Crash thought: what funeral? Then he remembered having heard something about Mister Starr's father. "Yeah, sure, four o'clock is fine," he responded. Totally puzzled, he tucked Mister Johnson back into his trousers and thought the worst. This was it. Leona had finally scored and fulfilled her promise: he was being called in to get his head chopped off, as in axed, shit-canned, adios amigo.

Back at the table, he sat down with a thud. "Shit," he barked out loud.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Ramona shot back.

Just then, a waiter sashayed over to their table, refilling coffee cups along the way. "Regular or decaf, hon?" he asked effeminately.

"Regular," said Crash, pointing to his cup. Trying to stifle her smirk, Ramona waved him off.

"SSSugar and SSSweet and Low's on the table," the waiter lisped, and he tight-assed his way over to the next table.

Crash looked at Ramona who was having some trouble controlling her expression. "Something funny?" he asked sarcastically.

* * * * *

The offices were deserted. Everyone was still at the funeral. The buying offices, the operations offices, even the EDP offices were enveloped in darkness. He felt cold, despite the fact that it was always hot on the seventh floor, as the heat always rose to the top of the old building. Looking at his watch, Crash saw that it was ten minutes past the appointed four o'clock, and he decided to wait for MacHune in his office. Despite the windows overlooking G Street, the office was still shrouded in shadow by the surrounding buildings and the gloomy winter overcast. Although it was only a few blocks away, he could barely detect the top half of the Washington Monument. Making himself comfortable on the scarred leather sofa, he was surprised at the relative smallness of the office. He would have thought it to be much larger and more luxurious. MacHune was second only to Mister Starr in the power chain, and it was common knowledge that it was MacHune who really ran the company on a day-to-day basis. Besides the sofa, which was almost too big for the office, the only other seating was MacHune's black leather desk chair, made shiny by years of hard use. Computer reports lay stacked all over the place, and the desk was layered in total disarray. Many of the books and papers on the shelves were coated with dust, some of them yellowed and curled with age. A dead plant hung in the window, and there were pictures of children all over the place.

Crash heard voices, many of them. He braced himself for MacHune's entrance, determined to tell his side of the story and defend himself for having told Leona to kiss his ass. If he got fired, well then, so be it. Instead of MacHune, however, it was Truthful who came through the door.

"Come with me," Truthful ordered.

"I can't. MacHune wants to see me for some reason."

"That's where I'm taking you." Truthful wagged a finger and pointed to the gray clouds hanging outside the window. "Let's go. They're waiting."

"They? Where are we going?"

"The Old Ebbitt Grill."

* * * * *

Mercedes took a sip of her Manhattan cocktail and said, "I want to start a rumor."

"A rumor?"

"That's right, for Leona's ears only."

Crash swallowed his beer, not saying anything further as MacHune signaled for the waiter to bring another one. This was like some kind of crazy spy movie, he thought to himself. Truthful was squeezed into booth next to MacHune doing his imitation of a statue. Finally working up the nerve to speak, Crash said, "What does that have to do with me?"

Mercedes said, "I know you overheard Leona's phone conversation—the one where she conspired to have someone get rid of me. Truthful told us about it."

Crash flashed a look at Truthful, whose expression would have been the same had there been a broomstick up his butt. MacHune's eyes penetrated him from the other side of the booth.

"We want to find out who Leona was talking to," Mercedes continued. "We think she's been passing information and company secrets to someone on the outside. We also think, according to Mister Williams here, that the someone might be Morton Levine."

Crash gulped the last of his beer as the next one arrived. "Who's Morton Levine?"

"He's the CEO of the company that's trying to take us over," MacHune replied.

Crash said, "Oh, I get it. You want to put something juicy out there that Leona will latch onto and pass on to this Levine guy. But why me? Why not just cook up something on your own, or use Leila or one of the other buyers?"

"Because she wouldn't suspect a setup from you in a million years," Mercedes replied.

MacHune added, "And also because you already know what's going on and it wouldn't be good to bring someone else into this. That's why we're here and not back at the office. People have loose lips, and walls have ears."

It sounded logical. What didn't sound logical was the whole conversation. "Not only is this, like, nuts," Crash said bravely, "but I'm the last person Leona would talk to. She hates me, you know. She wants me fired."

"So then it's not like you owe her anything," said Mercedes.

"What if she doesn't get it, or doesn't act on whatever I, or we, plant on her? I mean, not to sound arrogant or anything, but she's not exactly the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree."

Mercedes and MacHune just chuckled.

Speaking for the first time, Truthful said, "We have to give her something that we're absolutely sure she'll pass along. What's the one thing she wants more than anything else in the world?"

"My job," Mercedes said as she set down her glass and fished out the Maraschino cherry.

Truthful agreed and said, "That's right. Let it out that you've given notice. She'll jump on that like a grasshopper."

"But I'm not leaving the company," Mercedes objected.

"You don't have to. Just let the word out that you've given a month's notice. Then sit back and see what she does, who she contacts, that sort of thing. The rumor can always be reversed by saying the company convinced you to stay, can't it?"

"Sure it can," said MacHune. "But how are we going to see what Leona does? We're not with her twenty-four hours a day. Actually, we're not with her at all."

"I can take care of that on the outside," said Truthful, "but we need someone on the inside who can observe her without arousing suspicion."

"So who could that be?" MacHune pondered. Silence descended over the table as he drummed his huge fingers.

Crash turned to Mercedes. "Does Leona have another associate buyer?"

"No, not yet."

"Would she take Ramona back?"

"Maybe, if Ramona ate some crow and groveled at her feet."

"Can we trust her?" MacHune asked.

"Only one way to find out," Crash replied. "I know there's no love-loss between her and Leona, though."

"Well then, a-groveling we will go," said MacHune. "That is, if Miss Kling will go along with it."

"I think I can talk her into it," Crash said confidently. "What have we got to lose?"

"Our jobs," said Truthful. "But then again, we may lose them anyway."

MacHune shook his head in disbelief. "This is crazy—as crazy as Gino's scheme."

"Birds of a feather...." said Mercedes as she motioned for the waiter.

* * * * *

Johnny Gold ducked as the vase flew by his head and smashed into the wall. "Hey, don't kill the messenger, okay?"

"That bastard!" Myra screamed as another piece of Fontainebleau glassware became airborne. "Why didn't you tell me about this sooner, you idiot!"

"Listen, I'm lucky to have found out at all." Fucking spoiled cow, thought Johnny. "I don't need this grief."

"If you'd found out sooner maybe we could have done something to stop him." Myra's normally chalky skin was crimson with anger.

"How? It's his money."

"It's my money!" she screamed. "It's my money, and now he's taken it and done God-knows-what with it! How much did he take out?"

"$1.1 million that I know about, maybe more."

The splotchy redness of Myra's face changed to pale.

"Here, this might cheer you up," said Johnny, handing her an envelope. "This time I got some shots with his face in the picture, just like you wanted."

"You fool! Those don't do us any good now! Not without the money. We've got to find out about the money!"

It wasn't the best time, but Johnny figured he'd better get it now before Morty pulled the rest from the accounts. "I need you to cut me a check for December," he said, handing her his invoice and expense vouchers. "I need the money."

Myra fingered the receipts. "I'll bet you do. More entertainment, Mister Gold?"

"A man's gotta live, lady."

Myra furiously wrote out a check and flipped it at Johnny's feet as she headed for the door. "Find out what he did with that money," she ordered. "I want to get that bastard. I want to get him but good."

Johnny Gold stooped and watched her cellulite-laden legs walk past as he stuffed the check into his pocket. Putting up with this bitch was a pain in the ass, but he could take it, he thought, at least until New Year's. Miami Beach was nice this time of year.

* * * * *

"What the hell does the Securities and Exchange Commission have to do with this? This isn't a federal crime. And how did the DA find out about the SEC in the first place?"

Marvin Stenner said, "I don't know. Probably a leak from Associated, or maybe even from inside R & S, but the DA is planning on bringing in a couple of auditors as expert witnesses. We can challenge the admissibility of the witnesses but I doubt we'd get anywhere. Judge Bounders will probably allow it and we'd have to challenge the validity of the testimony itself. I suspect Davidson is using the SEC boys to establish a motive for Hatch's murder."

Gino rubbed his forehead. "So the judge is giving the district attorney a free reign to make a circus out of this. Is that what you're saying?"

"It's already a circus, Gino, and I'm sure Bill Davidson is intent on making it even more so. This is a career case for him. If he had any notion about running for office, there wouldn't be enough money on the planet to finance a campaign which would bring him as much notoriety as this case. He'll be a household name by the time this trial is over, and he's gonna milk this thing for all it's worth."

"At my expense."

"I'm afraid so. Our only hope is that the judge squelches all the peripheral bullshit. I know Malcolm Bounders, and he's not one to put up with a lot of crap in his courtroom. He's limited as to what he can do to control what happens on the outside, however. These things tend to take on a life of their own."

"What do you think all the publicity will do to the price of the stock?"

"I guess that would depend on what happens at the trial. You know, how it's looking for you. If things look bad, I think people will dump the stock. The company's financial performance is bound to be affected if you're convicted."

"I can't be convicted Marvin. I didn't do it."

"The circumstantial evidence is pretty strong, Gino. We still have no explanations with regards the gun or the car, and I don't think Davidson will have too much trouble establishing a motive."

"But no one saw me do it."

Stenner hesitated. "Well... not exactly."

"What are you saying, Marvin?" Stenner hesitated. "C'mon, spill it."

"Well, I didn't want to say anything. After all, you just buried your father this morning."

"Give it to me straight, Marvin."

"They say they have an eyewitness to the murder."

"Who is it?"

"I don't know yet."

CHAPTER 16... Just For Practice

"Okay, are you ready?"

Nervously, Ramona said, "I guess so."

"Where are your knee pads?"

"Knee pads?"

"For groveling."

"Let's just do it, smart ass. I can't believe I'm doing this. Explain it to me again."

"Just act mad as hell. You know, a lot of righteous indignation. You're good at that."

"Screw you, Crash."

"Yeah, that's it. Just like that. Let's go."

* * * * *

The clam chowder had gone way past lukewarm and was well on its way to cold. Gino took a spoonful and shoved it aside. He turned to Tony. "What choice do we have?"

Tony Lopresti took one look at his lifelong friend and said, "You look like crap, Gino. You should try and eat something." The strain was tremendous, he guessed. "How's Tulia?"

"Can we concentrate on the subject at hand?"

"Yeah, sure. I was concerned, is all. Your folks have been like parents to me too, remember?"

Halfheartedly, Gino said, "Sorry. Things have been a little rough. We'll call her after we're done. Maybe we'll go over and make sure she's all right."

"I'd like that."

"Now, what about the money?"

"Like I said, I've got the checks in a safe deposit box. Woo-Min is positive they're untraceable."

Gino squinted tightly, his voice dry from fatigue. "Then we should go ahead."

Gino was suffering, thought Tony. His judgment was clouded, as if there were no other opinions worth listening to, about anything. "I don't think that's a good idea right now. You need to think this thing through."

His fuse short, "Do you have a better idea?" Gino spat back.

"Gino, please listen to me. $148 million dollars isn't enough to give you control. It will only buy eight percent of the outstanding stock, maybe less if the price continues to shoot up the way it is."

Gino didn't want to hear it. "I just asked you, what choice do we have? We've got to find a way to slow him down."

"Blowing the money isn't the way to do it. A buy that big will drive the price up even further. Where is it now? Thirty-six? Thirty-seven? We go in at that price and it'll look like a rival bid to Levine's, which is essentially what it will be."

"So?" Gino challenged.

"It's obvious. If he tops that offer and goes to thirty-nine or forty bucks a share, there'll be plenty of speculators out there who would dump at that price and cash out. He could come in the back door at that point and take it all. You said yourself that forty might be the magic number."

"What if he doesn't counter bid?" Gino asked stubbornly.

"Your move would look like the beginning of another hostile bid, and the board would move faster to invite someone else to come in and make an offer. Levine wouldn't give a damn. At that price he'd sell what he's already accumulated and make a fortune. I'm sure there'd be enough other dumpers out there to put any rival organization over the top and take control. That's exactly what the board wants, remember? It could happen in a matter of hours."

"The board wants a friendly deal."

"They don't give a damn either," Tony said dramatically. "All they want is to get out clean. They don't have the guts to face this Hatcherson thing."

Gino's jaw muscles tightened, working beneath the skin. "Don't mess with me, Tony. What are you trying to say?"

Tony didn't move, his eyes still as rocks.

"You think I did it, don't you?"

"Don't be an ass."

"Then they think I did it. Is that it?"

Tony gave in. "I think so. At least some of them."

"Bastards," Gino said disgustedly. "That's all the more reason to move now. We need to get as much of that stock under our belts as possible. If we took another seven or eight percent, we'd move ourselves to a forty percent share, maybe forty-one. It would put us that much closer."

"You'd still need an additional nine or ten percent to take complete control. Where are you gonna get the rest of the money?"

"I'll call Jong," Gino said recklessly.

"He's tapped out right now. He said it would take him another thirty days or so to raise that kind of cash, even for you."

Gino's eyes danced, unable to settle on anything. "Then we'll sweeten the pot."

Tony raised his hands in defeat. It was senseless to argue any further. "I think it's a mistake," he said in a final attempt at dissuasion.

"Do it. Tomorrow is Friday. The market closes early. Do it half an hour before it shuts down for the New Year's weekend."

Tony went back to his cold lunch.

* * * * *

They stormed into Leona's office together and stood in front of Leona's desk until she looked up. "What?" she snarled as if there was something disgusting in the air.

More than a little sarcastically, Crash said, "Little Miss Know-It-All here says we should be moving the clearance racks to the back of the departments on Monday, and I'm trying to tell her it's much too early to be moving the clearance goods now. Shouldn't we be waiting until the end of the month?"

Ramona stood there like Superwoman with her hand on her hips. It was perfect. "Listen Crandall, I've been through clearance sales a thousand times." Perfect again. "Customers will find the markdowns no matter where we put them. The sooner we get the new spring goods to the front, the better off we'll be. New goods always sell at full markup at the beginning of the season."

"No, you listen, queen bee. This isn't my first county fair either. If we move the clearance racks to the back now, we'll get hung with the crap and we'll never get rid of it. You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Queen bee, is it? Well, it would take a queen to know a queen!"

That struck a little close for Crash. "Up yours, Ramona."

"Screw you, Crash! I've forgotten more about how to run a ready-to-wear department than you'll learn in your whole life."

Loving it, Leona didn't say a word and watched merrily as they hurled insults at each other.

Continuing, Crash said, "Mercedes herself told me that the clearance goods stay up front until the end of the month." On cue, he turned and said, "Isn't that right, Leona?"

Ramona poured it on. "Screw Mercedes too!" she shouted before Leona could respond. "What the hell does she care? She's leaving at the end of the month. Besides, she doesn't know squat about merchandising a floor."

Out of the corner of his eye, Crash saw Leona's head jerk to Ramona's side. Her face brightened, and an evil little smile cracked the facade. It was time to spring the trap. Summoning up a load of fake exasperation, "You're nothing but a pompous little bitch!" he yelled as he slammed the door and stomped out.

Later, at the appointed time, Crash waited at the bar inside J. Paul's on M Street. Ramona was prompt. "Did she swallow it?" he asked as she perched herself on a stool and ordered a white wine.

"Utterly and completely," Ramona said confidently. "After you left, I asked her about the clearance racks and she said, 'The hell with the clearance racks. What's this thing with Mercedes?'"

"So what did you say?"

"You would have been proud of me, Crash. I mean, I sucked up big time. First, I repeated that I'd heard Mercedes was leaving at the end of the month. Then I said I was sorry about flipping her off, and that there was a rumor going around that she was in line to be the new GMM."

"I'm sure that got her attention."

"Absolutely. Then, I begged like a dog for her to give me my job back as associate buyer if she got promoted. She gobbled it right up."

Crash clinked his beer against Ramona's wine glass. "You done good," he said, "but didn't have to call me a queen, for Christ's sake." He paused, catching her gaze squarely. "I'm not, you know."

"Yeah. Sorry about that. I just said the first thing that came to mind."

* * * * *

The sun was just beginning to get high in the sky, which meant the morning coolness would soon disappear. Tired of looking at typical moms with typical 2.4 kids, or leathered old broads withered from months of idleness in the Miami sun, Morty adjusted his sunglasses and scanned the beach for the two young things he'd seen the day before, especially the Latin-looking one with the bronze body and the Band-Aid bikini. No luck. He'd wait, he thought. They'd be out soon. If not, there'd be other tight young things to look at—but look only, he remembered, disturbed that the doctor had confirmed his suspicions. He found an empty Fontainebleau chaise lounge and settled comfortably as he speculated on where he could possibly have caught the clap. Could have been anyplace, he thought, and he wondered how he was going to keep Myra from finding out. Then again, what the hell would she care? They hadn't touched each other in months, which was fine with him. The less he touched her ever-widening body, the better.

Morty motioned for the Cuban waiter boy to come over, flipped him a buck, and told him to bring a copy of the morning paper. He faced the warming sun and prepared to enjoy an hour with no phones before his flight to Washington to attend Senator Hancher's New Year's Eve party. It was going to be a very important party. Morty unfolded his copy of the Sunday, December 31st Miami Herald and pretended to read as he watched a young one chase a beach ball. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, he guessed from the look of her young ass. He flipped quickly to the business section to check the stock prices, but he never got there. There, on the front page of the business section was a picture of him, Morty Levine, CEO of Associated Department Stores of America, and he looked like a very important man. Yes sir, he did. Battle of the Potomac, the headline read. The article quoted Leibermann: "We don't know just yet who made the counteroffer, but Associated is not affected by it. Our plans are to move forward with our effort to take control of Rosenbloom & Starr. We have a very strong position right now, and I doubt seriously if anyone could catch us unless they made some outrageous offer...." Counter offer? What counteroffer, thought Morty. He read further... unknown party... rival takeover bid... $148 million dollar block of R & S stock. He had to call Leibermann. Then he'd call that idiot Leona and make sure she'd completed the buy he'd instructed her to make. If what he'd just read was true, the price of R & S stock would shoot through the roof and his $1.1 million could turn into $1.5 million, or more, overnight. It was going just like he'd planned.

* * * * *

It sure was cold, thought Truthful, but this had been his idea. "She took the bait," Crash had said earlier in the day, "but nothing is going to happen on New Year's Eve. How do you know she didn't call this Levine guy already?"

"She didn't call him from work," Truthful had said. "There were no long distance phone calls made from R & S to the numbers I found on that business card. I've already checked with the phone company."

"Maybe she called from home, or maybe she'll call Monday, after the weekend. If she's going to contact him—if he's the connection—about the GMM job, she's not going to be obvious about it. You're wasting your time tailing her, especially tonight."

"Just for practice," Truthful had said. "I don't have anything to do anyway. It would be interesting to see what a person like her does on New Year's Eve. I'll meet up with you later if nothing happens."

"Hell of a way to spend New Year's Eve," Crash had said.

Truthful now looked at his watch, then at the apartment building on the other side of Duke Street, wondering which window belonged to apartment 509, Leona's apartment. Nice building, he thought, noting that it was almost nine-thirty. Certainly if she was going out for New Year's Eve she would be leaving soon. He hiked up his binoculars and scanned the lighted windows again, thinking he didn't even know if apartment 509 was on this side of the building. He'd just keep her car in sight, he concluded as he walked back to his own vehicle. He'd hang out for another hour or so. Maybe Crash was right. Maybe he was wasting his time. He cranked up the heater on his Granada.

CHAPTER 17... The Mansion

Tony looked across the table and thought once again that yesterday had gone directly into tomorrow and today had mysteriously vanished. He'd get it back on the return trip, of course, where today wouldn't succumb to tomorrow until he'd lived the day twice, but that would be then, not now. Now, it was New Year's Day in Seoul and New Year's Eve had already come and gone, never to be recaptured even though somewhere in the world people were still popping champagne bottles to celebrate the dawn of another year.

Woo-Min looked weary. His almond-shaped eyes were droopy, and his pupils looked like rifle barrels pointing out from between the heavy lids. He looked more Chinese than Korean, Tony considered; he still couldn't really tell the difference. And funny how dark his skin was—bronze colored—like the descendants of those ancient Aztec people from Mexico. Looking at the age spots on Woo-Min's pate, he wondered if somehow the peoples across the huge Pacific were somehow related in common ancestry. Perhaps Korea and Mexico were once a common land mass, maybe many, many years ago.

"You look very preoccupied. Is there a problem, Mister Lopresti?"

Tony stretched and refocused on the issue at hand. "Not at all. I was just daydreaming. I think I'm a little tired."

"I understand. The time difference is difficult at first. Happy New Year, Mister Lopresti."

Tony raised his glass. "Happy New Year... for what it's worth." The red and black slashes from the walls of the velvet room blurred through whiskey and ice.

"It will work out for the best. You must have faith."

"That's easy for you to say." Tony shot back some of the bourbon.

"It's not as easy as you think. $150 million dollars is a lot of money, even to me."

"And, I'm afraid, it's nowhere near enough."

"Is that why you're here? To ask for more money?"

"Yes. I assumed Gino called to let you know I was coming."

"He did. But he did not give the reason for your return so soon after our last meeting, and I did not ask. He sounded very concerned. I know Gino Starr well. He is very upset."

"Are you surprised, with everything that's going on in his life?"

"This will pass. All things do."

Tony had a feeling Woo-Min didn't know about Veneto. "It's more than just this. He just buried his father."

Woo-Min's narrow eyes widened and the bronze skin suddenly took a sickly lighter shade. "Veneto is dead? How?"

"Heart attack. They buried him on Wednesday."

"Gino never told me."

"I'm not surprised. You know how he is. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Losing Rosenbloom & Starr now would kill him."

"And what is it you want of me? As I explained at our last meeting, I do not have additional cash to lend."

"I'm not here to ask for a loan. I'm here to make a business proposal."

The comment caught Woo-Min off guard. His interest peaked, "I am listening," he said as an incredibly beautiful Korean woman replaced Tony's bourbon. Tony recognized her as the same Korean woman in the bone-colored suit he'd seen at Jong headquarters.

Tony laid a card on the table. "Gino is willing to make Jong International the primary vendor in every department where you have a product line. You may have to develop some new trademarks, or give us exclusive distribution on some of the better lines, but we figure that with apparel, domestics, electronics, small appliances, and whatever else we could throw in, it would mean at least $200 million a year at wholesale."

Woo-Min pondered carefully. "That is a very interesting offer, but my factories are already operating at full capacity. I would have to give up many of my existing accounts in order to accommodate such a commitment. For me, it would not mean additional business. I'm afraid I would have to turn down such a proposal, even for Gino Starr."

Tony laid another card on the table. "I remember when Gino took a chance on you once. He made you a rich and powerful man."

"And I am repaying him by helping him in his time of need," Woo-Min responded. "Times were different then, Mister Lopresti. We needed each other. He needed exclusive lines on which he could make margin, and I needed distribution in the United States. It was a good combination once."

"And it would be a good combination now."

"I am sorry. As much as I would like to help even more, it would not make sense for my business."

Tony sipped his drink and laid yet another card on the table. "Would it make sense if we had a way to double or triple the size of Jong International?"

Woo-Min leaned forward. "How?" he asked.

"By increasing your distribution in the States five times over."

Woo-Min immediately dismissed the possibility. "We'd have to penetrate every major market in the country," he said. "Rosenbloom & Starr does not have such a network."

Tony played out his hand. "No. But Associated Department Stores of America does."

* * * * *

The Granada struggled to keep up and Truthful pounded the steering wheel. As soon as Justice was out of school he'd trade this egg beater and get himself something nice—a 'Vette maybe. Leona's fishtailing 240Z would be no match for a 'Vette. The Granada coughed and shivered as it took the curves along Georgetown Pike. Where the hell was she going in such a hurry? He concentrated on the taillights, barely visible through the ever-increasing snow that had been falling for the last hour. Once again, he gunned the engine and felt the back end shimmy. Meanwhile, the lights of the 240Z disappeared into another dip in the road. Truthful wiped the fog from the inside of his windshield. Goddamned shitty heater. Damn snowflakes were as big as handkerchiefs.

* * * * *

Morty stepped from the limo, sinking into an inch of mud that was camouflaged by the fresh snow. "Damn it!"

The driver helped Morty through the muck. "Sorry sir. The house was just finished and there won't be any grass planted until spring."

"Just pull the fucking car up so Mrs. Levine won't get mud all over herself." Morty stamped his foot on the walkway, splashing the pants of his expensive tuxedo.

The driver offered a lame salute. "Yes, sir! Right away, sir!" He laughed a disrespectful little laugh when the muddy brown droplets turned into streaks as Morty tried to brush them off.

Finally inside, Morty surveyed the room and regally made his way toward Senator Milton D. Hancher. Myra headed for the bar, needing a martini to wash down the two scotches she'd already had in the limo. Just as well, thought Morty—as long as she didn't make an ass out of herself. This was a very important party.

* * * * *

"How'd you get in here?" Morty growled lowly.

Leona spread her coat, revealing her trampy little New Year's Eve outfit. Heads turned. "I just showed them these and said I was your guest," she shot wickedly.

Morty looked away. "Do you have the stock certificates?"

"I've got 'em," she slurred.

Being his usual pleasant self, Morty said, "Then hand them over and get the hell out of here." He pointed to the vestibule, making sure she knew where out was.

"Not so fast," she said slyly.

"What the hell do you mean, not so fast? Those are my shares, now hand them over!" More heads turned.

"Not until we make a deal."

"We already have a deal."

"We do? Well, you haven't done shit about holding up your end of it, pal."

People were starting to listen; too many people. "I said I'd take care of it. Now, where are those goddamned certificates? I'm not gonna ask you again." Morty grabbed the sleeve of her raccoon coat and pushed her toward the vestibule.

Once there, Leona smiled a temptress's smile. She moved in close to Morty, feeling the attention that was focused on them. "You know how I like it when you play rough," she said for the listening ears. When the eyes and ears turned away, she said, "Here's the deal, you bastard. You get half of the certificates tonight."

"Where are they?" he hissed, pushing the words through his teeth.

"Exactly where you told me to put them, honey, in a safe deposit box. Come to my apartment later when you're done strutting around here and I'll give you the key." She slipped a piece of paper with her address on it into the pocket of Morty's tux. "Mercedes is leaving at the end of the month. You get me into that job and I'll hand over the rest of the certificates when you do. Got it? No job, no certificates."

"Why you blackmailing tramp!"

"Stick and stones may break my bones," Leona said mockingly, making no attempt to control her voice, "but you call me any more names and I'll break your balls." Shielded by her bulky coat, she grabbed Morty's crotch and his lips stretched white with pain.

"Is everything all right, Morty?" The question came from Senator Hancher who emerged from the group of wide-eyed observers. Leona quickly pulled her hand from between Morty's legs and Hancher looked to be none the wiser. "I don't believe we've met," said Hancher, eyeing Leona's plunging neckline.

"Mister Levine just forgot to bring his medicine. His ulcers don't like it when he does that." She reached into her purse and handed Morty a bottle of Mydol. Turning to Morty, she said, "Good night Mister Levine," and disappeared through the front door.

"Who was that?" Hancher asked.

Breathing deeply, saying the first thing that came to mind, "One of my traveling assistants," Morty responded.

"Some assistant," Hancher noted. He suddenly turned very serious. "Why don't we go to my study, Mister Levine. We have some important business to discuss."

Morty mopped his forehead and followed the senator down a long hallway. Once inside the study, Hancher took a seat behind an antique writing table and said, "We need to move this along, Mister Levine."

"These things take time," Levine responded coolly. "If we push it, it'll just cost more money."

"We don't have any more money. You said you could get the job done for $200 million, and we're already $50 million over that with no end in sight."

"So push another foreign aid bill through Congress. The Koreans will feed it back to you just like they always have."

Hancher shot from his chair. "Don't get ballsy with me, Levine! We need Rosenbloom & Starr and if you don't find a way to complete the takeover and get them contributing into the Associated coffers, the Koreans are going to pull the plug on Associated. They're sick and tired of you screwing up every time they turn around and frankly so am I. Get this thing done, Mister Levine, or else. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," Morty answered as the burning in his crotch started to subside.

* * * * *

Johnny Gold lit another Newport and watched another pair of headlights swing through the entrance gates belonging to the mansion at 9946 Georgetown Pike in Great Falls. Unlike all the other cars though, this one didn't travel the hundred yards to the U-shaped driveway to discharge passengers. This one pulled up right behind him, just inside the gate. Johnny heard a door slam, but couldn't see a thing through the glare on his foggy rear windshield. He rolled down his window when he heard someone thumping.

Annoyed, Johnny said, "Can I help you?" Black dude, he noticed as he blew a plume of smoke through the window.

"Some way to spend New Year's Eve, huh?"

"Yeah, sure," Johnny grunted, not in the mood to make small talk. But the guy was right. Freezing his nuts off while the always-pleasant Mister and Mrs. Levine were snacking on caviar was the last thing he wanted to do on New Year's Eve. He'd charge double time for this, for sure.

"You on the job too?" the stranger pressed.

Johnny looked him over. He looked like the security type. "Yeah," he answered curtly.

"Who lives in the big house?"

"Some senator," Johnny said suspiciously. "Don't you know your assignment?"

A pair of headlights was coming at them, moving quickly through the falling snow and switching back and forth between high beams and low beams. The black dude turned his face away from the 240Z as it raced by, Johnny noticed.

"Happy New Year," the dude said quickly as he ran back to his idling car. Spitting gravel, the guy's car made a three point turn and squealed out onto Georgetown Pike.

"Amateur," Johnny said as he took another puff off the Newport and flicked it into the falling snow.

* * * * *

Gino pulled his Cadillac into the driveway of his home in North Arlington and pushed the button for the automatic garage door opener. As he waited for the door to open, he yawned and thought about what a tough cookie his mother was. She'll be all right, he concluded. She faced reality head on and dealt with it. She was more worried about him than about herself.

