Dorothy-Anne continued. 'By that, I mean everyone.' She rolled the word on her tongue. 'If anyone has appointments—too bad. They'll have to cancel or reschedule them. And I don't care if they're expected at the White House. You may quote me on that!'
'Oh . . . kaaaaay,' Cecilia said.
'The only acceptable excuses are being out sick, or being away on a business trip. In either of those instances, the next senior-most executive shall take his superior's place. Also, everyone is to bring their floppy disks, and all their latest reports and sets of figures. Passports won't be necessary; we'll stop at Dallas/Fort Worth so they can get off. Oh. Arrange to have one of our Gulfstreams waiting there to fly them back, will you?'
'Got it.'
Now that she had determined a course of action, Dorothy-Anne turned toward the windows and looked out at the snow blowing in spectral whirlwinds. Gusts of wind battered the panes of glass, shook the branches of skeletal trees half obscured by the milky wall of flurries.
She felt the dead weight of responsibility press heavily on her shoulders. She had no wish to fly through snow, absolutely no desire to be reminded so vividly of Freddie's accident. But she had no choice. Duty required it.
Now if only the airport isn't shut down . . .
Turning back around, she said: 'Besides Derek and Venetia here, who'll represent their respective departments, I want Bernie Appledorf and Arne Mankoff along.' The comptroller and house attorney, respectively.
Cecilia made swift shorthand notes. 'Anybody else?'
'Let me see . . . Heather Solis from Vacation Villages, Paul Weekley from the Hale Line, Mark Levy from Service Industries . . . '
Dorothy-Anne resumed pacing, but slowly, tapping her lips thoughtfully with a forefinger.
'Kevin Armour from Real Estate . . . Lana Valentine from Time Shares . . . Truman Weaver from FLASH . . . Owen Beard from Sky Hi Catering . . . Kurt Ackerman from Special Projects, and Yoshi Yamada from Investments. Oh, and Wilson Cattani from the Hotel and Motel Management School. Got that?'
'Yep.' Cecilia glanced at her. 'Which plane are you planning to take?'
Dorothy-Anne stopped strolling, her unlined oval face taking on an expression of wry humor. 'The one,' she said dryly, 'certain office wags have taken to calling 'Hale One.' '
Cecilia looked surprised. 'You do keep an ear to the ground, don't you?'
'Obviously not close enough,' Dorothy-Anne said, 'which is why I'm calling this meeting. Now, get on the horn. Have the plane prepared for takeoff. And make sure every division is represented.'
She glanced at her watch.
'We'll be taking off in exactly an hour and a half. Make it clear that anyone who doesn't get their keister onboard can start perusing the want ads. Do I make myself clear?'
The way Cecilia hurried out was answer enough.
'One more thing,' Dorothy-Anne said.
Cecilia turned around, her hand on the door knob. 'Yes, boss?'
'I want a copy of every division's printout covering the last twenty- four hours. That's in hand. Before we leave.'
'You got it.' Cecilia hurried out.
Venetia nudged Derek with an elbow. 'Hey, kemo sabe. We'd better get a move on, too,' she said. 'Unless we want to miss the flight.'
They headed to the door.
'Derek,' Dorothy-Anne called out.
He stayed behind. 'Yes?'
Dorothy-Anne moved back to the windows, staring out at the swirling snow.
'Anything new on Pan Pacific?' she asked. 'Who owns them? What their assets are? Anything?'
He shook his head. 'Not yet,' he sighed. 'Private banks are a bitch. And private foreign banks are the worst. I'm still trying.'
She continued to stare out at the snow. 'Try harder,' she said.
A lot harder, she thought.
31
Few cities are as defined by their geographical parameters as San Francisco. Occupying the very tip of a peninsula, and surrounded by water on three sides, the city is locked in place, unable to expand beyond its limits.
It is only natural in such a situation that real estate is at a premium, and priced accordingly. It is also only natural that since its inhabitants prize single-family dwellings, every precious square inch of property counts.
The result is a city of plunging hills with sugar cubes adhering to every steep surface.
