Crown Jewel

by Fern Michaels

  “You read that, huh? If you tell me you read the Enquirer, and you have an inquiring mind, I’m going to belt you.”

  “Sometimes guests leave those things lying around. I read the headlines. Okay, let’s get this show on the road. You can drive, Bro. Hey, how are you fixed for money?”

  “I have a couple of hundred. How about you?”

  “I think I have four hundred. We might have to grease a few palms to get into that place. Pink is definitely your color, Bro,” Max said, pointing to the shirt Tyler was wearing. He fingered his own pale yellow one.

  “We look good enough to make the cover of People.” Tyler picked an invisible thread from his brother’s sleeve. “Remember, we stick together.”

  It was like any other noisy, crowded club in the country. Designated as the hottest club in town, Whispers was favored by the in crowd on a nightly basis. It was a place to be seen, not necessarily heard, with the loud music, the patrons shouting to each other above the roar of the music, while colored lasers highlighted the gyrating couples on the dance floor.

  The line behind the rope was long with disgruntled young people waiting to get into the club or just waiting to catch a glimpse of their current idol so they could jabber on the phone for hours discussing who was wearing what, who was with whom.

  Tyler and Max walked straight to the front of the line. They ignored cries of, “Hey, look, there’s Ricky Lam! Does he have a twin? Hey, Ricky!”

  The doorman/bouncer, who resembled a human Godzilla, stared at Tyler and Max, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He debated for a minute, trying to decide if he should open the door or not. It was the double likeness that confused him. The hundred-dollar bill Max slipped into his hand convinced him to open the door. “Nice to see you, Mr. Lam. The owners will be pleased to see you, too. I didn’t know you had a twin,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Not many people do. He spends all his time behind the camera,” Max said.

  The young girls behind the long, braided rope started to chant, “Ricky! Ricky! Ricky!”

  Max shouted in his brother’s ear, but the words were lost. “Hey, Bro, we passed inspection. We play it cool now. Keep your eyes peeled for that worm.”

  The floor shook, the music rocked, the lights flashed, as the patrons danced, screamed, and flocked to the bar. Laughter rang almost as loud as the music.

  Tyler headed for the bar, an almost impossible feat. He wondered what his father’s shoes were going to look like at midnight. He pulled his brother closer and shouted in his ear. “This is not my thing, Max. It never was. You into this?”

  “Nah. I’d rather sweat at a gym than go through this. There isn’t an inch of space between people. We must be getting old.” He felt a tap on his shoulder, turned to look down at a petite redhead with a face full of freckles. “You aren’t Ricky Lam, are you?” she screamed.

  Max screamed back. “Who wants to know?”

  “Me. Gracie Lick. You want a drink? My brother’s tending bar.”

  “Well, sure.” He watched in awe as the pint-size girl whistled between her teeth. Her brother looked up. He was just a taller version of Gracie Lick. “Do people confuse you with Grace Slick?”

  “No, they don’t,” Gracie bellowed.

  “What are you drinking?” she asked.

  “Corona,” Tyler said.

  Gracie held up three fingers. “Corona!” she bellowed at the top of her lungs. “So, are you or aren’t you Ricky Lam?”

  The brothers shook their heads. Tyler reached over the top of the people in front of them for the beer. He handed over a hundred-dollar bill. “Keep the change,” Tyler said magnanimously. Gracie Lick’s eyes popped.

  “He’s a big spender,” Max screamed again. “What do you do, Gracie Lick?”

  Gracie reached for his arm, and shouted, “Follow me.”

  They followed, getting elbows in their faces and necks, kicked in the shins, and cursed, as they blindly followed their new leader behind a set of swinging doors.

  “What is this place?” Tyler asked, looking around.

  “It’s the pantry off the kitchen. It’s where everyone goes to smoke a cigarette. The help, not the customers. At least you can hear yourself talk in here. So, who are you if you aren’t Ricky Lam?”

  The brothers looked at one another. “What’s that badge around your neck?” Max asked.