Walking from the detached garage, he retrieved the newspaper that had been in the driveway since that morning. He tucked it under his arm and went to unlock the side door, the door he always used, the one closest to the garage, the one that led to the kitchen. It was unlocked. "What the...?" Had he forgotten to lock it? He flipped the kitchen light on and looked around, then moved into the living room and did the same there. Everything looked fine. He'd just forgotten to lock the door, that's all. He went back and locked it, flipping the kitchen light back off as he retraced his steps into the living room. He was weary, ready for bed, and like he was every other night, he was alone on this last night of the year. The new year was not going to start out well, he predicted as he climbed the stairs. Halfway up, he heard the familiar creak of the second stair, which was already behind him. He froze instantly, but it was too late. He turned quickly just as someone pulled his feet out from under him. Landing with a tremendous thud, he rattled down the stairs on his back and tried to get up as the first blow came out of nowhere and smashed into his kidney. He crumpled to the floor, and a heavily-booted foot crashed into his ribcage. In the darkness, he saw nothing as more heavy blows rained down. Pain knifed through his body. Someone grabbed him and pulled him up, propping him up so that more direct, more powerful blasts impacted mercilessly on his already shattered ribs. Blow after blow hammered into his torso. He crumpled helplessly to the floor and heaved in agony, gagging on his own blood as it gurgled up from his punctured lungs.

A black-hooded assailant knelt down close and grabbed his hair. "We have a message," he said in an accent, which, even in his agony Gino recognized. "Let Rosenbloom & Starr go, or next time you are a dead man."

Recklessly, in a final act of defiance, Gino yanked the ski mask type hood from his attacker. For a split second, he saw the face, the Asian features unmistakable.

The intruder snatched the hood and smashed Gino's head into the blood-soaked carpet. "There will be no more warnings," he said before he and his accomplice walked casually out the front door.

Coughing blood, Gino crawled to the window, barely able to pull himself up to look out onto North Scott Street where a blue and gray Oldsmobile Delta 88 was pulled up beneath the streetlight in front of his house. They were stealing his car, he thought—his company car from Rosenbloom & Starr. Then, just before he passed out, he remembered he hadn't been driving the company car. He remembered he'd been driving his personal car—the Cadillac—and that his company car was in the police impound.

* * * * *

"I've been invited to a New Year's party at one of the neighbor's apartments, but I really don't feel like going," said Ramona. "Where is Truthful anyway? Isn't he out doing his investigator thing?"

"Yeah," Crash replied on the other end of the phone line. "He just called from Tysons Corner and said he followed Leona to some fancy mansion in Great Falls. I'm meeting him and Lucinda at his place. We're gonna have a couple of drinks and watch the ball fall on TV. You wanna meet us there?"

"I've got nothing better to do, but I don't want sit there all night and listen to him pretending to be Sherlock Holmes.

"Would you like it better if I pretended that I was John Holmes?"

"Who's John Holmes?"

"Never mind," said Crash. "I'll be at Truthful's place in about an hour."

CHAPTER 18... The Rose Bowl

She pulled the old down comforter higher, making a feathered cocoon of the bed. The air was crisp and cold, despite the wood stove crackling away on the other side of the room. Rubbing her toes together, Mercedes cuddled into in the old bed, thinking how marvelous it must have been in the old days when the most pressing issue of the day was having to milk the cows before breakfast. Breakfast—she was starving, and the smell of frying bacon was beginning to creep into the room.

She heard the clatter of kitchen utensils as she walked down the creaky stairs, and a whole army of other aromas invaded her senses. She felt as if she hadn't eaten in a month. Realizing she probably looked a little rumpled, she ran a hand through her tousled hair and tightened the oversize robe MacHune had provided for her the night before.

Wearing suspendered overalls and a flannel shirt, MacHune turned and smiled a bright early morning smile. "Sleep well?" A rooster crowed in the distance.

"Like a rock. I haven't slept like that since I don't know when. What time is it?" She yawned.

"Six-thirty. Sun'll be up in about half an hour. Hungry?"

"Famished."

"How do you like your eggs? Fresh this morning."

"Sunny side up."

"Yeah? Me too." He dropped an egg into a sizzling-hot cast iron skillet.

Mercedes settled at the big table, watching as MacHune nimbly worked his way around the big farmhouse kitchen. A minute later she was looking at a big plate full of eggs and bacon and potatoes, with a pile of hot muffins on the side.

"Careful, the plate is hot," said MacHune as he poured her a cup of strong coffee.

Amazed, Mercedes said, "I can't believe all this."

"Eat up. You'll need the energy. We have to haul a few bales of hay out of the barn afterwards."

"You're quite the cook, Mister MacHune."

"I had to be around my house. Erma couldn't boil water. I wasn't here much to cook for her though. You know, working all the time."

"Do you regret spending all those hours at the store?"

"Sometimes. Back then, I did what I thought I had to do. I made a good living, and Erma understood and all, but sometimes I wonder if it was worth it, especially now with everything coming apart at the seams. How about you? You must've put in some sacrifices of your own."

"I did, but it was different. I didn't have a family to worry about, so my work was my life, I guess. Still is, mostly. I hate facing the possibility that I might lose this job."

"I know what you mean. I can't imagine what it's doing to Gino."

"What's going on with him anyway? Have you talked to him about that counteroffer everyone is talking about?"

"No, not yet. I only heard about it myself yesterday afternoon. I thought about calling him last night, but I didn't want to mix business with pleasure."

Mercedes touched MacHune's big calloused hand. "Did you have a good time last night?"

"It was the best New Year's Eve I've had in years."

"All we did was drink champagne and play Monopoly."

"I liked it."

"Me too."

Twenty minutes later as he gathered the plates, MacHune said, "Let's get the bales out of the barn and load them onto the tractor. Then we'll call Gino and find out if he knows anything about this counteroffer."

"I don't have any work clothes," Mercedes noted. "I didn't think I'd be spending the night."

"There's some in the dresser of your bedroom. I brought some from the store yesterday. Size eight, right?"

"Why Mister MacHune, you think of everything, don't you?" Mercedes's eyes sparkled with delight.

"Hurry up," he commanded. "Day's a-wastin'. I'm going to work your ass off, Ms. Flores." And what an ass it is, he judged but didn't say.

* * * * *

Sitting in a rented Plymouth, Johnny Gold checked his receipts as the ashes from his cigarette dropped onto his lapel and mixed with the dandruff already there. He smiled with satisfaction as he double-checked the totals to be sure they were correct. The cow was sure to try and weasel out of paying the full amount like she always did, but he'd do the decent thing this time, he decided, and not pad the time for the week in Miami Beach. After all, there wasn't much to pad as Levine had been a good little boy, seemingly having kept it in his pants the entire week. It had been almost like a paid vacation, thought Johnny. Still, though, he'd done some work, work which he hoped would pay off down the line.

He tore the notes he'd made in Miami from his spiral notepad and put them in his pocket with the film—film which he'd have to remember to take back out of his pocket when he walked through the security gates at the airport later. The pictures on that film would earn him plenty when the divorce took place, and he didn't want to take the chance of exposing it in the x-ray machines. If Levine didn't buy them, the cow would, and he hoped the picture with the Cuban waiter's head between her legs came out clearly. That one would be worth ten thousand easy, regardless of which side he sold it to. Ten thousand wasn't much—chickenfeed when compared to the million one that Morty had pulled from his account. Johnny now had as much interest in what happened to the money as his chubby client. They'd pay it, no problem.

Concluding his bookkeeping duties, he checked his watch to see how much time was left before his four o'clock flight out of National. He had an hour or so to kill. He looked up at the apartment building, pretty sure it was the same one to which he'd tailed the limo the night before. It looked like it. He suddenly spotted the huge 2100 Duke Street on the side and wondered how he could he have missed it previously. As he stepped from the Plymouth, he wondered what excuse Levine had come up with for having left the Senator's party alone.

There was no doorman in front, Johnny noticed, but then again this was Virginia, not New York. Inside the vestibule, he looked down the rows of names on the intercom, checking to see if he recognized any of them, wondering which button Levine had pressed he night before. None of them looked familiar. A well-dressed couple came through the heavy glass doors.

"Happy New Year," the man said as he held the security door for Johnny.

"Happy New Year," Johnny replied. Some security, he sneered. Then again, this was Virginia, not New York. Not having any idea who, or what, he was looking for, he decided to take the elevator to the top floor and work his way down. He knew by experience that sometimes things that seemed totally unimportant at first weren't so later on. One never knew.

He went up to five and got off. Nothing unusual, he concluded as he meandered down the hall and found the stairway to the floor below. Same thing on the fourth floor, and the third, and all the way down. That's okay, thought Johnny as he made his way back toward the lobby. He'd chalk up another hour, even though it only took him fifteen minutes. He'd cruise the parking lot before he left, just to check to see if any of the cars looked familiar for any reason. One never knew. He rounded the final corner in the first floor hallway and suddenly noticed the multitude of flashing lights dimpling the walls inside the heavy glass entrance. "Isn't this special?" Johnny said as four flashing police cars and an ambulance came into view.

* * * * *

Connie Kling watched as her daughter primped in front of the mirror. When everything was just right Ramona poured herself into a black jumpsuit, leaving the zipper in front partly undone, and stepped into a brand new pair of heels.

"Pretty dressed up for watching football," Connie noted.

"Think so? I didn't want to look frumpy."

Connie eyed the jumpsuit, determining it had no room for error. "You certainly don't look frumpy, dear. Are you going over to Crash's place again? I wouldn't think a guy like him would like football."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You know."

"He's not."

"He's not?"

"No, he's not. I was wrong about that."

"Oh. I see." Connie was starting to get the picture. "Pull that zipper up a little."

"Mom, chill out. I just wanted to look good, okay? There's going to be other people there and... Why am I explaining this to you? I'm only going to watch football with some friends."

"Who's playing in the Orange Bowl?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"How about the Sugar Bowl?"

"I don't know that either."

"Some football fan," Connie teased. Her daughter finally had something else on her mind besides Rosenbloom & Starr.

Ramona slipped into a little black bomber jacket, and fired a sarcastic, "G'bye Mom," over her shoulder as she scooted out the door carrying a plate of pigs-in-a-blanket.

Connie smiled knowingly as she listened to the echo of her daughter's heels grow fainter. Five minutes later, the echo was back, increasing in intensity until Ramona came back through the door. "Forget something?"

"The damned MG won't start again," Ramona said angrily. "Can I use your car?"

"You can take it if you give me a ride to work. I'll hook a ride home with one of the girls."

"Thanks Mom. You're a doll. I'll just call Crash and tell him I'm running late." Ramona picked up the phone and punched in the number. "I'm going to be late," she said into the handset. "Dead car... Really?... You're kidding?... Today?... You can't be serious?... Okay... I'll see you in half an hour."

"What was that all about?" Connie asked curiously.

"We're going over to Leona's place."

"You're kidding."

"That's what I said. Truthful called him and said for us to get there immediately."

"Why?"

"I'm not really sure," Ramona answered mysteriously. "Crash said he'd pick me up." She plopped down on the sofa and absently clicked the remote, puzzled as to why Truthful wanted them at Leona's place on New Year's Day. "This is weird."

"Well," Connie remarked. "I'm looking forward to meeting this Crash Crandall guy."

* * * * *

"There's Truthful's car." Crash wheeled into the parking lot at 2100 Duke Street. "Jesus, what the hell is all this?" Police lights were flashing all over the place, and the walkway in front of the building was crawling with blue uniforms.

Truthful met them on the walkway and pointed towards the group of officers by the entrance door. "They've been here for a couple of hours. There's been a murder."

Ramona went from curious to anxious. "How do you know?"

"I... I asked one of the cops," Truthful stammered as he got a look at her.

Crash asked, "What were you doing here?"

"Checking on the limo I told you about last night. I wanted to see if it was still here."

"Did you find out if it was rented?"

"Not yet. I've got the plate number, but I have to wait until DMV opens up tomorrow to see who it's registered to."

Not knowing if she wanted to hear the answer, Ramona asked, "Who got murdered?"

"Don't know," said Truthful. "I couldn't get a name, but for some reason I have a real bad feeling about this. That's why I called you guys." Ramona was staring back at him. "You're thinking the same thing I'm thinking, aren't you?"

Ramona started moving toward the group of blue uniforms outside the entrance to the building. "I have got to know," she said over her shoulder.

"Excuse me, miss. Do you live in the building?" one of the officers asked as he examined her carefully.

"No, I came to visit a friend. Apartment 509."

"She wouldn't be very good company," the officer said.

* * * * *

Ernie Price swigged on a beer and launched another salsa-laden chip into his mouth just as Michigan got the ball again. Then, Hello, this is Mark Franklin, Channel 4, Eyewitness News. We're sorry to interrupt today's Rose Bowl game, but in a startling development department store mogul Gino Starr lies in critical condition following a vicious New Year's Eve attack at his home in Arlington. Alexandria police are also investigating what they feel is a related incident, the gruesome double murder of Rosenbloom & Starr buying executive Leona Ribling, and rival department store tycoon Morton J. Levine. Both were found brutally murdered inside Ribling's apartment. Starr, who is accused in the murder of yet another Rosenbloom & Starr executive, that of vice president Sherman Hatcherson, was immediately sought out for questioning in yesterday's slayings. Police were stunned when they went to Starr's home and were confronted by Rosenbloom & Starr executives Vance MacHune and Mercedes Flores, who'd arrived minutes earlier and discovered Starr inside, also brutally beaten and badly injured. Police are slow to speculate about suspects at this time, but they believe that the cases are somehow related. Channel 4 will have more details following the game, along with an in depth piece on tonight's eleven o'clock news from Channel 4's Gail George, who's been covering both cases all day. This is Mark Franklin, Channel 4, Eyewitness News. Now, back to today's game....

"Damn," said Ernie Price, unsure if he was upset with the bulletin or the fact that USC had the ball back already.

CHAPTER 19... Now What?

"I can barely understand you with that scarf over your mouth," Thigpen griped. "I'd think you'd be used to this by now." Thigpen was with the Alexandria, Virginia, PD.

Ernie Price kept the scarf over his nose despite the sergeant's complaints. "Deal with it," he said. The truth of the matter was that he'd never gotten used to it—not during days in Vietnam where gore was an everyday occurrence, and not now. "How do you think this went down?" he asked as he looked at the blood-soaked carpet.

"She might have gotten it before him," Thigpen answered as he flipped through some pictures from the forensics guys. "The ME says cause of death for her was blunt force trauma and not whatever they used to do the slice-and-dice. The broken statue in this picture is probably one of the murder weapons; forensics said there was blood and hair on it and they're checking it now to verify it was hers. Then she got it with the blade for good measure, it looks like. Hard to tell if he was still alive at that point, or if he saw the murderers. "

"Is there another murder weapon?"

"Something big, and something sharp. Possibly a machete, we think from the looks of the wounds, but nothing like that was found at the scene."

Price said, "Charming," and looked away from the pictures. He'd seen enough and decided to leave the blood-drenched apartment. Once outside, he breathed in as much cold air as he could, hoping it would keep his nausea in check.

"Why'd you call the Bureau?" Price inquired when Thigpen came out.

"I was working a hunch," said Thigpen as he stepped away from Price. "Are you okay? You look a little green."

"It'll pass," said Price. "You were saying?"

"I started checking all the usual angles. You know, talking to the neighbors, asking if the vics were friends, possible enemies, what they did for a living—that sort of thing. Anyway, after I found out about the department store connection, I remembered reading about the case from DCPD that was all over the papers, the one about the other department store exec that was killed up in northwest D.C. I call my lieutenant and he finds out that the vic in that case—his name was Hatcherson—worked for the same outfit as our female vic from upstairs. He makes a couple more calls and tells me that the primary suspect in the D.C. case was the CEO of the same company and that he was just assaulted and almost killed. I ask if it would be an idea to run a search for other deaths involving department store executives. He says it's not a high-risk line of work, but like I said, I had a hunch, so we do it anyway. What d'ya think happened? Pop, pop, pop, pop—since July of last year, there's been seven other cases around the country."

"No shit?" Price responded. "Where?"

"Two in New York, two in San Francisco, one each in Chicago, New Orleans, and Dayton."

"Dayton?"

"Yeah, Dayton—Ohio. I thought it was strange too. Anyway, obviously something more complex is happening, and as soon as I spill it to my lieutenant, he tells me to bring in the Feds."

"Nice work. You got copies of the reports and copies of your notes?"

"Yeah, and here's the names and addresses of anyone we thought would be good to talk to." Thigpen pointed to one entry in particular. "That's the CEO's room number over at Arlington Hospital. You might wanna start with him."

Price nodded, and said, "Right away. He could be next on the list."

* * * * *

"I just can't help but feel we're responsible somehow."

The look on Ramona's face was one of disbelief, her eyes vacuous. Crash had been looking at that expression since the previous afternoon after she'd spoken to the police officer in front of Leona's apartment building. He lifted his eyes from the corned beef sandwich he was devouring and looked around the basement-floor restaurant of Rosenbloom & Starr where he and Ramona and Truthful were having lunch. It seemed as if every employee in the store was down there, most of them similarly engaged in hushed conversation.

His voice barely above a whisper, "It couldn't possibly be our fault," he said across the table. "It's clear that Leona already had a relationship with this Levine guy; our little charade had nothing to do with it." He took a bite of his sandwich. "Listen, no one killed her because she wanted to be GMM—not unless Mercedes has a real mean streak." He chuckled at his attempt at humor. "I wonder if she has an alibi."

"You're sick," Ramona snarled as she took a sip of her tea.

"What does the paper say about this?"

Truthful held up a finger as he rustled the newspaper. He'd been engrossed in it for most of the lunch hour. "Trading on all R & S stock has been suspended pending the investigation."

"Who cares about the stock?" Crash garbled through a mouthful of corned beef. He looked at Ramona's plate and said, "You gonna eat that pickle?"

"Plenty of people care about the stock, especially the ones who got in late speculating it would go higher. With trading stopped, they're sort of left holding the bag. Depending on what happens, they could lose a bundle."

"So?"

"So, they'll probably be pretty anxious to bail out once trading is resumed. According to this article, it's a perfect opportunity for a third party to come in and take over the company, especially after what happened to Mister Starr. It says the company is 'like a huge ocean liner with no engines and no captain, floating along at the mercy of the waves.' It could float along for quite a while, or it could go under any minute."

"I still have the feeling that somehow it's our fault," Ramona persisted. "I mean, we drop the rumor, and the next thing you know Leona is dead. I feel so guilty...."

"Hey, it's not like we sent the killers over to slice her up like that pastrami you're eating."

Ramona clutched her stomach. "You're disgusting," she said, pushing her sandwich away. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

"So you're not gonna eat that sandwich?"

"How can you eat?"

"Life must go on," he said, reaching for her plate. "Speaking of which, has anyone thought about who the new ready-to-wear buyer might be?"

"I cannot believe you," said Ramona. "Leona's not even cold yet and you're thinking about how to weasel into the buying office."

Crash put on his hurt look. "Actually, I was thinking about you."

"Oh," Ramona responded, but she brushed it off immediately. "The company would probably hire someone from the outside."

"Who the hell would come to work for us now?" Crash went on. "I think you're the obvious weasel."

"I can't really think about that right now."

"Oh, right. I know you, sister. Tell me you haven't thought about it."

"Well," Ramona said sheepishly. "Maybe just a little."

"Told you. Can't fool me."

Dropping the paper, Truthful said, "I wonder who would take over at R & S if Mister Starr didn't make it."

Ramona almost swooned into her tea. Crash said, "MacHune, obviously."

Truthful shrugged. "I'm not so sure. Strategically, Mercedes might be a better choice. MacHune's real good at running the company day-to-day but he's kind of rough around the edges. Mercedes has the savvy to deal with the board, and the vendors, and do all the political stuff."

"You might be right," said Crash. "Have you talked to either of them since our little meeting at the Old Ebbitt Grill?"

"No. I went upstairs first thing this morning but they were behind closed doors." Suddenly, Truthful heard his name come over the PA system. He was being paged; sounded like Ginny's voice. "Be right back," he said as he slid out of the booth to find the nearest house phone. Coming back, he announced, "We're wanted on the seventh floor."

"All of us?"

"Yeah, and right now, Ginny said."

Six minutes and forty-one seconds later, Crash, Truthful, Ramona, Mercedes Flores, and Vance MacHune were all sitting in Mercedes's office with the door closed, looking at each other solemnly. Her face ashen, Mercedes said, "Well, that was brilliant. Whose funeral do we plan next?"

"Ya' see?" Ramona cried out. "It's not just me that's thinking that way."

They all took a beat until Crash said, "Hey, I didn't think it was such a bad idea. It flushed out Leona, didn't it, and that Levine guy too. Isn't that what you wanted?"

MacHune moved his big head as if he was moving a block of granite. It looked something like a nod. "You're right, Mister Crandall. So now what?"

Everyone stared at their shoes for a while.

* * * * *

Tony had never noticed the name on the limo before, but there, just below the driver's door handle, was the name Jong International. The letters were no more than an inch high, but the sheer power of the understated logo was evident wherever they went. The car was treated with a heightened respect as soon as the name was recognized, even though it was written in English. Parking spaces were cleared, lines were avoided, traffic was held up. The car was like a black-sheathed prowler on the streets, windows blacked out, its exhaust steaming into the cold air as if it were breath. Wherever they went people made way. It wasn't even locked when they went into a building, sometimes left unattended with the motor running. That would never happen in the States, even in the best places. As Tony climbed into the back, he was pleased to find the same raven-haired woman he'd seen twice before, her silken legs dazzlingly prominent against the black interior.

"We meet again," said Tony, carefully studying every detail of his fellow rider.

"I am Kyung-Soon Lee," she said in perfect English. "But you can call me Miss Lee. Everyone does."

"Everyone?"

"Well, everyone in the States."

"You have friends in the States?"

"Yes, many friends. I live there."

"Interesting. Where?"

"Baltimore." She shifted slightly. A whisper of fabric, a delicate perfume marked the air. "I represent Jong International."

Tony noticed that her skirt rode up ever so slightly as she moved. "What do you mean, represent?"

"I solve problems," she answered confidently. "Whatever they might be."

"Am I considered a problem?"

"No, Mister Lopresti, you are considered a very important man by Mister Jong, and I have been instructed to assist you during the rest of your stay. I am to provide you with anything you need."

Tony remembered how Gino had described that in Korea last names came first. The fact that she'd just referred to Woo-Min Jong as Mister Jong meant she had to be very close to him in some capacity. "I thought that's what the two guys in the front were for," said Tony, continuing the conversation.

"They can only go so far."

"I see," said Tony. "Anything?"

"Anything at all, Mister Lopresti." Miss Lee pushed a button and a darkened glass panel went up between themselves and the front seat. "What would you like to see next?"

Tony knew better than to tell her what he really wanted to see. He bit his lip and said, "I understand you have a new factory that puts out ten thousand garments a day."

"Ah, yes, that would be number nine. It's not far. Mister Jong said you might want to see that one. The drivers will inform him to meet us there." Miss Lee said something in Korean into the intercom.

"Nine? How many factories do you have?"

"Well, counting the ones in Taiwan and Singapore, we have fourteen in the Far East, and we are negotiating on six more in the States. Of course, they are not all apparel factories. That's a lot of what I do in the U.S.—negotiate properties."

She must be one hell of a negotiator, Tony figured. They rode in silence for a while before they pulled up to a huge brick building. As with all the Jong properties he'd seen, the building was labeled with an understated Jong International nameplate next to the entrance. Inside, however, the place was anything but unimpressive. It was a whirlwind of people, machinery, and activity, with floor after floor of computer controlled cutting machines, and row after row of brightly lit sewing machines manned by energetic, nimble-fingered people who never looked up from what they were doing. There were rolls of fabric everywhere and stacks of cut yardage at all the machines. On the bottom floor, forklifts loaded pallet after pallet of finished and boxed garments into half a dozen trailer truck-sized containers. The loads were swallowed quickly, and the machines went back for more. Tony was fascinated with the apparent efficiency of the place.

"We can get from purchase order to port in the U.S. in thirty days, including the time on the water," Miss Lee informed him.

Woo-Min Jong came up behind her as people scurried around him at top speed. "We are hopeful that any new factories in the United States would be this efficient. Should we talk further about your proposal, Mister Lopresti?"

Tony cast a sideward glance at Miss Lee which Woo-Min detected. "We need to talk about something else first," said Tony. "Something much more serious."

"Would you like Miss Lee to leave?" Woo-Min asked, but the look on his face indicated he didn't think that was a good idea.

"I'm sure we can trust her."

"With your life," Woo-Min said emphatically.

Tony nodded, having a hard time moving his eyes off her.

"It is obvious you are concerned about something, Mister Lopresti. Is my friend Gino Starr worried as well?"

Tony hesitated, feeling his way carefully. "Actually, this is me talking now, not Gino."

"Speak freely, Mister Lopresti. Everything will be confidential."

"Three days ago, Gino was beaten to within an inch of his life. He says the men who did it to him could have been Korean. I'm going to ask you straight," said Tony. "Do you know anything about it?"

Woo-Min bowed his head, the pain of Gino's misfortune creasing his face deeply. "I did not think they would move this quickly," he said sorrowfully.

Tony took a step forward. "So you do know something. Why didn't you warn him?"

"I did not know my friend Gino Starr was included in the purge."

Tony took on a demanding tone. "What the hell is this about?"

Woo-Min didn't answer. Instead, he turned to Miss Lee. "We must prepare. Please make the arrangements. We will leave immediately."

She said, "Yes, of course," and left abruptly.

"Where are we going?" Tony asked anxiously.

"You must leave Seoul immediately, Mister Lopresti. You are in grave danger. We will accompany you to the States, but you must not return to Washington until we are sure it is safe for you to do so. Miss Lee will be your bodyguard. She is most capable."

"Bodyguard? You wanna tell me exactly what the hell is happening here?"

"I will explain on the way, Mister Lopresti."

* * * * *

"That was some send off," Johnny said as he poured Myra a drink. "I usually don't like funerals."

Myra pulled the black veil over her head and took a healthy swallow. "Old Morty would have been proud," she said callously. "How'd I do?"

"You kept up appearances," Johnny said as he refilled her glass. "The fainting part was a nice touch."

Myra propped her meaty calves on the ottoman. "I thought so."

Thinking that all his photos were now worthless, Johnny said, "I guess you won't be needing my services anymore."

"It's been fun," Myra said condescendingly. "Send me your final bill, sweetheart. I'll put in a little extra for you."

Johnny looked around the fancy living room and popped a fresh Newport between his teeth as he prepared to leave. "What about the million-one from the bank accounts?"

"Screw it," said Myra, lifting her drink theatrically. "We'll never find out what he did with that money. Besides, the bastard was insured to the teeth."

Johnny smelled pay dirt. "What if I find a way to get it back—on my own time? Is it worth ten percent to you?"

Myra considered his proposal. "I guess a girl could always use some extra tip money."

Part Three

The State of the Union

CHAPTER 20... Inventory Day

"Do you want to call or do you want to list?"

"Call," Ramona replied. "I'd probably be faster."

"Right," said Crash, wondering if that was meant as a put down. "Where do you want to start? Misses or Juniors?"

"Doesn't matter to me. You pick it. Inventory is inventory. I just want to get out of here by midnight."

"Let's do Misses first. It's the hardest and we might as well get it over with."

"Fine." Ramona marched off toward the forest of circle racks, four-arm displays, waterfalls and t-stands, parking herself next to the staggered wall racks. "Wall first?" she asked.

"Fine." Crash prepared to list the SKU numbers. "What's the location?" he asked as he looked down at the floor map.

"W-12." Ramona fingered the tags only briefly, firing off numbers in rapid succession. "Six-three-seven-two-eight-four. Six-three-seven-one—"

"Whoa!" said Crash. "Read them in groups of three. You know, get a rhythm going. It's easier that way."

"Okay. How's this? Six-three-seven—two-six-nine."

"Good. Just like that. Go as fast as you can. I'll slow you down if I have to."

Writing furiously, Crash struggled to keep up, impressed that half the time Ramona was able to call off the numbers without even looking at the tags. Garment after garment, section after section of the displays passed quickly while pages of inventory sheets filled up just as quickly. The floor map turned yellow as section blocks were filled in with highlighter as soon as they were completed. They were flying through the merchandise. Once again, Crash admitted to himself that Ramona knew her stuff.

"How about a break?" he asked after a couple of intense hours.

"Go ahead if you want," said Ramona. "I'm okay. It's only seven o'clock. I'll keep going if that's all right with you."

"Sure, fine. I'll only be a minute. I have to go to the bathroom." He smiled, noticing that she smiled back before redirecting her attention to the tags. She seemed different, he thought. Maybe it was the casual jeans she was wearing, or maybe it was the fuzzy sweater that covered her like a tent, but whatever it was, she was at ease, not as edgy as she'd been all week since the Leona thing. He was happy to see her in a good mood and not constantly terrified that someone would find out about their secret rumor-mongering. He did his thing and returned to see Mercedes walking out of the department.

"What did Mercedes want?" he asked nonchalantly.

"She was just making the rounds. She asked us to make sure we took a really good inventory. Evidently, this one is super important for some reason and it has to be especially accurate."

"Did she say anything else?"

"Like what?"

"You know, about Leona?"

"Not a word. No one's said anything to me about that all week. Anyone mention it to you?"

"Not a word either. I think everyone's scared to death."

"Funny."

"I have a cutting sense of humor, don't I?"

"Stop it."

"Sorry. Let's hack out the rest of this inventory."

"You're such an ass."

Laughing merrily, Crash looked at the floor map. "Let's see, where are we? All we have left are the clearance racks up front, then we can go over to Juniors. That's this little slice of the map here." He couldn't help himself.

Ramona shook her head and walked away into the displays. For a second, he debated chasing after Mercedes to talk to her again about the openings—plural now—in the buying office, but his guilt pushed the thought away. He'd let it all take its course, he determined, and wondered if Ramona would get the buying job. It was probably inevitable, and that was okay with him. She was the better choice right now, and him moving from floor manager to full buyer simply wasn't going to happen. The associate buyer's job was still open, however, and Crash wondered if he had a shot at that. Wouldn't that be weird? Him, working for Ramona?

"C'mon Crash. It's Sunday. Let's get this done and get out of here."

"Coming dear. Let's walk this way. It's a short cut."

* * * * *

"Listen, he's been in intensive care for a week and I don't want you going in there and upsetting him."

"I understand," said Ernie Price. "I just wanna ask him a few questions."

Marvin Stenner was irritated. "He's already been asked a million questions. He's said all he's going to say."

"I only need a few minutes," Price pleaded. "I really don't need permission," he added, flashing his ID.

"I'm aware of that." Stenner paused. "Just be quick, and as his attorney I want to be present."

With Stenner behind him, Price stepped inside. Faint laughter came from the TV as shadows danced around the darkened room. In the middle of a tangle of plastic tubes and metal poles that reached in every direction, Gino was awake on the bed. He eyed Price guardedly.

"It's okay," said Stenner. "This is Special Agent Price from the FBI. He wants to ask some questions. Do you feel up to it, Gino?"