Nowhere is this more prevalent than on Russian Hill. Here, the nearly vertical streets of a Wayne Thiebaut painting are lined with apartment blocks, but between them, alleys and stairs cut to a hodgepodge of picturesque private houses in back. Reachable only by a network of single-file walkways and steps, such is this rabbit warren of exquisite dwellings that, often as not, one must pass several properties before reaching one's destination.
Invariably, the miniature gardens are terraced and well tended, the roofs below falling away to provide an unimpeded panorama beginning with the cinnabar swags of the Golden Gate Bridge and Mount Tamalpais to the left, then on past the rocky whale's hump of Alcatraz, all the way to the great curve of the Bay Bridge and mountainous Berkeley in the distant haze beyond.
Amber—whose suspicions that Christos was holding out on her had led her to tail him here—felt like a fish out of water as she tried to make herself inconspicuous, not the easiest task in an intimate neighborhood where houses are jammed, with seeming haphazardness, side by side and virtually one on top of the other.
There were no recesses she could melt into, no shadows where loitering would go unnoticed. The windows all around made her feel exposed, as if the entire neighborhood was on alert, watching her every move.
Remaining near the bottom of the steps, she'd peered over the top riser. Watched while Christos, whistling a tune and tossing and catching a bunch of keys, made his way jauntily to the fourth house over. A creamy, freshly painted two-story cottage with drawn window shades and an upper deck jutting, like a porch, out over the little front garden.
She waited until he disappeared underneath it.
Quick.
Thankful for her rubber-soled Nikes, she took the stairs two at a time and darted forward along the white gravel path—just in time to see Christos letting himself in. With his own key!
Amber's sallow-complexioned face froze, her mouth gasping at the treachery. Well, well, well, she thought darkly. What do you know . . .
Yet another bit of information he'd been withholding.
'Same old hag, same sleazy hotel.' His exact words when she'd asked, earlier, where he was headed.
Sleazy hotel indeed! What a prick!
Tears threatened as she slowly retreated, wondering what other deceits lay in store. Well, she'd find out soon enough. She wasn't quite as dumb and helpless as Christos liked to believe.
Meanwhile, she had more immediate concerns. Specifically, how to conduct her surveillance in such an open space. Lighting a cigarette, she glanced around. Except downhill, everywhere she looked there were windows and more windows. Windows up above. Windows on both sides. No doubt windows with curious eyes trained down on her.
And she out here in the open . . .
She shuddered at her vulnerability. She couldn't remember when she'd felt so uncomfortable—or so aware of not fitting in. This was a neighborhood where sprayed-on jeans, red tube top, and a Levi's jacket were not the clothes of choice. She tossed her head, whipping around her waist-length black hair, retreating farther from the cottage. She quick- puffed on her cigarette, eyes darting—searching.
Where to position herself. . . where?
Snap! The unmistakable sound of a closing door.
With a start, Amber peered over the shoulder-high retaining wall of the garden next door to the cottage. A bougainvillea-smothered jewel box of a house: small tiled patio with wrought-iron outdoor furniture, junipers in big terra-cotta planters. And a briefcase-toting female executive type, consulting her wristwatch and cursing in aggravation. Obviously late for an appointment.
Amber felt her heartbeat quicken. She must move
on. Now, before she aroused suspicion.
Nevertheless, she was fascinated by the fastidiousness of the woman. The way she carefully locked her front door, tested it, then zipped her keys in her purse while click-clacking across the patio and down several stone steps to the walkway.
Too late.
Face-to-face meeting for the woman and Amber.
'Oh!' Halting abruptly on the last step, the woman looked down at her, a frown of distaste registering disapproval of Amber's outfit. 'Are you from around here?'
At a loss, Amber pointed shyly at the cottage next door.
'Oh. One of those neighbors.'
The woman sighed, then made a face as Amber drew nervously on her cigarette.
'If you must smoke,' she sniffed primly, 'kindly don't litter. Around here, we don't appreciate cigarette butts.'
