Fair Game

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “Fifteen and a half, thirty-five,” he replied, feeling silly, as he always did with salespeople in stores.

  “Suit?”

  “Forty-two long, I guess. I’m not sure.”

  “That’s good enough for a start.” She ripped off the top sheet and folded it in half. “I’ll give this information to Meg. She can talk to the sergeant about his sizes in the morning. I assume that you do have black shoes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. That ought to do it.”

  “Where’s the performance?” Martin asked.

  “At the Met in New York.”

  “That’s a two-hour drive.”

  Ashley looked embarrassed. “We’re taking my uncle’s plane. His real-estate business is all over the country. It saves time.”

  Martin nodded, feeling naive. The company jet. Of course.

  “It’s really kind of an unobtrusive, ordinary-looking plane,” she said gently, reading his mind.

  “No Concorde?” Martin said with a sidelong glance.

  “No.”

  Not that you couldn’t afford a Concorde if you wanted one, Martin thought.

  Ashley studied his pensive face and said, “I sense that all of this is making you a trifle uncomfortable, Lieu ...Tim.”

  Martin didn’t reply.

  “Yes?” she prodded.

  “This is an assignment for me. I don’t make any judgments,” he answered.

  “Yes, you do,” she said with a slight smile. “And I don’t know if I care for being thought of as an ‘assignment.’ We’re just people like everyone else.”

  “Not like everyone else,” he said, since she was pressing him. “You have more money.”

  “Money can be its own burden,” she said.

  He snorted. “And why is it always people who have so much of it who say that?”

  “Because we know.”

  He looked extremely skeptical, so she added slowly, “For example, most people don’t have enough money to dispose of unwanted children in an acceptable way. The rich do. Boarding schools, summer camps, extensive and prolonged vacations. You never have to see your own child if you don’t want to, which is not usually an option available to those without considerable means.”

  He stared at her, wondering what the hell she was talking about. At the same time he realized that she was deadly serious. The subject was important to her.

  She looked up at him and gave a little shake, as if waking from a trance.

  “I’m afraid I’m babbling,” she said quickly. “And I have too much to do to waste time.” She put down her empty cup. “Thanks for the talk, Tim. And the rescue yesterday. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Martin watched her go back into the bedroom, staring after her with a puzzled expression. Then he sat on the sofa, pouring the rest of the coffee into his cup and lighting a fresh cigarette.

  She certainly was different from what he’d expected.

  He had to admit, however reluctantly, that Capo was right: she treated him as if she saw a person when she looked at him and not just a blue suit. The rest of them, like Dillon, looked through Martin as if he weren’t there, except when they wanted something.

  And what was that little recital about disposing of kids? Was she referring to herself, the stepmother packing her off to St. Whosis, that place in Switzerland he’d read about in the background information? And if so, why was she discussing it with him, of all people, the cop, the bodyguard, the nobody?

  Forget it, he told himself. These people are all off the wall. They have more problems than investments, and they’ve got a lot of investments.

  But he couldn’t quite dismiss it, and smoked another cigarette before he went to sleep.

  * * * *

  Meg Drummond was on the telephone, having a little trouble with Deacon’s Formal Wear.

  “Why can’t you send the tuxedos over to the hotel by messenger?” she asked wearily.

  She listened and then said, “All your delivery trucks are out? We need the clothes for tonight.”

  She listened again and made a face. “I realize that this is a last-minute order, but the clothes are for people in Senator Fair’s party...” I should have lied and said they were for Joe, she thought in annoyance as the clerk answered with something else she didn’t want to hear.

  “I’ll send someone over to pick them up, and you can bill us,” Meg finally said. Her expression changed as she listened once again, this time in true disbelief. She interrupted the flow of words from the other end to demand, “Since when do you require prepayment? We’ve dealt with you before and—”

  She stopped, looking patiently at the ceiling as the clerk cut her off in reply.

  “Well, I don’t much care for your new policy,” Meg announced irritably. “I’ll be over myself in a few minutes to pick up the order. Does your ‘new policy’ permit the use of credit cards?”