Gino nodded.

"I've shopped in your stores many times," Price began. "You run a fine organization. Too bad someone is out to ruin it."

Gino nodded, holding Price steady in his gaze.

"The people who did this to you... have you ever seen them before?" Price took note that Gino's eyelids were heavy with exhaustion but the eyes themselves were clear and sharp.

"We've already covered that with the police," Stenner said strongly. "If this is all—"

"I have more," Price interrupted.

"Then please get to the point," Stenner demanded.

Price noticed that Gino was making his own silent demand, and seemed to be bracing himself. "Mister Starr, the police report on the murders of Ms. Ribling and Mister Levine indicates—"

Gasping, almost jumping off the bed, Gino said, "Leona's dead?"

Taken aback, Price looked at Stenner. "He didn't know?"

Stenner rushed to the bedside. "We couldn't tell him," he said angrily. "The doctors thought it best to wait a while. You should have told me you were going to ask him about that!"

Gino waved at Stenner, stopping him. "How? When?" he croaked weakly.

"The same night this happened to you," Price answered. "We think the two incidents are connected. My guess is that the murders of Mister Hatcherson and the other executives are also tangled up in this somehow."

"What other executives?" Gino rasped.

"Yeah, what other executives?" Stenner added curiously.

Seeing Gino's energy fading quickly, "I'll explain it to you outside," Price said to Stenner. "But I want to ask one more thing."

Gino nodded, powerless to fight the fatigue coming over him.

"The police report said the men who attacked you were Asian. Do you know anyone like that who would want to cause you harm? Any old business grudges? Anything like that?"

"They weren't just Asian," Gino rasped. "They were Korean."

"Korean? Are you sure?"

Just before he closed his eyes, Gino said, "I'm positive."

* * * * *

"Please," the nurse begged. "He's only been out of intensive care since this morning and he's still very weak. He has another visitor right now."

MacHune didn't want to hear it. "Listen, I know you're a nice nursey lady just trying to do her job, but the future of an entire company is at stake. Call the cops if you have to, but I'm going in there."

Mercedes looked at the nurse and just shrugged. "I suggest you let go of his arm," she said. MacHune wasn't his usual teddy-bear self and no white-frocked nursey was going to stop him. She herself certainly wasn't going to get in his way.

"Sir, please! There's already someone.... Ooohhh!" The nursey wheeled quickly. "I'm calling his doctor!" she yelled back as she stomped up the corridor.

Inside, MacHune saw Woo-Min Jong for the first time.

"I have heard much about you over the years," Woo-Min acknowledged.

Recognizing the name of the company he'd seen a thousand times on invoices and on accounts payable checks, MacHune relaxed only slightly. Mercedes came in and looked at Woo-Min quizzically. Seeing her curious gaze, MacHune said, "It's all right. I think he's one of us."

They spoke for a couple of minutes while Gino tried to break the tension. "How's the inventory going?" he asked, his voice barely there.

MacHune took his eye off Woo-Min. "Slowly," he responded. "We're having everyone do double counts. This one is going to be accurate."

"I'm sure everyone is pleased as punch at that," Gino said sarcastically. "How'd you get everyone to agree to it?"

Mercedes smiled and said, "He used one of the advanced psychological motivational techniques we learned at our management seminars. He told everyone they'd do double counts or he'd personally beat the hell out of them. It seems to have worked, though. Everyone's doing great work, Gino." She tugged on MacHune's arm.

"Please stay," said Gino, thinking she was trying to get MacHune to leave. He could barely push out his words. "I want you two to hear this. Please go on, old friend."

MacHune thought: old friend?

Warily, Woo-Min said to Gino, "As I was saying, I am afraid you are caught in the middle of what they call The Purge. They have done it before, and it is only by the grace of God that you are still alive. You must be very careful, Gino Starr."

MacHune's forehead tightened visibly. And what was all this old friend stuff? "What exactly are you talking about, Mister Jong?"

Gino smiled at MacHune's incorrect but inadvertent use of Jong's name and motioned for MacHune to let the man talk.

"I will explain," said Woo-Min. Many years ago, after I met my friend Gino Starr, Jong International was in the same situation. There are people, bad people, Mister MacHune, who will stop at nothing to achieve their objectives."

"What people?" MacHune demanded, his impatience obvious.

"I understand your concern, and I can see you are a loyal friend. But I too know Gino Starr, and I have known him for many, many years. You see, it was Gino Starr who was greatly responsible for the success of Jong International in the early years. It was Gino Starr who gave us the orders that kept our factories busy. In those times, with the taste of success fresh on our palates, it was Jong International that was the object of a similar purge."

"What is this... purge?" MacHune asked gruffly.

"A purge is an elimination of unwanted persons. A cleansing, if you will."

MacHune glanced at Gino. "What do you mean, elimination? I don't understand any of this."

"Elimination—by death, Mister MacHune. I know it is hard for you to understand, but there are people who make enormous sums of money in the Far East, and they are constantly searching for places to put that money—businesses that will hide the sources of the money—businesses that will allow them to move the money—legitimate businesses."

"Who are these people?"

"Criminals, Mister MacHune. A Korean mafia, if you will—a small but powerful group of men. In your language, the name of this group would be translated as The Circle."

"This sounds like some damned comic book story. What the hell is going on here, Gino?"

"Please, Mister MacHune, let me explain and it will all become clear to you. The Circle is a group of organizations run by men who had their beginnings in the opium trades in China and other parts of the Far East. As their wealth grew, they expanded their trade into other areas and other products, primarily the exporting of heroin and trading in women."

MacHune's eyebrows came together. "Isn't that prostitution, or slavery?"

"That is how you may term it in this country, Mister MacHune, and I know it has always been considered a crime here, but in many areas of the Far East there was no distinction between legal or illegal products. The government did not interfere with trade on the basis of moral judgment. If one wanted to destroy one's body with heroin or opium, that was one's own business. If one wanted to buy the services of a woman who was selling them, again that was one's own business. There have always been people who would supply the product as long as there was a market, and the price would vary with supply and demand. Fundamentally, that is how The Circle operated over the years: without interference and without restraint—market controlled, pure free trade. A splendid phenomenon indeed." There was almost a note of respect in Woo-Min's voice.

"What does all that have to do with this purge stuff?" MacHune asked crudely. Mercedes was watching and absorbing every word like a blotter.

"I can see you are a bottom line thinker, Mister MacHune, and I will get there quickly. After decades of prospering in the trades, the families that controlled them in the major cities like Singapore and Hong Kong and Seoul found themselves facing dwindling demand, primarily because tastes were changing away from heroin and opium toward cocaine and marijuana, a great deal of which comes from South America and Mexico. As a consequence, being the good businessmen that they were, they took advantage of their competitive edge in the labor market and began investing in businesses for which they had abundant, inexpensive resources, and for which demand for the finished product was very high."

Confused, "I don't get it," said MacHune.

Mercedes clarified, "They took their women off the streets and put them in sweatshops to churn out garments by the millions, and paid them almost nothing in return. Is that about right?"

Woo-Min bowed his head, almost as if he were apologizing. "In essence, yes."

"What about this purge thing?" MacHune asked again.

"Ah, again to the bottom line, Mister MacHune. We are there. You see, the members of The Circle had certain resources, but needed others. They had liquid capital, and a labor pool, and they had export capability, and distribution networks, but they lacked production. They needed production. So, they went out and obtained it—as quickly as possible."

The light bulb went on. "And the quickest way to get it was to take over existing factories," MacHune surmised.

"That's right," Mercedes said bitterly. "And the purges were the same thing that happened to my family when I was a child in Guatemala. There, the government nationalized the farmland. The poor farmers that didn't want to sell their land ended up under it, often along with their entire families. This was the same thing, wasn't it, Mister Jong?" Her indignation was on her sleeve. "You said earlier that Jong International was the object of one of these purges. Were attempts made on your own life?"

Woo-Min looked Mercedes straight in the eye. "Several of them," he answered. "But our methods enabled us to survive."

"Your methods?"

"We reversed the roles. We hunted the hunters, and we killed them before they killed us." The statement blanketed the room and silence dominated for some moments while a machine whirred from somewhere behind the bed.

Still unsure of what was happening, "We're not killers," MacHune declared. Then, "Are you saying Gino was almost killed because someone wanted to take over Rosenbloom & Starr?"

"Exactly, but my friend, our friend, Gino Starr was spared. This was only a warning—to persuade him to sell. Next time he will not be as lucky."

MacHune looked over and saw that Gino's eyes were closed. "I wouldn't characterize that is being lucky," he said, nodding toward the bed.

"But he is," Woo-Min continued. "He was spared purposely. Gino Starr could easily have ended up like Mister Hatcherson."

The words impacted on both MacHune and Mercedes like left hooks.

"Are implying that Hatch was killed by this so called Circle of thugs?" Mercedes asked. "How do you know all this?"

"As I explained, I have survived The Purge perhaps half a dozen times. I have learned to recognize its form."

"And what is that, exactly?" MacHune asked, not entirely convinced by such an insane story.

Woo-Min answered philosophically, "It is difficult to describe, but not difficult at the same time. Imagine it as recognizing an elephant in the fog. At first you may not see anything at all. You only feel the thunder of its feet. Then perhaps you may get a glimpse of an ear, or perhaps a tail, but still you may not be sure there is an elephant there. If one is fortunate, one may see the trunk, yet still one could mistake it for a snake and be trampled by the elephant as it emerges from the fog. Experience has taught me to recognize the elephant in the fog, Mister MacHune, before it tramples me to death. I do not need to see the entire animal to know I am in imminent danger. Mister Hatcherson was one of many around the world who have been purged from their companies by The Circle."

"My God," said Mercedes. "This sounds so ridiculous that it could be true."

"There are billions of dollars on the table to be had for the taking. The Circle is like the elephant in the fog, charging toward the table, mercilessly trampling everything in its path. Once it gets to the table, nothing will stop it from taking whatever is there."

"And the table is...?" Mercedes pressed.

"The U.S. markets. The Associated empire alone is worth four billion dollars to the factories that belong to The Circle. It would have been worth almost five billion had Rosenbloom & Starr been taken over."

MacHune and Mercedes stood there in dazed bewilderment, too afraid to not believe what they'd just heard. If what Woo-Min said was true, there was a huge organization from the Far East trying to crack the American markets by killing off executives of American department store chains—to gain distribution for its products? It was too fantastic, too unreal.

But something didn't make sense. There was a tremble in Mercedes's voice as she asked, "But if Hatch was killed, and Gino was almost killed by this so called Circle, how would that open up markets for their products?"

"You are not seeing the elephant in the fog," Woo-Min replied. "Without Gino Starr, The Circle could charge forward, move in, take over Rosenbloom & Starr and use its stores to sell its products, to run its factories, to funnel its cash, to launder its money. Don't you see? Either of you may have been next. Sooner or later the company would have fallen, another purge completed, just like The Purges of Korea."

Trying to make sense of it all, "But it's Associated that is trying to take us over," MacHune noted.

"My loyal, strong friend of Gino Starr," Woo-Min said softly as he reached up and put a hand on MacHune's shoulder. "Associated Department Stores of America is the elephant."

MacHune looked at Mercedes. "But Levine, I mean, he's dead too... and Leona—"

"Sacrificed, punished actually, for not following orders. Mister Levine didn't move fast enough. Your friend the buyer, I'm afraid, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time." Woo-Min sat, worn down by his emotional tale.

MacHune pointed at Gino. "Do you know who actually did this, and killed Hatch? You must know Gino's been indicted for the murder. If you know something, you've got to help."

Before Woo-Min could respond, he was distracted. The door swung open wildly and the nursey's voice came through clearly. "You can't go in there!" she shouted, following the new visitors into the room.

Gino opened his eyes, recognizing the smiling face of Tony Lopresti, who was completely ignoring the nursey. Gino held up his hand and said, "It's okay, nurse. I'd like them to stay—just for a little while."

The nursey threw up her hands. "Fine. What do I care?" she said as she stormed from the room.

"Some bed side manner," said Tony. "Hiya Mac, Mercedes. How you two doing?"

"Fine," they both mumbled as their eyes landed on the flawless woman at Tony's side.

"This is Miss Lee," said Tony. "Miss Lee, this is Vance MacHune and Mercedes Flores, the two most important people at Rosenbloom & Starr—besides Gino, of course."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," said Miss Lee.

Tony turned to Woo-Min. "Once again, it's a pleasure."

MacHune thought: once again?

"Hiya doin' Gino? Up and at 'em yet?"

"Hi Tony. Nice of you to come. Nice of all of you to come. It means a lot to me." Gino turned his head slightly. "Hello, Miss Lee."

"Hello... Father."

Mercedes found a chair and sat down while MacHune steadied himself by holding on to the end of the bed.

CHAPTER 21... Death For Dessert

On the fifth floor, inside his converted stockroom office, Truthful sat at his desk and closed out the Known Shortage reports, which were to be submitted with the store inventories later in the day. Looking like they'd been up for forty-eight hours straight, the individual branch managers had been wearing a path to and from the executive offices all day. They were transporting their huge bundles of summarized count sheets as they'd been ordered to do by MacHune. He'd issued instructions that they were to personally make sure their inventories were completed and submitted to EDP on time—no matter what. If a branch manager called out for this one, he'd better have called out dead. Given the circumstances, that wasn't necessarily funny, thought Truthful. He hoped he didn't look as tired as they did.

Once the inventories were submitted, the branch managers could take the rest of the day off if they chose to. They were lucky. They could go home and get some sleep. It was one of the benefits of running a store. Most of the individual operations managers and department managers within the stores went back to work. Many of them would work around the clock—again—trying to get their departments back in shape. Inventory was hell on the displays. Crash would be so wired that he wouldn't get tired until he left for the day, Truthful figured. Then, he'd empty out like a drained bathtub and he'd replace the lost energy with beer. Poor slob. He didn't complain though. No one did, amazingly. During his store visits to do the spot checks, Truthful observed that everyone methodically kept on task and did their counts. Then, just as methodically, they did them again. Everyone seemed to understand the importance of this inventory. The rumors about Mister Starr and his troubles were abundant, and everyone seemed to know instinctively that it would be the physical count itself that would determine his future with the board of directors, and possibly the future of the company itself. Truthful had heard from his people that it was exactly the same way in the Baltimore and Philadelphia stores as well. Everyone was busting ass for Gino Starr.

He tallied the Merchandise Out on Evidence column, making sure the totals balanced properly. He was surprised to find that R & S had over $67,000 dollars-worth of merchandise sitting in police storage, waiting to be shown as evidence in shoplifting cases that were being prosecuted by the company. It couldn't be that much, he thought. He went to check the figures again when his phone rang. "Truthful Williams," he said curtly.

"Mister Williams, there's a Mister Gold here. He wants to see whoever is in charge of security. He's up here on the seventh floor in the reception area."

"Tell him I'm in a meeting," said Truthful, not wanting to be bothered with anyone trying to sell him something. Usually, that's what cold calls were about.

"He says he's a private investigator and he's got some information which would be interesting to you."

A private investigator? "Send him down." A few minutes later, he was looking at a balding, overweight PI in a stained trench coat and a shiny suit.

"Mind if I smoke?" Johnny asked as he held up a Newport.

"Knock yourself out."

Johnny flicked the wheel on a butane lighter, snapping it shut. "How come you're down here ridin' the back of the bus and not up on the seventh floor with the rest of the big wheels?" he asked, trying to be funny.

"I like it here. It's quiet."

Smoke streamed through Johnny's nostrils. "Yeah, right." He took a moment. "You look familiar," he said flicking his cigarette somewhere near the ashtray Truthful had put out. "Have we met somewhere?"

"What is it you wanted to see me about?"

"I have some information about one of your employees. Actually, it's a former employee. Given the nature of this information, I thought maybe you would want to see me."

Thinking that Gold did indeed look familiar, Truthful said, "Listen, I'm kind of busy today. If you could get to the point...." Where had he seen this guy?

"No sense wasting each other's time with small talk, right Mister Williams?"

"The point, Mister, ah...." Truthful looked at the card, "... Gold."

"You had an employee who was murdered recently."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"She was passing company secrets to Morty Levine, CEO of Associated Department Stores. She'd been doing it for some time."

"Again, tell me something I don't know."

"Okay. Besides passing company information, she was smoking the guy's pipe. How's that grab you?"

Real classy guy, thought Truthful. "From what I've heard about the murder, I assumed they were more than casual acquaintances. Who are you working for?"

"That's my business."

"What's your interest in all this?"

"Money."

"Whose money?"

"Your money—stock actually. Over a million bucks-worth that was obtained illegally by the former Ms. Ribling in the form of transferable certificates—portable as currency."

"Illegally?"

"Without a doubt."

But Truthful doubted it. "How are you so sure?"

"I have my ways."

Cocky bastard. "What ways?"

"Let's just say I've seen things from the inside. Things are much clearer from that point of view."

"So? What's it all mean to Rosenbloom & Starr?"

"So, I can get the whole transaction declared null and void on the basis of insider trading. And, I can get the stock returned to the company."

"For a fee," Truthful surmised.

"Of course, if I can find those certificates."

"How much do you want?"

"Twenty percent of whatever the stock is worth on the day I return it."

"That's a healthy commission." Truthful watched as the smarmy PI missed the ashtray again. "What if the stock certificates turn up someplace unexpected, or someone finds them before you do?"

"Then we're both shit out of luck. Are you interested, or not?"

"And what's to prevent those certificates from somehow being inexplicably transferred to you?"

"Gee, I have no idea how that could that happen," said Johnny Gold.

* * * * *

Crash sat at his desk gulping down on a huge cup of black coffee. This was going to be a rough day. He reviewed the floor plan that had been covered with yellow highlighter. The inventory rechecks from the Sunday night inventory had all been completed the previous day, Monday, and today the merchandise would start flowing again. Goods hadn't moved since Thursday, which meant that the warehouse was like a dam with an overflowing river behind it. Within minutes of opening conveyers would be cranking, loading docks would be filling up, and trucks would be rolling. Stacked up shipments were being cut loose, and that meant Crash would probably get a few thousand pieces today, and he had to get his own stockroom cleaned out to make room.

Ramona walked in and removed her coat, parking herself with her breakfast of tea and blueberry muffin. "Good morning," she said cheerily. "Tired?"

"Mornin'," Crash grunted. "I'm okay."

"You work 'til closing again last night?"

"Yeah. They needed some help with the recounts in domestics and I said I'd help out. Poor folks over there had no clue."

"That was nice," she said, spilling crumbs all over herself. "How many hours you logged the last couple of weeks?"

"I don't know... a few," Crash said offhandedly. In actuality, he knew he'd tallied almost seventy hours in the last five days alone, and he'd been working bell to bell every day since Christmas except for New Year's Day when the store was closed.

"You need a day off," said Ramona, brushing some crumbs off her chest.

Was she doing that to tease him, thought Crash. He couldn't figure her out. First she hated him, then she liked him. Then she thought he was gay, then she didn't. Sometimes she was warm to him, other times she was like a glacier. She sure seemed warm this morning. He watched out of the corner of one eye while she continued to pick crumbs off her blouse. If she was teasing him, he certainly didn't want to give her the satisfaction of letting her know it was working—and had been since Christmas when she'd obviously decided to do something about her image. He hadn't seen a dowdy pantsuit or baggy skirt for a couple of weeks, and that brown-black hair of hers looked different too. He remembered how willowy and precise she'd looked on New Year's Day when she'd worn the black jumpsuit with the high heels. Even Truthful had remarked that Ramona seemed to be filling out. The truth of the matter was that her clothes were shrinking down, becoming a tad more snug here, and inch shorter there. She was definitely changing her vibe.

"What's the game plan for today?" she asked as she sipped her tea.

"Freight," he said, slurping some coffee and picking up the morning paper.

"Oh joy." The phone rang. "Hello, ready-to-wear," she answered. "Uh-huh... okay... sure... We'll be ready... I'll tell him."

"Who was that?"

"Olson." Olson was the branch manager.

"What'd he want?"

"He said some congressmen's and senators' wives will be in some time after lunch to pick out a few things. He said to make sure they were waited on and to bring him the receipts if they didn't have an account established."

"What's the occasion this time?"

"State of the Union Address."

"When is that?"

"Middle of the month."

"At least they're giving us time for the alterations this time."

* * * * *

"Do you really like the blue one better than the tweed?"

"Are you going to be on TV?" Crash asked.

"You never know," the congressman's wife answered.

Crash held the two fabrics next to her arm, checking them against her skin color. "The tweed is nice, but it might be a little busy. I think the blue is better. It's a nice blue too, just a little different than the same old navy."

"Yes, you're right. It's more towards a royal blue, don't you think?"

Whatever you say, thought Crash. As long as she took the damn thing and got the hell out of there. He had work to do and these wives were beginning to be a pain in the neck. They'd tried on every suit on the floor and even some that weren't out yet. He should never have told them he had new stock in the back.

"I'll take it," she said. "And both of the silk blouses. And the scarves too—for a splash of color, like you said. What shoes would you suggest?"

"I'd say black. Some slingbacks would be fine, but nothing too showy. What do you think?"

"I think you're right. Thank-you, Tom, you're a doll," the wife said appreciatively.

"Oh, Tom! Tommy dear! Over here."

Now what? "Yes, Mrs. Hancher. What is it now?"

"Now Tom," she scolded. "Don't be such a little bitch."

Ramona and Raoul were redoing the displays nearby and they both giggled. "He is being a bitch," Raoul whispered.

"Is this label American?" another wife asked Crash as she showed him a knit V-neck. "I don't recognize it, and you know I always buy American."

"Yes," Crash snarled impatiently. "Are we about done here, ladies?"

"Aren't we grumpy? What's the matter, didn't get any last night?"

Mrs. Hancher held up a houndstooth blazer. "I certainly hope this store doesn't get bought out by that other company," she said casually. "My husband says it's run by Koreans and I think we should keep our money here in this country."

For some reason, the comment registered with Crash. Koreans? Really? He didn't know Associated was run by Koreans. He'd heard rumors floating around for a month that Associated was trying to take over R & S, but he'd never heard or read anything about Associated being a Korean company. Odd, he thought. How'd he miss that?

He covered the blue suit with a garment bag and returned to the wives. They were still poking around. "Would you have the alterations done yourselves, or do you want us to do them?" he asked, hoping they'd take the hint and leave.

Walking out of the department, Mrs. Hancher commented, "I wonder if I should fix Tom up with Paco."

"Who's Paco?" the other wife asked.

"You know Paco... the hairdresser over at the Watergate?"

"Ah, yes. They'd make a nice couple."

"You wouldn't like Paco," Raoul advised as he walked past carrying a naked mannequin. "He's too butch for you."

* * * * *

"Well, yes... I am head of security," Truthful replied, "but catching shoplifters is more our cup of tea. Being bodyguards is a little out of our element." The FBI guy nodded, sort of. "Does Mister Starr really need bodyguards around the clock?"

"I think someone should be around him to see what's happening. You know... to see if the same faces or the same cars keep showing up."

"No, I don't know. What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that someone should keep Mister Starr under surveillance."

"I thought you were talking about protecting him, not watching him."

"I'm not talking about watching him directly. I'm talking about watching the space around him."

"Watching the space?"

"The environment, the surroundings, the vicinity." Geez, thought Price.

"Okay, I get it. Why?"

"Why what?"

Truthful smiled and said, "Maybe we should start this conversation again."

Price chuckled. "You sound like my wife. She's always walking away saying that I'm not hearing her."

"You should be thankful she walks away. I've got a girlfriend who always likes to talk things out. Drives me crazy."

"You gotta nod or something when she does that. It makes 'em feel better."

Truthful chuckled back and said, "What about keeping Mister Starr under surveillance?"

"Right. You'd be surprised how often the same car, or the same coat, or the same face shows up in the space. But bad guys are dumb and they're easy to spot when they're following a target. All you gotta do is watch."

"I don't get it. Whoever assaulted him could have killed him. Why would Mister Starr be a target now?"

"It's just a hunch, but they might not be done with him yet. He's caught up in something big, and the players in this game are obviously very serious. We think there might be as many as seven other related killings."

Truthful shifted uneasily. "Are you talking about a serial killer?"

"No, I don't think so. With them it's most often a sexual thing. This is different. All the victims were in the same business as you." Price stopped, debating whether to continue. What the heck, the guy seemed sharp. "The obvious link was the victims' common profession, but I think there's something else in play. I can't put my finger on it, exactly, maybe you can help."

"How?"

"I think I need to look at this from the inside out. Things look clearer from the inside."

Truthful said, "Funny, you're the second person who's said that to me this week."

Price said, "Yeah? Who's the first?" There was no such thing as coincidence.

Truthful moved some papers around and pulled out a business card that was tucked into the corner of his desk calendar. "This guy," he said.

Price read the name aloud, burning it into his memory. "Johnny Gold, Private Investigator."

* * * * *

MacHune looked down at the table. It was the biggest coffee table he'd ever seen, but there was no sofa, no chairs around it, nothing. Usually there was a place to sit and wait until a table opened up, someplace where you could enjoy a drink and get tuned up before the meal, but why the hell were they going to wait? There was hardly anyone in the place. He stood there with his hands in his pockets as an old Korean woman in a funny hat rolled up some bamboo placemats with chopsticks sticking out of them. She motioned toward table. Paralyzed, MacHune looked at her for a second. She motioned again, and he looked down to what she was motioning at. Ah, the little bamboo things, he guessed. She was still motioning, with a goofy little smile now. I give up, he thought, and he picked up one of the rolled up placemats. She stopped smiling, replacing it with a look of disgust. Christ... he wasn't going to steal the damned thing. He didn't even want the damned thing. She was motioning again. He already had his rolled up placemat with the chopsticks sticking out of it. Why the hell did he need with another one? What the hell did he need with the one he had? And where the hell were all the damned chairs?

Mercedes came up behind him. "What are you doing?"

Finally, relief from the motioning. "I'm waiting for our table," he said, holding up the bamboo placemat with the chopsticks sticking out of it.

"This is our table," Mercedes responded as she covered her mouth. He was a good man, but sometimes he just....

MacHune looked down. "We're going to eat on a coffee table? Where the hell are we gonna sit? And what the hell is she pointing at?"

"She is pointing at your shoes." It was Miss Lee. "It is an old custom in Korea. Shoes that are worn outside the house are not to be worn inside. You will wear these." She held up a pair of paper slippers.

Tony Lopresti drifted up behind Miss Lee. "C'mon Mac, you wanted authenticity, you got it."

Dumbfounded, MacHune watched as Miss Lee and Tony slipped into their cute little paper slippers and folded themselves down next the coffee table. Mercedes followed, collapsing neatly into a precise pile while expertly keeping her clothes in place. It was his turn, and it was like trying to fold a bedspread into a shoebox. He finally got down there, beads of sweat already beginning to form on his forehead.

Miss Lee took one look at him and said something to the old Korean woman with the funny hat. Immediately, the woman began motioning again.

"More goddamned motioning," MacHune muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear. A minute later they were seated at another table, this time on chairs. "Thank God," he wheezed.

"It is an old custom," Miss Lee explained. "In the old days, many families used a common kitchen hearth for cooking as well as heating, and the heat was carried to the various homes inside large pipes that were located beneath the floor. As such, eating and many other activities took place on or near the floor because it was warmer. Even today, many homes are heated this way. It is called ondol."

"Yeah, well...."

"Yes, I know. We are in America, right Mister MacHune?"

Anxious to change the subject, "Let's get back to what you were saying in the car," he said.

Suddenly serious, Miss Lee resumed the story. "I was saying that it was many years after the war before Gino Starr found out about me. You see, my mother died shortly after I was born. By the time he discovered the truth, I already had another family."

"It really tore him up when he fell in love with Annie," Tony said definitively. "That's why it took so long for him to marry her. He never told her he had another child in Korea."

"He must've felt guilty as hell," said Mercedes. She looked at Miss Lee, hoping she hadn't offended her.

"He did," said Tony as he turned to Miss Lee. "He almost brought you back to the States."

"What prevented him from doing it?" she asked, her eyes glistening.

"There were a couple of reasons, but primarily it was because you'd been adopted and he knew you'd have a good home." He smiled warmly.

"What was the other reason?" Mercedes asked.

Reflectively, "Gino didn't want his child to suffer through the same kind of prejudice he'd been exposed to when he was young," Tony went on. "He thought it would have been cruel to take a child away from the culture into which it was born and drop it into the American melting pot. He always called it the smudge pot."

"How do you know all this?"

"Gino and I go way back. We were the only two Italian kids in our neighborhood and I remember the times when the other kids harassed us about it. You know how kids are. But he was a proud son-of-a-gun, and there were some times when he'd get fed up with all the name-calling and he'd whack some idiot upside the head, but that just made it worse. It got so that we didn't hang around much with anyone else besides ourselves. We got to be like brothers and he's shared a lot with me over the years, a lot more than he's ever shared with other people."

Curiously, Mercedes asked Miss Lee, "Did you have any idea about any of this when you were growing up?"

"When I was a child, I remember that occasionally I would see the man with the round eyes and the dark hair at our table. He would eat with a fork and talk about business."

"With you?"

"With my Korean father... with Woo-Min Jong."

Mercedes and MacHune looked at each other. "The bonds with Woo-Min are much stronger than I'd imagined," said MacHune.

Tony continued. "When Woo-Min started his business with two machines and half a dozen patterns making cotton house dresses, Gino supplied the orders that enabled Jong to grow and prosper. Eventually, Jong International built its own factories and branched off into other products. As Gino built Rosenbloom & Starr, he helped build Jong International in the process."

"So that explains it," said MacHune.

"Explains what?" said Mercedes.

"That explains why Gino insisted on buying all those Korean goods way back then. He said they were better quality than the Japanese imports, and the company could make better margin on them, but in reality he was feeding business to Jong."

"Gino takes care of his own," said Tony. "Always has."

* * * * *

The attack came without warning as MacHune and Mercedes were walking in front arm in arm, murmuring and reflecting on the evening's revelations. The first hooded assailant whisked past, hunting silently, and the swiftness of his actions caught them completely by surprise. A second sprang from between the parked cars and by the time MacHune realized what was happening his arms were pinned behind him and he was being forced to the ground. Mercedes was cast aside easily, and she tumbled to the asphalt.

