by Nic Saint
“Not really, Dad,” said Ricky.
“You pick something, then,” he snarled, shooting his son a nasty look. “You’re supposed to be the writer, Ricky. Why don’t you, you know, write?”
“Yeah, Ricky,” Johnny chimed in. “Why don’t you come up with sumpin?”
Ricky shrugged. “Like I said, I’ll think about it,” he said, his voice dripping with obvious disdain for what they were trying to accomplish here.
Chazz shook his head and wandered over to his desk to take another bite from his butter-slathered piece of sweet bread. He held it up to his team. “This is good stuff. Almost as good as what your sweetheart bakes, Ricky.”
“Nothing can be as good as what Fee bakes,” said Ricky, for the first time showing signs of thawing.
And from the cries of assent of Johnny and Jerry, it was obvious they felt exactly the same way. And they were right, of course. Nothing could ever taste as good as what came out of Bell’s Bakery, but Brown’s was doing a pretty good job being second best. So when suddenly the door to his office swung open and his secretary Suzy Boom waltzed in, announcing the arrival of a messenger from Brown’s Better Bread Bakery, he chuckled.
“Surprise, surprise!” he yelled. “I’ve ordered some more goodies.”
And then he watched a young man of hideous aspect walk in, his face liberally laced with pimples and his hair looking like a dirty dishrag.
What was more, he recognized him as the knucklehead he met before.
Chapter 12
Skip had never seen the inside of Falcone Tower before. The place was pretty impressive. First he’d ridden the golden elevator to the top. It had whisked him up so fast he thought he’d left his insides on the floor of the cab. When the doors whizzed open he found himself in the most elaborately decorated lobby he ever set foot in. White marble walls, marble floors and what looked like a marble ceiling lit up by golden sconces. Ornate oak furniture and sumptuous carpets. And everywhere portrait paintings of his host: Chazz Falcone. To his surprise he recognized him as the horrid man he’d met a couple of hours before, outside Brown’s. No way! That was Chazz Falcone? The world’s richest man? The future leader of the free world?
And he was about to do an about-face and turn back when a stern-faced woman walked up to him and took him by the elbow. “This way, sir,” she said, leaving him no room for escape as she propelled him to a set of double doors behind which, he assumed, the ruler of this kingdom resided.
The moment he stepped through those doors, it was obvious Chazz recognized him as well, and judging by his opening statement he didn’t remember him with fondness. “What are you doing here, you louse?!”
“Um, delivery from Brown’s, sir,” he said, holding up the big brown bag, hoping the sight and smell of the bakery goodies would induce the tycoon to forgive and forget.
Now he understood why his father and grandfather always insisted he should never engage a customer in a war of words. You never knew who the next big thing in this town might be, or the next big thing in this country.
Chazz eyed the bag and the delivery boy malevolently, then finally told Johnny, “Fetch the bag, Johnny. Fetch. Fetch!”
The big guy waddled up to him, cradling a smallish dog.
“Oh, is that a Pomeranian?” he asked, well pleased. He loved dogs.
“Yeah, he is,” said Johnny, his face now wreathed in smiles.
He tickled the cute little doggie behind the ear, and only now noticed that the room was perfectly quiet, a pin-drop silence holding everyone in its grip, and when he looked up, he saw that Chazz’s eyes were narrowed as he watched him closely.
“Get your scrawny ass out of here, you insolent young punk,” Chazz growled. “And leave the bag!” he added when Skip started making his way from the room.
He handed the bag to Johnny, who gave him a commiserating half-smile, and made his way to the exit, knowing he’d just blown his father’s dream of becoming the official supplier of bakery goods to the White House.
“Wait!” Chazz’s voice thundered just as he reached the door.
He waited.
“What was all that schmoozing with my dog for?”
He turned. “Oh, I love dogs, Mr. Falcone.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. I just do.”
Chazz frowned some more, relocating his cigar from the left corner of his mouth to the right corner and back again, keeping it in circulation. “You look like an arrogant young chucklehead, son.”
“Um, thanks, I guess?”
“So tell me. What slogan would you use for my presidential campaign?”
He thought for a moment, then said, “Best. President. Ever!”
Chazz stared at him for a moment, as did the others present in the room, and then finally burst into raucous laughter. “I love it!” he cried, clapping his hands. “It’s catchy, it’s memorable, it’s snappy. I love it!” He pointed a sausage finger at him. “You’re hired!” he announced.
“Huh? What?” he asked, his many pimples paling beneath his tan.
“Consider yourself my personal speech writer from now on!” Chazz cried. “And you can start by writing my presidential announcement speech. This time tomorrow I’m going to descend the steps of Falcone Tower into the lobby and announce my bid for the presidency. I need a great speech and you’re gonna write it!”
“But, Dad,” cried a young man who was also present. “I’m supposed to be your speechwriter, remember?”
“You’re fired!” cried Chazz without missing a beat. “You couldn’t even come up with a decent slogan! Consider yourself relieved of your duties.”
Ricky, shaking his head, stormed to the exit, and as he passed Skip, he grumbled, “Good luck, kid. You’re gonna need it.”
