Kidnapped / I Got You Babe

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “It’s Grampa!” Chet said. “He’s having a heart attack! Drop Dead’s trying to do CPR, but I think he’s making it worse.”

  Hal’s mentor, his father figure, lay desperately ill in this isolated place. His mind went white and clear as Arctic tundra.

  “We will not let him die!” Hal announced. “We will put aside our petty quarrels and save Grampa.”

  “Well, you’d better save him fast,” said Noreen, “because Rita just scrammed out the garbage chute.”

  IN A MATTER of minutes, Melanie’s feelings underwent enough climactic turning points to fill the front page of the New York Times.

  One second she was bursting with passion, with a need to feel Hal deep inside her. Next came the thrill of falling, followed by pleasure at the way he had stood up to Rita. He had made it obvious, or so she believed, where his allegiance lay.

  Then at the mention of one itty-bitty word—well, two, really, “investigative reporter”—he had abandoned her. That was all it took, a minor declaration of her occupation such as one might list on a credit application without giving it a second thought, and bam! Hal had turned back into Mr. Tough Guy.

  Melanie wished she did not feel this small twinge that might almost be taken for guilt, that she had gone to bed with the man under the pretense of being a poet. How could she be blamed for the fact that, given the opportunity to observe a gangster summit, she had leaped at the chance?

  Everyone knew that the Golden Rule did not apply to reporters. It did, however, apply to gangsters.

  She was on the point of telling Hal that he was a crook and a killer who deserved to be deceived, when Chet came barreling into the dining room with his disturbing news. Then Rita took it on the lam.

  The change in Hal was stunning. He straightened, determination armoring him like a knight.

  “You!”—pointing at Cha Cha and the wizened Luigi—“Get the doctor sobered up, I don’t care how much hot coffee it takes!

  “You!”—to Bone Crusher and the Swamp Fox—“Find Rita!

  “You!”—it was Chet’s turn—“Get the radio working!

  “You!”—to the McAllisters—“Keep the passengers entertained! And if you turn up with one extra nickel in your pockets…”

  “Don’t worry.” Violet McAllister shuddered. “We saw how much everybody hates Rita. I never thought about it that way before. I mean, it was just kind of a lark.”

  “What was a lark?” asked the lady-minus-the-diamonds.

  Before anyone could reply, Hal clapped his hands for attention. “And you!” He fixed Melanie with a glare. “Did the cub-level test for guerrilla warfare include CPR?”

  “There’s no such test. I made it up,” she confessed, and was saddened to see, from the dismay on his face, how low she had fallen in his esteem. She really ought to stop lying, she thought glumly.

  “I know CPR,” said Noreen. “My late husband, Vladimir, had a heart condition.” Except for a slight dilation of the pupils, she seemed to have recovered from Rita’s potion.

  “You come with me! Move out!” barked Hal, and, to Melanie’s amazement, the disorganized clot of people sorted itself at once. Off went the designees to their appointed tasks, and the passengers allowed themselves to be shepherded back to their seats.

  All because of Hal. In his windbreaker and jeans, he radiated a primitive vitality far removed from the Las Vegas high life. Stripped of his expensive suits, without the genteel manners, he was transformed into a hunk of unrestrained masculinity.

  For the first time since she had contemplated making the long swim to China, Melanie found him frightening. And, therefore, utterly desirable.

  Was it possible, she wondered as he steered her and Noreen outside, that he might truly be the man for her? That she had let slip from her grasp, and her bed, the one mate who would never bore her?

  Cold, rain-laced air refreshed her as they dodged across the courtyard toward Grampa’s room. But inside Melanie’s chest beat a heart filled with darkness.

  Her experiences with men had been limited by her fierce desire for independence, but she had not reached her late twenties without making some observations of the male of the species. It was her conclusion that a man might grant his affections freely, but once his interest waned, it never revived.

  Hal’s feelings for her had not so much waned as been obliterated. The odds of restoring them were somewhat less, she calculated, than the odds of her ever again attempting a new move on a balance beam, even though—why hadn’t she thought of this before?—it would subsequently be named for her.