MacHune struggled uselessly against the two attackers. "Get off me!" he screamed, bucking like a wild horse but to no avail. Twisting furiously in the shadowed light outside the restaurant, he watched yet another hooded attacker flash past toward Tony and Miss Lee. Light glinted off the shiny instrument in his right hand. "He's got a knife!" MacHune screamed, and his assailants sent his skull crashing into the pavement. Still, he managed to see bits and pieces of what was unfolding before him. Incredibly, Miss Lee thrust herself in front of Tony, balanced in a fighter's pose with her arms cocked and ready to strike. Instinctively, she hiked her skirt higher to free herself of any restraint.

Down came the blade, a huge blade, swooshing through the air, barely missing her head and slashing through Tony's arm. Swooosh, it went again, but Tony managed to evade it this time by unintentionally crumpling to the ground while holding his sliced triceps muscle.

Flashing in the night, borne on the arm of a killer, the blade came up again. Astonishingly, before the killer's arm could move further, Miss Lee's right hand exploded from a position near her shoulder. Her rapier like index finger, a red-tipped missile of death, ripped precisely into the eye of the assailant and the villain's scream filled the night as her tempered digit embedded itself into his brain. She withdrew the finger and a gush of blood burst forth, splashing her as she stepped away. The attacker was dead before he hit the ground.

She turned, focusing on the two attackers atop MacHune. She moved in controlled, purposeful steps with the quickness of a cat. Without warning, she pirouetted her lithe body into a twisting, sinuous weapon, arcing a now shoeless foot into the darkness. With astounding quickness, the foot found its target, slamming precisely into the temple of one of the hooded assailants atop MacHune. She regained her balance and repositioned herself, ready to propel another killing blow, and, like before, the attacker fell dead at her feet, his head crashing onto the asphalt with a sickening thud. The third assailant jumped up and ran fearfully into the night.

Miss Lee sank to her knees and prayed as her tears dripped onto her bloody hands.

CHAPTER 22... Friday, January 12th

Watching a cockroach prowl across Truthful's desk in search of a breadcrumb, Crash thought: sometimes life just sucked. For the cockroach, a lousy breadcrumb would be a meager reward for all its hard work—just like his own situation, he mused. The cockroach disappeared under some papers on Truthful's desk. Like him, the cockroach was doing what it thought was right, and it was going to get squashed because of it.

It would have been so easy for him to squash Ramona and set her up for certain failure. Instead, he'd guided her and patiently taught her the things she didn't know about running a floor and managing other people. He brought her through her time of trouble and told her to be patient, that she would get back into the buying office when the time was right. He'd done all that, and where did it get him? One step closer to Shitsville is where it got him, which was on the road to Ziptown.

It got her back into the buying office, however, as the new buyer yet—a full-blown buyer, not as some assistant or associate. Here he was, twenty-six years old, working his ass off so that he could barely afford his crummy one-bedroom apartment and his crummy six-year-old car, and he was taking it up the wahzoo while all the people around him were blowing past him like an Indy car at full roar. Fuck this, he thought.

Truthful returned with two cups of coffee, putting them down on the desk. Suddenly, he jumped when the cockroach scooted from beneath the edge of the blotter, and SLAM! "Damned cockroaches!" he cursed. "They're all over the place."

Just as he'd predicted, thought Crash—guts splattered, just for doing what it was supposed to be doing. It wasn't fair.

"I don't understand why you're so upset," Truthful said as he looked for something with which to wipe up the cockroach mush. "A couple of weeks ago you said Ramona was the obvious choice to replace Leona."

"Yeah, I know. I guess I didn't realize how bad I really wanted it. I know deep down that she's the right choice, but I can't help but feel a little...."

"Jealous?"

Crash swallowed hard, and it was like swallowing a lemon. It was sour and it hurt, but he had to admit it: Truthful was right. "I've worked hard at this job," he said defensively.

Truthful rubbed his chin. "And what makes you think she hasn't? Well... has she?" he asked when Crash didn't respond. "You would know as well as anyone."

"Well, yeah, I guess she has. I know she worked hard for me," Crash replied. His mouth was dry as old lint.

"And she has the experience?" Truthful asked, leading.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"And she's been with the company for some time, hasn't she?"

"Okay, you've made your point," said Crash. "But I feel like I'm wasting my time. Maybe I'd be better off working someplace else."

"You mean leave the company? That's a little drastic, don't you think? You need to be patient."

"That's easy for you to say. You've been lucky. You're only two years older than me and you're in the executive office, probably making three times as much as I do."

Truthful bristled at the lucky comment, but he knew that sometimes it was tough seeing the top of the mountain from the bottom. "Maybe you're right," he said. "Maybe there has been a certain amount of luck involved, but it's not all luck. There's an old saying that luck is the residue of hard work."

"I have worked hard!"

"We've covered that," Truthful said callously. "Listen, there's more to it than just hard work. You've got to learn to press the right buttons along the way, make your own luck."

"I thought that's what I was doing when we helped out with that little rumor thing with Leona."

"That was part of it, but Mercedes and MacHune aren't the only ones who can get you into that buying office, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"God, you're an idiot sometimes. Remember Ramona? We were just talking about her. As of yesterday she's the new buyer, and she is the one who's going to make the decision on who's going to be the next associate buyer. Do you get it now?" Truthful held up his cup. "Wake up and smell the coffee, kid."

Crash calmly slurped some of it—as opposed to getting up and dumping it over Truthful's head. "She asked me to help her pick out a new wardrobe. She says I have good taste."

"Then stop whining and do what you have to do!"

"Why are you so angry with me?"

"Because you're being a complete shithead. Take responsibility for your own success—or your own failure, maybe, but there ain't nobody gonna serve it up to you."

Some friend he was being. Crash felt lower than the cockroach guts still splattered on Truthful's desk. "I'm tired of this conversation. Let's talk about something else."

"Yeah, right," Truthful said sharply. "Listen, if you're in the mood later, maybe we can have a beer after work. I could use the break myself after the last couple of days. Right now, I gotta get going. MacHune and Mercedes are really concerned about something and they want to see me right away."

A beer after work sounded good. Fifty sounded better. "What's going on?"

"I'm not sure exactly, but both of them have already called me twice today. I think maybe that FBI agent I talked to found them and scared the hell out of 'em. Good thing I didn't tell them about the private investigator from New York who came to see me."

Private investigators, FBI agents.... Once again, Crash thought about how much his life sucked right now. "You talked to the FBI?"

Truthful hadn't mentioned anything about Special Agent Price, or how deadly serious the guy had been. "He was investigating the murders—you know, Leona's and the guy from Associated, Levine."

"I know which murders."

"He seemed to think they were linked to some other incidents around the country."

"Around the country... around the world... you're caught up in international intrigue and I have to worry about rack signs. It's a dirty job, but I guess someone's gotta do it."

"What are you talking about, around the world and international intrigue? I never said anything like that."

"Did you know that Associated was run by Koreans?"

"How'd you come by that tidbit of information?"

Crash was still smoldering. "I heard it yesterday on the sales floor while some senator's wife was trying to hook me up in queer land. That's another story of my life."

"She said Associated was run by Koreans?"

"Is that important?"

"How does she know?"

"Who the fuck cares?"

* * * * *

Tony Lopresti reached over and moved the three fresh roses from the middle of the table. "Would you mind?" he asked, pointing to his plate of veal and holding out his silver knife. "I didn't think about it when I ordered it."

Taking the knife, "Not at all," said Miss Lee. "It will be difficult doing everything with your left hand. Perhaps you would like me to speak with Woo-Min. I'm sure he can arrange for someone to assist you for a while."

"You are all the help I need," Tony said reticently as he touched the heavy wrap on his right arm. A twinge of pain jumped like a spark inside his sliced muscles. He looked at Miss Lee as she cut up his food. How could someone be so soft, so kind, yet so deadly at the same time?

"You should take your pain killers," she admonished. "You are in great discomfort."

Tony clumsily pushed the food around on his plate, making no attempt to eat. Instead, he gazed at the spacious vaulted ceiling of the dining room, absorbing its similarities to the velvet room in Seoul where he'd seen Miss Lee for the first time. "How many hotels does Jong International own?" he asked, taking a heavy swallow of his Jim Beam and water. It would numb the pain, and the next one would make it number yet.

"I am not sure of the exact number. Many around the world," she answered, but she could see his thoughts were somewhere else. "You are upset. Is it your arm?"

Tony choked down a bite of veal. "I feel helpless, like one of those little animals in a shooting gallery. Back and forth, back and forth, then, bang, you're dead. This is all a big game, and someone else is doing the shooting."

"But you are not dead. You are alive. You are here, with me." She touched his hand.

Tony looked at her finger, stared at it. It had saved him from certain death. He could still see it bathed in blood and tears as Miss Lee prayed over the bodies of the dead attackers. She withdrew her hand suddenly, hiding it under the table.

"You are angry with me." Her voice was resolute. "You should not be angry. I have trained for many years in the art of taekwondo. Had I not been there, you would be dead now. You would have done the same."

Tony ordered another glass of painkiller, a double. He stirred the drink while inside he stirred his feelings. "It's not you. It's just that... I don't know. I can't put it into words exactly. I just have the sense that all this is a waste of time, that whoever is behind all this could take us out in a second if they wanted to. Someone is playing with us, Miss Lee, playing with our lives."

"Then why are you doing this?"

Tony took another swallow. "I'm not sure. At first it started out as a favor to Gino, but now it's grown into something else. I never intended to risk my life over it."

"Why don't you tell Gino that the risk is too great and back out? What do you stand to gain by all this?"

"I'm not sure really. My business is doing well. I don't need the money. I've got all the material possessions I need. Friendship, I guess. A sense of loyalty. Gino would do the same for me if it was the other way around, and he wouldn't be sitting here having second thoughts about backing out." Suddenly impatient, "C'mon, let's get this over with," Tony snapped. "Where is Woo-Min, anyway?"

Miss Lee's eyes focused behind him. "He is here, now."

Woo-Min came to the table and his three bodyguards promptly stationed themselves at the corners of the spacious dining room. He bent down and kissed Miss Lee on the cheek. "I am sorry I am late," he said. "I trust your food is adequate. The Hampshire is one of Jong's finest hotels." A mineral water appeared immediately.

Tony looked past Woo-Min to one of the bodyguards who had positioned himself so that he had a clear view of the entire dining room. It was no casual pose. He wondered if the bodyguard was looking for anything in particular.

Woo-Min said, "I am sorry about your arm. I only learned about the attack this morning. I should have known better. I should have insisted on protection. As you can see, I have taken measures." He sipped some mineral water. "Now, what is it that my friend Gino Starr wants you to tell me?"

"It is not Tony who wishes to talk," Miss Lee interjected. "It is me."

"I see," Woo-Min acknowledged. "About what?"

"About the opportunity that lies before us. We must save Rosenbloom & Starr. We can do it if we move immediately, before the stock is allowed to trade again. We must strike quickly."

"Strike? How?"

"By taking Associated before they take us. The price of Associated stock has been dropping like a stone ever since Mister Levine's death. They are ripe and vulnerable to a takeover. Pick the fruit now, Woo-Min. Take it. They won't know what hit them."

"You are talking about going face to face with The Circle. It is not wise. There may be more purge attempts. Next time they will not fail."

Was that a threat, Tony asked himself. Woo-Min sounded a little too sure. Who were they? Did Woo-Min know these people? Tony listened intently as Miss Lee continued.

"Think of what it will mean to Jong International. We will capture every market in the United States with one stroke. It would save Rosenbloom & Starr and it would mean billions to us as well. We must move now, Woo-Min!" Her pleading seemed to fall on deaf ears.

"You sound like your father," said Woo-Min.

"Those are her father's words exactly," a voice called from the distance. It was Gino's voice. With Vance MacHune pushing from one side of the wheelchair and Mercedes Flores on the other, Gino Starr came to the table.

* * * * *

Through the car window, Ernie Price looked at the huge apartment buildings off in the distance. Co-op City, the sign read. Where the hell was he? Sawmill River Parkway? Hutchinson Expressway? Sure as hell wasn't Scarsdale. He couldn't remember the last sign as he tried to keep up with Johnny Gold's crappy old Toyota Corona. Must be the Bronx, he guessed; rough-looking neighborhood. Another set of signs was coming up fast—Bruckner Blvd., Triboro Bridge, I278 Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Where was Gold's Corona? He'd lost it. He popped the accelerator on his rented Chevy and wheeled recklessly into another lane. What lane should he take? Triboro Bridge? Brooklyn-Queens Expressway? "Shit!" he yelled as he pounded the steering wheel. He thought about getting off and turning around, but the thought vanished as he found himself on a toll plaza, having no idea how he got there. The huge towers of a suspension bridge rose out of nowhere. He came to a tollbooth. $2.50! Just to cross a bridge? He dug into his pocket and peeled off a five spot.

"Where the hell am I?" he asked the toll booth attendant as he took his change.

"You'se goin' into Astoria—Queens" the tollbooth attendant said hurriedly. "Let's move it, eh. Dese people, dey ain't got all day." Drivers behind him began honking, cursing him in New York horn language.

"Thanks for nothing," Price spat as he squealed out of the tollbooth, when, suddenly, behind him, there it was. Quickly, he bent the rearview mirror, focusing it squarely on the Corona as he took the business card from his pocket, the same card the security guy at Rosenbloom & Starr had given him. Johnny Gold, Private Investigator—Discreet and Confidential. "Yeah, right," Price said as he slowed the Chevy. The Corona passed him two lanes over. The address on the card was 809 Atlantic Avenue, Brooklyn. Price wondered where the hell that was. A half-hour later, he found out. It was two floors up above a Chinese restaurant and a bicycle shop, not fifty feet from the elevated Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Cars and trucks screamed by, billowing exhaust into the side of the building. What a dump. He could almost see the building sway whenever a truck thundered past. Inside, Johnny's office door was ajar. Price didn't bother knocking.

Johnny Gold looked up from his messy desk and his chair creaked in agony as smoke curled into his eye from a filtered cigarette. "I see you found me," he said testily. "I seen better tails on monkeys. Thought I lost you at the Triboro Bridge. What'dya want, dick?"

"How do you know I'm a cop?"

Johnny laughed and said, "Gimme some fucking credit. Who you workin' for?"

Price tossed his card on the desk, landing it in an ashtray overflowing with butts.

"A fed dick—well, well, well. What do you want with little old me?"

"I'd like to ask you a few questions about the murders of Morton Levine and Leona Ribling."

A scowl crossed Johnny's face. "Never heard of 'em," he said defiantly, flipping the card back toward Price.

"I know you're out hustling reward money, so let's cut the bullshit."

"I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."

"What were you doing in D.C. three days ago?"

"I was on vacation."

"In Truthful Williams's office?"

"Truthful? Is that a name?"

"You know who it is."

"You don't think I'd lie to you, do you Mister FBI dick?"

Price felt the muscles stiffen in the back of his neck: cat and mouse games. "What have you got to hide?"

"Listen, I don't have time to answer a bunch of silly questions right now, so unless you got something more interesting to talk about, I gotta get back to work. I got kind of a hectic schedule today."

Price controlled the urge to stub out Johnny's cigarette in his ear. "Williams has already told me what you're fishing for. Tell me what you know, and maybe I'll send the stock certificates your way if I come across them. You scratch my back, I scratch yours."

"I can't help you," Johnny snarled. "Not only do you not drive so good, you don't listen so good. It's like I told you: I don't know nothin' about no stock, and I don't know nothin' about no brother named Truthful Williams. It's like I said, I've never talked to the dude before in my life."

Outside, walking back through Johnny's scummy neighborhood, Price didn't recall saying anything about Truthful Williams being black.

* * * * *

"Why does he want to talk to me?" Crash asked curiously.

"I guess he wants to talk to everybody who might know something about the case," Truthful replied as they hustled along toward the elevator.

Feeling Truthful's nervous energy as they slalomed through the four-arm racks, Crash asked, "What's the rush?"

"Everyone is waiting for us."

"Who's everyone?"

"You'll see."

It was like being summoned to the principal's office, thought Crash. On the seventh floor, Truthful once again dodged recliners and sofa tables like a running back as they weaved through the furniture department toward the executive offices—where everyone was waiting. Truthful knocked softly on the conference room door and Crash followed him in, ready to face everyone. At least he thought he was ready. He did a double take as he realized that the gaunt figure at the head of the conference table was Gino Starr. Going up and shaking his hand, Crash said, "Welcome back Mister Starr." This was a different man.

"Thank you, Tom. I appreciate it. I hope we didn't take you away from anything important."

"Nothing that can't wait," Crash answered, seeing the glow in Gino's eyes despite his frail form. But there were other eyes present, and Crash felt the intensity in the room. Jesus, no wonder Truthful was wound up.

"You know everyone here," Gino began, "and this is Special Agent Price with the FBI."

Shivers raced up Crash's spine. FBI?

"He'd like to ask you a few questions."

Crash looked down one side of the conference table, noting the unblinking stares from MacHune, Mercedes, Leila and Truthful. He thought he recognized the guy in the open-necked suit on the other side of the table; had seen him around the building a lot; had something to do with advertising; why was his arm in a sling? The beautiful Asian woman next to him was a new face, and not too hard to take either; was she an employee? Everyone sounded a lot worse than it actually was, but it was everyone enough. MacHune looked like he would get up and eat him if he said the wrong thing.

Crash looked at his watch and checked the time, noting that it was Friday the 13th. "Whatever you need," he said nervously. The FBI guy demanded his attention.

"Mister... ah?"

"Crandall."

"Right. I'm investigating the murders of Morton Levine and Leona Ribling. I believe you were acquainted with Ms. Ribling. Is that correct?"

Observing that the FBI guy's neck was as thick as MacHune's would be if he had one, Crash said, "Yeah."

"Without going into a lot of detail, Mister Crandall, there seems to be a common element between the attack on Mister Starr and the attack that took place the other night."

"What attack?" Crash asked.

"Mister MacHune and Ms. Flores here, and Mister Lopresti and Miss Lee..." Price pointed to the other side of the conference table. "... were assaulted on Tuesday night. Two of the assailants were killed. They were Korean."

Killed? As in dead? Crash felt like he'd swallowed a shot put.

"There's a chance that the assault and the murders are connected. We also think Mister Hatcherson's death, as well as seven other deaths around the country, are linked in some way.

Seven! Murders! Crash felt his blood drain into his feet. "What does all that have to do with me?" he asked, his voice almost trembling.

"According to Mister Williams, you indicated in a recent conversation that you'd heard that Associated Department Stores was run by Koreans. How did you come by that information?"

Crash glanced at Miss Lee. He wasn't sure, but he thought she gave an almost imperceptible nod. "I... I heard it from one of my customers," he said.

"And who was that?"

Crash felt guilty for some reason. There were some bad vibe molecules floating around, he thought to himself. "It was Mrs. Hancher."

"Who's Mrs. Hancher?"

"She's the wife of Senator Hancher. She was in shopping for a new suit for the State of the Union Address, which she said she would be attending with her husband."

Looking up, Price said to no one in particular, "The State of the Union address is next week sometime, isn't it?"

It was Mercedes who said, "I think so."

Back at Crash, "And she told you that Associated Department Stores was run by Koreans?" Price asked. "How did she volunteer that information?"

"Let me think." Crash paused pensively, not to think but to keep his stomach from clenching. "I think it came out when she asked if a particular item was made in America. She indicated she always buys American. Patriotic, you know? Then, she said she was happy that Rosenbloom & Starr wasn't bought out by that other store."

Price came forward in his seat. "Other store?"

"I think she meant Associated. She mentioned something about her husband—the Senator—saying that Associated was run by Koreans." Again Crash looked at Miss Lee. Again, he detected movement. Go ahead, the look said. You're doing fine. He went on, anchored by the gallon of blood in his feet and the shot put in his stomach.

"How did the subject come up?"

"I dunno, it just came up." As his stomach was about to. "They—there was a whole group of women—they were talking about all kinds of things."

"What were they saying?"

"Just chattering and gossiping. I wasn't paying much attention actually. I was busy running clothes back and forth."

Price's request came out like an order. "Would you be able to obtain more information from Mrs. Hancher? Maybe ask a couple of innocent questions we'd set you up with?"

"How would I do that?"

Price looked at him straight on. "That would be for you to figure out, son. Do you think you could do it, or not?"

"I'm not sure." That wasn't the right answer. The guy was staring. "I guess I could do it," said Crash. That was the right answer. "Is she a suspect or something?"

"Does she talk freely around you?" Price shot back, not answering his question.

"Huh," Crash scoffed. "She thinks I'm one of the girls."

CHAPTER 23... Super Bowl Sunday

Ernie Price took a moment from frolicking with his little girls to watch Ed "Too Tall" Jones come around the corner and plow into Terry Bradshaw like a speeding bulldozer. Looked like it was going to be some Super Bowl. Price slurped on his beer, pausing as the camera zoomed in on one of the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders and her big pom-poms. The pillow landed squarely on his head, making him spill beer all over himself.

Too young to understand why Mommy just womped Puffy with a pillow, six-year-old Erica said, "Mommy, those cheerleader uniforms are cute."

"You're father thinks they're cute too. Don't you dear?" Sandy got up to get a towel.

"Uh-huh," said Price. "I thought they were real cute."

Ffwwompp! "I'll bet!" said older sister Bridgette. Ffwwompp! again.

Laughing, Price tackled her. "First down!" he yelled. The phone rang in the kitchen.

"It's for you," Sandy said as she came back with the towel. "Someone from the Bureau."

Price bounced into the kitchen. "Price here."

"Ernie, this is Collins down at headquarters. Sorry to bother you on Super Bowl Sunday, but I didn't get a chance to track you down the last few days. I got that name you wanted, you know, from that address in Scarsdale."

"It's no problem. What'dya got?"

"The folks who live there are a Morton J. Levine and his wife Myra. Ring any bells?"

"Sure does," said Price. "Are you sure about this?"

"We're sure," Collins verified. "One thing though."

"What's that?"

"He doesn't own the house."

"That's interesting. Who does?"

"Someone named Chang-Su Kim."

"And he is?"

"Executive VP at Gibson Electronics."

"Gibson Electronics," Price repeated. He thought for a second. "The big Japanese TV and stereo manufacturer?"

"Not Japanese," Collins clarified. "Korean."

"That's interesting," said Price.

* * * * *

"Are you sure you're up to this?" Mercedes asked.

"I'm fine," Gino said as he brought in a tray full of munchees. "Last thing I want to do today is sit around by myself. What's happening, Mac?"

"Pittsburg is kicking ass."

"I want to say something to the two of you."

MacHune and Mercedes both detected Gino's serious tone.

"I can't ask either of you to risk your lives for the company any longer."

"Are you firing us?" MacHune asked jokingly.

"Of course not, Mac. But I think both of you should take some time off, maybe a leave of absence—paid, of course."

"Don't think so," said MacHune. "In for a penny, in for a pound."

"Me too," said Mercedes. "I've already decided I'm going to stick it out. If the ship goes down, I'm going with it."

"The ship is not going down," Gino declared.

"Not if we can help it."

"I appreciate what you're trying to do, but you two can only affect what's happening on the inside. We need to affect what's happening on the outside."

"How?"

"We need to put Rosenbloom & Starr out of reach; make our stock unattainable to Associated."

"How can we do that as long as our stock is being traded publicly?" Mercedes asked.

The TV roared and Gino waited until he had their full attention. "By buying Associated. Its stock has plummeted since Levine's death. They're ripe for a hostile bid."

It only took a moment for MacHune and Mercedes to absorb what Gino had just said. They were getting used to bombshells.

"Do we have the money?" Mercedes asked logically.

"No."

"Then we have to get it," she concluded.

"That's correct."

"From whom?"

"Jong International. I'm going to ask Woo-Min for it."

MacHune shook his head. "What's in it for him? I mean, I know you two go way back, but it would take billions to buy out Associated, even at a depressed stock price. Either your friendship is stronger than I think, or there has to be something in it for Woo-Min—something big."

"There is."

"And that is?" MacHune waited expectantly.

"If Woo-Min gives us the money I plan on merging with Jong International as soon the move is made. In essence, Woo-Min would get both companies for the price of one. We would become part of a new Jong International, vertically integrated from production to market." Gino waited. There was no response. "It's our only way out," he added, more to convince himself than anyone else.

The football game blared in the background. Finally, Mercedes said, "I have one question."

"What is it?"

"Can you trust him?"

"I trusted him with my own flesh and blood."

* * * * *

Connie Kling smiled. Ramona had been dominating the conversation, talking endlessly about how excited she was to be the new buyer, and Crash was paying her back for it, big time.

Ramona held out a tray of untouched hors d'oeuvres. "Try some of these."

"What are they?" Crash asked, trying not to get too close.

"It's a recipe I picked up out of the newspaper: cantaloupe and tuna salsa on cucumber rounds. Have one."

Crash cautiously took one of the carefully constructed gems. "Truthful, have you tried one of these?"

Patting his stomach, Truthful said, "I'm gonna hold off for a while. Still working on these stuffed grape leaves. Can't say as I've ever had anything quite like this before. What's in these things?"

"Ground lamb shanks," Ramona replied proudly. "Took me forever to find them. Do you like them?"

"Best damned ground lamb shanks I ever ate. Don't think I could take another one, though. Really filling, you know." Truthful patted his stomach again and downed half a beer to chase down whatever he had left in his mouth.

He was trapped, Crash thought as he tenuously sniffed his hors d'oeuvre.

"Try it," Ramona insisted.

"I'm kinda stuffed," Crash protested. She began to pout as soon as he said it. "I think I have room for one, though." He popped one of the chunky orange beauties into his mouth. "Mmmm, boy. That's some good eatin'." Another beer disappeared. "Damn I'm full. You really outdid yourself Ramona. Right Truthful?"

"She sure did. Really unusual too. Yesiree Bob. Sure is different."

Pointing to the TV and changing the subject as quickly as possible, Crash said, "Watch. They're going to call the halfback out for violating the infield fly rule."

"I'm not an idiot," Ramona shot back. "They don't call people out in football."

"Of course you're not an idiot," Crash shot back. "You're the new buyer." He was sorry as soon as he said it. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean that. Really, I'm sorry. Don't be mad, okay? That was really stupid."

Ramona brushed it off. "It's okay. I guess I have been laying it on a little thick. It's just that I'm so excited. Tell you what. You can make it up to me by helping me pick out that new wardrobe, like I asked you to. Would you? Please? C'mon Crash."

"I'll help you pick out your new wardrobe if you help me pick out mine."

"You're buying a new wardrobe?"

"Well, only one outfit actually. I need to pick up something a gay guy would wear."

All three of them jumped when they heard the sudden crash the kitchen.

Ramona said, "Mom, are you okay in there?"

CHAPTER 24... Back In The Saddle

Monday the fifteenth: it was the first day back, and it was like going back to school after a summer vacation: familiarity mingled with uncertainty. He knew every worn handle on every tired door, he knew which toilets flushed and which ones just swirled, but still there was insecurity about going back to the building that he'd been going to for decades. Two weeks was hardly an entire summer, and unlike the summer, which was always too short, his two-week absence seemed agonizingly long. The first day back couldn't have come soon enough.

MacHune was driving and conversation was at a minimum. They were like shipmates who'd been sailing together for years, aware of each other's thoughts and cognizant that they had their own duties. MacHune was in the engine room, making sure everything was in working order, and Gino was on the bridge looking out for rocks and sandbars, eyes open for enemy ships. MacHune pulled in to his usual parking spot behind the store, across from the receiving docks where huge trailer trucks were already waiting to unload. He got out of the car and quickly removed Gino's folding wheelchair from the trunk.

Gino took one look at the chair and said, "I won't be using that Mac. It makes me look weak."

"But the doctor—"

"The hell with the doctor. We need to show strength and determination, not frailty and indecisiveness. Let's go."

MacHune put the wheelchair back. That was the way it was, and that was the way it was going to be. He slammed the trunk and ran to catch up with Gino who was already halfway to the building. Without the slightest bit of concern, he said, "I take it you're going to ignore the doctor's orders and coming back full time."

"Probably."

"Good. We need you. Just don't die on us. It would be really inconvenient right now."

Gino smiled.

Inside, they took the usual route to the executive offices and headed for the freight elevator, which was the only one operating that early in the morning. They walked past the battered time clock where the warehouse guys were lining up to punch in, and continued past the cluttered shipping offices where strong men in plaid shirts were sipping their morning coffee. The guys lined the route, making it a gauntlet of rough-skinned handshakes.

"Welcome back," called one anonymous voice.

"We need you Mister Starr," shouted another.

Then, rising above the hubbub, "Hey Gino, kick some fuckin' ass up there!" It was a proud greeting, to say the least.

Stepping into the cavernous freight elevator, Gino turned. "I'm wearing some new shoes!" he yelled back as the overhead door came down. The cheers reverberated all the way to the seventh floor.

Stepping onto the still dark seventh floor, Gino and MacHune made their way toward the executive offices on the other side. One by one, the department managers appeared like sentinels along the route. Unknowingly, they repeated the scene from the loading docks, and the "Welcome back, Mister Starr," of one manager was still warm in the air when another came forth just as sincerely.

MacHune opened the gray fire door that led to a long corridor where the buying offices and the executive suite were located. He stepped back, letting Gino walk in first. Every doorway immediately filled with staffers cheering his return as tribal chieftain. At the second to the last doorway, Gino stopped to shake hands with Ramona Kling. The puddles on her lower eyelashes could have filled a mop bucket.

"Congratulations," he said warmly. "I hear you're the new ready-to-wear buyer. Do a good job for us. We're counting on you, Ramona."

Hugging him, Ramona buried herself in his chest. "I will," she said. "I'm so glad you're back." Pulling back, she saw that she'd stained his tie with wet mascara and she dabbed it with a tissue, making it worse. "Oh, Mister Starr, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"Don't be sorry, young lady. Once something is done, it's done. Just grow and learn." He let go of Ramona's arms and moved on, turning the corner where Mercedes and Leila awaited him. Their somber looks weren't the greeting he'd expected.

Leila hugged him. "Welcome back," she said curtly. "We have trouble." She pointed to his office. "In there." Not saying a word, Mercedes just stepped aside. Gingerly, Gino stepped into his office and saw Joe Alminton seated behind the desk, the phone in his ear. Seeing him, Alminton immediately put the phone down.

Gino said, "That's my chair, Joe." The meaning was clear.

Alminton dropped himself on the leather loveseat on the other side of the office. "So it is—for now."

Gino took his chair, removing his tie as if preparing for battle. He handed it to Leila. "Leila, would you please go down to the men's department and find a tie to match this suit. Be sure to have them put it on my account. Close the door on your way out, if you don't mind." The click of the latch was like a bell at a boxing match: round one. Gino was certain of what was coming.

"We've found a white knight, Gino."

