Vicki had been doing a slow countdown in-her head. Ten more seconds and she was free and clear. Maxwell was long gone from the TV monitor.
With a little sigh she pulled her left tit out of his mouth, gasping dramatically, ‘This isn’t right, you’re a married man. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘Huh?’ Tom said stupidly, staring in disbelief as she struggled into the top half of her dress, covering acres of paradise.
‘It’s just that deep down I’m a religious girl,’ she explained.
His erect penis drooped miserably.
Tears brimmed from her eyes. ‘What we were about to do is a sin. You’re married, Tom.’
As if he didn’t know.
She finished buttoning her dress, gazing at him tearfully. ‘I’m sorry. I know you must hate me. Oh, I’m so sorrreeee, Tom.’
Not half as sorry as he was. He had an ache in his groin the like of which he couldn’t recall.
Just suck me off an’ we can pretend it never happened,’ he said hopefully.
She looked at him in horror. ‘What kind of girl do you think I am?’
‘A prick-tease,’ he muttered angrily, full of frustration. ‘A first class blue-baller!’
* * *
Now came the tricky part. He’d cleaned out the safes, but Maxwell knew that getting the contents and himself off the estate was not going to be easy.
The black plastic sack was heavy as he carried it across the lawn to the comparative safety of the guest house. He slid through the kitchen door and headed straight upstairs to the unoccupied suite.
Just as he was about to enter, a harsh voice called out, ‘You!’
‘Yes?’ He turned around slowly, only to face Marcus Citroen. Jesus Christ! Marcus was supposed to be watching the performers and listening to the speeches along with everyone else.
‘What are you doing?’ Marcus asked.
‘Cleaning up, sir,’ he replied, without taking a beat.
‘Cleaning up what?’
‘Ashtrays, drinks, food. They want this house spotless before the artists return. Mrs Citroen’s orders.’ He indicated his badge. ‘I’m with Lilliane’s, sir. George Smith at your service.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Marcus waved him away impatiently, changed his mind and said, ‘You can do this room now.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Maxwell walked into Rafealla’s suite, lugging the black sack with him, while Marcus stood back and watched.
Picking up an ashtray he dropped the contents into the sack. And then he gathered the dirty dishes and glasses, adding them too. With a polite nod he said, ‘That’s all, sir.’
Marcus was busy lighting a cigar. He didn’t reply.
For the first time Maxwell felt that everything was not going according to plan. He was never supposed to come face to face with Marcus Citroen. What was the man doing in the guest house anyway?
No time to think about it. Into the unoccupied suite. Straight to the closet where Vicki had hidden an expensive Vuitton bag. Working fast, he transferred everything into it – leaving out the dirty dishes. Then he locked it, pocketing the key, and stuffed it into the garbage bag, along with his holdall.
Now for the next move. If he dared to make it with Marcus Citroen so close by.
Goddammit. He had no choice.
* * *
‘So I think the three of us could get together on something really great,’ Kris said enthusiastically, pulling the golf cart to a jerky halt outside the guest house. ‘I mean, we’re all so different, with such diverse styles. An’ I’ll get Buzz involved too. Y’know he’s doing’ all right now since he came off drugs. Like it’d be a real challenge to blow everyone away. Know what I mean?’
‘I’m willin’ to try,’ Bobby said. ‘In fact maybe I can write us somethin’.’
‘If it’s for a suitable charity, and considering we’re all with Blue Cadillac anyway, I don’t see what can stop us,’ Rafealla joined in.
‘You can name the charity, luv,’ Kris said, helping her down, and then taking Bobby’s arm. ‘Starvin’ kids. Ethiopia. The homeless. Whatever.’
His eyes were just like Jon Jon’s, blue-and intense. ‘Let me think,’ she said, hoping that the tingly feeling she had was just her imagination.
Kris decided she was one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen. Californian blondes paled in comparison. He wondered if she had a steady boyfriend.
Companionably they all walked into the house, the guard nodding them on their way.
‘Any of our mob here yet?’ Kris asked, as they passed.