  Gracie turned it over. “It says I’m a bona fide reporter for The Wag. It pays the bills,” she said defensively. “My brother and I go to college, and we have a fifteen-year-old sister we support. The pay’s good. Wally can make three hundred bucks working the bar on a good night. Not that it’s any of your business. I like to be up-front when I’m on the attack. I do Hollywood gossip, that kind of thing. This is the third time I’m asking you who you are. I already told you who I am. You sure look like Ricky Lam. You both look like Ricky Lam.”

  Max pretended to be outraged. “You expect us to talk to a tabloid! I don’t think so. Our father wouldn’t like that one bit!”

  “Max, shut up!”

  “Wait a minute here, wait just a damn minute. Your father! Ricky Lam isn’t married. Not that that makes a difference, but he doesn’t have kids! Aha, the other side of the blanket.”

  Tyler reached for his brother’s arm, pretending to drag him away. “When are you going to learn to shut that mouth of yours? Now look what you did!”

  He turned to the reporter, and said, “Look, what will it take for you to keep quiet? How does five hundred bucks sound?”

  Gracie Lick placed her hands on her hips. “Do you think I’m nuts? A scoop like this is worth…well, it’s worth a lot. My brother’s and my tuition and a down payment on some new wheels. Now that’s money.”

  “Do you take checks, credit cards?” Max asked.

  “You really think I’m nuts, don’t you? The guy drops out of sight after his brother dies, then you two pop up. Hey, that’s a story in my book, not to mention the book all Hollywood is waiting for.”

  “How about this?” Tyler said, his voice sounding desperate. “Hold your story, and tomorrow we give you the money. We’ll match whatever that rag you work for will pay you. It’s just a few hours. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Is it a deal?”

  Gracie Lick pondered the proposal. “Nah. I like seeing my name in the paper. It instills fear in people.”

  “That’s what this is all about? You like putting fear into people and turning their lives upside down? What kind of person are you? How can you invade people’s lives in the name of entertainment? You have to be sick to do something like that.” Max’s voice rang with self-righteous anger.

  “Yeah,” Tyler said.

  Gracie Lick backed up a step. “I’m not like that. I don’t write stuff like that. I write, ‘he said, she said,’ who was with whom when they weren’t supposed to be. If I don’t do it, someone else will. I have bills and obligations. I’m honest, and I don’t like it that you think I’m not. So there!”

  “I bet you have all your own teeth and they aren’t capped and you probably speak seven languages fluently and you have no body fat. You’re a ghoul!” Max said.

  “I am not a ghoul! Tell me your story, tell me the truth, and I’ll write it and not speculate.”

  “And we would trust you…why?”

  “Because I’m giving you my journalistic word, that’s why.”

  Max guffawed.

  Gracie Lick took offense at his laughter. “Fine. I’ll write my own version.”

  “And that is…”

  “How you tried to bribe me to suppress what I’m going to write. Whatever else I can pick up along the way.”

  Max looked across at Tyler. “What do you think, Bro? Do you think we can trust her?”

  “No, I don’t,” Tyler said.

  “Come on. Give her a break. When was the last time you heard a sob story like the one she gave us?”

  “Last week,” Tyler said. “Look, Miz Lick, let’s do this. My brother an
d I will talk this over and call you. I think that’s fair.”

  “No, it isn’t fair. I have you here right now in front of me. If you didn’t want to be found out, why would you come to such a high-visibility place? Seems to me you two are up to something. Did something happen to Ricky Lam? You must be illegitimate sons. Hollywood loves reading about stuff like this. Are you two as wild as he was in his youth? I heard he’s been busy running his resorts. Can you confirm this? Come on, give me a break here. How old are you? Dicky Tee is out by the bar. Does your being here have anything to do with him?”

  “You sure are nosy,” Tyler said, playing the hard-ass. “I don’t see you giving either one of us a break. Who the hell eats all these chips?” he asked, looking at the boxes and crates of every kind of chip known to man that lined the walls of the pantry. He broke open a bag.

  “She’s a reporter, Bro. Take it easy. She’s just trying to earn a living.”

  “They’re bar munchies. The customers have to pay for them. What’s it gonna be?” Gracie asked, her freckled nose twitching.