"What do you mean, we? To me it's just another raider."

"We have an agreement in principle, provided I can convince you to go along. The rest of the board has already approved of the move—again, in principle."

"You have no principles, Joe. If you did, you'd stand up and do the right thing and try to save us from being swallowed up by whoever has the biggest pot of cash. The money is all that matters to you, isn't it? You've forgotten your roots."

"I haven't forgotten them Gino. I remember them all too well. That's why I never want to go back to them. The money, Gino—it's the money that keeps us away from the past."

"You sound ashamed of where you came from, Joe. I'm not, and you're wrong. It's not the money that's important. It's doing what's right for the people. It's doing the best you can, helping others, providing opportunities. Not the money. The money comes with it, Joe. The money is not an end onto itself."

"It is to our stockholders. I have—we have—a responsibility to make sure their profits are maximized. Profits are the engine that drive the locomotive, Gino, and right now our locomotive is stalled, out of steam."

"Hardly!" Gino bellowed, taxing his tender lungs. "If any of you prostitutes had any guts, you'd make sure Rosenbloom & Starr came out of this whole and intact—and it would if we were all behind it. We could come out of this stronger than ever, and we'd eat up market share like a baby gobbling candy. It would be easy, and it would be sweet. Maybe you don't have the stomach for sweet things, eh Joe? Or maybe you just don't have any balls."

Alminton stood, smoothing his suit as if he were unruffling his feathers. "We've found a knight Gino, and that's the way it is."

Standing, knuckles fisted on the desk, "No, that's not the way it is," Gino countered.

"It's going to be leaked."

"You wouldn't!"

"We need to grab as much stock as possible, as quickly as possible. We want sellers lined up and waiting as soon as trading on R & S stock is resumed, which looks like it'll be any day now."

"Who's we?" Gino asked again. Seeing that Alminton wasn't going to respond, he added, "You're a whore, Joe. You've already jumped sides, haven't you?"

Alminton ignored the insult. Coldly, he said, "With Levine dead, Associated will probably drop the charges of stock manipulation and dump it's block of R & S stock just to get some working capital. It's gonna happen Gino."

"Not if I can help it."

"Don't you even care who the knight is?"

"Not in the least."

"I'm calling a board meeting to discuss the results of this conversation."

"It'll be your last one," Gino promised.

* * * * *

Marvin Stenner adjusted his glasses and sipped his third coffee of the morning, thinking it was going to be an open and shut hearing. His mind was clear. There was no way Gino put a bullet into the back of Sherman Hatcherson's head. Not only was it something Gino would never and could never do, it was obvious that Gino himself may have been a target along with his executives. Still, though, the use of Gino's gun and the presence of Gino's blue and gray Delta 88 were going to be difficult to explain—because there was no explanation. There was only the speculation that someone had stolen both the gun and the car. Any judge with any sense would see that Hatcherson's death was part of... what? Some sinister plan to wipe out department store executives? Spies got killed; cops got killed; soldiers got killed in the line of duty. But department store executives? For what? Selling clothes that didn't fit right? The prosecution would have a good time with that one, Stenner speculated, even though their own evidence left much to be desired.

Second-guessing himself, Stenner lifted his coffee from atop the morning paper, noticing the picture that had been blurred from the wet rings under his cup. It wasn't the picture itself that aroused his curiosity, but, somehow, in a flash, out of the corner of his eye, like how one catches a road sign sometimes, Stenner caught the name: Alminton. Looking down at the small picture at the top of the page, thinking Joe's face looked a little fleshy, Stenner noticed that the picture was grouped with five or six others in the Personality column. Stenner laughed. Personality? Alminton? Right. The guy was dull as dirt. Still, Stenner scanned the boldly printed names in the gossip column to see just what old Joe did to deserve the notoriety. Probably another divorce. Chortling, Stenner calculated that pretty soon Joe Alminton's alimony payments would be more than he made. Then, there it was, in bold print in the middle of the column. Stenner gobbled groups of words quickly, trying to digest the paragraph in one mouthful. The words "jumping ship" stood out from among the others. Stenner took another sip of coffee. Jumping ship? Joe was leaving the bank? Then the other words began to give Marvin Stenner heartburn. Disbelieving, "It couldn't be," Stenner said to himself. Alminton was resigning from the board of R & S? To lead another hostile attempt at taking over the company? "For whom?" Stenner wondered aloud as he picked up the paper. Roughly, he rustled through the pages, as if doing so would make the words drop off and make everything better.

* * * * *

The fluffy trim of her robe blew straight back as she hoofed it toward the door. Angrily, Myra grabbed the doorknob and yanked.

"About fucking time you got here. We've been waiting for a fucking hour."

"Scarsdale is a long way from Brooklyn." Unperturbed, "Who's we?" Johnny asked cockily.

Myra got right to the point. "Where are the stock certificates?"

"Safe."

"Safe where?"

Lighting a Newport, Johnny went to the bar and said, "I think I'm zeroing in on them." He helped himself to some free gin despite the fact that it was well before noon. "Drink?" he asked sociably.

"I thought you had them!"

"I might."

"Listen, you bag of shit in a cheap suit, do you have them or don't you? I need them." Myra's pale complexion began to redden.

Johnny looked around: fancy living room, fancy house. "What's the hurry," he asked. "Like you said, it's just tip money to you. Looks like old Morty left you in pretty good shape." Johnny winced down a straight shot.

"The hurry," said a third voice, "is that if those certificates aren't found and endorsed soon, they'll be worth half what they are now. Maybe less."

Johnny Gold looked at the guy who was entering the room tightening a too-big robe around himself. In a disgusting display of affection, the guy moved behind Myra and put both arms around her ample girth, mashing his forearms into her bulbous breasts. "Who are you?" Johnny asked like it was his business.

"Stan Leibermann, Executive VP at Associated." Leibermann said it as if it should have meant something to Johnny.

Johnny poured himself another gin and speculated on how long Leibermann had been banging Myra, wondering if the guy's dick was as big as his nose. "Why are those certificates going to be worth less?"

"The word is out. There's going to be another offer on Rosenbloom & Starr—soon."

"So?" said Johnny.

"So, it's going to be a friendly deal, which means it will happen quickly. Any outstanding R & S shares will be converted."

"Converted to what?" Johnny asked, revealing his ignorance.

"To other stock, Mister Gold." Leibermann came out from behind Myra. "It'll be swapped for common stock of the acquiring company, whose price will most certainly drop like a stone soon after the acquisition is made. It always does. Debt does that to a company, you know." Seeing Johnny's confused look, Leibermann added snidely, "No, you wouldn't know."

Johnny didn't get it completely, but it didn't matter. Myra, or Leibermann, or both of them wanted the million-one in endorsable certificates quite desperately, it seemed, and that's all he needed to know. His instincts told him there was something else at play, however. Full of ballsy attitude, "We need to renegotiate our agreement to twenty percent," he said, "plus expenses."

"Listen, you nervy prick," Myra snarled, "don't you go and try and pull a Morty on me. The deal was ten percent."

"Supply and demand," said Johnny. "Supply and demand."

* * * * *

Ramona turned in the mirror and examined every stitch and fold of the new outfit. Her enthusiasm faded as Crash, reflected three times in the three-way mirror, shook all three of his heads. Turning and waving her arms in exasperation, "What's wrong with this one?" she whined.

"Too tight," he said, trying to look at her lithe body with a clinical eye.

"You said the last one was too baggy."

"It was."

"Listen, are you gonna help me, or not? I try on one suit, and it's too loose. I try the next size down, and it's too tight. If you're going to be a pain in the butt, I'll just do this myself."

"I am trying to help. Just look at the way the skirt stretches across the back." Clinical eye, Crash thought inwardly. Look at her ass with a clinical eye—just like with the customers. Customers didn't make Mister Johnson tingle, however. "It looks like you're smuggling rump steaks under there. Ya know, I don't think tailored suits are your thing. Why don't you go with something less formal? Pick out something else, maybe a couple of dresses, something with a jacket maybe."

"Executives don't wear dresses. They wear suits."

"Listen Ramona, clothes are an extension of your personality, and I don't think you're a suit person. You're too... too...."

"Too what?"

"Too feminine, okay? There, I said it. You're too soft and sensitive."

"I am not soft! I am a professional businessperson. I need to wear clothes that will demand respect."

"Jesus, Ramona. You can't demand respect, and the clothes you wear certainly won't give it to you. You have to earn respect, and the only way to do that is to know your business."

"I do know my business."

"I'm not saying you don't, but just look at yourself in this suit. What do you see?"

Ramona looked in the mirror. "I see a charcoal-colored wool suit."

"How do you feel in it?"

"How do I feel?"

"Yeah. How do you feel?"

"I don't know. Like I'm wearing a suit."

"Exactly," Crash said triumphantly. "And how do you feel when you're wearing a suit?"

"What kind of stupid questions are these?"

"Just play along. I'm trying to make a point here. How do you feel?"

"Geez, I don't know. Different than normal, I guess."

"Exactly," again.

"Exactly what? Listen Crash, I'm tired of playing—"

"I'm gonna tell you the same thing I tell my customers. Don't worry about what other women are wearing. Wear what makes you feel good. Does this suit make you feel good?"

"No."

"Of course not. Just look at it. It's smothering you. You need something more...."

"More what?"

"I don't know, less starchy."

"You just said I need something more. Is it more, or less?"

"Could be either. Maybe something a little more provoking."

"You mean like the stuff Leona wore?"

"Leona dressed like a tramp."

"And you men ate it right up."

"The men thought she was a tramp too. In fact, I can't think of a woman who gave off a less professional image. You can be alluring without letting everyone look up your dress."

"Alluring?"

"Yeah, alluring—you know, fascinating, captivating. Use the clothes to project the style that's within you, not to create a style that's not there."

"Alluring. Really?"

"Yes, really," said Crash, not knowing how or why the words came out the way they did. "Now, pick out something you really like, not something you think you should wear. Go ahead. I'll wait here." Ramona hesitated. "Go ahead," Crash said encouragingly, and he pushed her toward the racks.

Ramona returned with her new selections draped over one arm. "Do you want to see them?" she asked, seeking his approval.

"Entirely up to you," he answered. "As long as it's what you like."

A few minutes later, Ramona stood in front of the three-way mirror, and again Crash was in the background, head in hand, carefully studying Ramona's slender silhouette. She turned nervously. "Well?"

"It works for me," Crash said as he stood there smoldering.

CHAPTER 25... Promises, Promises

"I can't, Crash! I have things to do. I have a merchandising meeting with Mercedes at two, then and a buyers' staff meeting at four, and I have sales reps in and out all afternoon."

"You promised you'd help," Crash protested into the phone. "MacHune is all over me. He's already asked me three times this week if I've gotten any information for that FBI guy."

"I know I promised, but I just can't. On top of everything else, the distribution sheets have to be done today and I don't have an assistant yet. I'm going to be here until nine o'clock as it is."

"How hard are the distribution sheets?" Crash asked fretfully. "Can someone else do them for you?"

"Not hard, but like I said, I don't have anyone to help."

"Could I do them? I mean, would I know what to do?"

"I'm sure you could do them if I explained it to you. It's only filling in transfer quantities so the warehouse people can split up the shipments that just came in."

Crash thought he detected a glimmer of hope. "Tell you what, if you take an hour and help me, I'll do all the distribution sheets."

"They'll take hours."

"I don't care. Can I do them down here in the department?"

"Sure, as long as I get them back so EDP can enter the transfer quantities by tomorrow."

"Done. What'dya say?" Crash waited with anticipation.

"I love it when you grovel."

"Cut the crap. C'mon, is it a deal or not?"

"All right, fine," Ramona surrendered. "I don't know how I let you talk me into these things. I have an appointment with some reps in about five minutes. Can you come up to the seventh floor in about half an hour?"

At the appropriate time Crash walked into the waiting room outside the buyers' offices where visiting sales reps prepared themselves to be treated like dirt. It took a certain breed to be a sales rep, he imagined, figuring the humiliation they suffered on a daily basis paid off handsomely. Their eyes were like numbers on a slot machine when a buyer handed them a purchase order, especially one from Rosenbloom & Starr. Most of them dressed to kill, and the men all seemed to be perfectly groomed while the female reps were stylish as all get-out. The polished image was more than just an attempt to represent their companies in the best possible light, however. It was a counterbalance to the rejection they suffered on a daily basis as power-hungry buyers tried to squeeze them for price concessions. Sales reps sought approval in other ways, Crash speculated. He figured the guy reps got laid a lot.

From where he was sitting, Crash could see the door to Ramona's office. It was the one nearest the waiting room at the end of the buyers' corridor. He scratched his butt and waited for the two reps inside to complete their business. He wondered what all the laughing was about—probably some dirty joke or some suggestive come on, he figured. Sure enough, two nattily-attired reps emerged into the hallway, laughing and smiling their perfect smiles, buttoning their perfectly-hung suit jackets and extending their perfect hands toward Ramona—and hovering over her like two panting gorillas. No wonder. Crash noted immediately that she'd paid attention to his wardrobe tips.

She leaned coyly against the doorway, her brown-black hair not all straight and combed to one side like it normally was, but swept into a gentle wave and held back by ruby—at least they looked like ruby—studded combs that accented the red gloss on her lips. The spaghetti straps of the camisole she was wearing underneath her blouse broke teasingly through the sheerness of the fabric, and the blackness of her perfectly-tailored wool skirt seemed to shimmer in the fluorescent light. It was simplicity in its extreme—black and white—but it worked supremely well on her, and she must have felt it for there was a glimmering aura of confidence around her. Alluring, he'd told her. She certainly was that, and more. Clearly, the reps felt it too. The tall, young one—the one for which if he had to pick a name it would have been Adonis—doubled back after having left her office and hovered over her again, close to her, in her space. Crash listened as the lilt of his testosterone-laden voice oozed out into the hallway.

"I really appreciate it, but I can't tonight," he heard Ramona say. "Maybe some other time." Invitingly, she extended a red-nailed hand.

Funny, thought Crash, he never remembered Ramona wearing nail polish before. Trying not to be obvious—or lose his lunch—he continued to watch. Adonis took her hand—and almost kissed it, for God's sake, ugh—then turned and strutted down the hall as another bead of rejection rolled off him like water rolling off a duck's back. Ramona turned, the strength of some newly-found confidence glowing from within her.

"Next!" she called, trying to be funny.

Crash followed her into her office—her domain now—watching as she flopped carelessly into one of the chairs and crossed her creamy legs, letting a shiny black pump dangle teasingly off her toes.

"Those are the distribution sheets," she said directly, pointing at a thick pile of papers on the one of the bookshelves.

Crash eyed the sheets. "Seems pretty straight forward," he said. "I just split up the shipment quantities and I put the transfer totals in these blocks, right?" Alluring, he'd told her.

"That's about it."

Crash thought about how many more gorillas would hit on Ramona this month. She sure was changing.

"Crash, are you all right?"

"Yeah, sorry. I'm fine. I was just thinking about something else."

"Now, about this new outfit you need to pick out...."

* * * * *

"This will not do. We need more privacy." Woo-Min snapped his fingers and the dining room came alive with a flurry of activity. None of the other diners noticed, but it was there, like the almost imperceptible hum of an electrical current. It intensified as the maitre d' cracked his invisible whip, pointing and nodding silently from the reservation pulpit. Doors were opened, furniture was moved, entire rooms were rearranged within minutes without a word spoken, and without the slightest tinkling of glassware. When the hum subsided, the maitre d' came over and escorted Woo-Min and his guest toward the entire separate dining room that had been opened and cleared just for them. A single table waited in the middle of the room where a dozen less significant tables had stood moments earlier. There would be no other diners in that room on this evening despite the fact that it was Friday, the busiest night of the week for any restaurant, especially the one inside the Hampshire. The maitre d' held Woo-Min's chair as Woo-Min motioned for Gino Starr to sit opposite him in the six o'clock seat. Gino sat at three o'clock where he could see the rest of the dining room without turning. A mineral water materialized on the table in front of Woo-Min. Gino ordered the same.

"No Crown Royal this evening," Woo-Min noted.

"I need to keep my wits about me," Gino responded.

"You are looking much better. Your color is back."

"It'll be a while," Gino said politely.

"It takes time to regain one's strength. Are you still taking medication?"

Gino's voice took a stronger, more authoritative tone. "We're not here to small talk about the state of my health."

"Ah, you Americans. Always to the point. I see where Miss Lee gets it."

"We're not here to talk about Miss Lee either."

Woo-Min waved away an approaching waiter. He would let them know when they were ready. He lowered his heavily-lidded eyes. "As I have said many times, old friend, I do not think it is a good idea to move on Associated right now. I know it is tempting, and that the revenge would be sweet, but this is not the right time."

"It is absolutely the right time," Gino argued coolly. "Associated is completely unstable. They're cash poor and almost tapped out, and its stock price is falling through the floor. You know it, and I know it. With Levine dead and with no clear decision maker at the top, the major stockholders and institutional investors would jump at the chance to cut their losses." The strength of Gino's conviction, his savvy, his logic, couldn't be brushed away as revenge.

"If Associated is so weak, why would you want to take them over?"

Gino shook his furrowed head and said, "If Associated goes south, its shares of Rosenbloom & Starr's stock goes with it. Certainly you realize that. They'd dump it for whatever cash they could get, and it would be tinder for yet another hostile attempt on us. One match and, poof, we're gone. We have to take Associated to save ourselves."

"That might be true—unless you approached them and offered to buy back your own stock. That was the original plan, if you remember. That would be much simpler, and it would keep you independent. I would feel much more comfortable using our money for that."

The sinews in Gino's neck tightened. "We've known each other a long time and in all those years I've never known you to pass up an opportunity like this," he said. "Associated is a ripe cherry, ready to pluck. Talk to me, Jong. What's really going on here?"

Woo-Min motioned for a menu and it appeared immediately. "The cold dilled salmon is excellent," he said.

"Jong?"

Woo-Min set the menu down softly. "Jong International does not have the money. I am sorry."

"But you have the money to buy back Associated's share of R & S stock? C'mon Jong, you've never lied to me before. Why start now?"

The cat and mouse game continued. "I should be asking you the same question," Woo-Min went on. "Originally, you would have been happy to regain control of Rosenbloom & Starr, which is why you sent Mister Lopresti to Seoul. Now, however, even when I agree to make that possible, it is not good enough. What has changed in the last two months, my old friend?"

My old friend. Somehow that didn't sound right, thought Gino. Not now.

"It is your turn to explain why you are being irrational," Woo-Min added.

Their eyes met and neither man held the stare. Gino opened his menu, not reading it as his stomach churned. "You're right," he finally admitted. "There is another reason. Joe Alminton has found a white knight, another company who is willing to take us over. He says the board has already approved the move. He characterized it as saving us from being taken over by Associated, but board just wants out. They're gutless, I'm afraid."

"Who is this white knight, as you call this savior company?"

"I don't know, and I didn't ask," Gino said carelessly. "It doesn't really matter. All I know is that if this white knight approaches Associated and buys up all its R & S stock, there is a very real chance they could take us in a matter of days once R & S stock resumes trading."

"When will that be?"

"If Associated drops the charges of stock manipulation with the SEC, trading on R & S stock would begin immediately. There'd be no reason for the SEC to hold it up any longer. If that happens, we would be swallowed whole."

"So..." Woo-Min concluded, "by taking Associated, you would put Rosenbloom & Starr out of reach of Alminton's savior as well."

Gino sipped some water and tried to wash the sour taste from his mouth. "Listen, I'm not good at begging, but I'm begging now. Rosenbloom & Starr is my life and I'm about to lose it—no matter what I do. I'll make a deal with you. If you put up the money to take Associated, I'll merge both companies, Associated and Rosenbloom & Starr, with Jong International."

Woo-Min's eyes, which had been downcast and heavy during most of the conversation, were suddenly wide open. "A move like that could significantly alter the face of retailing in this country. The combination of Jong International, Associated, and Rosenbloom & Starr would form a completely vertically integrated company which would literally blanket the country from coast to coast."

"That's right," said Gino. "Most of the middle men would be cut out. Products would move directly from manufacturer to retailer. The profit would be tremendous, and the consumer would get a better deal—which means they'd keep coming back. The opportunity is huge."

"For a move that big, I would want to address your board of directors personally."

"I have no problem with that."

"I'll arrange it," said Woo-Min.

* * * * *

Crash watched as the FBI agent checked his notes and picked his teeth with what could have been a rusty nail. He didn't look like a happy camper. Nervously, Crash glanced at MacHune, who sat glumly behind his battered desk scratching himself, while Truthful stood in the corner scratching his ear with his car keys. After a couple of loud teeth sucks, Agent Price broke the silence.

"I remember now," said Price, nodding as he flipped the pages of his notepad. "You were the one who said that Associated Department Stores was owned by Koreans."

"Well, not quite," Crash said as MacHune stared at him. "I didn't say Associated was involved with Koreans, Mrs. Hancher did. And it wasn't that Associated was owned by Koreans, it was run by Koreans. That's what Mrs. Hancher said her husband said."

Price shook his head. "What did you just say?"

"I said," said Crash, "that that's what Mrs. Hancher said."

"What is?"

"About the Koreans."

Price flipped the notepad closed and asked what he thought was an easy question. "So what did she say about them?"

It wasn't that easy. "Which time?" Crash asked.

"Which time, what?"

Mount MacHune erupted. "What is this, Abbott and Costello? Can we all get on the same page here? Crandall, you said this Hancher broad—some senator's wife, right?"

"Right."

"You said, that she said, that her husband said, that Associated was run by Koreans. Isn't that what you said?"

"Right."

"And then Agent Price asked if we could get any more information pertinent to that comment from her—the senator's wife—and you went out there last night and tried to dig up that information. Right?"

"Right."

"Good. Now, what did you find out?"

"Nothing."

"Jesus," Truthful moaned, pulling a key out of his ear.

Crash shrank into MacHune's leather sofa as Price looked around in disbelief. "If you didn't learn anything about this Korean connection, then why am I here?"

"Yeah, why are we here?" MacHune snapped.

Crash absorbed the scornful look coming from Truthful as well. "Hey, you guys called me, remember?"

"Did you and the senator's wife talk about anything at all?" Price asked, trying to salvage something.

"Oh, sure. We talked about all kinds of things."

"Well, what!" Price and MacHune barked out at the same time.

"About the clothes I delivered, mostly. That's supposedly why I was there—to deliver the suits she bought for the State of the Union affair. Remember? Washington Hilton? Tomorrow night?"

"That's all you talked about? Just clothes?"

"No. We talked about a couple of other things."

"What things?" Price pressed on.

"This and that, mostly."

"Define this and that," MacHune ordered. His mouth looked like the front grill on a Lincoln.

Crash squeezed down the lump in his throat. "She was trying to fix me up with Paco."

"Who the hell is Paco?" MacHune spat through the front grill.

Crash looked at Truthful, pleading with his eyes, but Truthful just shook his head. He was on his own on this one. MacHune was waiting.

Totally mortified, "Paco is her hairdresser," Crash said meekly. "She thinks I'm...."

"What?"

"She thinks I'm gay, okay?"

"And you're...?"

"Not!" Crash shouted. "Absolutely not. No way, no how, not gay! Got it?"

"So... you're saying you're not gay," Price said. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Once more, Crash gazed pleadingly at Truthful to no avail. He turned to MacHune, but it was like looking at a block of ice. "Am I done here?" he asked disgustedly.

"I guess so," Price replied.

Crash got up, trying to maintain a final shred of dignity. "Screw you," he said to Truthful as he pushed him out of the way.

CHAPTER 26... Working Late

As she did for every senior staff meeting, Leila filled the coffee decanters and arranged the sugar packets, then set the tray in the middle of the conference table. It didn't matter that there were only going to be three people at the meeting, she filled both decanters because that's what she always did—two decanters. It didn't matter that today's meeting was being held at the end of the day instead of first thing in the morning, she still stacked the assorted dozen donuts like she always did: plain ones on the bottom, jelly in the middle, and the chocolate ones on top so their chocolate glaze wouldn't be ruined. She set the donuts next to the coffee tray, then she set out the pads and pencils at every place—just like she always did, even though there were only going to be three people at the meeting. Leila kept doing things the way she'd been doing them for the last ten years, trying to convince herself that soon things would get back to the way they'd always been. Maybe, just maybe, if she just kept doing things like she always did, maybe she could save Rosenbloom & Starr. She didn't know how, she didn't know why, she didn't have any idea what stacking donuts in a certain way had to do with saving the company, but it was her way of hanging on to what once was. Maybe, just maybe, if enough people hung on just a little longer, if enough people willed it to happen, then maybe, just maybe, Rosenbloom & Starr could go back to the way it was before the days of stock issues and takeover attempts, before the days of violence and murder, before the days when strange people marched through her office.

Mercedes was the first one in. She said, "Hi Leila," and casually took her usual seat, just like she always did.

Leila turned so that Mercedes wouldn't see the sadness that had pooled in her eyes. Taking the tray, she held it out for Mercedes. "Donut?" she offered pleadingly.

"Oh no," Mercedes began. "It's almost five o'clock. Besides I'm trying to watch my...." Mercedes never finished her sentence, and took a donut.

MacHune stomped into the conference room looking like a rumpled plow horse, sitting dutifully in his usual seat to wait for the next dozen chores to be added to his already enormously long agenda.

Leila came over. "Donut?" she offered.

"No thanks," he said, not looking up.

"Have a donut," said Mercedes.

"I'm not hungry."

"Mac... have a damned donut." She nodded toward Leila when MacHune looked her way.

"I'll have a donut after all," said MacHune. He took a jelly donut.

Leila said, "You always take two, Mister MacHune."

"But I—"

"Take two," Mercedes commanded. "You always eat two."

MacHune did as he was told and sat there numbly, holding a jelly donut in each hand.

"That's better," Leila sighed as she put the tray back in the middle of the table. "Now, I can tell Mister Starr we're ready."

"What's with her?" MacHune asked when Leila had left the room.

"Eat your donuts and shut up," Mercedes answered.

"What the hell did I do?"

"You're all alike."

"Who's all alike?"

"Forget it. You wouldn't understand even if I drew you a picture. Just eat your dumb donuts."

"I'm not hungry," MacHune repeated, and he made the huge mistake of trying to put the donuts back on the tray.

"What do you think you're doing?" Mercedes lashed out.

Totally confounded, MacHune decided that further protest would not be a good idea. He ate the damned donuts, forcing them down, and sat there stoically when his chore was done, not noticing the blob of jelly that had squished onto his tie.

"Aren't you going to clean that up?" Mercedes asked smartly.

"Clean what up?"

She took a napkin and began wiping the lengthening blob of jelly on his tie. "You... you... men! You'll never understand." She wiped. "You play your little power games just to see who can win." The jelly was gone. "Penis power—that's what it is, and all of it is just to see who has the biggest one!" She wiped harder and harder with each stroke. "It doesn't matter who gets hurt, does it? And you know we'll be there to clean up after you when you're done. You just can't leave well enough alone, can you?"

Fearing that she was going to burn a hole through his tie, MacHune took hold of her hands and looked into her eyes. He didn't quite understand what was happening, or why she was so angry with him and the entire male species, but he felt the need to explain. "Not all of us are like that," he said softly. "But we have to protect ourselves, if not for ourselves then for the ones we love."

Slowly, he released his grip, yet she did nothing to pull away. Instead, instinctively, their faces came closer, inching closer yet until their lips met, barely touching. He felt the stickiness of her lipstick and the warmth of her breath as it came in little bursts.

"Ahem!" Gino took his usual seat at the head of the table while Mercedes slithered into her chair. "Wipe that lipstick off your face, Mac. That shade doesn't look right on you." Gino shifted his gaze to Mercedes who was debating whether or not she should crawl under the table. "I guess I'm going to have to split you two up." The words were ominous but Gino's demeanor was anything but. A toothy grin creased his face. "I guess this won't be so hard after all. Mercedes, your being transferred," he said abruptly. "That is, if you want the job."

"What do you mean, transferred? What's going on here?"

"You're being promoted, is what's going on. Actually, both of you are." Their silence was deafening. "I've decided to split Rosenbloom & Starr into two divisions. One will be comprised of the stores here in the Washington area, and the other from those in Baltimore and Philadelphia. Mercedes, I'd like you to become the new president of our Baltimore-Philadelphia division. Think you can handle it?"

"Splitting up R & S? Why?" she asked, not answering his question.

Gino turned, not addressing her question either. "Mac, I'd like you to be the new president of the Washington division. You've been running it for years anyway. Now we're just going to make it official. Congratulations."

"Thanks, I guess," MacHune said as he took Gino's handshake. "Now that you've dropped these two bombs on us, would you mind telling us why you're doing this?"

"Not at all," Gino said slyly. "When we take over Associated, we have to make sure Rosenbloom & Starr fits in with their structure. We have to hit the ground running, and I want my best people in place when it happens. I think it's a pretty good game plan."

"Another penis game," Mercedes said into the wall.

"Penis game?"

"Never mind her," said MacHune. "What about the board? What do they think?"

Gino made a slicing motion across his throat. "I'm disbanding the board."

"How can you do that? You don't own the company."

"I can do it, and I will do it—tonight."

"Tonight?"

"I've called a special board meeting. I'm going to announce the plan with Jong International and make the offer on Associated. Then I'm going to disband the board after the announcement. I'd like you two to be with me when I do it."

"Gino, are you sure about this? Things are moving too fast."

"We have to move fast. The word from Marvin Stenner is that Associated is on the verge of dropping the charges with the SEC so they can sell off their block of R & S stock. They need the money and Alminton is waiting at the door with a pot full off cash from his white knight investor. We have to move as soon as possible and take over Associated before that can happen. Otherwise, we'll be squeezed out of existence. I'm asking you to trust me, Mac. I'm asking both of you to trust me. Will you do it?"

"I don't like playing penis games," Mercedes said smartly.

"What the hell is she talking about?" Gino asked as Mercedes looked away.

"Never mind," MacHune answered. "She's in—we're both in. I just wish we knew what we were getting into."

Gino closed his leather binder and buttoned the jacket of his dapper charcoal suit. "Funny, I could say the same thing about both of you," he said as he headed for the door.