  She got her answer and said, “How progressive of you, thank you so much,” replacing the phone receiver with a bang. I’m crossing them off my list, she thought, making a mental note. Meg couldn’t abide inefficiency in any form; she didn’t have time for it.

  She walked through the connecting door to Ashley’s suite and found the Senator’s daughter in the bedroom, staring at three gowns displayed on the hotel bed.

  “Which one for tonight?” she asked Meg as she spotted her.

  “The pearl-gray strapless. You look smashing in it.”

  Ashley made a face. “I wore that last month to Judith Clinton’s. Some of the same people will be there.”

  “How about the blue?”

  “That bib makes me look like Alice in Wonderland,” Ashley said in a tired voice.

  “You look like Alice in Wonderland anyway, sweets,” Meg said, grinning.

  “It’s not an image I’m trying to cultivate,” Ashley said flatly. “And that melon sherbet one makes me look like a tart.”

  “The color is ‘blush,’ and it does not,” Meg said.

  “Damn. I’m going to have to bring a batch of clothes from Georgetown, or else get more from Carlo,” Ashley muttered.

  “Why don’t you just go out and buy some, like a normal person?” Meg inquired.

  Ashley sighed. “Standing around all day getting pinned up like a seamstress’s dummy reminds me of Sylvia,” she said. “It’s so... self-indulgent.”

  “Ashley, you need the clothes,” Meg said practically. “You’re getting photographed every time you walk out the door.”

  “Oh, all right. Can we call that woman from Bonwit’s, and Jerry from Magnin’s? Tell them to send me some rack samples and I’ll order by phone, have them fitted here.”

  “Will do,” Meg said, extracting a small spiral notebook from her pocket.

  “And remember, full price.”

  “Right,” Meg said. “And what about the designers? Should I call anybody besides Carlo?”

  “No, no, they’re more trouble than they’re worth. Photo credits, guarantee of mention in the gossip columns, blah-blah-blah. At least Carlo doesn’t plague me.”

  “He will,” Meg said airily.

  “I’ll worry about that when the time comes,” Ashley said. “Well, what do you think?” she asked again, pointing to the bed.

  “The melon one. You look very sexy in it. And it has that matching cape. Perfect.”

  “It always makes me feel like Jack the Ripper’s prime target,” Ashley said doubtfully.

  “You spent entirely too much time locked up with those nuns in St. Andrew’s,” Meg replied, grinning. “There’s nothing wrong with looking... sensuous.”

  “For La Traviata?”

  “For anything. Do you want me to get one of the stylists from the salon downstairs to come up and do your hair?”

  “No, thanks. Sylvia is sending Claude over at five o’clock.”

  “Uh-oh. Did she volunteer him?”

  “Yes. I thought as long as she was trying to be nice I’d take her up on it.”

  “I h
ope you don’t emerge from it looking like Martha Washington,” Meg said gloomily.

  “I’m sure he could find the time to do you too, if you like,” Ashley said mischievously.

  “No, thanks,” Meg replied, pretending to be horrified. “Who knows what’s in that shampoo? And that other stuff he puts on Sylvia’s hair twice a week makes her head look like a tequila sunrise. I have a theory that it’s affecting her brain. Something certainly is.” She glanced at her watch. “Speaking of brains, I’m losing mine. I have to get over to that formal-wear place and pick up the tuxedos for the cops.”

  “Can’t they send the clothes?”

  Meg sighed. “No, it’s a long story. I’ll be back in an hour or so. My car’s right downstairs.”

  “Where are they?” Ashley asked.

  “Who?”

  “The cops.”

  “Capo’s with your father, and Martin is right outside in the hall. Well, I’m off. See you later.”

  Ashley waved as Meg left and then shut the bedroom door behind her. She stripped down to her underwear and unhooked her bra, dropping it on the carpet. She tried on the satin dress with its low-cut bodice and spaghetti straps, struggling with the back zipper and then standing to survey herself in the hotel’s pier glass. The hem of the dress dragged over her feet, and she hoisted the skirt to her calves as she went to the closet and got the matching shoes, stepping into them and whirling to see the effect.