  She didn’t suppose gymnasts of the future would ever brag to each other that they had once performed a Mulcahy with their boyfriend. Nor did she fool herself into believing that Hal would ever again bestow on her his smoldering look of love.

  That loss chilled Melanie more effectively than the storm. The cold didn’t leave her even when they entered Grampa’s room.

  They were greeted by the daunting sight of a gargoyle perched on the floor, arching over a prone figure as if to feed. Then she heard the reassuring sound of the gargoyle grunting, “One two three breathe! One two three breathe!”

  Hal dropped to one knee. “Grampa?”

  Drop Dead shook his head, nearly dislodging his glasses, whose broken nosepiece had been taped together. Below him, the prone figure gasped for air. “He’s in bad shape.”

  “Let me try.” Shoving the gargoyle aside, Noreen bent to the task with far more vigor than the aging gangster had shown.

  “Who…?” Drop Dead squinted at the society matron suspiciously, but his glasses were askew.

  “One of the passengers,” said Hal. “Melanie, rub Grampa’s hands. Try to get his circulation going.”

  “She could rub my hands,” said Drop Dead as he sagged onto the bed. “She could rub a lot of things.”

  “Rub them yourself,” growled Hal. “Besides, you have obviously not heard the bad news. Melanie is a reporter.”

  “Yeah?” growled Drop Dead. “Well, spell my name right. That’s Cimarosa with a C.”

  Melanie rubbed Grampa’s hands for a while, but she kept getting in Noreen’s way, so she quit Hal didn’t so much as glance at her.

  Still, there was quite an interesting story developing here. A shipwreck on an island, a jewel thief on the loose, a desperate attempt to save a life.

  Hesitant to drag out her notebook, Melanie began committing details to memory: the spare, prisonlike room with its chenille bedspread and fly-specked walls; the intent faces of the participants; the way Drop Dead was ogling her chest. And Hal’s slim hips and graceful movements as he paced.

  She also didn’t want to forget the unruly clump of hair sticking up at the side of his head. Or his voice, gruff but loving, as he addressed Grampa. “Come on, you old curmudgeon!”

  After today, she realized, she would probably never see Hal again, unless it was in the course of pursuing a story.

  She could handle it. Loving and losing; big deal. The only person she could rely on was herself, now as always.

  “One two three breathe!” said Noreen Pushkoshky, still CPRing. Grampa coughed and choked.

  The door banged open and three people tried to crowd through it. Or rather, two men tried to enter and the woman in the middle wiggled and thrashed to get away.

  Finally the Swamp Fox and Bone Crusher dragged the unwilling woman into the room. She had small, angry eyes and a squarish face mapped with incipient wrinkles. Dishwater-blond hair lay matted against her head, and a belted shirtwaist dress gave her the look of a Depressionera housewife.

  “Pixie found her in the gift shop,” grunted the Swamp Fox as he dodged an angry kick.

  “A stowaway?” Hal frowned at the newcomer.

  “Naw! Wouldja believe, it’s Rita!” said Bone Crusher. “Hey, lady reporter, get a load of Rita Samovar without her wig and face paint.”

  “What a disguise!” said Drop Dead admiringly. “You’d think she was a normal dame.”

  �
�Rita?” Hal stared in amazement.

  Tears of humiliation glittered in the woman’s eyes, but she stopped trying to kick her captors and drew herself up. “Okay, ya lugs, so this is what I look like. Big deal! Don’t forget, I’m the one who told ya about that snoop. You guys ain’t the ones I robbed, so let go of me!”

  “Take her purse away,” said Hal.

  Gingerly, the Swamp Fox unhooked the pocketbook from Rita’s shoulder, and gazed at it speculatively. “You know, we could divide up the jewels. It would not be as if we were the original ones who pinched them.”

  “I don’t think it violates no ethics,” agreed Bone Crusher.

  “Those belong to my friends!” Noreen might have protested further, but Grampa broke into a fit of coughing so severe it threatened to turn into convulsions. Hal knelt beside him worriedly.

  “We would have to shut up this society dame. And, of course, the reporter.” As the Swamp Fox tossed the purse onto the bed, he, Bone Crusher and Drop Dead got a narrow look on their faces that did not bode well. Rita began to smile.