* * * * *

Truthful watched the assorted characters file in and out of the brightly lit offices. Pinstripe suits and button-down collars walked side by side with Hell's Angels t-shirts and dirty black Levi's, while off to one side a group of middle-aged, potbellied guys in white shirts surrounded a lanky Afro-haired woman wearing a Dashiki and white satin hot pants. Their low-voiced conversation crept toward him down the tiled hallway, but didn't quite reach his ears. Curiosity getting the best of him, he got up and ambled toward the water fountain on the other side of the murmuring FBI agents. As if rehearsed, the group stopped murmuring until he passed, then, in unison, they stepped into a nearby office. Embarrassed by his obviousness, Truthful took a drink and felt his ear. He was sure that somehow it had expanded to the size of a dinner plate as he tried to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"Mister Williams, Special Agent Price will see you now."

Truthful followed the shapely receptionist, or assistant, or whatever she was, down the hall. He wondered if she was an agent, and he felt himself blush when she caught him looking at her breasts—or so she must have thought. Actually, he was looking at the laminated badge that bounced between them when she walked, trying to see if the words Special Agent preceded her name.

Special Agent Price emerged from a small glass-walled office. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, offering his hand.

"That's okay. Is she a field agent?" Truthful asked curiously.

"She's a civilian," Price answered, misinterpreting his inquiry. "Cute, ain't she?"

"How does one get to be an agent?"

"You apply, just like any other job."

"That's it?"

"Well, it helps if you have a recommendation or experience in law enforcement, and there's a lot of testing and background checking, but basically, yes, that's it. Just apply and go through the process. You interested?"

"I dunno. Maybe."

"All the buy-out talk must have folks in your organization pretty jumpy," said Price. "This new offer is gonna throw everyone for a loop."

Truthful's raised an eyebrow. "What new offer?"

"I guess you haven't heard that one of your directors has jumped ship and cozied up to another company. It looks like they're going to make an offer on Rosenbloom & Starr."

"You mean another company besides Associated?"

"Yup."

"Who?"

"Miller-Kaufmann."

"Out of Atlanta? They're smaller than Rosenbloom & Starr. Why would they want to get into a bidding war with Associated?"

"From what I've found out, there's not going to be a bidding war. This director has the rest of your board convinced that selling out to Miller-Kaufmann would be the best thing for the company. It would certainly stop Associated."

"So that explains it," said Truthful.

"Explains what?"

"Explains all the whispering on the seventh floor."

"Do you know what they're talking about?" Price asked curiously.

"I'm not sure, but I got it from Leila—that's Mister Starr's secretary—that Mister Starr and Mac and Mercedes have been behind closed doors all day cooking up some super-secret plan and they're gonna unwrap it tonight at some super-secret board meeting. Leila said no one is supposed to know about it, but people are talking."

"Mac is your VP, the big guy, right? Who's Mercedes?"

"She's the general merchandise manager."

"That's right," said Price. "How could I forget her?"

Truthful chuckled and figured they should get back to business. "What is it you wanted to see me about?"

"I wanted to let you know that the stock certificates have turned up."

"Where?"

Wrinkling his nose, Price said, "Johnny Gold."

"How do you know?"

"I've had someone in our New York office watching him. Outside of the fact that he's got the morals of an alley cat, the guy is actually pretty sharp and I figured he'd lead us to those certificates sooner or later. They're in a safe deposit box at the Chemical Bank branch at Grand Central Station. He's got the key."

"How'd he get them?"

"Don't know. Like I said, he's sharp."

"Why don't you go in and take them?"

"Can't"

"Why not."

"Need a warrant, and we have no proof that he's done anything illegal."

Truthful tried to sort through the details. "But he told me himself, in my office, that the certificates were purchased illegally. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"I don't know," Price replied. "How would anyone prove that?"

"Aren't they in someone else's name? I just don't understand this thing about stock certificates. Don't you buy stock through a broker or something? Is there such a thing as stock certificates that anyone can buy and sell whenever they want?"

"Evidently there is. Stock purchases used to be recorded on certificates, and even though it's not common anymore people can still get certificates if they request them. The issue here is that the person who purchased the stock is dead."

Truthful took a moment. "Does that mean Gold can cash them in?"

"Hard to say, but the fact that the purchaser is dead doesn't mean the certificates lose their value. They're still transferrable, and someone is going to want a million bucks' worth of certificates in their possession."

"What'll happen to the value of the certificates if this deal with Miller-Kaufmann goes through?"

"I imagine they might become even more valuable, especially if something happens at tonight's board meeting to cause the price of R&S stock to be bid up."

Trying to make sense of the situation, "But R & S stock isn't being traded right now," Truthful countered. "What does that mean?"

"I have no idea," Price admitted. "I guess it means their value could go down as easily as it could go up."

"Do you think Gold might try to unload them?"

"What would you do with a million-dollar loaf of bread?"

"I'd try to sell it before it got sliced down to half a loaf."

"Me too," said Price.

"You think he'll try?"

"Again, it depends on what happens at this board meeting."

"How do we find out?"

"Let's go watch the space and see who shows up in it. How do we find out where this meeting is being held?"

Truthful looked at his watch. "It's already past six. Most of the seventh floor should be empty by now. Why don't we go back and nose around."

"Where do you think that will lead us?"

"Tonight's meeting is supposed to be a secret," said Truthful. "That means everyone is bound to know what's going on."

* * * * *

Crash paged doggedly through the reports, thinking it was impossible for one person to keep up with it all. How did she do it? There were receiving registers, distribution sheets, markdown reports, open-to-buy reports, slow-seller notices—all kinds of reports to keep up with on a daily basis, plus the actual buying part of the job, plus the endless internal meetings with Mercedes, plus the visits to the stores, plus the meetings with the individual managers. All of it had to be done, and she kept up with it without missing a beat despite the fact that there was no associate buyer or even a lowly assistant to take care of the petty details. Crash was utterly and completely amazed. Ramona's little MG was already nestled in its parking spot when he arrived in the morning and was still parked there when he left at night.

Looking around the office, he had absolutely no idea how she kept everything in its place. Leona's office was constantly strewn in disorderly confusion, while Ramona's was an organizational masterpiece. It even smelled good in there. How did she do that, he wondered.

"You all right over there?" she asked as Crash poured over the computer readouts.

"I'm fine," he responded as he watched her step purposefully between her desk and whatever pile of work she needed to touch.

"Holler if you need any help," she called. Her tone was confident, and she moved unconsciously—the way a person moves when they know exactly what they are doing.

"Don't worry about me," he called back.

Great, he thought to himself. Here he was trying to help out, trying to push the right buttons like Truthful had suggested, and she was asking him if he needed help. Just great. He remembered how insecure she'd been only a couple of months earlier, but this was a different person. This Ramona—this woman who'd been a girl two months earlier—was transformed. No longer timid, no longer shy and unaware of herself, she'd developed her own brand of sophistication and professionalism. No longer a tribute to polyester, she looked the part, and she acted the part—and some of it was his fault.

Be alluring, he'd said to her, and he pictured her amid a gathering of suits that paraded in and out of her office on a daily basis, all of whom were doing their damnedest to shower her with compliments. He hoped she wasn't falling for all the b-s the suits slung her way, but she had to like the attention nonetheless. He wondered if she'd gone to bed with any of them.

He looked at the markdown reports spread out in front of him. He was moving as slow as molasses. Tracing the blurry columns of numbers so he wouldn't lose his place again, he was interrupted as Ramona sat down and removed her oversized glasses.

"I really appreciate you volunteering to help me out on some of this grunt work."

"It's no problem," Crash said courteously.

"Yes it is. I know how much work there is down on the floor. It's more than I ever imagined before I got the chance to work with you."

"I'm not so magnanimous," Crash admitted. "I'm doing this for another reason. Besides, it's not like you need the help," he added, waving an arm at her organized office.

Surprised, Ramona asked, "What other reason?"

Crash hesitated. "You know I've wanted to get into the buying office for a long time. I just wanted to get a closer look to see if this is what I really wanted before I, ah, well...."

"What?"

"Before I asked if you'd consider me for the associate buyer's job." Crash looked into his hands as the moment passed. "What's so funny?" he asked when Ramona broke into a curious smile.

"I've already spoken to Mercedes about it. I think we'd make a really good team." Her hand inched a little closer to his.

"Really?"

"Yes, really. You have a tremendous eye for design, Crash, and, well, quite frankly, I think I need someone with your talent." It was her turn to look away.

"What for? This is the most organized office I've ever seen."

"I can't do what you do," she said, meeting his eyes. "I can play with numbers and organize the hell out of anything, and I can whip through work faster than Superwoman, but I can't look at a piece of clothing and predict if it will sell. Not like you can, Crash. I've seen you do it. You have the eye."

"The eye?"

"Yes, the eye. Believe me, if you come to the seventh floor, you wouldn't be an associate buyer for long. I wouldn't be surprised if you took my job someday."

"Then why are you asking me to do it?"

"Because I want you to teach me." She touched his hand. "You see, there's a selfish motivation for me too. The fashion part comes naturally to you, and you're able to pick winning designs. I seem to miss the mark half the time, and I don't have that flair that you do."

"The manufacturers' reps can help you with that."

"All they want is a purchase order and access to my underwear—not necessarily in that order. What I'm talking about is the ability to turn clothes into a look—like that night at the Christmas party, remember?"

Crash laughed. "That certainly was a look, all right."

"I was trying to look festive," she snapped, taking her hand away. "Instead I looked cheap." Silence, then, "Can I ask you something?"

"As long as we're both spilling our guts...." Crash replied.

"That night—the night of the Christmas party—did we, you know, do it?"

Crash's smiled, but didn't answer.

"Well, did we?"

"Do you want us to have done it?"

"I don't know... maybe."

Maybe? The word echoed inside his head. Maybe wasn't no, it was maybe, and maybe had a degree of yes in it, didn't it? "No," he answered after some moments. "We didn't do it." He didn't know if her sigh was one of relief, or not.

"Can I ask you another question?"

"I guess."

"That morning, when I woke up, I didn't have any clothes on underneath the t-shirt. How did I get that way?"

This conversation was more like a confession, thought Crash. "You took them off, is how you got that way."

"I did?"

"Yup."

"In front of you?"

"Yup."

"You saw me naked?"

"Buck naked."

"Jesus," she said. "Why did I do that?"

Crash treaded softly. "I think you wanted to make love."

"I did?"

"I think your exact words were that you wanted to 'screw my brains out.'"

"And I didn't?"

"Actually, I didn't. You were pretty drunk."

Ramona ran a fingernail down his arm. "I've been thinking about that night a lot," she said.

CHAPTER 27... Watching The Space

"What are you doing?" Crash asked as she unbuttoned his shirt with agonizing slowness.

Her voice was soft as velvet. "I'm seducing you," she purred as she touched his chest.

"Here? In your office? What if someone catches us?" His halfhearted objection didn't carry much weight, unlike what was inside his pants which was putting on plenty of weight.

"Oh," she said. "Good point." She got up and locked the door with a deliberate click. Her blouse was undone by the time she returned. "Let's go over to the couch," she said hotly.

His shirt was off by the time they crossed the room, all of it her doing. His throat tightening in anticipation, he stood motionless while her hands roamed here and there, especially there. They were on his shoulders, his arms, then there again. She was an octopus. She pulled him down on the couch.

"Oh, Crash," she sighed, her breath coming in short gasps. "I've never seen you with your shirt off. I didn't know your body was so... so... hard!"

Crash took her hand away from there. What a time to play hard-to-get, he thought. Two months ago he would have hopped her bones on the fifty-yard line at RFK.

"Don't you want me?" she whispered as her lips made their way down his neck, leaving a hot trail of lipstick behind.

"What the hell has gotten into you?"

"I want this to get into me," she answered, grabbing him through his trousers like she was going to hammer a nail with it. She moved lower, flutter kissing her way down to his belt buckle. There was no denying her. "I know you want me," she moaned. "Prove it to me." Suddenly, his belt was undone. "Prove it to me," she repeated, pulling his hands to the black lace of her brassiere.

Crash's brain said this wasn't the right place or the right time, but Mister Johnson was saying something entirely different and he was winning the argument.

"Prove it to me," she said for the third time. Her passion was oozing out of her, controlling her completely.

"I'll prove it to you," he growled. He felt the little itch of emerging perspiration and sensed his nostrils widening as he absorbed her scent. Grabbing a handful of her luxurious hair, he locked his lips powerfully onto hers, eating a mouthful of hot breath.

Suddenly: voices, in the hallway, outside the door.

"Shit!" he gasped a little too loudly. Then, "Ssshhh!" He covered her mouth with his hand. "Cut it out!" he whispered coarsely as she playfully tongued his middle finger. She laughed teasingly as she hooked the waistband of his Jockey shorts. Crash grabbed her hand when he heard Mercedes's voice outside the door. "Quiet!" he whispered.

"Where did Gino say this board meeting was being held?" Mercedes asked, her voice muffled by the door.

MacHune's voice was next. "Washington Hilton. Ten p.m."

"A little late for a board meeting, isn't it?" Mercedes asked. "We've got a couple of hours to kill. You hungry?"

"I'm still full from the donuts," MacHune responded as they moved away from the door.

Funny, thought Crash. It was an odd time for a board meeting. "Do you know what they're talking about?" he whispered to Ramona.

"Who cares?" she shot flippantly as she tried to unbutton his pants. "Everyone on the seventh floor has been talking about this mysterious board meeting all day.... Oh no! Look at what happened." Mister Johnson had gone from rigid attention to at ease. Ramona stepped away from the couch, her eyes gleamingly mischievous. "Let's see what I can do to regain your interest," she said, taking off her already undone blouse and moving to the waistband of her wool trousers.

Crash stopped her before she was completely naked, which in her current state of mind would have been in approximately three seconds. "Why don't we go back to my place?" he asked, hoping he wouldn't kill the moment.

"But I want it now!" she shot back insistently.

More voices through the door. "Why are we coming up here?" It was a voice Crash didn't recognize.

"They said downstairs that he was up here in the buying office." Knock, knock, knock. "Is anybody in there?" It was Truthful.

"Oh crap!" Ramona exclaimed. She put her blouse back on while Crash buttoned his pants and snatched his shirt off the floor. "Just a minute!" she yelled.

"Is Crash in there?" Truthful called through the door.

"Just a damned minute!" she fired back.

Crash picked up a fabric swatch and wiped the lipstick from his lips just as Ramona cracked the door. "What the hell do you want?" she snarled through the opening.

"Is Crash in there?"

"Why?"

"'Cause I have to talk to him, that's why. Is he in there, or not?"

Crash flashed the okay sign from across the office.

"Oops," Truthful said when Ramona swung the door open. "I, uh.... Oh.... Sorry to interrupt, but I, uh, gee...."

Crash stepped to the door. "Spill it, square ass. What's so damned important?" He couldn't help but notice the FBI cop smirking the hallway.

Trying to control the grin creeping across his own face, Truthful said, "Well, uh, can you catch a ride home with someone else tonight? I'm sure Ramona wouldn't mind giving you a lift. Would you Ramona?" he called into the office.

Crash remembered now that his car was in the shop and he'd hooked a ride in with Truthful that morning. "You had to come all the way up here for that? Ever heard of the damned phone?"

Still grinning, Truthful said, "Didn't mean to bother you, bro. We only came up here to find out about this board meeting everyone is talking about. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Washington Hilton, ten o'fuckingclock," Crash replied smartly, suddenly conscious of an uncomfortable little glob of moisture that had soaked into his shorts. He figured Ramona must have had a puddle inside hers.

"How do you know that?" Truthful asked.

"We just heard MacHune and Mercedes talking about it," Crash replied. Truthful looked past him to see Ramona redoing a missed top button on her blouse. "Anything... else?" Crash growled.

Price poked Truthful on the arm. "C'mon, Williams. We got what we came for."

"Right," said Truthful as he and Price turned to leave.

"Mister Crandall," Price called, turning back after a couple of steps.

"What now?"

"The Washington Hilton. Isn't that the same hotel where that senator's wife is supposed to be tonight? Isn't that what you said yesterday? Something about a State of the Union reception?"

Crash remembered the conversation. "Right, yeah. After the State of the Union Address... with her husband."

"Her husband the senator?" Truthful asked stupidly.

"No, Elliot Ness... with her husband the cab driver."

Price shot Truthful a suspicious look. "Let's go," he said. "Someone is already in the space." Winking, Price added, "Thanks you two. You can go back to what you were doing."

Crash closed the door and Ramona stepped up. "What's this space they're talking about?" she asked, standing close to him.

"I have no idea," Crash replied, hoping her fire hadn't gone out. "This place is like Union Station. We can still go back to my place, if you'd like."

"I think that's a wonderful idea," she said. "I guess I'll have to give you a ride like Truthful said."

* * * * *

Watching the space was dullsville, thought Truthful as his mind wandered. He pondered the last thought that zipped through his head, which was that pride could be a detrimental and destructive emotion. Standing with Price at the end of the huge, U-shaped entrance drive of the Washington Hilton, "Do you know any people on welfare?" he asked as bellhops and parking attendants scurried all over the place.

"Not offhand," Price answered as he watched the space. "Why?"

"Just thinking."

Sensing that Truthful wanted him to ask, "About what?" Price asked curiously.

"About why so many people are out of work and there's jobs all over the place."

"What people are you talking about?"

"Just folks," Truthful replied. "Seems to me people are better off working than collecting welfare. I say that if there's a paying job available we should require someone to take it rather than let them collect welfare."

"Forced labor is slavery," Price warned, and he flinched immediately. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to imply anything about black people."

Truthful waved it away. "No problem. I know what you meant." They talked aimlessly as a steady stream of limousines pulled up and spilled load after load of white-haired men and leggy women. "Secret service," said Price, pointing to two bystanders in overcoats some thirty yards across the U-shaped drive.

"How d'you know?"

"I can smell 'em from here," Price said, wrinkling his nose. The cold wind whipped at them and Price hiked his collar. "Nothing but a bunch of pretty boys," he added as he adjusted something inside his coat. "What about people who need welfare? Not everyone is scamming the system."

Truthful speculated that the something inside Price's overcoat was a gun. "That's different, I guess, but I don't think it would be that hard to figure out if someone could pay their own way or not. I bet there's lots of people out there who think like I do and would like to see people working for their money."

Price stamped his feet as another limo, white this time, rolled past. He echoed Truthful's thoughts. "You're right. There's plenty of jobs out there, but why would anyone work when they don't have to? The damned government is paying people to sit on their ass."

A shiny Cadillac limo rolled past, the deep bluh, bluh, bluh of its exhausts cutting through the wind noise. Truthful detected the small words printed underneath the handle on the passenger side door: Jong International. He thought nothing of it. "I think we oughtta take away the welfare system and put people who can work into public service jobs like cleaning up the rivers and scrubbing away graffiti. Damned inflation is twelve percent a year and I'm payin' for people to sit at home and watch TV. Goddamn government. Carter's gotta go," he said, thumbing a hook.

"He's not the problem," said Price. "It's these bastards. None of 'em got any balls." He pointed to the space.

Limousines continued to empty, and the gathering for the State of the Union reception was building. "You recognize anybody yet?" Price asked.

Tall outdoor lamps lined the curved drive, and Truthful checked the time in the eerie blue light: 9:45. "Not yet," he answered. "Maybe Crash gave us the wrong information." The wind was like needles injecting him with cold. "How about we go inside? I'm freezing my ass off."

Price agreed readily. They took a stand at the edge of the huge lobby and watched streams of blue and gray suits file endlessly toward a corridor where a large sign that indicated Grand Ballroom split the flow of chattering legislators. A tall test-pilot-looking type came up and Price wordlessly held up a worn leather wallet with a badge inside.

The test-pilot type looked down haughtily. "What's the Bureau doing here? This is our turf."

"We're working a case here. Do you mind?"

"We weren't notified that anyone else was going to be on the job," the Secret Service man said coldly. "What case?"

Price's eyes hardened. "Need to know, sport. Now why don't you get lost before you blow our cover."

The icy Secret Service guy didn't even blink. "Let me see that ID again so I can make sure you're authorized." Price gave him what he wanted and the guy slinked off.

Truthful was about to ask what that was about, when Price suddenly took his arm and dragged him away from the funneling crowd. "Well, well, well," Price said when they reached the furthest corner of the lobby. "Look who just showed up in the space."

"Who?"

"Over there, by the information desk. Be cool."

Truthful glanced over and spotted two men and a woman, unremarkable except for the fact that the woman's coat stood out from the dark suits all around her. "You talking about the white fur coat?" he said lowly.

Price just nodded.

"What about it?"

"Just keep watching."

Truthful watched as the clerk in the information booth pointed in the opposite direction of the grand ballroom where most of the crowd was headed. The men turned and Truthful got a clear look at both of them. One of them, the one with the hooked nose as long as his arm, he didn't recognize. The other one was Johnny Gold.

"I guess we're in the right place after all," Price said as he watched Gold pop a Newport into his mouth. "This is no coincidence."

CHAPTER 28... One-On-One, Ten-Fifteen, Five-To-Three

Finally, after months of fantasizing, after hours of carefully constructed conversation aimed at boosting her self-esteem, after uncountable compliments about her evolving style, and, after dozens of denials about the rumor that he liked boys, finally, after all that, he'd convinced her that he was a real man. Inside the closeness of the elevator, Crash indulged in the scent of her newly-applied perfume. Then again, motor oil would have been arousing at that point.

"It's called Passion," Ramona said as she cast a demure but definitely inviting glance his way. She brushed back a handful of glossy hair. "Do you like it?"

Passion: how appropriate. The elevator stopped. Empty floor. C'mon elevator, Crash thought as he pushed the button repeatedly as if it would speed up the trip. His anticipation was growing like an expanding helium balloon. His head was light with it, but oddly, his anticipation wasn't his only reaction about what they were planning. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked cautiously.

Ramona caught his gaze, her eyes limpid pools. She faced him as the doors closed and the elevator resumed its trip to the first floor. "I do," she said naturally. "I need it."

It was all the confirmation he needed. In all his twenty-seven years, Crash had never had a woman—any woman, let alone a woman as aroused as Ramona was right now—tell him she needed it. The elevator stopped and they waited for the doors to open so Gus—the late night security guard—could let them out before the ten o'clock everybody out building curfew. For a split second, Crash fantasized about flipping the emergency switch and taking her right there, suddenly, like a panting dog. Oh God... oh God... oh Godddd! he thought as he put his hands in his coat pockets and followed Ramona out of the elevator.

Old Gus let them out the back door, which was at one end of the old building, just up from the ancient, scarred loading dock. "You kids workin' late again, are ya'?" he said through tobacco-stained teeth. He held the door for them. "You two's the last one's out tonight."

Yeah, right, Crash thought to himself. His work was just beginning. He'd work... and work... and work, until he couldn't stand it any longer. Get out of the way, Gus; move your wrinkled old ass. Let's go, let's go, let's go! His senses heightened, the cold air did nothing to cool his exhilaration. His lungs took a blast of the cold head-on. It didn't bother him; he was a man.

As Ramona unlocked the doors to her MG Midget, she looked across the roof of the car and asked, "Do you have any wine at your place?"

"I'm afraid I don't," Crash said as he slid into the passenger seat.

"Could we pick some up on the way?" she asked. "I want this to be just right."

All right! Crash thought to himself. The anticipation was torturous. "Let's roll."

Ramona rummaged inside her purse, feeling around for endless seconds until she found her gloves. Finding them, she plunged the key into the ignition, pushed down on the clutch, and turned. Nothing. She checked the gearshift and pumped the clutch as if doing so would wake the car from some deep sleep. She turned the key again. Absolutely nothing again—no groaning engine, no clicking starter, no nothing—zip, zilch, nada. She flipped the switch for the headlights to see what would happen. Bupkiss.

"Oh man!" she said. "The battery must be dead."

Mister Johnson was suddenly very, very sad. "Let's get a cab," Crash said, realizing now how really cold it was. "We should be able to catch one over on 12th Street." He looked at his watch. "It's not that late," he added optimistically, hoping the night wasn't ruined.

Bundling themselves against the freezing January air, they huddled as they walked arm in arm past the cold trucks in front of the darkened loading dock. They were walking on Porter Place, which was little more than a wide alley that bordered the old building. It came off G Street and separated the store from the office building next door. They passed the smelly dumpsters and dodged some blowing trash, and just as they reached the mouth of the alley a white Porsche screeched to a grinding halt in the middle of G Street. They could see the car lurching as the driver impatiently worked the clutch and revved the engine while he waited for oncoming traffic to clear. Suddenly, the Porsche lurched forward and a white puff of smoke came off the back tires as they squealed on the pavement. The bottom of the car bounced wildly, bashing against the steeply-inclined break in the sidewalk and it was all Crash and Ramona could do to get out of the way. Reaching them, the Porsche slammed to a halt, nose-diving while the occupants almost choked themselves on the retracting seat belts. In comparative slowness, an electric window came down and Crash realized the driver wasn't a he, but a she.

Jet-black shoulder-length hair, Asian eyes: he'd seen her before, he thought—recently. He recognized the passenger immediately, however. It was Tony Lopresti, the guy from the advertising agency, and his arm was still in a sling, same as it had been in the conference room when the FBI cop was asking about Mrs. Hancher and the Korean thing. Realizing now that the woman driving was also at that meeting, Crash remembered how she kept giving him signals across the conference table.

"Mister Crandall," she called clearly. "Is the building still open?"

Surprised that she knew his name, and in juxtaposition to her frantic demeanor, Crash calmly looked at his watch, noting that it was quarter after ten. "I don't think so," he answered. Ramona hung on his arm, bewildered and shivering. "The building was locked up just a few minutes ago. The guard said we were the last ones out."

"Have you seen Mister Starr?" Lopresti called as he leaned across the console and made his face more visible.

Crash leaned over and put his hands on the car, feeling the vibrations as the motor revved. "I don't think he's here," he said, his words turning to vapor in the freezing air. "Like I said, we were the last ones out. He's probably at the Washington Hilton. There's some kind of meeting there, and I know Mercedes and Mister MacHune were headed there as well."

The woman turned and said something to Tony, and turned back. "If you happen to see him," she said, slamming the gearshift into first, "tell him Tony and Miss Lee need to talk to him before he does anything—before he does anything at all! Will you do that?"

Puzzled as to what the hell was so important, "Sure, no problem," Crash said as he stepped away from the car. What a wild night this was. He barely pulled his hand off the door when the engine roared and the back wheels screamed on the pavement. The Porsche hurtled down the alley, slinging itself past the loading dock into a 180-degree turn and barely missing one of the sleeping trucks. Trash flying in its wake, headlights bouncing wildly, it whined back past them again and bottomed onto G Street as sparks literally flew off the car. Crash looked at an equally perplexed Ramona.

"What the hell was that all about?" she asked. "And why would they think we'd see Mister Starr tonight?"

"I have no earthly idea," Crash answered, refocusing on the challenge at hand. "Do you still want to get some wine?" He hoped the episode hadn't dulled her enthusiasm.

"I do," she said. "Let's get that cab."

* * * * *

"You lying bastard!" Myra screamed, her heavily pancaked jowls shaking in fury. "You said you had them!"

Unaffected, Johnny Gold looked around for an ashtray. Not seeing one on any of the tables nearby, he lit the cigarette anyway and took a huge drag, dropping the still-smoking match on the carpet of the hotel meeting room in which they were standing. "I have 'em," he said as double streams of smoke poured from his nostrils. One of the busboys was pushing on a folding dividing wall. "Hey boy," Johnny called, indicating that he wanted an ashtray. A blob of ash from his cigarette dropped in the middle of one of the linen tablecloths. He left it there.

In his most intimidating voice, Stan Leibermann said, "I'll handle this Myra."

Myra squashed him like a bug. "You just concentrate on what you're supposed to do, okay Stan? And don't fuck this up like you've fucked up everything else. I don't know who was dumber, you or Morty."

"Now listen Myra—"

"Shut up Stan!" Leibermann withered under her glare and Myra squared off with Johnny again. "Give me those goddamned certificates."

Johnny smiled craftily. "In due time," he said arrogantly. "In due time."

Myra squirmed beneath her white fur coat. "Listen, jerk, don't play any more games with me. You said twenty percent, plus expenses. Now hand them over."

Johnny defiantly exhaled a plume of smoke in her direction, enjoying every second of the misery he was causing. "You didn't really think I'd have them on me, did you?"

Yanking Johnny's tie in white-knuckled rage, Myra hurled yet another profane insult bomb. "We had a deal!" she screamed, attracting attention. "If we wait any longer those certificates won't be worth shit! Now hand them over, you lousy prick bastard!"

"Myra!" Leibermann yelled as she began raining blows onto Johnny's chest.

Myra turned and launched a right hand into Leibermann's face. She caught him flush, and the slap echoed in the room. "I told you to shut up! Just do what you're supposed to do and make sure you bid up the price of those shares. You got me!"

Leibermann slapped her back, shocking her. "Now you listen, you pompous fool! Everyone who is going to enter this room in the next five minutes knows that Associated is broke. If we fake a ploy to bid up the stock it may kill the deal and we'd all be out on our ass! We need to take what we can get." Leibermann grabbed Myra violently by the jaw, forcing her to pay attention to what he was saying. "Now, here's what we're going to do."

* * * * *

Gino walked proudly among the giants, chin out, chest swelled, every minuscule thread of his suit laying perfectly, every follicle on his head properly aligned. The glances and the stares bounced off him and fell harmlessly on the carpet. Catching a glimpse of himself in a mirrored panel, he stopped and took a moment.

"You look fine," Mercedes said as she smoothed the lapels of his suit in motherly fashion. "You're the man, Gino. Take these clowns for a ride they'll never forget."

Gino took her hand, holding it gently and realizing suddenly how much Mercedes looked like his mother when she was young. He'd never noticed it before. How odd, he thought: to be thinking about that at a time like this. But she did look like Tulia Starvaggi; she did. And he, standing there in the image next to her, he looked just like Veneto: bronzed, noble, eyes full of dark determination.

For the briefest moment, Gino traveled back to the days on 18th Street when he swept out the store after school and gathered up the boxes that had accumulated so he could take them out and burn them in the old oil drum they had for that purpose. When he'd finished, he went inside and helped Veneto carry the crates of fruit and vegetables off the sidewalk. Then, and only then, did they count the money they'd taken in during the day. Gino looked at himself in the mirror, remembering, literally seeing his father's face before him and recalling his look of pride when they'd had a good day. He remembered when Veneto took a nickel out of the cash drawer on those good days and flipped it to him. Gino saw himself move in the mirror, and he looked into his own eyes. The reflection looked back, almost on its own. It was Veneto Starvaggi talking to him through that reflection, not Veneto Starr. Starvaggi: changing the name had been a mistake. The thought came to Gino out of the reflection. He could hear it. It was a mistake, my son. I am Veneto Starvaggi, and you are Luigino Starvaggi. I am what I am, and you are what you are, and you are my son. Be true to yourself. Be proud of what you've done. You have the strength, you have the knowledge, you have the will to reach the top of the mountain. Don't be fooled. The word repeated themselves in his head over, and over, and over: Don't be fooled. Don't be fooled. Don't be fooled.