And that’s how Skip Brown, the latest scion of a long line of bakers, found himself at the heart of America’s most unlikely presidential campaign.
Johnny clapped him on the back and told him, “Congratulations, buddy! We’re gonna make a great team!”
A rat-faced man shook his hand vigorously, giving him a rather dark glare. “Welcome aboard, Skip. Hope you can deliver the goods. If not…” He made a slicing gesture with his index finger across his throat, which told Skip that he wasn’t in Brooklyn anymore.
He didn’t care. He’d never much liked baking anyway, which probably explained why after all these years he was still relegated to manning the batter mixer and hadn’t progressed to the actual baking yet, unlike his many cousins, who were all in higher positions than he was. The family bakery, he was starting to suspect, would never pass into his hands, so maybe this offer was a gift from heaven. At the very least it was something different, and different, he knew from experience, was usually pretty damn good.
Chapter 13
I stared up at Falcone Tower. It was one of those big monstrosities that dominated downtown Manhattan, and made up that world-famous skyline. Like most people, I’d only ever set foot in the lobby, which was, of course, also world-famous among tourists.
“So how do we make this sucker disappear?” asked Ernestine now, and I had to admit I had no clue.
We’d arrived with the metro from Brooklyn, and had decided on the way over here that making Falcone Tower disappear would be our first claim to witchy fame. Making the Brooklyn Bridge fly was great, and lighting up the Empire State Building was a nice crowd pleaser, but making this huge monstrosity disappear would really put our names on the map. Plus, it would rid this fair city of one of its more hideous architectural felonies.
“I wonder what Sam will think,” said Estrella, voicing a thought that had been going through my mind as well.
What would Sam think when the three young women he thought he knew so well turned out to be three young witches? Would he still be willing to advise us on our new bodyguarding venture? Would our new bodyguarding venture even be viable after this very public act of witchcraft?
I actually thought it would. It would launch our new business
with a bang. After this, we would be bodyguards to the stars, I knew. Who didn’t want a witch to guard their bodies? We’d be the most famous bodyguards in the history of bodyguarding! Bodyguard celebrities overnight!
“You know, if we do this we can’t go back. You guys know that, right?” asked Ernestine.
“Of course I know that,” I said. Though I figured we might be able to erase this feat if things went wrong, why would we? “That’s the whole point. We do this and then our new lives will finally start. We’ll be up and running!”
“I don’t know, you guys,” said Estrella, also displaying a sudden case of cold feet. “Remember Gran telling us this was a bad idea? A very bad idea?”
“Gran is overprotective,” I said. “She’s trying to keep us safe but what she doesn’t realize is that we’re not her little girls anymore. We’re grownups now, and it’s time to make our mark. To be who we were always meant to be.”
Big words, I know, but then it was obvious that my sisters needed a little pep talk. Though to be honest I was actually feeling just as nervous as they were. Ours had always been a sheltered life, safely tucked away in Safflower House. Always careful to hide our light under a bushel. But this was the twenty-first century. They didn’t burn witches at the stake anymore, and in this day and age of twerking pop stars and batshit crazy reality stars and pop singers, I wasn’t even sure our stunt would register as more than a tiny blip on the media circus. What it would do would be to attract the attention of every warlock in the city, which is exactly what we wanted.
“I thought the whole point of your bodyguarding venture was to stay anonymous?” Ernestine asked, adding another kernel of doubt to the heap.
“Oh, so now it’s my bodyguarding business? I thought it was our bodyguarding business.”
“Well, it was your idea, Edie,” Estrella pointed out.
“Look, you guys, we’ll still be bodyguards, only now we will be famous bodyguards. Which will provide us with even more business than before.”
“You mean like Kim Kardashian’s bodyguard?” asked Estrella, her face lighting up. “He’s got his own Instagram and posts pictures all the time!”
Estrella was a big fan of the reality star, and liked to bewitch her own outfits so they resembled Kim’s to the last detail. “Exactly like him,” I said, nodding. “We’ll be famous bodyguards so we’ll be able to work for anyone we want.”
“We’ll be able to pick and choose,” marveled Estrella.
“But what’s the point?” cried Ernestine.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“We’re about to unleash every warlock in the city upon us, you guys!” she stressed, pointing up at Falcone Tower. “We don’t need to be bodyguards anymore! We’ll have our pick of warlocks to go to bat with!”
“Look, we’re still going to need a job,” I pointed out. “We need to provide for ourselves. Make money so we can live. Being bodyguards will be our day job, fighting warlocks what we do by night.” Or something along those lines. I have to admit that my mind was a little hazy. It’s hard to map out your future when you have absolutely no idea what you’re doing! I just knew that Mom and Dad wanted us to make Falcone Tower disappear! Right?
“Let’s stop talking and start witching,” Estrella suggested, raising her hands.
“I have no idea why we’re doing this,” said Ernestine, shaking her head, but she also held up her hands.
“Time we razed this ugly thing to the ground!” Strel cried.
After sharing a look, we directed our attention to the giant building, and shouted the spell we’d picked for this momentous occasion.
“Disapparato!” we all cried simultaneously.