  Melanie was mulling over escape routes when someone outside the door called, “Make way! Coming through!”

  The gangsters parted grudgingly, admitting Cha Cha, the limo driver and the disheveled redheaded physician. “Open wide and say ah!” announced the gleeful Helen Malatesta to no one in particular.

  Melanie wondered if the doctor had drunk more than Noreen. Or perhaps she was simply less accustomed to being slipped a Mickey.

  “You call this sober?” snapped Hal.

  Cha Cha shrugged. “It was the best we could do.”

  “Dr. Malatesta!” Hal pulled the giddy woman over to where Noreen continued administering CPR to the sputtering Grampa. “We got a heart attack patient here! Help him!”

  The physician dropped to her knees with a crunch. “Ow.”

  “I’m getting tired,” said Noreen. “Can you take over?”

  “Why would I want to take over?” asked the doctor.

  Despair gave Hal a wild air, and for a moment Melanie feared he might try to shake the woman into sobriety. “A man’s dying here!”

  “Yes, so get Mrs. Pushkoshky off him!” sang out Helen Malatesta.

  Noreen stopped pushing and puffing, and plopped onto the floor next to Grampa. As soon as she did, he sucked in a couple of deep breaths and sat up.

  “Well, it is about time!” he huffed.

  “The doctor just got here,” Hal said.

  “It don’t take a doctor to see I choked on a piece of hard candy!” shouted Grampa. “You bozos have been pounding and blowing on me till I thought I’d pass out!”

  “You mean you didn’t have a heart attack?” Noreen asked weakly.

  “Not until you nearly gave me one!” snapped the gangster. He hoisted himself to his feet, using her shoulder for support.

  “The first rule of CPR,” said Dr. Malatesta, “is to determine whether the patient is breathing and has a heartbeat.”

  “Is that so?” said Drop Dead.

  “You could have killed him!” Hal said.

  “Don’t blame him!” Grampa shuffled into the bathroom, and they could hear him gulping down a glass of water. “My fool grandson went into a panic when I started choking. The young idiot!”

  “I have to go. I have patients waiting!” With that, the doctor wobbled out the door, followed by Luigi, who gave a small wave in parting.

  Melanie tried to dart after them, but two pock-faced gangsters barred her path. “Hold yer horses, tale-teller,” said Bone Crusher.

  “Leave her alone.” Hal rubbed his forehead wearily. “If there are any consequences to be taken, I am the one responsible.”

  In spite of everything, he was protecting Melanie, which made her feel bad for having tricked him. Maybe it would help if she offered not to write about her experiences in Paraiso, but hadn’t she decided to stop lying?

  The Swamp Fox eyed him warily. “We would not wish to get on the bad side of the Iceman, but it behooves me to point out that there could be more than enough consequences to go around.”

  Cha Cha glided a couple of steps toward the bed. Noreen, seeing that Rita’s jewel-filled purse remained in danger of confiscation, took a flying leap backward and sat on it.

  This put her virtually nose to nose with Drop Dead. Aligning his lopsided specs, the resort owner gawked at her as if he had just received the shock of his life.

  Thickly, he muttered something that sounded like, “Yes, yes, Nanette.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Hal under his breath. After all the things that had gone wrong in the past few hours, Melanie could not imagine what would elicit such a comment

  Grampa chose that moment to emerge from the bathroom and get his first clear look at Noreen also. He too did a double take.

  “So,” he said, “the dead live on.”

  Melanie didn’t know what he meant, but she understood one thing: that the gangsters were regarding Hal in a very different manner.

  They didn’t look afraid of him anymore. They looked downright nasty.

  10

  HAL CLEARED his throat “Technically,” he said, “I fulfilled my contract with Mr. Cimarosa. I ‘got rid of Nanette Del Rio.”

  He doubted the argument would carry much weight. Gangsters rarely appreciated technicalities.

  Fifteen years ago, Noreen Pushkoshky had been Nanette Del Rio, better known as Yes Yes Nanette, a stripper at the Las Vegas Filly Follies. She had been keeping company with one of Drop Dead’s friends, the Follies’ bookkeeper.

