Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  'You a revolver guy?' the skinny one asked.

  Christos shook his head. 'Rifle.'

  'Take you pick.'

  The skinny guy stood there, one latex-gloved hand on his hip, the other pointing as he rattled off his wares.

  'You prob'ly lookin' for a bolt gun. Basically, they customized Remington 700s. Civvie model. Some got night-vision scopes, got a couple mounted with lasers, this one here got a Leupold scope, what police marksmen use . . . . That one there got a Unertl 10X. Marine Corps like Unertls. Or, you want, we got semiautos.'

  Christos stared, bumfuzzled. His head was spinning. He was looking for a rifle, yeah. But shit! You needed to be a hard-core gun freak to figure out what most of this shit was for, and how to use it.

  'I don't wanna know your bidness,' the skinny guy went on. 'But you give me some idea what you re-quire, maybe I can fix you up with the right weapon. Then I won't try to sell you on this M-16, e-quipped with an HELH4A Sionics suppressor, and sniperscope with high-voltage VDC nickel cadmium battery pack for a power supply source. Know what I mean?'

  Christos swallowed. Actually, he didn't. This was all way over his head.

  So what he said was, 'I just wanna hit a target from, say, a hundred, hundred and fifty yards. I'm lookin' for somethin' accurate and simple. Easy to use. None of that high-tech shit.'

  'All right, now we communicating. This for daylight, nighttime, what?'

  Christos shrugged. 'I don't know yet. But I wanna keep it real simple.'

  'Then you want the Remington 700 with either the Leupold police marksman, or the Unertl 10X scope. I was you, I'd go for the 10X.'

  The skinny guy handed Christos a pair of latex gloves. 'This so you prints ain't all over my merchandise,' he added.

  While Christos snapped the gloves on, the guy reached into the van and took out a rifle.

  'This here the Remington 700. Simple scope. Easy focus. Accurate. Just load and pull the trigger—bam!'

  He tossed the rifle, butt down and muzzle up, over to Christos.

  Christos caught it neatly, hefted it, and turned away. Shouldered it and squinted through the scope. A little fiddling, and the far wall jumped into the magnified focus.

  'Is it traceable?'

  Behind the mask, the dark eyes with yellow-brown whites were steady. 'This my merchandise you talking about, man. Serial numbers, they gone.'

  Christos nodded, squinted through the scope some more. 'How much?'

  'Three grand.'

  He lowered the rifle and turned around. 'Ain't that a little steep?'

  'Maybe. But you looking at a sniper carbine. You paying premium for a clean weapon. You paying for no questions axed.'

  'What about a case? Somethin' to carry it around in?'

  'Don't come with no case. See, a gun case look like a gun case. What you do, you go find a pawnbroker, buy yourself a cello. Throw the fiddle away, save the case. Carry you carbine around in it, like you a musician.'

  Christos laid the carbine on the loading dock, then dug in his pocket for his bankroll. He peeled off thirty Ben Franklins.

  The big dude, the one who'd patted him down, took it, did a swift recount, and switched on a portable ultraviolet light. He passed each bill under it.

  'Can't be too careful,' the skinny guy said. 'There a lot of funny money around.'

  And in a friendlier voice, he added: 'You don't look like no deer hunter, so I'm going to give you some free advice. When you go for it, line up you target. Take you time. One shot, hit or miss, get outta there. Remember that. One shot.'

  'Money checks out,' the big guy said.

  Christos put his hands flat on top of the loading dock and hoisted himself up. 'Nice doin' business with you,' he said, picking up his purchase and starting toward the Tercel.

  'Yo! Bro!'

  Christos turned around and looked down. 'Yeah?'

  The skinny guy tossed several boxes up at him, one after another.

  They were heavy, but Christos caught them, piling them against his chest.

  'Ammo, man. Wit'out ammo, you fucked.'

  55

  Sunday dinner at Cascades was a time-honored ritual. Unless Hunt was out of town, and barring severe illness, Althea expected him and Gloria to show up—even if, as today, they arrived in separate cars.

  Hunt was driving a midnight blue Buick Park Avenue. Being a politician, a foreign car was anathema, and would have left him wide open to attack. Still, he often wondered how voters would react if they knew the other reason he drove a G.M. product: Althea's stock portfolio. It included some twelve million dollars worth of shares in General Motors.