Chapter 14
Rick Dawson walked out of Falcone Tower, his head down and muttering strange oaths under his breath. He hadn’t wanted to work for his father in the first place, so why was he so upset to be fired from his post? Well, obviously because it’s never much fun to get kicked out, he thought. It makes your self-confidence take a serious hit, even though secretly he was glad that he no longer had to work for that lunatic. He loved his father dearly, of course, that was a given, but he’d never been blind to the fact that Chazz Falcone was a megalomaniacal crooked businessman with Napoleonic tendencies and a volcanic temper. Don Corleone, had he been a real person and not a figment of Mario Puzo’s imagination, would have shaken Don Falcone’s hand with extreme relish, making him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
For Rick, a true-blue investigative reporter, joining his father’s campaign had been like selling his soul to the devil, the entire experience gut-wrenching and conscience-testing. He’d wanted to help out his dad’s ill-fated and flailing campaign, knowing he didn’t stand a chance in hell of convincing more than a small percentage of the population of his merits. But things had changed.
Chazz had the wind in his sails, and now had a more than decent chance of making it all the way to election day and riding a sudden wave of popularity straight into the White House. Even though he was going it alone, without the support of either the Democratic or Republican Party, there was every indication he’d struck a chord with the electorate.
The American people, apparently, were fed up with professional politicians making a mess of things in Washington, and wanted to see a political virgin in the White House. Someone who might do things a little or a whole lot differently. It was safe to say that at this juncture they would have voted any clown into office, just to give the establishment a big fat middle finger, and Chazz Falcone was just the right clown at the right time.
It had turned his campaign from the laughing stock of the pundits, the only ones who were familiar with his antics, to a national phenomenon, and Rick had suddenly found himself in the awkward position that he had to aid and abet a morally corrupt candidate while his heart desperately yearned to write the most scathing and critical articles about him in his newspaper.
Now, freed from that yoke, he decided he would simply go back to being his father’s worst critic, and write a long exposé ‘from the inside of the campaign.’ The prospect lifted his mood, and he now strode from the building with a spring in his step as he started spitballing ideas for a series of articles.
And that’s when he saw them. Three women, one red-haired, one dark-haired, one blond-haired, standing in front of Falcone Tower, waving their hands in the air, shouting something, their eyes fixed on a spot on the tower.
His first thought was that they were FEMEN, but since they weren’t naked that wasn’t possible, unless they’d changed their modus operandi.
And then he saw that sparkles flew from their fingers as they conjured up something in the air, and a very uncomfortable feeling stole over him.
He’d witnessed his share of strange phenomena ever since his future wife Felicity Bell had gotten involved with a team of so-called ghost hunters. He hadn’t believed in ghosts or any other paranormal nonsense up to that point, but after seeing his first ghost, and joining these ghost hunters, he’d had a change of heart and now knew that there were strange things under the sun.
So he watched the sparks fly with astonishment, and automatically took out his smartphone and pressed the record button on his camera. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t good! And as he followed their gazes, he saw they were focusing on one of the upper floors of the tall structure, and as he pointed his camera at the same spot, he saw the building… was disappearing!
“Hey!” he cried out, turning on the three women. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”
He was pretty sure this was some kind of protest against the presidential hopeful, and even though these women weren’t naked, he was pretty sure it was some kind of European thing. They were always doing stunts like this.
The three women now turned to him, their eyes dark and menacing, and he gulped a little when he saw that they were raising their hands and those same sparkles that had made Falcone Tower disappear were now being directed against him!
“Our very
first warlock, you guys!” the red-haired one shouted.
“Tavish was right! They’re crawling out of the woodwork already!” said the blond one.
“And he looks really nasty!” added the dark-haired one. “Let’s vanquish him once and for all!”
“Hey! I’m not a warlock!” he protested. “I’m a reporter!”
“Same difference!” shouted the red-haired one, and now he was starting to feel really hot under his collar, as if someone had dumped him in a large pot of boiling water and was rapidly turning up the heat.
“Let’s turn him into a green stain on the pavement!” yelled the blond one.
People all around had gathered, taking in the curious scene. Whether they were more surprised by the three women trying to ‘vanquish’ him or by the sight of the missing giant building, he didn’t know. Fact was that they’d all taken out their cellphones and were busily recording everything.
Moments passed, and even though he was sweating bullets, nothing of significance seemed to happen. Finally, the three women lowered their arms and stared at him. They were panting a little, as if trying to turn him into a green spot had cost them a lot of effort.
“He’s not gone,” said the blond one.
“No, he must be one powerful warlock,” commented the redhead.
“Try again?” asked the dark-haired one.
“Look, I told you, I’m not a warlock!” he cried. “I’m just a regular guy!”
“Are you sure?” asked the redhead. “You don’t look like a regular guy.”
“Well, actually he does,” said the dark-haired one.
“Yeah, actually he does,” chimed in the blonde, approaching him warily. She poked him in the chest. “Conjure up some magic, warlock,” she said.
“Don’t provoke him, Strel,” warned the redhead.
“I don’t do magic,” he said. “At least not like you guys.” He gestured to the empty space behind him. “What did you do to my dad’s building?”