‘Only a waiter from Lilliane’s. Oh, and Mr Citroen arrived awhile ago.’
‘I can’t stand that son of a bitch,’ Kris muttered. ‘He treats everyone an’ everything like shit.’ He turned to Bobby and Rafealla. ‘What’s he here for anyway? It’s not like Mister Big to come slumming with the talent, is it?’
Rafealla said nothing.
* * *
Vicki exited as fast as she could – no good prolonging the old fart’s anger. Put your pecker away and shut up, she wanted to say.
But she didn’t. Instead she hurried out of there, leaving a very unhappy Tom buttoning his fly.
* * *
Chloe was seething. George Smith had done a pretty good job of avoiding her, and she didn’t like it one bit. Didn’t he realize she had clout at Lilliane’s? Didn’t he realize she could get him fired?
He’d snuck off somewhere to watch the concert without her, and her feelings were hurt. She’d tried to be friendly, nice, but he’d rejected her, and she was determined to do something about it. Chloe didn’t take kindly to being turned down.
‘One of my waiters is missing,’ she informed a uniformed guard standing near the entrance to the dining area. ‘He’s about five foot ten, dark hair, not bad looking. Perhaps you’ve seen him. George Smith is his name.’
To her surprise the guard responded, ‘Yeah, I think I know who you mean. Sounds like the one who took a tray over to the guest house an’ never came back. I guess they needed him over there.’
‘The guest house?’
‘Yes, ma’am. That’s where all the celebs are holed up.’
Her mouth tightened. What was George doing at the guest house? Thank you,’ she said brusquely.
‘A pleasure, ma’am. Any time.’
* * *
They commandeered the living room – Kris, Rafealla and Bobby, talking and joking, making plans to do something they could enjoy and control for a change.
‘I hate bleedin’ record bosses, agents an’ managers,’ Kris said with feeling. ‘They’re just a bunch of untalented wankers on for the ride.’
‘You got it,’ agreed Bobby, wishing Sara was with him. ‘They don’t give a shit about quality, only sales.’
‘Hey – hey – hey – sales ain’t bad,’ admitted Kris, walking to the bar. ‘I can get off on selling a few million here an’ there.’
Rafealla laughed. She felt quite carefree, considering Marcus was in the house, and bound to appear at any moment. ‘Do me a favour,’ she said quickly.
‘Only if it means takin’ me clothes off,’ Kris joked, fixing himself a rum and coke.
‘I don’t want to be alone with Marcus.’
‘Nobody wants to be alone with Marcus,’ Bobby said, fiddling with his dark glasses.
‘I mean it,’ she said urgently. ‘Promise you won’t leave me?’
Kris stared at her. She had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, and the most incredible, smooth olive skin. The rest of her wasn’t bad either. Maybe he’d give up blondes forever. It was a thought, because this girl was something else. And in the short period of time they’d been together, he felt connected to her in some strange and special way. It was weird. ‘Are you married or anything?’ he couldn’t’ stop himself from askings feeling like a right berk.
‘Hey,’ Bobby said light-heartedly. ‘Stop hittin’ on our partner. Don’t you answer him, Raf This old stud considers himself a rea
l ladykiller. I don’t want you goin’ anyway near him. Got it?’
* * *
Chloe set off towards the guest house with a determined expression. Not only had George Smith let her down, but he was slacking off on the job, an even greater crime. If she wanted to get him fired she could – and unless he gave her good reason not to, that’s exactly what she intended to do.
* * *
With a snort of anger Marcus marched from Rafealla’s room. He’d waited long enough. She would pay dearly for her behaviour.
Along the corridor, Maxwell Sicily hung back, willing Marcus Citroen to get the hell out of his way.
The next part of his plan should go smoothly, only it had to take place while everyone was occupied with the speeches and the auction. He was supposed to leave the guesthouse, still dressed in his waiter’s uniform, carrying the sack of garbage. The guard would wave him on his way, and he would take the golf cart to a prearranged meeting spot near the swimming pool, where Vicki would be waiting with an evening suit for him to change into. Once changed, carrying the Vuitton bag, he would stroll down to the parking area as if he were an early departing guest, climb casually into his limousine – which Speed would have in the right place at the right time – and take off.