  Tyler decided to needle her. “Are you a dwarf?”

  “No, I’m not a dwarf. I’m just short compared to you. Are you a giant?”

  “Nope. I’m just tall compared to you,” Tyler shot back. He finished his beer and set the bottle on top of a box of Frito Lay chips. Max did the same thing.

  Both brothers moved to the door leading to the kitchen. “We’re going out to party. That’s why we came here. We’ll hook up later and give you our answer.”

  “Liar!” Gracie Lick shouted.

  Tyler clucked his tongue as he followed his brother out of the room. “Now we party, then we deal with Dicky Tee!” Max bellowed in Tyler’s ear.

  Tyler watched as Max homed in on a girl gyrating on the floor by herself. To his practiced eye, it looked like her clothes were sprayed on. Implants, he decided. Contacts. The only person in the world who had violet eyes was Elizabeth Taylor. Pricey porcelain. A wannabe.

  “Wanna dance?” Gracie asked.

  Tyler shrugged as he moved out to the dance floor, which had suddenly started to clear. The music wasn’t as loud. He could actually hear people talking. Voices raised in anger. “Oh, shit!” he said, moving closer to the voices, one of which he recognized as Max’s.

  “She’s my woman, buddy, buzz off.”

  “How was I supposed to know that, buddy? She was out here dancing by herself. I asked her to dance, and she said yes. Take it easy. She’s all yours.”

  “What? She isn’t good enough for you? What’s that mean, ‘she’s all yours’?” The man who was yelling was as tall as Max, a little heavier, and his eyes were glassy. He had a long-necked bottle of Budweiser in his hand that he was swinging wildly, the beer sloshing out onto the dance floor.

  Gracie Lick took that minute to let loose with a shrill whistle. A moment later, Tyler saw a camera sail through the air. Gracie did an air dance and landed with the camera in her hands. Neat trick.

  “It means, I made a mistake asking your lovely friend to dance. I’m sorry, okay? Let’s leave it at that and not turn this into a pissing contest.”

  “Let’s not leave it at that.”

  The girl with the sprayed-on clothes started to dance to music only she heard.

  Max sized up his adversary. He knew he could take him. He was in shape, and he wasn’t half-drunk like the guy threatening him. He felt rather than saw Tyler step forward to stand next to him. He heard the hushed whispers, heard his father’s name coming from the crowd. Where is the damn owner? He should be here to break up whatever is about to happen. Where the hell are the damn bouncers?

  Then he was on the floor, the dancing girl on his back with a chokehold around his neck. He rolled, the way they do in commando school, sending the dancing girl sliding across the slick floor. He was back on his feet in the time it took his heart to beat five times. He was red, he was yellow, then blue in the shifting lights overhead. The music started up as four burly bouncers stomped toward him. It was all the shouting crowd needed as they converged en masse on the middle of the dance floor.

  Gracie Lick moved to higher ground with the aid of her brother. She stood on the bar and got the best shots of the night. Her brother spotted Dickey Tee at the end of the bar trying to outdo his sister. He leaned over, grabbed his camera, and tossed it across the room. The weasel leaped off the barstool and scurried across the room to get his camera.

  “Cops!”

  “Channel Five News!” someone else shouted.

  As Tyler and Max were herded into the police car, Gracie Lick waved. “See ya,” she trilled.

  “C’mon, Gracie, you saw it all. Tell these cops that guy started it. He decked me. Gracie! C’mon.”

  “I never saw you before in my life! They started it,” she said to the police officer.

  “We get one phone call,” Tyler said.

  “And whom do you suggest we call?” Max snapped.

  “Gracie Lick.” Tyler laughed so hard his sides started to hurt.

  Tired and irritable, Ricky let himself into his mansion. He knew immediately that someone had been in the house during his absence. He stared down at the dirty dishes in the sink, the ones Tyler hadn’t washed. Then he looked in the trash compactor and saw the empty food cans. He reached out to touch a smear on one of the plates. It was fresh, so that had to mean either someone was still in the house or had just left. He frowned. The alarm was on, because he’d turned it off when he walked into the house. A professional burglar who knew his way around alarm systems. His stomach tied itself into a knot. He should call the police. Long years of episodes with them made him reject the idea almost immediately.