"Gino, are you all right?"

The question brought him back. "Yes," he said, taking Mercedes by the shoulders. "Yes, I'm fine, very fine, very fine indeed. Where's Mac?"

"Here he comes now," she said, pointing as MacHune trudged toward them, looking distrustingly from side to side. Looking at Gino's mischievous smile, she stepped back and her face took on a skeptical little pout. "What are you thinking?"

"What makes you think I'm thinking anything?" Gino asked.

"Because I've seen that look before," she replied.

* * * * *

Pacing anxiously, Joe Alminton looked at his watch and his impatience overflowed into intolerance. "It's almost ten thirty! When the hell is this board meeting going to start?" He turned, snarling at one of the workers. "Is that room ready yet?"

The young manager did his best. "Yes sir, sorry sir. We're just a little shorthanded, what with the big reception in the grand ballroom."

"Easy now," said Jasper Burke. "Ain't no sense in getting all antsy-pantsy. Everyone'll be along shortly."

Lou Hollinger looked at his own watch as if he needed to verify what Alminton had just said. "Easy for you to say, Jasper. You don't have to catch a plane at six in the morning. Let's find out what's holding this up and get this over with. Are the folks from Miller-Kaufmann here?"

"Couldn't get here on the short notice," Alminton answered. "But I talked with them on the phone. They're ready to make the offer as soon as Associated drops everything with the SEC."

Ruth Anne Booker asked, "Is the offer still at forty-five a share?"

Alminton nodded. "The shareholders should be pretty happy with that. It'll happen quickly." Apprehensively, he looked at Jasper Burke who was putting a pinch of Skoal into his cheek. "Are you still with us, Jasper?"

"Ain't like I got a choice now, is it?" said Jasper. "I feel like a traitor."

"It's for the good of the company."

As usual, Jasper shot to the heart of the matter. "Good of the company, my ass. This is about money, Joe, and the sooner we all admit that we're a bunch of money-hungry vultures, the better we'll sleep at night."

"I won't have any trouble sleeping," Alminton responded.

Jasper hawked a wad of brown tobacco juice into a trashcan on the back of a service cart. The undignified gesture was comment enough for Alminton and the other board members.

"Don't feel so damned sanctimonious, Jasper. If it bothers you that much, you can join Gino and Lopresti and vote against the rest of the board. That'll still make it six to three in favor of the offer from Miller-Kaufmann."

Shaking his head in disgust, Jasper walked past Alminton. As he made his way toward the meeting room where Gino was just entering with MacHune and Mercedes, he said, "You need to learn how to count, Joe. That would make it five to three. Sherman Hatcherson is dead, remember?"

CHAPTER 29... A Bucket Of Glue

Across the street from Rosenbloom & Starr inside Gordon's Liquors, Crash looked at the label and debated whether he should pick up some girl booze or something with a little more kick to it. Girl booze had stuff in it, stuff like cream, or juice, or some other shit like maple syrup or melted marshmallows. It was a known fact that guys couldn't get drunk off girl booze, and girl booze usually cost a fortune. Hiding behind a wall of dusty bottles, he checked his wallet to see that he only had seventeen bucks in it, which was barely enough for a bottle and a cab ride. He picked something she might like and figured he'd drink whatever particular brand of moose piss he had in the fridge if he had to, as long as she got a buzz on. He shuffled up to where Ramona was browsing among some glittery bottles.

"How about this instead of wine?" he offered, holding up a dark bottle of syrupy coffee crap.

"Really? Is that what you want?"

"Not particularly," said Crash. "I thought you'd like it."

"Actually, I had something different in mind. Do you like margaritas?"

Margaritas? Margaritas were good. Margaritas snuck up on you and laid you out on your ass. Ramona smiled a happy yet wicked little smile. The spark was still there. "Margaritas it is," Crash pronounced triumphantly as he took out his wallet.

"My treat," she said, whipping out a charge card.

"Cool," Crash said happily. Life was good.

They paid for the tequila and the triple sec, throwing in some pretzels and a couple of Slim Jims for nourishment, and bundled themselves once again against the cold and windy night. "Let's cross G Street and try for a cab on 12th in front of the store. I think we'd have a better luck there."

Ramona took his arm and said, "Okay."

Halfway across G Street they stopped for an oncoming car but it turned into one of those weird scenes, like when two people want to go through the door at the same time, then say, "Excuse me," and proceed to go through the door at the same time again. Usually, it's funny; this wasn't. The car slowed, almost coming to a stop. Thinking it was indeed stopping for them, they both took a step across the double yellow line. It wasn't a split second later that the car shot forward, almost colliding with Crash's dancing legs before it screeched to a stop. Crash turned angrily, pounding his hands on the hood.

"What the hell!" he screamed furiously. Ramona hotfooted it across the street. He half expected the driver to get out, the stupid bastard, but he didn't. Actually, she didn't, and she didn't use that driver sign language either, where holding one's palms up meant you were sorry. Instead she just sat motionless behind the wheel, glaring. Crash instantly noted the jet-black shoulder-length hair. What was this, déjà vu all over again, he asked himself as he glared back. He pictured the woman he'd seen inside the Porsche just minutes earlier—was this the same woman? It couldn't be, he told himself. He made a final self-explanatory gesture, feeling a little creepy as he caught up with Ramona who was patiently waiting for him to finish his insults.

"Idiot!" he said, turning one last time to look through the windshield. She was still glaring.

Ramona took his arm and said, "Let's just go. It's cold out here."

Right, thought Crash. There was something else he needed to take care of. Taking the bag from Ramona, he got a whiff of Passion again. He looked up 12th Street. There wasn't a car in sight. Shifting from one foot to the other, bathed in the bright light that spilled out from the store's display windows, he looked up to the next corner, which was F Street. F Street was a main thoroughfare, and it was always busy. Surely they'd be able to catch a cab on F Street. "Let's go to the next corner," he said, clamping down on Ramona's hand, which was inside his coat pocket. She made no objection as they strolled up the block, looking into the display windows along 12th Street.

"Your merchandise looks great," Crash said admiringly, nodding toward the windows. They were already featuring new spring and summer cruise fashions.

Ramona said, "Raoul does a great job with the displays, doesn't he?"

Crash examined the mini beach scene in the window. "You're right. He really knows how to bring you in. Do you like the new pencil legs?" He pointed to a casually-posed mannequin wearing some white slacks, tight all the way down. A shadow flashed across the background screen in the window. Then, it happened again. "Did you see that?" Crash asked as a chill went through him.

"See what?"

Maybe it was his imagination. "Never mind," he said. "I thought I saw something, that's all."

"What was it?"

"It was nothing. Just forget about it." It may have been nothing. Of course it was nothing. The building was empty. They were the last ones out. Old Gus had told them so. He looked back into the window when they were almost past it.

"Yeah," said Ramona.

"Yeah what?"

"Yeah, I do like the new pencil legs. They look so much neater than the same old sloppy bellbottoms everyone's been wearing for the last ten years. Don't you think?"

"Right," Crash said as he imagined Ramona in a pair of tight white cruise slacks, the kind with the little zippers on the ankles. "Where's a damned cab when you need one?" he grumbled as they approached the main entrance to the store, which featured a huge brass revolving door that jutted out onto the sidewalk. Once again, he looked back into the cruisewear window. It was nothing. They were almost upon the main entrance and they swung in toward the building to make room for another couple coming toward them. The door, the revolving door—it moved. It didn't just move a little. It moved a lot.

"Did you see that?" he asked, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

"See what?" she asked again. "What are you looking at?"

"The door."

"What door?"

"The revolving door," he said, pointing. "It moved. I swear it did. At least a foot."

Ramona brushed a strand of hair away from her now rosy cheeks. "So it moved, Batman. It's probably old Gus checking the doors to be sure they're all locked."

Right—old Gus. Of course. That was it. He was checking the doors—just like Ramona said. What else would a night watchman be doing except checking the doors? After all, that was his job—checking the doors.

Ramona took his arm. "Can we get a cab before I freeze to death?"

Right—a cab. He'd get a cab and take her to his apartment where he'd warm her up—warm enough to fry an egg on her belly. Briskly, they resumed the seemingly never-ending half-block trek toward F Street. They stepped toward the middle of the sidewalk, edging away from the protruding revolving door when suddenly: a cab, sitting at the light on the corner of 12th and F. "There!" Crash said excitedly. He took a couple of trots toward the cab, pulling Ramona along. Just as they passed the revolving door, Crash stopped in his tracks and Ramona barreled right into him.

"What now?" she exclaimed.

"A foot."

"Yeah, I know. The door moved a foot. You already said that. Now, can we get that cab before the light turns green?"

"No—a foot. I saw someone's foot, there, inside the door. I swear." Crash stepped away and walked up to the doors, making a tunnel against the glass with his hands. He scanned the area carefully, not seeing anything unusual now. Then, there! Something was moving! And it wasn't old Gus—it was too fast to be Gus. "There's someone in there!" he exclaimed, bending his body as if it would make him see better. "Behind the Este Lauder counter."

Ramona was still standing in the middle of the sidewalk. "So there's someone in there. Big deal. It has to be Gus. C'mon Crash, can we go now?"

"It's not Gus. Someone's running. There! I saw it again! Come. Come quick!"

Clearly irritated now, Ramona slowly came up next to Crash. She glanced inside. "I don't see anything," she said, but no sooner had she spoken when a lone hooded figure, dressed completely in black, made its way across the main aisle which was bordered by several brightly-lit display cases: cosmetics on one side, jewelry on the other. Eerily, the figure's feet were awash in light. "Oh my God!" she gasped.

"See! I told you," Crash shot back.

Suddenly, as if the figure had heard them, it turned, its black outline silhouetted against the diffused light of the display cases. A glint sparked through the case with the Seiko display, and the glaring look from the figure's eye slits locked with Crash's intense stare. Instantly, the figure collapsed to one knee, and the glint became the barrel of a huge silver automatic. The gun looked deadly, and it was pointed right at him. Instinctively, Crash clamped onto Ramona's arm, pulling her away from the revolving door and the other entrance doors. Tequila and triple sec crashed onto the sidewalk, instantly filling the air with the smell of citrus and alcohol. The shot never came.

Slowly, with his body and Ramona's now protected by the huge limestone blocks that flanked the entrance doors, Crash peeked into the store once more, ready to yank his head back as fast as a cobra could spring its own forward. The figure was gone. Crash's felt his heart pounding, the force of it thumping in his fingertips. He looked again, seeing only the display cases where the black figure had been.

"I think the store's being robbed!" he called into the freezing air.

Urgently, Ramona said, "We should call the police."

The police. Right. There—right on the corner at 12th and F—a phone booth. Someone was in it. Together, they raced to it, standing and bouncing from foot to foot while the fool inside turned away on purpose. Crash pointed to the phone. "The store's being robbed!" he yelled, assuming anyone with half a brain would understand. It didn't work.

Wildly, Ramona ran up and banged the door open. "Hey! Are you deaf? Someone is robbing the store!" She snatched the phone from the guy's hand and pushed her way into the phone booth while Crash shoved the guy away. "Someone is robbing the store, you ass!" Luckily, the guy just cursed him out and moved off down the street. The call to 9-1-1 only took a minute and Ramona stepped from the phone booth and said, "Maybe we should find out where Truthful is. What'dya think?"

She was right. The cops would know what to do when they got there, but Truthful needed to be there ASAP. "There's not a cab in sight," Crash cried as he checked his watch. It was 10:32. He took Ramona's hand. "We can't just sit here and wait," he said. "Let's go."

"Where are we going?"

"To get a truck."

"A truck?"

"Yeah. They're parked around back."

* * * * *

Indicating the group of three people who were sitting alone in the meeting room, Truthful asked, "Who's the chubby broad in the white coat?"

"Myra Levine," Price answered.

"Levine? Is she related to that Levine guy who was killed?"

"It's his wife."

"Interesting. What's she doing with that slimy detective?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe she's screwing him."

Truthful shuddered. "That's some visual, the two of them rolling around like a couple of—"

"Please," Price said as he held up his hand. "I try not to think of things like that."

"Do you really think that's the case?"

"Could be. According to the guys in our New York office, she's screwing half the city."

"So what's the connection between Gold, the million bucks' worth of stock, and her? And who's the other guy?"

Price answered the second question as he searched through a spiral notebook. "He's... here it is... Stan Leibermann, Executive VP at Associated."

"What's he got to do with this whole thing? I mean, I think I understand what he's got to do with Associated, but what's he got to do with her?"

"Maybe she's screwing him too."

"Is there anyone she's not screwing?"

Price just shrugged.

Puzzled, Truthful said, "I gotta go pee." He was only half telling the truth. In reality, he needed a moment to think.

"You know where I'll be," Price said as he continued to watch the space.

Making his way over the plush carpets of the main lobby, dodging the scurrying hotel workers, Truthful moved past the service bar outside the grand ballroom, next to which was a sign reading: State of the Union Reception. Finding the men's room, he tried to put himself in Price's place. Surely, he assumed, Price wasn't as confused as he was. The details floated around in his head like snowflakes, eventually coming to settle as if they were piling up on the branches of some huge tree. The tree was the crime, and the interlaced network of snow-laden limbs led to a trunk, and the trunk led to the roots of the crime. Right now, however, the only things Truthful could see were little twigs. He couldn't even see the trunk, let alone follow it to the roots. He tried to mark the branches in his head: Sherman Hatcherson's death; Leona getting brutally murdered while in the same bed with Morty Levine; the takeover attempt on Rosenbloom & Starr; Gino Starr almost getting killed; the drippy detective coming to solicit a reward for some illegally obtained stock; the attack on MacHune and Mercedes outside the restaurant; the stupid charade by Crash aimed at finding out... what?... from the senator's wife; now, here, this super-secret board of directors' meeting that half the population of the free world knew about. Each occurrence added to the complexity, each somehow sprouted from a common stem, from a single seed. That seed gave life to every aspect of the entire complicated mess. What was the common thread? What was the common sap that flowed through all the branches? Truthful finished his business and stood there for a second absorbed in his thoughts, awakened from his postulations by someone's presence next to him. Asian guy, Truthful noticed. He washed up and made his way back through the lobby and the huge throng of important-looking people who were still gathering there. "Do you have any idea what's going to happen?" he asked as he resumed his position with Price, who was still watching the space.

"No, but get ready," Price said as he instinctively checked the blue steel lump under his armpit.

"Get ready for what?"

Price shot a glance at Gino Starr, Vance MacHune, and Mercedes Flores who were just entering the meeting room. "I don't know exactly, but this whole thing is setting up like a bucket of glue."

CHAPTER 30... Doris

Teeth chattering, Ramona tried to keep Crash in sight as he zipped in and out between the sleeping furniture trucks. He was in there somewhere, yanking on door handles to see if any of the trucks were unlocked. The big cargo boxes shielded her from the single spotlight that tried vainly to light the loading docks where cold gray shadows were swallowed by the darkness around the massive concrete deck. Anxiously, she moved closer to one of the oversized wheels and peeked around a huge front fender, noting that the front grills of each of the seven trucks there were perfectly lined up within an inch of some invisible line. Crash popped out from between two truck cabs like a jack-in-the-box, startling her. "What's going on?" she asked.

"Just our luck," he said. "This could be the first time in the history of the company that every driver locked his truck at the end of the day."

"Even if you found one of them open," Ramona asked hopelessly, "how would you get it started. They don't leave the keys in them, do they?" A beam of light pierced the gray, and then went off just as quickly. "What's that?" she asked nervously as she stepped closer to Crash and further into the pocket of darkness between the trucks.

Crash pulled her in tight. "I don't know," he whispered closely. With Ramona holding on, he inched his way from between two of the quiet monsters and poked his head past the grill. He looked down the invisible line. "I don't see anything," he said, barely audible now. Suddenly, the light flashed again: a narrow sword cutting precisely into the gray flesh of the night. Abruptly, he pulled Ramona back into the darkness between the trucks. "Someone is out there," he whispered. He crouched down low, not daring to even move his feet on the crunchy gravel under his shoes. Ramona was shivering in his arms.

"What are we going to do?" she asked.

It was a legitimate question. He backed himself against one of the cab doors, wondering if he had a legitimate answer. Maybe they should just make a run for it and get the hell out of there, but they didn't know who or what was out there and that could be just as dangerous. They did know one thing, however—someone was inside that store, and that someone had a gun. They had to do something. His eyes traveled the length of the truck, settling blankly on the dirty white truck cab directly opposite them. He read the number: 1110. He looked again: 1110. "I don't believe it," he croaked quietly.

"What is it?" she whispered, following his eyes.

"Eleven-ten. It can't be."

"Can't be what?"

"Eleven-ten was the truck Truthful and I drove when we were delivering furniture together. It can't possibly be the same truck." He let go of Ramona and moved closer, then closer yet to the number stenciled on the side of the cab. Ramona moved with him. There, underneath the number, barely visible in the few stray beams of light that seemed to bend around the front of the truck, was the name Doris written in faded magic marker. "It is the same truck," he said. "Unbelievable."

"You named your truck Doris?"

"I'll explain later." He dropped to his knees, then down even further, literally crawling down under the cab of the truck.

Ramona had no clue. She shot an apprehensive glance to each side. "What the hell are you doing?" she asked a little too loudly.

"SSSSSHHHHH."

She jumped as something skittered through the darkness of the looming cement dock. "What was that?" she whispered anxiously.

"Take it easy," Crash shot back. "It was probably just a rat."

"A rat? Oh gross!"

"Quiet!" A second later Crash emerged from under the cab, holding something that flashed dully in the grayness. "Got it," he said as if he'd just found a diamond. Keeping low, he scooted around the cab and shoved the key he'd just found into the lock on the passenger side. Quickly, he pulled the door open, flinching as it opened with a series of loud grinding popping sounds. "Up," he instructed, and he gave Ramona a boost. "Open the driver's door," he instructed. "It only opens from the inside." Good old Doris. Gingerly, he pushed the passenger door shut and tiptoed around to the driver's side. "Hurry up!" he called lowly. Hearing the latch click, he sprang into the cab and immediately reached down under the dash.

Totally baffled, watching him paw furiously for something under the steering column, "What are you doing now?" Ramona asked breathlessly.

"I'm trying to start the truck, stupid."

"Oh, I'm stupid. You're holding a key in your hand, and—"

Light beams—larger this time—from a car—prowling from the alley, not far. "Down," said Crash, and he pulled Ramona down into the cracked, grimy seat, which smelled something like a McDonald's hamburger soaked in piss.

Creeping slowly, twin beams of bluish light followed the terrain of the alley, dipping and swinging from side to side as the car crunched over bumps and potholes. The light beams bathed everything in their path, and objects momentarily popped into prominence: the huge blue dumpster, the ancient gas pump on the far side next to the executive parking spaces, the big sign with the words Shipping and Receiving on it. The beams came closer, turning, stalking, coming around and moving purposefully. Then, pop, from around the corner, where the asphalt yard met the alley, the headlights themselves suddenly broke into the open.

Crash put a finger to his lips, pulling Ramona still further down into the stinky seat. "Stay down," he instructed as he ever-so-slowly ventured a peek above the battered dashboard. The headlights intensified as they came closer and the car turned, moving in a semi-circle around the pavement, slinking, stopping, then starting again. Suddenly, Crash dove down under the steering wheel as the lights stopped moving and shined steadily into the cab of the truck. Bathed in reflected light, his anxiety intensified as he reached for Ramona and pulled her off the seat onto the muddy floorboards. Smacking her head painfully on the gearshift in the process, she looked into his wide-open eyes. She got the message and stayed totally silent as a soda bottle clinked around on the floor. Her eyes froze as the car's high beams came on, drowning them in a cold gush of blue-gray light.

"What now?" she asked, her voice a shuddering whisper.

Crash didn't answer, mostly due to the fact that he had no idea either. He only knew this was no time to chat. Something was happening, something strange, and, he figured, something dangerous. Intuitively, he realized that the masked intruder inside the store was no robber, and knew the vehicle skulking in the lot in front of them didn't belong to anyone working late. It was death on wheels, he figured, looking for a parking spot.

They had to get out of there, but there was nowhere to go. Where the hell were the police they'd called earlier? Abruptly, the car's high beams clicked off and the low beams moved through the truck cab. The car was turning. Seconds later, they were once again cloaked in darkness and Crash took a breath and raised himself slowly, peeking just far enough over the dash to see two figures not more than twenty feet away. One of them was holding a gun. He froze, not even breathing. Ramona must have felt his panic, for she gripped his leg and he felt her fingernails digging into him through the fabric of his trousers. He covered her hand with his and she released her grip slightly, keeping so absolutely still that he could hear the air flowing in and out of her nose. The windshield was starting to fog, and the figures were fuzzy silhouettes against the red glow of the taillights.

Crash weighed their options, realizing quickly none of them were good. If the killers—and they had to be killers, he determined intuitively—looked up and noticed the foggy windshield, or, if they started looking inside the trucks, he and Ramona were dead meat. What would he do if that happened? He didn't have to think further about that as, suddenly, the dome light inside the car came on and the figures disappeared into the back seat. He heard doors slam and the car sped back up the alley toward G Street and beyond, spitting gravel the whole way.

Crash wiped his forehead and his hand came away soaked with cold sweat. "That was close," he said.

"Is it safe now?" Ramona asked timidly as she pulled herself up.

"We'll be safe when we get the hell out of here." With that, Crash reached down and began groping underneath the dash again.

"Why don't you just use the key?"

"Because..." Crash said as calmly as he could under the circumstances, "... this key doesn't go to the ignition. It only gets you into the truck."

"Then what good is it?"

"Truthful stashed it there in case we got locked out somehow." Crash sat up and bounced in his seat as he pumped the accelerator. "That was six years ago, can you believe it? Good old Truthful, always liked to have a security plan." He looked across the cab and said, "Can we stop playing twenty questions now?"

"Well why didn't he hide an ignition key under there as well?"

"Evidently the questions are never-ending," Crash mumbled to himself. "Because he lost it, that's why, and he rigged old Doris so we could start it with contact points."

"What are contact points?"

"Jesus, Ramona, something he learned from his grand theft auto days, okay?"

"Truthful used to steal cars?"

Crash reached down one more time and the tired old truck coughed and sputtered as the engine turned in agony. Suddenly, it roared to life, spewing an immense cloud of dust and smelly smoke from somewhere beneath the cab. Crash revved the engine and slammed the worn gearshift lever into first. "Maybe he'll tell you about it someday. The Hilton is near Connecticut and K, isn't it?"

Hesitantly, Ramona said, "I think so."

Crash reached for the emergency brake and said, "Good, we'll be there in ten minutes."

* * * * *

Gino looked out among the gathered, oddly cognizant that there were no seating arrangements. It was just as well. It would serve to verify everyone's alliances—as if he didn't know them already. He formulated his battle plan accordingly. Four of the board members were seated together: Ruth Anne Booker, Sam McKenzie, Jessica Baylor Stewart—who'd been strangely silent through the whole ordeal; probably the least painful way of dealing with it—and Lou Hollinger. Certainly they would vote with Joe, for they were all profit mongers now, peas in the same pod, all of them prostituted to the dollar. They'd forgotten their grander purpose, and they'd forgotten that he, Gino Starr, had helped them and what they'd once stood for in their communities. The money had come as a result of that, and now they'd become slaves to it. He looked for Alminton, the leader of the whores. There he was, on the phone, talking to other whores, probably.

Then there was Jasper. Ah, Jasper, down-to-earth, practical, common sense Jasper. He was no prostitute to the money, but Jasper would vote for what was best for the company, and at this point it was anybody's guess as to what Jasper thought was best. The Miller-Kaufmann offer probably looked pretty good to Jasper, provided they didn't have to leverage themselves to the teeth to do it. Jasper would probably vote with Joe too, kicking and screaming all the way, but vote with Joe nonetheless.

As he watched the buzzing throng, Gino determined that so far it was six to two, as Tony would never vote against him in a million years. He noticed that Tony hadn't shown up yet, but with him or without him, there was more than enough support for the Miller-Kaufmann offer to fly—unless another one came along that brought the whores more money. And that offer would be his offer—the Jong Plan: a global plan, a move that would revolutionize the way retailing was done in America. It would give Rosenbloom & Starr a profit advantage unmatchable by competitors, and the whores would like that.

It was a simple plan, but simple was best. Vertical integration was unheard of in the industry, and after hours and hours of thought on the subject, Gino was surprised that no one had ever done it before. No middle men, no distributors, no importers, nothing to eat up valuable profit dollars. Products would go directly from manufacturer to consumer, all of them at twenty to thirty percent less cost to the store. The overall profit cost advantage would be enormous, and the company's bottom line would shine so brightly that investment money would flow into the company like a river of money. Sure, others could copy the Jong Plan, but no one would be able to do it for years. It could take a decade, maybe two, and by that time Rosenbloom & Starr would be a fixture in the American economy. The whores would go for it in a heartbeat.

Gino's attention shifted to the table where Mac and Mercedes sat huddled in conversation. Both of them had guts, he thought figuratively, and he owed them big time. He continued to pan the room, stopping on Stan Leibermann, the interim CEO at Associated. So, Associated made a presence after all. It was probably Alminton's handiwork. Leibermann would probably announce that as a major stockholder, Associated supported the Miller-Kaufmann offer, and Associated's block of R & S stock would be offered willingly—if the price was right. Leibermann would try to play hardball, Gino figured, and try to drive up the share price, but in the end he'd sell for whatever he could get. He'd take his stake and lick his lips like a hyena that had found a fresh carcass. It would be a tidy sum for Associated's bottom line, which, according to rumors, needed some significant help due to Morty Levine's reckless quest for acquisitions. Gino wondered momentarily about the two people sitting with Leibermann. They didn't look like Associated executives.

He looked at his watch. The ten o'clock starting time was the only time of day that all the people in the room could be present at the same time, and it was substantially past the appointed hour. The smell of all-day perspiration was beginning to settle in among them. Where was Woo-Min? This was his show too. And where was Miss Lee? And Tony? He searched the seats once again, spying Truthful Williams just outside the door with the stumpy FBI agent. What was Truthful doing here? Gino looked at his watch again. It was time to say something. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he took the podium and the room fell silent.

* * * * *

Crash stayed inside the coughing truck, pumping the accelerator to keep the engine from stalling. "C'mon Doris," he said lovingly. "C'mon old girl. It's Crash. You remember me." Finally, Ramona came running back toward him from the hotel entrance, her coattail flapping behind her. "What the hell took you so long?" he called as she climbed into the truck.

"We're in the wrong place!" she yelled above the engine noise.

Crash's face paled. "What are you talking about? This is the Hilton."

"This is the Capital Hilton. We have to go to the Washington Hilton!" Her chest heaved as she spoke. "I tried calling, but I got left on hold twice. The desk clerk said it's probably a madhouse up there."

"Unbelievable," said Crash. "Where the hell is the Washington Hilton?"

"On Connecticut Avenue."

"Connecticut Avenue is less than two blocks away. That makes no sense."

"It's further up on Connecticut, past Dupont Circle."

"Two Hiltons—you couldn't make this up if you tried."

"Whatever, Crash, just drive. We have to find Truthful. Do you think the police have gotten to the store yet?" She looked at her watch. "It's been twenty minutes since we called them."

Crash's heart was in his throat. "I hope so," he said as he slammed the gearshift into first. Moments later, with Doris spewing smoke behind her, he shot a look at Ramona as the huge truck careened recklessly through Connecticut Avenue traffic. He'd been so close, he mused, pondering further that this was a hell of a time to think about sex, but he couldn't help himself, certainly not after what happened in her office. Now it might never happen, and it was a pretty good bet that romance was the last thing that Ramona was thinking about. He cursed and dodged a cab as he floored it up Connecticut Avenue.

CHAPTER 31... The Second Hilton

Addressing the audience, Stan Leibermann said, "Mister Starr puts forth a very convincing argument in favor of this alliance with Jong International, but Associated Department Stores of America is now a major stockholder in Rosenbloom & Starr and we have no choice but to resist this move."

Myra came out of her chair. "What the hell is he doing?"

Pulling her back, Johnny Gold looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Oops, too late. He leaned over and whispered urgently, "He's just bidding up the price of the stock, you fool! Now sit there and shut up or you'll blow the whole thing." Indignantly, Myra turned away and adjusted her fur, making sure to keep it prominently displayed on her shoulders despite the perspiration glistening on her fleshy neck.

Joe Alminton was listening to Leibermann with one ear while listening on the phone with the other. He held up a finger, nodding as he did so. No one spoke. "Miller-Kaufmann ups its offer to $47.00 dollars a share for all outstanding shares," he announced haughtily, throwing another twelve-million-dollar chip on the table.

Johnny smiled arrogantly. "There it is." He popped Myra on the arm and leaned back. "Now signal your boyfriend that it's time to back off." Johnny was already counting his share. He'd never made two hundred grand in one night, legally, almost legally, or otherwise.

Gino listened patiently, observing and analyzing as Leibermann played out his hand. The strategy was no surprise, but the bastard was better at it than he'd predicted. Either that, or Alminton, who looked a little panicky over there on that phone, didn't have as much pull with the Miller-Kaufmann people as he thought he did. Coolly, he glanced at Mac and Mercedes, who communicated with their eyes that the moment was at hand. Looking for Woo-Min one last time, he sipped some water and marched purposefully to the podium.

Leibermann smirked and stepped aside. Not surprising, thought Gino, the guy thought he'd just made an extra forty million for Associated, and probably a significant sum for himself. Leibermann undoubtedly figured that all he had to do was say yes to Alminton's offer, and it would be over. Yeah, well, not so fast, folks. Noting that every eye in the room was glued to him, resting his hands on the podium, Gino said, "We are prepared to make a tender offer for Associated Department Stores of America at double today's closing price on the New York Stock Exchange. That would make our offer $34.50 a share."

Joe Alminton said something into the phone and hung up, while Myra Levine blasted out of her seat. "You can't do that!" she screamed across the meeting room.

Gino looked at her and said, "I just did, madam."

* * * * *

The media scrutiny was like a three-ring circus, thought Senator Hancher. First was the pre-State of the Union Address press briefing, which was handed out to the media. Then was President Carter's actual State of the Union Address—an annoyingly sensitive and disgustingly honest display of global caring and love-thy-fellow-man crap. Then came the post-State of the Union Address analysis by the talking heads in which they reinterpreted what they thought the President had said, or meant to say. After that was the post-analysis response by the Republicans, and finally the Republican post-response interview. Now it was time for the post-interview interview.