Easy.
If all went according to plan. And there was no reason why it shouldn’t. All he needed was for Marcus Citroen to get the hell out of his way.
The Confrontation
Saturday, July 11, 1987
Marcus Citroen threw open the door of the living room and discovered Kris Phoenix, Bobby Mondella and Rafealla – his Rafealla – sitting around enjoying themselves.
His expression registered pure rage as he attempted to keep control.
‘How ya doin’, Marcus?’ Kris asked cockily, raising his glass in salute. ‘Slummin’ tonight, are we?’
Marcus ignored the spikey-haired rock star. He suspected Nova had slept with him, although she denied it. Marcus only tolerated her indiscretions up to a point. It was fortunate for Kris she hadn’t become involved – as she had with Bobby Mondella. The black cocksucker was lucky to be alive, and doubly lucky to have been given his career back. Marcus considered himself a fair man. He didn’t hold a grudge forever.
‘Rafealla,’ he said sharply. ‘We had a meeting. Did you forget?’
Kris watched the eye play between them. Rafealla had a trapped look, while Marcus exhibited a malevolent predatory glare. No wonder she didn’t want to be left alone with him – the horny old guy was just about ready to eat her alive.
‘Come,’ Marcus said, holding out his arm. ‘I do not appreciate being kept waiting.’
Her voice didn’t waver. ‘I’m busy right now, Marcus.’
His mouth tightened into a thin line, while his hooded eyes clouded with anger. ‘We have business to discuss. Let’s go.’
‘I’m quite happy here,’ she said bravely.
‘Rafealla.’ His voice was ice. ‘I want you to come upstairs with me now. That’s an order.’
‘An order!’ Kris tried to make a joke of it. ‘I didn’t know we were back in bleedin’ school!’
Marcus turned to glare at him, just as Maxwell Sicily hurried past the open door.
* * *
Huffing and puffing, Chloe arrived at the front of the guest house the same time as Maxwell walked outside.
‘Oh,’ she said, quivering with indignation. ‘This is where you’ve been hiding, is it?’
She stood between him and the golf cart, a solid lump.
‘Mrs Citroen told me to come here and clean the place up,’ he said, wishing the fat cow would drop dead.
‘Mrs Citroen told you, did she?’ demanded Chloe sharply. ‘And since when did Mrs Citroen tell my waiters what to do?’
He shrugged, attempting to dodge past her. ‘We’re all working here tonight, aren’t we? I was just trying to help out.’
Chloe knew plenty about waiters, and the one thing they never did was volunteer their services for nothing. There was something suspicious going on, Chloe knew it – she had a sixth sense about such things. George Smith was a strange one. Handsome, she had to admit, but not honest, and certainly not a gentleman. She didn’t like the way he’d treated her at all. Leading her on, and men running off and deserting her.
Automatically her eyes dropped to the bulging garbage bag he was carrying. ‘What’s in there?’ she asked suspiciously. Some waiters had a very lucrative sideline removing whole sides of beef, chickens and the best fillet steaks via the old garbage sack trick.
No! A voice screamed in his head. The goddamn cunt was going to put him away with her interfering. Why couldn’t anything ever go right for him?
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the guard strolling towards them.
Was this how he got caught?
Fuck! No!
Without saying another word, he shoved past her.
‘Stop!’ she shouted, and then as if she knew she was on to a sure thing, ‘Stop, thief!’
At the word ‘thief’, the guard quickened his pace. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘This waiter is removing property that’s not his,’ Chloe yelled in a shrill voice. ‘I demand that you stop him.’
Maxwell had one foot on the golf cart. He wasn’t going to blow this set up. Winking conspiratorially at the guard he said, The old broad’s crazy. She’s probably on the rag.’
‘Hold it a sec,’ the guard said. ‘Let’s clear this up before you go anywhere. Step down.’