Smiling pallidly, Amber nodded and turned and pretended to mosey toward the cottage. Now if only Christos isn't looking out a window . . .
Hearing the crunch of gravel, she glanced back over her shoulder. Saw the woman hurry along the path, then heard the click-clack of heels as she descended the flight of steps down to the shadowy alley and the street beyond.
Gone.
Amber leaned back against the retaining wall, soughed a deep breath of relief, and continued to scan her environs.
Where to hide, where to hide . . .
And then it hit her. Of course! What better place was there? And best of all, any busybodies watching from their windows would have seen her and the woman talking! Would have assumed them to be on friendly terms . . .
Quickly now, Amber retraced her steps and climbed the stone stairs to the woman's house. On the tiled patio, a furled sun umbrella protruded from the middle of a round glass table.
She eyed it appraisingly. If she raised the umbrella, tilted it at just the right angle, she would be shielded from the cottage but able to keep it under surveillance.
Perfect.
In a jiffy, she cranked it open and had it tilted, then sat down and chain-smoked. Felt a perverse sense of satisfaction in dropping ashes on the spotless tiles. Ditto her cigarette, which she ground out under her heel.
The bitch with the briefcase would throw a fit.
Big fucking deal. Amber had no intention of sticking around that long.
As she waited, she suddenly became aware of the view. It had been there all along, of course, but it hadn't made any impression on her. Until, sneaking up on her like bits and pieces of an unfinished jigsaw puzzle, it now exploded in front of her in all its breathtaking, completed glory.
People really live like this.
The thought burst inside her mind like a revelation.
It's like something out of a dream or a movie, only it's for real.
It's how I want to live!
The last thought stunned her, all the more, since she'd never seriously contemplated such a thing—at least not as a real possibility.
But such was the inspiring nature of the view that, at this moment at least, nothing seemed truly impossible.
It was that incredible, this sun-drenched panorama with the roofs and gardens dropping away from one terraced level to the next, a whole different galaxy from the grimy streets, garish strip joints, Greyhound stations, and flophouses of her own—could it be?—was it really true?— yes—it was time to admit it—her squalid little existence!
Funny; she'd never considered it squalid. But that was before she'd had something to hold up and compare it with. Now the contrast was obvious, would always be so.
She watched bees buzzing indolently; a hummingbird as it hovered within arm's reach before darting off. Overhead, crying gulls wheeled in the sunny skies. She could feel the universe broadening, expanding, stretching elastically—only to snap back as the sharp click-clack of a woman's heels pierced her consciousness.
Holy shit! The bitch! Amber thought. She's back! Scrambling to her feet, she glanced around, desperately searching for a hiding place—
Not the bitch.
Amber's relief was like a physical pain. Slowly, stiffly, she lowered herself numbly back down into her chair.
The woman who passed by was strikingly beautiful, with prominent cheekbones and shoulder-length, mink-colored hair. She was high-fashion thin and wore well-applied makeup, an expensive turquoise coat, matching high heels, and carried a turquoise lizard purse. Gold and diamonds shone on wrist, ears, and fingers, and she seemed to move inside an invisible cloud of fragrance.
Amber's immediate thought was: So that's what's meant by 'smelling expensive.'
Sitting forward, she lifted aside the fringes of the umbrella and watched the woman pause, slide a loose stone out of the wall, and fish out a set of keys. Then, replacing the stone, the woman disappeared under the jutting deck of the cottage next door.
Next door—
The realization of who this woman was lancinated Amber's heart.
'Same old hag': Christos's words.
Amber felt suddenly deprived of oxygen, as if the air itself had mysteriously evaporated. She began to hyperventilate, took great heaving gulps of breaths that refused to fill her lungs. Her breasts, held captive within the red stretch tube top, rose and fell with a convulsive shudder. Equal proportions of pain and fury narrowed her world, condensed it to agony.
She flinched as she heard the cottage door open, the familiar voice saying: 'Heyyyyy!' She jerked and doubled over, as though fatally wounded by the verbal knife thrust. 'Babe, you're late . . . . Jeez, hon, you had me kinda worried—'
'You? Worried? Oh, darling!' Laughter rippled from next door, cut off by an obvious kiss.