  This unworthy boyfriend embezzled the box-office receipts and disappeared after planting evidence on Nanette. To preserve herself from the unjust suspicions of the district attorney, she had squealed about a small off-site betting establishment owned by Arthur Cimarosa.

  This disclosure had resulted in considerable discomfort to Drop Dead, who was forced to close the betting parlor and suffer financial losses. He resolved to take the customary countermeasures by bumping off this loose-lipped peeler.

  On his first attempt, Nanette tossed Drop Dead out of her dressing room onto his back, dislocating his hip. On his second attempt, in an alley, she snatched the gun from his hand and shot him in the big toe.

  Unable to walk properly for some time afterward, Drop Dead hired Hal Smothers, then a twenty-one-year-old kid trying to make a name for himself, to complete the job. It had been an offer he could not refuse.

  Now here was that same stripper, long reputed to be dead. Hal’s big, dangerous secret had just been spilled at the worst possible time to the worst possible people.

  “You got ridda the dame?” Drop Dead grumbled. “Obviously not in the precise permanent sense.”

  “What about the others?” asked the Swamp Fox.

  “What others?” Melanie asked in confusion.

  “You ain’t never killed nobody, has you?” Bone Crusher fisted and unfisted his hands as if preparing them for use.

  Hal had nightmared about this moment for fifteen years, ever since he first removed Yes Yes Nanette from the visible world by turning her into Noreen Ames, later Pushkoshky. His entire reputation in the gangster community was based on his unequaled success as a hit man, and it was a lie.

  “I believe it is inefficient to use more force than necessary.” He deliberately kept his tone mild.

  This pack of wolves was ready to pounce. Judging by Rita’s smirk, she would be more than happy to lead the attack.

  Hal knew he was a good enough fighter to get himself out of here, and possibly off the island. But there were innocents involved. Noreen, for one. And, above all, Melanie.

  Even though she had used him, her well-being was Hal’s responsibility. More than that, he was head over heels for the dame.

  He knew he should reject her with the utter coldness that glinted in the eyes of his erstwhile friends. But he could not help it; he loved Melanie, even though no gentleman would pursue a courtship that was clearly unwanted by the lady.

  Her safety must be
his first priority. Therefore Hal did a thing that, under other circumstances, he would have considered cheating.

  He pulled out his gun.

  “Although I have never killed anyone to date, I am willing to turn over a new leaf,” he said. “Starting now.”

  Cha Cha paled and Bone Crusher scowled. The Swamp Fox studied him speculatively. Drop Dead chewed on his lip and, apparently liking the flavor, bit off another strip.

  Noreen had the good sense to head for the door behind Hal, taking Rita’s purse with her. Melanie hesitated as if loath to miss any of the goings-on, then reluctantly followed.

  “You will not get away with this,” said Grampa.

  “I am already getting away with it,” Hal responded with more confidence than he felt, and backed out the door in the wake of the two women.

  MELANIE DIDN’T KNOW what to think. Her hit man was a fraud, but a clever one. And he radiated authority as he stood up to those cutthroats.

  Apparently she hadn’t been the only one keeping secrets. Discovering this fact made her feel both off balance and reassured at the same time.

  Out in the wet, wild air, they swung by the dining room. “Noreen, return the jewels to their owners immediately,” said Hal. “I do not think even Bone Crusher will pull trinkets from the ears of passengers. Also, Drop Dead does not allow thievery on his island.”

  “I never thanked you,” Noreen said. “You coulda killed me fifteen years ago. Instead, you gave me a new life.”

  “And you gave me an idea of which I have made good use.” Hal’s mouth twisted wryly. “It is amazing how many people will jump at the chance to become someone else.”

  “Particularly when the alternative is a pair of concrete pumps,” Noreen said. “Not that I am a slave to fashion.”

  They deposited the society matron among her friends, who listened eagerly as she began confessing her shady past. “Let us go see if Chet has activated the radio,” said the Iceman, and took Melanie by the arm.

  As they walked together, she wondered if she should seize this moment to tell Hal how she felt about him, but then she realized that she didn’t know how she felt. Except that an undeniable velvety sexuality was blossoming inside her at his touch.