Outwardly calm, Maxwell did as he was asked. His mind was racing. What he really wanted to do was take out his piece, jam it into the dumb bitch’s mouth, and blow the fucking cunt away. That would teach her to stay out of Maxwell Sicily’s business.
The guard approached Chloe. ‘What’s the problem, ma’am?’
Flashing her identification badge, she said, ‘I have reason to believe this man is removing property that does not belong to him.’
‘Horseshit,’ Maxwell muttered.
‘We can soon clear this up,’ the guard said, coming to a logical conclusion. The last thing he wanted was any trouble. ‘Open the sack, make the lady happy.’
‘I resent this,’ Maxwell said bitterly. ‘I resent being falsely accused by this frustrated fucking bitch!’
As he spoke he edged back towards the front door.
‘Let’s not get excited,’ the guard said, still trying to smooth things over.
‘Did you hear what he called me?’ screeched Chloe. ‘Did you hear his language? You’re fired, George Smith. You are fired from. Lilliane’s right now. Guard! Make him open that sack!’
‘Open it,’ the guard said wearily. How come everyone else got to see a sensational concert, and all he got was a whining restaurant supervisor and a thieving waiter – because come to think of it, the sack did look kind of bulky.
‘All right,’ Maxwell said, bending down as if to do as he was asked.
Chloe glared. She had him now. They were probably going to discover every ashtray and ornament in the place. She hoped the Citroens would be willing to prosecute, and send the petty thief to jail where he belonged. She’d always known there was something strange about George Smith.
With the element of surprise working in his favour, Maxwell swung the heavy sack up in the air, catching the unprepared guard in the stomach and knocking him off balance. Chloe began to yell and scream.
Quickly Maxwell backed into the house, slamming and locking the front door behind him.
* * *
Nova fidgeted in her seat. The speeches were finished – a great success – and now the auction was going well, but Marcus had not returned, and she was seething. On tonight of all nights she wished to reap the adulation that came with being one of the most sought-after and elegant hostesses in America. She wanted to share this triumph with her husband.
But no, it was not to be. Marcus Citroen was too busy making love to his latest conquest.
Why should she let him get away with it
unchallenged? Standing up abruptly, she excused herself. Marcus was going to get a visit from her, whether he liked it or not.
* * *
With a roar of frustrated fury Maxwell hurled himself into the living room, waving his gun threateningly in the air. The black garbage sack skittered across the floor ahead of him.
‘Get your hands up, motherfuckers,’ he screamed. ‘This is a hostage situation and you’re fucking it!’
The Conclusion
Saturday, July 11, 1987
Four hours had passed. Four of the longest hours of Maxwell Sicily’s life.
He’d always tried to be low-key, stay away from the spotlight, keep out of other people’s business and hope they would afford him the same courtesy.
It wasn’t easy being Carmine Sicily’s son. No, it wasn’t easy at all. In school it was like he’d had a neon sign over his head proclaiming the fact. Decent kids stayed away from him, while the scum couldn’t do enough favours.
He grew up confused. Carmine was a larger-than-life figure to have as a role-model. Everybody loved Carmine Sicily. Every low-life who ever breathed.
His mother, Rose, didn’t count. She died when he was fourteen, leaving him alone with Carmine and a parade of whores.
He had his first woman the day after his mother’s funeral. Carmine forced her onto him – pushing the girl into his room with the words, ‘She’ll cheer you up, an’ if she don’t, forget about hangin’ around me with your miserable face.’
The girl was twenty-two and experienced. She milked him like a cow, holding his penis in one hand, rubbing between her legs with the other.
He hated it. He hated her. He hated his father.
When he was sixteen he took a gun from Carmine’s closet and robbed a liquor store. His father’s fury knew no bounds. He was beaten for a week.
When he was eighteen, he fucked Carmine’s nineteen-year-old girlfriend, stole twenty-six thousand dollars in cash and a black Lincoln from the house, and took off.
Carmine had him tracked down and brought back. This time he was locked in the cellar for three weeks with only bread and water for sustenance.
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