Darling . . . ?
Tears blurred Amber's vision as she gasped asthmatically. No, she cried silently to herself. No, no, no, no, no!
Sleazy hotel . . . old hag. . . babe . . . hon . . . Her hands gripped the arms of the chair. Lying bastard! Some hag!
The cottage door slammed shut. Amber could no longer contain her anguish. It filled her like an insidious poison gas. Racked by soundless sobs, she rested her arms on the table and buried her face in rough denim sleeves. That her weeping was silent did not lessen its potency.
Deceived.
The pain burned ulcerously.
Sleazy hotel . . . old hag.
Lies! All lies!
How many more untruths were there, just waiting to be discovered? How much else had he purposely withheld? Was he perhaps plotting this very instant, intent on keeping it a secret?
'We're a pair, babe. A dynamic duo.'
How often had he repeated those words, when what he intended all along was a solo act?
Christ, but he must think her a twit! A real pushover.
Is that all I am? A doormat?
She shuddered in quaking spasms, as if the fault-lined earth itself were undergoing a tectonic upheaval. And in the midst of it all, she could picture what was going on next door. Tearing off each other's clothes, grappling nakedly—!
She felt a stifling wave of nausea, followed by a blinding rage that threatened to consume her.
Christ, they were doing it right now—and next door, yet! And when payday rolled around, Christos wasn't going to divvy up fifty-fifty as they'd agreed.
No, sirree, Bob. He was planning to split, cutting Amber out completely.
It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out.
Christos. He was a shit, all right.
A true shit of the highest order!
When Amber's tears were finally spent, she still continued to sob, and when her sobs at last subsided, and her hyperventilating ceased, she raised her head. Her eyes looked bruised, red, hurt; her face was puffy and splotched, and her tear-blurred vision reduced everything to a watery, blue-and-white smear.
Christos.
Amber's face hardened and she flicked a hand through her long hair, looping its silken blackness carelessly behind her ears.
Just thinking about him was enough to get up her dander.
Well, she was throug
h with him. Suckering a mark was one thing. But when the mark turns out to be a knockout zillionnairess, and the con tries to con his fellow con and partner, then—Amber's eyes narrowed into slits—it's good-bye, Charlie!
She fished a crooked cigarette out of the squashed pack and lit it with trembling fingers. Drew the acrid smoke deep into her lungs and watched it drift off in the breeze when she exhaled.
Puffing rapidly, she contemplated how she should proceed.
Go next door and barge in on them? Maybe expose Christos for the fraud he was? Or wait and confront him alone?
Or, better still . . .
Hmmmmm.
Should she play it cool? Pretend she didn't suspect a thing, but tail him some more? See what else she might discover?
She smiled bitterly.
Yes, why not keep her lips zipped and her eyes open? Following him wouldn't be difficult, especially since he was convinced she was lacking in the brains department. Besides, chances were he already had a bundle of cash stashed somewhere.
In that case, it only behooved her to spy on him for a while. Then, as long as she played her cards right, she'd be able to get him to hand over her share.
Her fair share.
Bending forward, she moved aside the fringes of the umbrella and looked at the cottage. 'You want to play dirty pool?' she whispered in its direction. 'Well, two can play this game!'
Letting the fringes fall back in place, she wondered whether she should stick around a while longer. Wait for Christos to appear, then follow him to . . . wherever.
No, she decided. She'd learned quite enough for one day. She really couldn't stomach much more treachery right now.
Much as she hated to, it was time to leave this heavenly spot and head back to their rat trap in the Tenderloin. Maybe pretend she'd stayed in the entire time.
Whatever. She'd see what transpired and play it accordingly.
But before she left, Amber did something entirely alien to her. She got down on all fours and collected her mashed cigarette butts, used her cuff to wipe away the telltale lengths of ash and shredded bits of tobacco.
After all, she told herself, what's the use of having something nice if you don't take care of it?
Second Love Page 30