  There. That was better. It had been a long time since she’d put the gown on, primarily because Jim had disliked it the first time she wore it. She took the cape, of the same material as the dress and lined with ivory silk charmeuse, down from its hook. She settled it over her shoulders, sweeping her hair out of the way. The cloak swirled to her ankles as she fastened it at the throat with its large mother-of-pearl button.

  She had to admit that the result was quite dramatic. Oh, why not? Maybe Meg was right. Who knew how long she’d be able to get away with outfits like this one? She’d be heading for shirtwaists and twin sets soon enough.

  She went to the wall safe and got her mother’s diamond pendant earrings, ordered from Van Cleef and Arpels by grandmother Fair as a wedding present for her son’s wife. Ashley tried them on and examined her reflection critically. They were fabulous, of course, but too gaudy a combination with the elaborate dress; she looked like a Christmas tree. She put them back and tried on a set of Majorcan pearls, a single strand necklace with 8mm stud earrings. That was it. Understated, elegant. Perfect.

  Satisfied, Ashley took everything off and put it away, then slipped on the Chinese print robe she had brought back from Hong Kong. She lay down on the bed, wishing she had time for a nap but aware that she had promised to call Harry at two with her thoughts on the file he’d sent her. Which was now sitting on the bedside table, staring at her accusingly.

  She picked it up reluctantly, lifting the cover, and a yellow slip of paper fell out of it and fluttered to the bed. It was her note from the previous night, listing Martin’s sizes. 15 and a half, 34, she read. Jim was 15, 33. Martin’s neck was bigger, his arms longer. Martin was taller, too, tall and strong. She recalled the strength of his arms around her during their brief dance. He’d made her feel like a drift of swan’s down.

  Then she crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor, disgusted with herself. What on earth was wrong with her? She couldn’t concentrate at all lately; the slightest thing distracted her.

  She propped a pillow behind her head and set the file in her lap, taking her pencil in hand.

  * * * *

  Meg exited from the side door of the hotel and then walked around to the parking lot. She was standing next to her car, fishing in her bag for the keys, when she realized that one of the tires was flat. The rim was sitting flush on the ground, the rubber squashed around it like a fallen soufflé.

  Great. This was just what she needed. She considered going back upstairs and getting the keys to the limo, but she would have to take care of this sooner or later. There was a can of tire inflater in the glove compartment, if she could just get the thing blown up she could drive to a garage and have it changed.

  She unlocked the car and retrieved the can of sealer, which had a set of incomprehensible instructions printed on its side. She was directed to pull the pin and unscrew the valve caps, then insert the nozzle and wait until the tire inflated to thirty pounds of pressure. How was she supposed to know when thirty pounds of pressure was reached? She was standing with the can in her hand, stymied, when she felt a presence at her elbow.

  “May I help?” a man said pleasantly.

  She glanced up inquiringly. He was fair skinned blond in his thirties with hazel eyes and an engaging smile. He was wearing a dark business suit and carrying a burgundy leather briefcase.

  All of her mother’s warnings about conversing with strangers came flooding into her mind. “No, thanks, I don’t think that will be necessary,” she replied. “I have this can of stuff here...”

  Ransom had heard this before and was ready for it. He went down on one knee, surveying the tire and shaking his head. “I don’t think that will hold for any length of time. You’d be much safer if you just let me change it for you. Do you have a spare in the trunk?”

  “Well, yes, but...” Meg rambled, stalling.

  He was already removing his jacket, revealing a crisp white shirt and a lean torso. “Look,” he said, holding up his hand, “you’re right to be cautious, but I’m perfectly safe, I assure you. I’ll just change the tire and go. My car is right over there. I’ll get my jack and toolbox and be right back, okay?”