  Approaching the Black Mountain-Hayne Road exit, Hunt left the freeway and headed north on Skyline Boulevard. Before long, he swung a right and stopped in front of the main gate with its majestic stone piers and carved stone lions.

  Cascades. The House, in which he'd spent the loneliest, most impressionable years of his life, his childhood.

  When he pulled up in front of the House, he couldn't tell if Gloria had arrived yet. As usual, the white gravel drive was empty of cars; the staff was swift to remove all offending vehicles from Althea's sight.

  The massive, carved front door opened as he reached the top of the sweeping stone steps. On the other side of the threshold stood a very tall, very slim, and very dignified man with silver hair. 'Welcome home, Mr. Winslow,' he intoned, stepping aside.

  'Hello, Withams. Is my mother still mistreating you?'

  The butler looked shocked. 'Of course not, sir! Mrs. Winslow never mistreats anyone! She is a lady.' He shut the door quietly. 'She asked me to convey that she shall be down shortly. The other guests are already in the salon.'

  'Other guests?' Hunt asked, arching an eyebrow in surprise.

  Traditionally, Sunday dinner was just the three of them—Althea, Gloria, and himself.

  'Yes, sir,' Withams said. 'The younger Mrs. Winslow is here, along with Governor Randle and Mr. Drucker.'

  'I see,' Hunt said impassively, crossing the vast reception hall.

  So Mother called out the big guns, he thought. Inwardly he had to smile. Sometimes Mother did know best. Especially when it came time to lay down the law.

  For who knew the law better than the big-time lawyer himself?

  Eli Drucker. Family friend. Confidant. And lawyer extraordinaire. He had attended to the family's legal affairs ever since Hunt could remember—and as the senior partner of Drucker, Mason, Stapleton, and Lovelace, P.C., San Francisco's most powerful and prestigious law firm, merely invoking his name was enough to make most people think twice.

  Hunt chuckled to himself. Poor Gloria, he thought. Then he tightened his lips. Poor Gloria indeed! If anyone could take care of herself, it was his wife . . . his soon-to-be ex-wife.

  He noticed her the moment he entered the salon. She was standing at one of the French doors, glass in one hand, cigarette in the other. Quick-puffing nervously and blowing smoke outdoors. She hadn't heard him come in.

  Neither had Governor Randle and Eli Drucker. The two men were seated side by side on matching giltwood fauteuils by the fire, heads together and tumblers in hand while they conversed in low tones.

  Hunt's arrival, however, did not go entirely unnoticed. Two of Althea's Pekingese had been curled on the canapé opposite the men. In unison, the dogs lifted their heads, sniffed the air suspiciously, and emitted soft growls. Then they leaped down and charged across the Savonnerie, yapping up a storm and nipping at his heels.

  The men looked up. 'Hunt, my boy!' the governor boomed heartily, getting heavily to his feet, his hand outstretched.

  'Governor,' Hunt acknowledged, shaking the big man's hand. Then he turned to the attorney. 'Mr. Drucker,' he said politely.

  'Hunt.' Eli Drucker's handshake was firm but dry. 'It's good to see you again.'

  Behind Hunt, Withams cleared his throat. 'May I get you a drink, Mr. Winslow?'

  Hunt turned around. 'Please, Withams. A splash of scotch. Lots of ice.'

 
The three of them sat down, the governor and the attorney in their giltwood chairs, Hunt on the canapé the dogs had vacated.

  'Tell me something, Governor,' Hunt said. 'Did Mother invite you tonight to do some political arm twisting?'

  The governor was genuinely taken aback. 'Not at all! And what's with this 'governor' crap, anyway?' Randle harrumphed. 'You don't have to be so goddamn formal, Hunt. As you well know, I have a first name. My acquaintances call me Quentin. As for my friends, they call me Q.'

  Hunt met his eyes. 'Are we friends?' he asked quietly.

  Randle burst into rich peals of hearty laughter. 'We better be, son. We can't afford to be enemies. Especially seeing as we're—'

  'As we're what?' Althea asked brightly from the doorway.

  The men all turned toward her and rose to their feet. Even Gloria flipped her cigarette out the open French door and quickly came forward.