A makeup girl picked and padded at Hancher one last time, making sure his distinguished gray-white hair was just so, and a blue jean-attired soundman who looked like Charles Manson came over and stuck a microphone into Hancher's face. "Speak normally," he said.

The good Senator smiled his best political smile. "Three score and seven years ago, I was put on this earth to kick ass and take names. How was that?" he asked the stringy-haired leftover hippy maggot. The soundman shook his head and walked away.

The eminent Senator Milton D. Hancher, Republican from Illinois, beamed at the maggot's obvious disapproval. They were all like that, the sickening liberal peacenik bastards, leftover potheads from the decade of free love. They thought they could translate free fucking into a political movement, and they went ahead and elected Jimmy Carter, of all people, to be President, for God's sake. Love the Jew bastards; love the Egyptian cocksuckers; love the Russian motherfuckers; shit, love everybody—invite them all to the fucking White House for a real international gang-bang in the fucking Rose Garden with Rosslyn and Amy. What the hell, thought Hancher, we were all getting fucked anyway. Inflation, unemployment, welfare, taxes—all of them were through the roof and Carter was spending his time brown-nosing with the hebes and the towel heads. In the meantime, all the slopeheads in the Far East were gaining on us. The Chinese, the Taiwanese, the Japs, the Koreans, all of them were working fools, sweating like the little slant-eyed pigs that they were to manufacture anything that we fools, we love-thy-neighbor-we-forgive-you-come-over-to-our-country-and-take-our-jobs-we-love-John-Wayne Americans bought up as if we were playing a game and the one with the most junk won. He, the noble, the exalted, the respected Senator Milton D. Hancher, he knew what was right for this country. Leadership: that's what we needed. We needed someone to look out for our own interests. We needed someone who had the balls to tell it the way it was, someone who'd protect our jobs and our way of life, someone who wasn't afraid to tell the foreigner faggots to get the fuck out. He, the honorable Senator from Illinois, the heartland of America, the Land of Lincoln, he knew what was good for the people of this country, and he was about to tell them. It was his turn in the center ring, and everyone would be listening to him—the next president of the United States.

Hancher turned to his wife, putting an arm around her appropriately thin waist and turning her around to face the camera with him. "Smile pretty for the people," he said. "How do we look?" he asked into the camera.

"You're fine," said the director, who was standing next to the cameraman. "But Mrs. Hancher, your jacket is riding up a little."

"Oh," said Mrs. Hancher. She straightened and buttoned the jacket of her royal blue suit. "How's this?"

"Perfect," the director said. "That color looks great on camera."

Pleased with the compliment, and pleased that she'd bought the suit, Mrs. Hancher smiled her best aristocratic senator's wife smile. She locked arms with her husband in a loving aristocratic pose.

"All right," said the director. "We're up in fifteen seconds, voiceover is up now... and five... and four, three, two, one...." He shot a finger at the beaming senator and his beaming wife.

"My fellow Americans," the splendid Senator from Illinois began, "I speak from the heart, and from the heartland of America. My wife and I...." He looked adoringly at his wife, who looked back adoringly at him. "... are common folks who've never had anything handed to us in our whole lives. As such, I know what the common folks of this country want. What we want, what we need, is for...."

Before the beloved Senator from Illinois could say another word, a soundless bullet exploded into the back of his skull, blowing pieces of bone and brain onto his adoring wife before she knew what happened. Little drops of crimson sprayed onto the camera lens, which was only ten feet away. The seventeen-and-a-half million people across the United States who were still awake and watching, saw the Senator from Illinois collapse in a heap, taking his wife down with him. The cameraman, realizing that the foreign material that coated his camera lens was from somewhere in the middle of Senator Hancher's skull, took the camera off his shoulder and wiped the lens with his handkerchief. By the time he steadied the camera again, Mrs. Hancher was standing, screaming a primordial scream, the huge purple splotch from her husband's exploded head neatly formed in the shape of a football on the skirt of her royal blue suit. Deranged, she ran screaming into the night.

* * * * *

A sudden, thunderous cheer vibrated from somewhere in the building, surging from one of the corridors that branched like tentacles off the huge lobby. It was coming from the direction of the grand ballroom where all the congressmen were gathered. It was an odd cheer, Truthful thought: curiously shrill. "I don't understand one thing," he said as the noise escalated.

Uneasily, Price asked, "What's that?" He was watching the ebb and flow of the crowd, scrutinizing every face and instantly committing it to memory. The cheer caused a shiver to race up his spine that didn't go away. It just hung there, idling.

"How did you find out that one of our directors sold out to Miller-Kaufmann?"

Price didn't get a chance to answer Truthful's question as Mrs. Hancher's scream came at him like a flying needle, penetrating him to the bone. He looked up to see her running toward them, the sound coming from her throat like an air raid siren, constant and sickening. No one dared touch her, this weird apparition covered with blood, leaving her to wander past them, her eyes like glistening ping-pong balls poking through a Mardi Gras mask.

Not quite sure what was happening, Price automatically reached for the .38 Colt revolver under his armpit. He squeezed the crosshatched wood grip as the tingle of battle, that upsetting twinge he got back in the jungles of Vietnam—the one that always made him sick—came back to him now, powerfully and unmistakably. Death was in the air. He could smell it, and it was still warm and fresh. He took one uncertain step forward, then a second, holding the bulldog Colt down to one side as a rapidly expanding noise bubble ballooned toward them. "What the hell is that?" he yelled at Truthful. A rush of humanity exploded from the far side of the lobby so that he didn't hear Truthful's answer. It didn't matter, though. The sound of automatic weapons fire grabbed his attention.

* * * * *

A hush fell over the room as soon as Gino announced his intent to take over Associated, and it would have been deathly silent had it not been for the staccato pops that leaked through the heavy double doors. For a second, before dismissing the thought, Gino thought it sounded like automatic weapons fire, rapid little clacks like the clacking sound kids make when they pin baseball cards to the wheels of their bicycles. It couldn't be automatic weapons fire, of course. That would be impossible.

As his attention returned to the immediate, Gino noted that Joe Alminton looked as if he'd lost control of the muscles in his face. His eyes were red and glassy, unable to hold their steadiness. Alminton made a point of looking at his watch. His hands were shaking, Gino noted instantly as he wondered why the time was significant. It was 11:01 p.m., and Myra Levine's caustic voice cut into his thoughts.

"You dirty bastard!" she screeched from across the room. "You can't make an offer on Associated!" Leibermann tried to pull her back into her seat, but she pulled away from his grasp.

Angrily, Leibermann stood and forced Myra back into her chair. "Shut up!" he screamed furiously. Too far along to be embarrassed, he faced the stunned onlookers and turned to Gino. "Forty-five," he called up to the podium. "Associated wouldn't consider an offer of less that forty-five a share."

The directors turned as if they were watching a tennis match. Jasper Burke smiled quietly. The play was on.

The tension rolled off Gino like BBs rolling off the edge of a table. Looking Leibermann straight in the eye, his voice like cold steel, he slashed through Leibermann's bluff. "It'll be $34.50," he said icily, "and it will happen first thing in the morning as soon as the market opens. I advise that you take the offer, Mister Leibermann. You'll do quite well."

Leibermann sat quickly, not saying another word. He'd make out quite well indeed. "No sense in being stupid about it," he said aloud.

Seeing Leibermann back off, Myra rocketed from her chair once again. "My stock!" she howled belligerently. "What about my stock, you bastard!"

Johnny Gold popped a Newport as he visualized 300,000 individual dollar bills being flushed down a toilet.

The dull roar outside the meeting room was growing louder, so much so that Jasper got up to see what all the commotion was about. He cracked the door and the pandemonium from the corridor instantly overflowed into the meeting room, not only drowning out the sound of Myra's voice but also the sound Joe Alminton made when he pulled back the slide on his .32 caliber automatic.

* * * * *

Crash stood on the brakes with both feet while Ramona managed to prevent herself from being hurled through the windshield by putting both feet up against it and pinning herself to the seat. The fool in the little Chevette had no idea how close he'd come to being roadkill. Tourist, Crash guessed when he saw the Florida plates. Watching the car go on its merry way around Dupont Circle, he tried repeatedly to slam the gearshift into first. "You okay?" he asked.

Ramona said, "I think so, but my stomach feels like it's inside out." The smell of burnt rubber was everywhere. "Just three more blocks," she said, holding her thighs to keep them from shaking.

"Someone could hijack half the store by the time we go three blocks." Crash pushed on the gearshift and worked the clutch until the gears caught. "That's it baby," he moaned adoringly. "Just like that." He let out the clutch and the truck lurched forward. "C'mon girl, do it one more time for old Crash."

"You sound like you're having sex," said Ramona.

* * * * *

Gunshots punctuated the sound of breaking glass. Feeling the vibrations from hundreds of pounding feet, Truthful dropped to the floor and almost burrowed through it. What was happening? He looked up and around, thinking that maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. Bodies were everywhere. Were they dead? He couldn't see Price, or anything else through the chaos. Suddenly, he was on his feet, caroming off the stampede. Loud, anguished screams, men's screams, rough as sandpaper, rang out in the room. What was happening? The clamor was growing. Where was Price? Not there; not there. There! In the path of the pandemonium that was coming at him like a human avalanche. He was bouncing and shoving his way through it, his gun pointed skyward. Where was he going? Truthful looked at the door to the meeting room. It was opening. Where was Price going, he thought again. What was happening?

* * * * *

Doris whipped off Dupont Circle as if she were hurled off a sling. The big cargo box rocked from side to side as the rear wheels came off the ground. Crash double clutched, slamming into third as Doris's old engine revved to the brink of disintegration. Ramona held on for dear life as the light turned yellow but caution wasn't in the thought process. Unbelievably, the engine whined even higher as Crash pinned the accelerator to the floorboards and clamped onto the steering wheel. Ramona came clean off the seat as he blasted through the intersection, hitting her head on the top of the cab. She came back down ten yards later when the back wheels ca-thumped over whatever they'd just hit. "I hope that wasn't human," Crash shouted.

"One more block!" Ramona screamed above the engine noise.

"I see it!" Crash screamed back. He gunned the engine again for one final burst of speed, braking powerfully and downshifting as Doris swerved to a jerking halt on the manicured grass in front of the Hilton's U-shaped drive. He reached down under the dash and undid whatever he'd done up to get old Doris started, while Ramona kicked her door open and jumped fearlessly into the smell of gasoline and burning rubber. They had to find Truthful.

Crash ran up alongside her, ready to sprint the thirty yards into the lobby of the Washington Hilton, when he stopped, stunned by the shrieking throng of humanity that came barreling toward them. "What's going on?" he yelled as he grabbed someone running past him.

"Senator Hancher's been assassinated!" the stranger yelled back. "There's people with guns in there!"

Crash ran on toward the entrance with Ramona a few yards behind him, her coat waving wildly and the high heels of the shoes she'd worn that day clicking against the concrete. They bowled their way through the human tidal wave, clearing the entrance into the lobby where, suddenly, the crowd was gone. A dozen people scattered like cockroaches, except for one, which was coming right at them. Crash recognized the suit immediately—royal blue, except for the basketball sized stain on the skirt. Mrs. Hancher stood in the middle of the lobby, pawing at her face with bloody hands.

* * * * *

Jasper Burke fell like a load of bricks, his head oozing from the gash in his head. He never saw the blow coming. His hooded assailant stepped over his body and aimed an Uzi at his head, waiting for the command to finish him. Joe Alminton was at the podium and he put his .32 caliber automatic to Gino's temple. At the door, another assailant stepped to the side and made way for Woo-Min Jong.

* * * * *

Crash! What the hell was he doing here? And Ramona! Were they crazy! They had no idea! Where was Price? Truthful dove away from the meeting room door through which he'd heard the rat-tat-tat clacking sound of automatic weapons fire. It was followed by a deeper, more resonant barrage—the bullets had come fast as light—but it seemed to have stopped for the time being. There! A body! Was it Price? Hidden by the sofas ringing the lobby, Truthful crawled toward it. Closer, closer, turning the body over. It wasn't Price. It was the Secret Service man, the one Price had called pretty boy, only now he wasn't so pretty because half his chest had been shredded by bullets.

* * * * *

Looking at the horrible scene in front of him, Crash thought: wrong place, wrong time. He watched as Mrs. Hancher pawed at her face, wiping the blood down her cheeks like war paint. She was trying to get it off, he guessed, but she was screaming incoherently and totally hysterical. He turned away. Get out of there now, he told himself, but it was already too late. AK-47 in hand, a black-hooded killer came through the door and took a position between him and Mrs. Hancher. Oblivious, she was making a sound only the devil would appreciate. Horrified, he watched as the killer leveled his weapon and gunned her down as if she were no more than a whimpering dog. She was almost cut in two.

The killer—and the AK-47—turned toward him. Crash looked at the masked face, seeing only eyes and lips bent into an evil snarl. He looked around, taking only a split second to realize that the lobby was empty, eerily quiet now. He was going to die, he figured, but for some reason he wasn't scared. All he thought about was: so, this is what it feels like. His gaze descended from the murderer's face to the AK-47. Suddenly, he raised his eyes. Face it, he said to himself—like a man! A quick, "I'm sorry, God," zipped through his head, an automatic response. The AK-47 came up. Crash looked into the eyes and he tensed. "Screw you!" he said into the eyes—and they moved, just for a split second as a shoe came flying out of nowhere. That single distraction, that single tick of the clock was all that was needed, and the boom of the Secret Service nine millimeter rang out. The killer was dead before he hit the carpet.

Crash turned and saw Truthful standing there, smoke curling away from the gun he was holding with both hands. His face looked white, Crash thought, even for a black man. Gun raised, Truthful came over and snatched the bloody hood from the killer's head.

Crash recognized what was left of the face immediately. It wasn't a man's face, but a woman's, framed by shoulder-length jet-black hair, the same woman who had almost run him over on G Street. That seemed like a lifetime rather than hours ago, he thought, and it almost was.

Truthful said, "You need to get out of here, now!" He turned and looked off in the same direction that the dead killer had looked moments earlier. "Good arm," he said.

Crash turned and looked behind him. Ramona was standing there in bare feet and holding another shoe in her hand.

"I couldn't think of anything else to do," she cried as a single tear tracked down her cheek.

Crash walked over took her in his arms. She was trembling. He nodded at Truthful, knowing that he and Ramona had both just saved his life.

* * * * *

MacHune crouched down and tried to look inconspicuous, but the more he tried to blend into the wallpaper, the more he stood out. Alminton aimed the gun straight at him now, taking it away from Gino head. "Get up!" he shouted maniacally. Another half-ounce of pressure on the trigger and the gun would have gone off on its own. "And don't try anything brave or your boss gets a real bad headache."

Defiantly, Gino said, "Just like Sherm, right Joe? Are you gonna kill me too? You gonna kill us all?"

Crazy-eyed, "Shut up!" Alminton shouted. He moved the gun back and jammed the barrel into Gino's skull. "He had it coming, the stupid bastard! He just wouldn't go along. All he had to do was play ball and do what he was told. The SEC would've taken care of the rest."

"So you killed him. Do you think you're going to get away with it?"

Alminton bashed the pistol barrel into Gino's head, sending him crashing to the floor. "I had it all planned out. You see, I was the eyewitness who was going to put you away forever." Alminton's eyes danced maniacally. "Another three days. That's all I needed—another three days and you would have been out of the picture. Then it would have been mine, all mine!"

MacHune took a step forward and Alminton fired a shot into his chest. MacHune took two more steps before Alminton's second bullet splintered his shoulder.

Mercedes's piercing wail was as loud as the gunshot. She raced over and instinctively cradled MacHune's heavy torso as he slumped to the ground. Seething, she looked like she would have happily ripped Alminton's heart open with her teeth.

A voice cut through the smog of fear that hung in the room. It was Woo-Min. "This is not the way it was supposed to go! There was to be no bloodshed!"

Spinning toward meeting room doorway to face Woo-Min, Alminton's laugh couldn't have been more spiteful. "Tell that to your friend the senator." He pointed the gun a Woo-Min.

Gino struggled from the floor and stumbled toward the door, putting himself between Alminton and Woo-Min. Breathing heavily, he said, "Tell me he's crazy Woo-Min. Tell me you had nothing to do with this or with Sherm's death. Tell me, Woo-Min. Tell me now!"

Woo-Min's eyes were heavy in his head, shifting like cargo. He avoided Gino's pleading stare. "I had no choice," he said, his words laden with guilt and grief.

Dazed now by more than the blow to his head, Gino's hand came away red with blood. He held it out toward Woo-Min. "Why, Woo-Min?"

Alminton answered instead. "Twenty billion dollars, that's why! This deal was bigger than you could have imagined, and in the end that's what it would have been worth. You were just one little fish in the ocean, Gino. We could have had it all and you didn't even know it."

Gino ignored him. "Jong?"

The answer came from the other side of the room. "It was The Circle, wasn't it Father?" Miss Lee and Tony Lopresti stepped around Jasper's still prone body, an AK-47 at their backs.

Woo-Min waved the hooded gunman away. "What do you know about The Circle?" he asked bitterly.

"I am no fool, Father. It has been closing in around you for years. I know it is powerful, but so are you. You have always resisted The Circle, Father. You have always pushed back. Why have you given in now?"

Woo-Min crossed his hands and bowed as if in prayer. He stood for what seemed an eternity while Miss Lee waited, while Gino bled, while Alminton edged toward hysteria, and while MacHune moved closer to death with each choking breath. "Those attacks, and these attacks, they were warnings that The Circle could get to me whenever it wanted. It struck those close to me first. Ultimately I had no choice," he said simply. "I had to do what they wanted so that the people I loved did not die."

Gino said, "We all have choices, Woo-Min, good and bad, and we are responsible for every one of them."

"You hypocritical son-of-a-bitch!" Alminton cried out. "It was your choice that got Hatcherson killed! It was your scheme that got us into all this. If you hadn't played with those financial statements, none of this would have happened. You could've let Associated move in and take you over. What did you care? You would have made millions! But no, you had to be greedy! You had to hold out for more." Alminton waved the gun threateningly.

"Is that what you think?" The blood pulsed from the gash on Gino's head, soaking around his collar like a crashed halo. "Levine would have ruined Rosenbloom & Starr. Do you really think I could have stood by and let him destroy in months what it took me a lifetime to build?"

"It was your father's company."

"It was my company! This is still my company! My father may have started it but I built it, and I wasn't going to stand by and watch a cannibal like Levine devour it and spit out the bones."

"Associated was the cannibal," said Woo-Min. "Levine was only one of the teeth, and a rotten one at that, one that had to be pulled out." Woo-Min spoke in mysterious tones.

"Pulled out by whom?" Gino questioned.

Woo-Min didn't answer but Miss Lee did. "By The Circle. Associated was The Circle. Associated is The Circle. It is here, it is among us in this room, isn't it Father?"

Twelve pairs of eyes looked at the table where Stan Leibermann and Myra Levine sat cowering with Johnny Gold. "Hey, we were just trying to make a buck," Leibermann said faintly. "I don't know anything about any damned circle."

"No," said Myra, "but Morty did." Johnny Gold turned toward her. Seeing him do so, she said, "Where do you think he got the money for the stock, you idiot?"

Johnny slapped her soundly across the face. "I've been wanting to do that for a long time," he spat.

Woo-Min said, "They are not The Circle. He is The Circle." He pointed toward Alminton.

Alminton grinned an evil grin. "That's right. And so is Miller-Kaufmann, and pretty soon we're gonna have all this wrapped up nice and neat and all of it will be ours."

"You can't possibly think you're going to get away with this," Gino said incredulously.

"Why not?" Alminton responded. "We'll just blame it all on the dead senator. Serves him right for fucking up those foreign aid bills. The Circle was counting on that money to finance this deal. Too bad. Now, we'll have to get it from Jong International. Right Woo-Min? Just like you promised."

Woo-Min Jong bowed one last time before pulling a gun from his jacket. Slowed by the rust of age, the move was too obvious and Alminton's shot rang out into the corridor. Woo-Min slumped to the floor.

Miss Lee ran to him, mirroring Mercedes's position who was only a few feet away and still holding MacHune in her arms. "Why did you do this, Father?"

"I had no choice," Woo-Min gasped, "regardless of what my friend Gino Starr has said. It has always been The Circle's money, always The Circle that controlled Jong. I tried to resist, but I could not. It had to be this way. You will find out soon enough, dearest one, when I am gone." His breathing was shallow and coarse. He coughed weakly. "You must be strong, like your real father. I was weak." Woo-Min closed his eyes. "I love you," he said with his last breath.

Miss Lee looked up, her eyes blurred with grief. "It couldn't be," she sobbed. "I don't believe it." Her tears soaked into the fabric of Woo-Min's suit. "I don't believe it," she repeated over and over again.

Gino came over and put a hand on her shoulder. A drop of blood fell from the gash on his head, mixing with Woo-Min's. They were joined still, even in death. "You have to be strong," he said to Miss Lee. "We're going to be fighting this for a long time."

Alminton pointed the gun at Gino. "Let's go," he said. "You're my insurance policy out of here."

"I'm not going anywhere, Joe."

Alminton took a few steps and put the gun to Miss Lee's head. "You'll come if you don't want your daughter to die before you do." He looked into Gino's stare. "This might be the last night on earth for both of you," he said.

* * * * *

Sirens screamed into the night, invading from all directions. Inside the truck, Crash tried to get Ramona to regain her composure. "Are you okay?" he asked.

She nodded curtly. "I'm sorry," she said, sobbing.

"Sorry for what?" he asked. "You just saved my life."

Suddenly, more voices rang out, close by. Instinctively, Crash slid down low below the dashboard and pulled Ramona down with him. This was getting to be a habit, he thought. Slowly, he peeked up above the window line. Like a scene from a Dirty Harry movie, Truthful and Price were coming down the U-shaped drive back-to-back, pistols trained in opposite directions. Truthful was slowly stepping forward, his gun pointed at some guy who was backpedaling just as slowly and holding a gun to the head of another woman with black hair. They were only yards apart. Price was facing the other way and protecting Truthful, it seemed. Further back behind them all, Mister Starr was staggering from the hotel entrance.

"Truthful, don't shoot!" Gino hollered at him. "He'll kill her!"

"Stay where you are," Alminton roared. "Or I'll do just as he said!"

Crash watched as they all moved in unison, step by guarded step, coming toward the truck. Alminton's gun was a shiny glint in the night.

"What's going on?" Ramona whispered from down below.

Crash looked down. Like the eyes of a cat, hers showed oblong in the darkness. Sirens, up the street. No, down the street. It seemed like hundreds of them, wailing endlessly from both directions. Lights, red ones, blue ones, popping into the buildings along Connecticut Avenue. His nerves tingling, "You wouldn't believe it," Crash replied. Headlights were coming at them from everywhere. Deafening sirens, closer, closer. He looked back. Truthful's arms were like steel beams, his eyes rivets. The scene came closer.

"Put the guns down, now!" Alminton screamed, his voice high and strained.

Barely breathing, Crash noted that Truthful didn't even flinch. Instead, he tightened his grip on the pistol, his fingers rewrapping themselves around the handle. They were no more than twenty yards from the truck now. Not daring to talk, Crash looked down and said, "Ssshhh." Ramona nodded. The guy holding the gun on the black-haired woman was moving faster now, his face a mask of panic, headed right for the truck. Right in front!

"Put the guns down!" Alminton repeated. His voice was tighter yet, laced with panic. Police cars came screeching up the street; it seemed like there were dozens of them.

Gino stumbled down the walk, placing himself between Truthful and the woman. "It's me you want, Joe. Let her go."

Crash watched as, without warning, the man Mister Starr had just called Joe pushed the black-haired woman to the ground and fired a shot into the ground at Starr's feet. Crash flinched and ducked down as he waited for return fire, but it didn't come. With his eyes barely clearing the dashboard again, he looked at the woman and recognized her as the same one that was at the FBI meeting days earlier. Who was she, he wondered, and what was she doing here? Abruptly, he noticed that somehow Mister Starr had taken her place and the shiny little gun was now resting against his temple instead of hers.

"Now! Or he's next!" Alminton screamed.

"He means it," Price called out.

Truthful slowly lowered his gun and Price crouched down next to the woman. The air was a kaleidoscope of police lights and the sounds of car doors slamming and shotguns being cocked came through clearly. Crash kept his eye on what was happening with the gunman and Mister Starr. Shuffling awkwardly through the kaleidoscope, they continued to come towards the truck. Where were they going? They kept coming, the shooter's head swiveling from side to side in search of a destination. With Mister Starr's head shoved to one side from the push of the shiny automatic, they weren't ten feet away and they turned now so that their faces were visible. The gunman's eyes danced in every direction while Mister Starr's eyes were steady. Suddenly, his eyes did a double take, just the eyes. Crash noted that they were focused in his direction—on him, he saw clearly. They were talking to him. Were they? Yes, they were—silently, and unmistakably.

The two men shuffled towards a waiting car—a limo. Yes, definitely, they were heading for the limo, parked right in front of the U-shaped drive in a yellow No Parking zone. Again, Crash looked into Mister Starr's eyes. They were definitely talking to him and the message couldn't have been clearer: What are you waiting for? Do it now! Crash reached for the wires down under the dash and the engine coughed to life. He popped up and grabbed the steering wheel as he gunned the engine. Doris roared like a lioness and a massive cloud of blue smoke sprayed into all directions.

"Get up and wedge yourself into the seat," he said to Ramona. "Push up against the dash with your feet so you don't fly into it!"

"Oh my God! What are you doing?" she screamed.

Crash slammed gearshift into first. "You're about to find out why they call me Crash."

CHAPTER 32... Congratulations

"Oh my goodness! I can't believe I'm actually doing this!"

Ramona grabbed Mercedes by the arm. "Here's another buck," she yelled above the pulsating music. She pushed Mercedes through the pulsating crowd up to the pulsating male dancer. "Get up nice and close."

Mercedes turned to escape the approaching hunk of sweating muscle. "Oh no you don't," Ramona shouted. "Not until you're done with these." She held up a fistful of dollar bills, raising the decibel level of the squealing women standing next to the stage. "In there," she instructed, pointing to the growing pouch.

Thoroughly reddened, "I can't!" Mercedes shouted.

"Sure you can," Ramona yelled back. She yanked on the big pouch and stuffed a buck down into it. "Now you," she yelled above the music, forcing the bills into Mercedes's hand.

"No way!" Mercedes yelled as the pouch came closer, sniffing for the money.

Clapping to the pounding beat, "Do it!" Ramona yelled.

The pouch came closer.

"Do it!" the ladies began to yell.

Closer still. "Do it! Do it! Do it!"

"Oh, what the hell!" Recklessly, Mercedes slapped her hands on the stage and yelled, "Over here, big boy!" She yanked the pouch and stuffed a bill deep inside. The crowd went nuts. Another buck found its way into the pouch, then another, and another, until finally the last bill made its way in. She and Ramona returned to their seats, giggling like teenagers.

"Did you see the size of that thing?" Ramona howled.

"Yeah. It looked like a big snake in there!"

Miss Lee just shook her head. "You're both drunk."

Mercedes almost choked on her drink. "Oh, like you should talk! Like... I was the one who threw her panties on the stage when the fireman with the big hose came out."

"Those weren't mine!" Miss Lee shouted in protest.

Ramona lifted her drink. "Hey," she shouted. "That's what you're supposed to do at a double bachelorette party."

Mercedes said, "Mac would keel over and die if he knew what I was doing."

Ramona shrugged and took a swig of her margarita. "So?" she said. "Don't tell him."

* * * * *

"Are you really thinking about going to the FBI Academy?" Crash asked.

Truthful cracked open another beer. "If Price can get me in. I think it might be a good move for me."

"I do too," Gino agreed. "Congratulations."

"Thanks, but I'm not in yet."

Bored out of his skull, MacHune took a pull on his now warm beer. "I wonder what the girls are doing."

Tony responded with a knowing shake of the head. "You don't wanna know."

"Why not?"

"Trust me," Tony said as he shoved a huge cigar into his mouth. "Why don't we concentrate on our party and forget the girls for once. You gonna deal, or what?"

MacHune sighed. "Yeah, sure. I still think I'd rather be with them."

"No you wouldn't. Now deal."

"What's the game?"

"Make it something cheap," Crash said as he looked at the piles of bills stacked in front of the other players. "I'm almost tapped out."

"I'll float you a hundred," MacHune offered as he snapped out the cards. "Seven stud okay?"

Crash fingered the last few crinkled bills lying in front of him. "At this rate I wouldn't be able to pay you back for a month."

MacHune chewed the end of his smelly brown cigar. "Sure you will. You're gonna be rolling in dough as soon as the merger goes through."

"What are you talking about?"

Truthful kicked him under the table, but MacHune ignored it. "Just wait until after the weddings."

"What's happening after the weddings?" Crash asked.

The question went unanswered as the doorbell rang. Gino got up a little too quickly to answer it. "There's a police officer at the door Mac, asking for you."

"Me? What the hell...?" MacHune took one look and said, "Somehow, I don't think she's a real cop." His grin was as wide as the door.

Tony leaned over and said, "Real bright guy, that Mac. I guess the lipstick and the red high heels gave it away."

Crash just laughed. "Oh my," he said. "Look at the way she's holding that nightstick."

* * * * *

Gino Starr said, "Well, Tom, you're a buyer now, how does it feel?"

Crash squirmed inside his tuxedo. Simply hearing the question made him anxious. "I'm not a buyer yet," he said as he sipped his champagne. "Mercedes said it would happen as soon as the merger was complete and she took the Baltimore division. It's a little scary, to tell you the truth."

"You'll do fine. Ramona says you'll make a great buyer, and Mercedes has all the confidence in the world in you."

"I'm glad she does."

"We all do Tom. You'll do a great job. Congratulations, you deserve it."

"Thank you, Mister Starr."

Changing the subject, "So, is this some wedding or what?" Gino asked.

"It's beautiful. Mercedes and Miss Lee both look stunning. Speaking of stunning, here comes Ramona."

"Would one of you handsome gentlemen like to dance?" she asked.

His eyes twinkling, "I never turn down a chance to dance with a beautiful woman," Gino said. "Tom, would you mind if I dance with your date?"

"Not at all," said Crash. "Knock yourself out, Mister Starr."

"You don't need to be so formal. After all, you did save my life once. Call me Gino."

"Okay... Gino. Call me Crash."