  Meg watched him walk away, noting his rangy build, unsure about taking his help. He unlocked the trunk of a gray Mercedes and removed several bulky items, returning promptly to deposit them on the ground next to her.

  “You’ll ruin your suit,” she protested weakly as he knelt and began to remove what had to be the valve caps from her tire .

  “Nah,” he replied. “I’ve got this down to a science. You’ll be on the road in ten minutes, I promise.”

  He was as good as his word. She stood by and watched as he quickly and neatly exchanged the good tire for the bad one, finishing the procedure by tossing the flat into her trunk, slamming the lid, then dusting his palms on his thighs.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said inadequately as he shouldered back into his jacket.

  “No need,” he said, grinning. He had very white teeth, the incisors slightly uneven. “I have a Sir Walter Raleigh complex.”

  Meg smiled back at last. “Well, Walter, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Meg Drummond.”

  Ransom removed a silver case from his inside pocket and extracted an embossed card. “Peter Ransom,” he said, giving it to her and then shaking her hand.

  “So you often rescue ladies in distress?” Meg asked.

  “As often as possible. Are you sure you’ll be all right now? You don’t want me to follow you?”

  “No, thank you,” Meg said quickly. “I’ll be fine. But I really do appreciate your help.”

  He made a self-deprecating gesture. “Glad to be of service. I’ll be on my way now, if you don’t mind.” He winked. “But get your tires checked in the future.”

  Meg laughed. “I will.” She watched him return to his car, get in, and drive away.

  What a nice man, she thought as she got into her own compact and turned the key in the ignition. Well-spoken and obviously prosperous. To think he would take time out from what must be a busy schedule to help her that way.

  People weren’t as callous as everyone said.

  * * * *

  Ransom drove for several blocks and then pulled over to the side of the road, elated. It had gone supremely well. She’d reacted exactly as anticipated: she was intelligent but basically innocent, the type of person who believed in other people, as befitted the top aide to a notorious do-gooder like Senator Fair.

  And she was a lot prettier than her pictures.

  This was goi
ng to be a piece of cake.

  * * * *

  Capo stuck his head through the hall door and grinned when he saw Martin.

  “Looking for company, sailor?” he said, winking and gesturing to the tuxedo Martin was wearing.

  “Don’t laugh at me, Tony. You look just as ridiculous,” Martin replied, tugging at his cummerbund.

  “I feel like I’m getting married again,” Capo said.

  “I wore a suit when I got married. The last time I put on one of these straitjackets was for Maryann’s senior prom. And that was twenty years ago,” Martin said.

  “They got us the same outfit,” Capo noted. “We look like the Bobbsey Twins.”

  “The Bobbsey Twins are a boy and a girl,” Martin said.

  “A couple of fools, then,” Capo said.

  “I’ll go along with that,” Martin agreed. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and adjusted his bow tie, then fingered the studs in his shirt. To his everlasting gratitude they had ordered a simple black tux with a plain, off-white shirt. The only glamorous touch was the satin stripe on each of the pants legs. Still, he felt strange. It was a good thing Rourke wasn’t around to see this. He’d laugh himself sick.

  Meg Drummond breezed past Capo and pronounced, “Gentlemen, you look very handsome. Sergeant Capo, you’re a vision.”

  “A vision of what?” Martin mumbled. “Armageddon?”

  “I heard that,” Capo said to him in a low tone. To Meg he said, “You look pretty nice yourself.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” she said, smiling. She was wearing a soft violet Grecian-style dress that flattered her dark coloring and left one smooth shoulder bare. “The Senator is finished dressing, so I imagine we’ll be leaving soon.”

  The bedroom door opened and Ashley emerged. Her hair was piled on top of her head, curling tendrils escaping at her neckline and temples. She was wearing the satin dress, luminous pearls gleaming around her slender throat and at her ears. The cape was folded over her arm.

  A moment of silence greeted her arrival. Capo turned aside and rolled his eyes at Martin, tapping his heart with his closed fist. Martin kept his face expressionless, meeting Ashley’s gray gaze briefly and then looking away.