  Althea crossed the carpet briskly toward them. Everything about her was picture perfect, from her lacquered, artfully coiffed hair to her pale nail polish and black patent leather pumps. She was wearing a vermilion suit with large black buttons and a black, cowl-necked silk blouse with white polka dots. Her shapely legs were sheathed in minuscule-patterned black stockings and she had on simple gold earrings, a tiny gold watch, and a gold-link bracelet. Plus a twenty-carat pear-shaped diamond on her hand that Hunt hadn't seen before.

  Violetta, her favorite Pekingese, padded regally beside her, glancing up from time to time with slavish devotion. The other two dogs wriggled happily toward their mistress, hindquarters pendulous, silken tails wagging-

  Althea greeted the governor first. 'Q,' she said, placing her hands on his shoulders and turning her cheek to be kissed.

  'Althea. As always, you're a vision for sore eyes.'

  'Flatterer!' she accused lightly, and focused her attention on the thin old attorney.

  'Eli. Thank you so much for coming. Especially on such short notice.'

  He kissed her cheek also. 'Wild dogs couldn't have kept me away,' the veteran jurist said, with a glance down at the three Pekingese. 'Not even yours.'

  'These pussycats!' Althea laughed. 'I should hope not!'

  She moved on to her son. 'Hunt, darling.' She took both his hands in hers and smiled and waited for his kiss.

  'Hello, Mother,' he said softy.

  And finally it was Gloria's turn. For a moment the two women stared at one another in a silent battle of wills.

  Gloria cracked first. 'Mother Winslow,' she managed truculently.

  Althea proffered her cheek, and when no kiss was forthcoming, she raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. 'What? No kiss?'

  Gloria swallowed a rush of bile. How like Althea! she thought murderously. Trust her to make me feel small and petty in front of company!

  She took a deep breath and girded her loins. Then gave her mother- in-law's proffered cheek a grudging, contactless kiss.

  'Well, I suppose that's better than nothing,' Althea said crisply, then turned and smiled brilliantly at the men. 'Shall we sit?'

  She hooked an arm through Quentin Randle's and led him to the plump goose down-cushioned sofa directly facing the fire. Instead of sitting on the canapé with Hunt, Gloria opted for the giltwood chair beside Eli Drucker, where the governor had previously sat.

  Althea picked up a little silver bell from the coffee table and tinkled it.

  'Yes, madam?' Withams intoned.

  'Be so good as to bring in the champagne, Withams, would you please?'

  'Right away, madam.'

  'Champagne?' Hunt looked questioningly at his mother. 'What are we celebrating? Did I miss somebody's birthday?'

  'Not at all, darling,' his mother assured him, and smiled.

  Withams returned, a starched white linen napkin folded neatly across one arm. He was carrying a large silver tray with handles, which he deposited carefully on the coffee table.

  The tray held a masterpiece of the silversmith's art: a George III wine cooler shaped like an urn. It was exuberantly baroque, and embellished with intricate, interlaced silver grapevines, bunches of silver grapes, and a ram's head at each end. It contained a bottle of chilled Dom Perignon nestled in a bed of crushed ice. There were also five magnificent champagne glasses, opulently long-stemmed and of paper-thin etched crystal.

  Althea smiled at the questions in Hunt's, Eli's, and Gloria's eyes, but made them wait as Withams took the bottle, wrapped the napkin around it, and expertly, quietly, popped the cork. One by one, he filled the glasses and handed them round, the first to Althea, the second to Gloria, and the third to the governor. Eli Drucker and Hunt were last.

  Once everyone was holding a glass Althea took one of the governor's hands in hers. 'Governor Randle and I have an announcement to make,' she said, her voice as clear as a bell. 'He has decided not to seek another term in office.'

  'Hopefully not on my account,' Hunt said. 'I have no intention of running for governor.'

  'No, darling,' Althea assured him, 'it's not on your account. It's on mine.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'You will, in a moment,' his mother said, her beautiful face surveying her audience like an arum lily turning toward the sun. 'The diamond you see on my finger is an engagement ring. Governor Randle and I . . . '

  She paused and began again. 'That is to say, Q and I . . . have decided to get married.'

  Reactions are strange things. Eli Drucker blinked like an owl, momentarily at a loss for words. Hunt cocked one quizzical eyebrow, then raised his glass in a silent salute. And Gloria, stunned and shell-shocked, felt her fingers tightening on the champagne glass, tightening, tightening, until—

  Snap!

  —the delicate stem broke in half, champagne leaping out of the falling top half in Dali-esque slow motion. Then her fingers loosened and the bottom half of the glass fell to the carpet as well.