  It wasn’t light out yet, but he didn’t turn on any of the lights. This was his house, and he knew it by heart. If need be, he could find his way around blindfolded. He slid out of his Nikes before he reached for the biggest butcher knife in the knife rack. He made his way through the house silently, checking each room as he went along.

  When he reached the second floor and his own room, he blinked at the mess he was seeing. Someone obviously liked his wardrobe. “Anyone here?” he shouted before he turned on the television. “I’m armed!” he shouted again as he pawed through his clothes. His two favorite suits were gone. Son of a bitch! He looked in the bathroom and smelled his aftershave and cologne. Some asshole broke into my house, used my bathroom, then stole my clothes.

  He swiveled around when he heard his name mentioned on the television. A frown rose between his brows as he walked closer to view the screen. The reporter was babbling a mile a minute, and Ricky had a hard time following what was being said. A heartbeat later he saw his two sons being pushed into a police car. He groaned when he heard the newsman say, “They’re both Ricky Lam look-alikes but claim their names are John Jones and Joe Smith. Neither man carried ID, so we don’t know who they really are at this point.”

  Ricky sat down on the edge of the bed and watched as still pictures flashed on the screen, courtesy of a photographer named Gracie Lick. He groaned again when he saw both his sons haul off and land some wicked punches. He laughed out loud when he saw a girl who looked like her clothes were sprayed on jump on Max’s back.

  Brawlers.

  His sons were brawlers.

  What were they doing at Whispers?

  Wearing my clothes?

  The phone rang. “I just saw it on the news,” Roxy said. “Are they okay? Are you okay?”

  Ricky thought she sounded like she cared. “Just this minute I got in and turned on the television. I’m thinking they spent the night in jail. I don’t know what the hell they’re doing here, and I sure as hell don’t know how they got into the house, but they did. I’m going to take a shower and go down to the station to bail them out. I’ll call you when I know something. They were wearing my two favorite suits,” he said, outrage ringing in his voice.

  “Get over it,” Roxy said, a chuckle in her voice. “They’re brawlers like their old man. Makes sens
e from where I’m sitting.” Ricky could hear her laughing as she hung up.

  8

  Ricky Lam caused a bit of a stir, especially among the female officers and detectives, when he walked into the police station. He knew that some of the old-timers were recalling his hell-raising days. He stopped in his tracks as memories assailed him. How many times had Philly bailed him out in those early days? Probably somewhere around a hundred times, maybe more. Probably another hundred times Philly had picked him up from some club or party where the owner intervened on his behalf before the cops showed up. Good old perfect Philly.

  The desk sergeant, one of the old-timers, looked at Ricky and grinned. “Strange seeing you on that side of the desk. You here to bail out the boys?”

  “Yes. What are the charges?”

  “Do you want me to name them all, or do you just want me to hit the highlights?”

  Ricky listened to the litany of charges. When the desk sergeant wound down, he said, “Neither one was carrying ID, Ricky. They did have a pocketful of money, though. Personally, I like the one about inciting a riot. The drunk and disorderly wasn’t bad either. I’m not so sure about the assault and battery one. You were charged with inciting a riot nine times as I recall. We arrested eighteen people last night. None of them have made bail yet. Are they your boys? Didn’t know you had kids.”

  “Yes. Yes, they are. Did they call a lawyer?”

  “No. You need a lawyer for bail. Come on, Ricky, you know how it works.”

  No, he really didn’t know how it worked. Philly had always handled that end of things. But he pretended he did. He walked over to a pay phone and dialed Timothy Andreadis’s number. He needed to think about getting his own lawyer. Timothy Andreadis belonged to the past.

  Ricky looked around. He’d seen the inside of a lot of different police stations over the years. They all looked the same—sickly yellow or puke green walls—and they all smelled the same—burnt coffee, sweat, and that undefinable smell of anxiety. He’d played a rogue cop once. He shuddered at the memory.