  'Oh, damn!' she whispered.

  She stared, wide-eyed, at the blood welling up on her hand.

  'Withams?' Althea called out.

  'Yes, madam?'

  Althea's voice was calm. 'I believe the younger Mrs. Winslow's glass was defective. Would you be so kind as to see to her hand and then bring her another glass?'

  'Of course, madam.'

  But Gloria jumped to her feet, holding her injured hand by the wrist. 'No!' She shook her head vehemently. 'I—I'm leaving. I've got to go—'

  She began to run from the room.

  'Gloria!' Althea's raised voice stopped Gloria in her tracks.

  Slowly Gloria turned around.

  'This is a family celebration,' Althea said mildly. 'Granted, Hunt is filing for a divorce. But until then, you are still a member of this family. Now you can stop your histrionics, because you will stay for dinner and coffee. There are some important matters we must discuss.'

  Gloria stared at her.

  'Come, Mrs. Winslow,' Withams told Gloria gently. He started to lead her from the room. 'I'll see to your hand. It looks far worse than it is. Cuts always do. Shouldn't take more than a Band-Aid.'

  'A toast,' Hunt proposed. 'To the future Governor and Mrs. Randle!'

  'Hear, hear,' Eli Drucker added.

  They sipped their champagne.

  Gloria had no appetite. She picked desultorily at her food, pretending to eat.

  Not that the dinner wasn't delicious. Althea's chef had outdone himself with a marinated rack of spring lamb with rosemary sauce, lemon- thyme potato pie, and tiny baby eggplants stuffed with wild mushrooms. All accompanied by a Chateau Cheval Blanc 1947, a never-ending series of toasts, and plans for the future.

  To Gloria, it was one interminable blur, a tedious bore she endured solely by going heavy on the wine and tuning everyone out. She kept sneaking furtive glances at her wristwatch, but time had slowed to a snail's pace.

  She couldn't wait to split.

  After Withams had attended to her cuts, which proved to be minor, she'd gone to the powder room to use the telephone.

  Fortunately
Christos was at home.

  'I can't talk right now,' Gloria whispered in a rush, her voice edged with hysteria. 'We have a major problem—'

  'Okay, calm down,' Christos told her. 'Keep your cool. We'll meet at the usual place. I'll be there. Okay?'

  'I . . . I don't know when I'll be able to get away.'

  'That's cool. I'll wait for you.'

  Christos's levelheaded composure made her feel a little better. But not for long. As dinner dragged on, Gloria's mind grappled with the latest setback.

  With Althea's plans to marry Governor Randle, Althea had, in effect, thrown yet another spanner into Gloria and Christos's best-laid plans. For even if Hunt was out of the way, and Gloria played the grieving widow, there would be Governor Randle to contend with. He had become yet one more obstacle standing between her and the Winslow billions.

  So . . . Quentin Randle would have to be dealt with, too. And soon.

  Christos can do it, Gloria told herself. He'll make sure the wedding never takes place.

  And then it hit her.

  Of course! Why even worry about the governor? If Hunt and Althea are both out of the picture, the Winslow fortune automatically becomes mine.

  Yes. Hunt and Althea. Somehow Christos had to get rid of them both.

  'Gloria? Gloria.'

  Althea's voice jerked her out of her thoughts. Blinking, she looked blankly across the table. Her mother-in-law had risen to her feet.

  'Well?' Althea said. 'We're repairing to the library for coffee and brandy. Aren't you coming?'

  Gloria nodded. She pushed back her chair and got up. She waited for the others to leave, then fell into step behind them. Althea, Governor Randle, and Violetta led the way down a long gallery. They were followed by Hunt and Eli Drucker.

  Gloria felt like the caboose. A red caboose, flushed as she was from the potent mixture of wine, anger, anxiety, and misery. She couldn't understand why Althea had insisted she attend this . . . this farce.

  It's obvious I'm no longer considered part of the family. So why put me through this torture?

  Into the library they trooped. It was Cascades' concession to a gentleman's redoubt, a huge two-story double cube of a room. Three entire walls were built-in bookcases, and two sets of mahogany spiral stairs curled up to a balustraded gallery. The shelves and paneling were also mahogany, so that the overall effect was that of being inside a giant wooden box, the shelves gleaming with books bound in gilt-stamped Morocco.