Year of the Scorpio: Part One

by Stacy Gail

  What the hell was I supposed to do with that?

  Before my brain could come up with various steamy ideas of what I could do with a big—but not too big—Polo Scorpeone, the front door opened. Shona banged her way through, a diaper bag slung haphazardly over a shoulder while she pushed a loaded-down stroller ahead of her like a battering ram.

  “Three guesses as to who got stood up by their babysitter at the last minute,” my office manager announced in a voice loud enough for half the county to hear. Shona had grown up in some of the worst housing projects in South Chicago, but she’d refused to accept that as her ultimate fate. She had been born with more than her fair share of relentless ambition, beauty, talent and intelligence, and that unstoppable combination had pushed her into earning a coveted spot on the city’s pro basketball cheerleading squad. This wondrous package of female power had then caught the eye of one of the sports arena’s co-owners, who had turned himself inside-out trying to win her hand in marriage. She’d been living her happily-ever-after for a few years now, but she’d never forgotten where she’d come from. Just as much as I was driven to give back to the community, Shona was determined to find every kid looking for a way out, and give them a helping hand. I was her biggest fangirl and I loved her to tears. “It’s not even ten in the morning, and already I want this total shit day to be over. Kon, what the hell are you doing? Stop taking up space and get the damn door.”

  Konstantin might come from a long line of cold-hearted Russian leg-breakers, but even he cowered in the face of Shona’s ire. “Sorry. Got it.”

  While Konstantin jumped to do Shona’s bidding, I came around the desk to relieve her of the diaper bag. “I thought your mom was your go-to babysitter.”

  “She is, but apparently she and her BFFs were all going to get their hair done today, so she went ahead and joined their crazy-train. Translation—she forgot about being a good grandma in favor of having some fun.” Shona pulled the stroller’s canopy back to look down at her ten-month-old baby girl. “We’ve already decided not to talk to grandma for the rest of the day, haven’t we, Arabella? Yes, we have.”

  “Since she’s out with friends, silence from you is probably what your mom wants,” Konstantin pointed out, then held up his hands when Shona straightened to send him a lethal glare. “I’ll shut up now.”

  “Good idea.” With a toss of her gloriously shining ebony locks, Shona turned her attention back to getting Arabella out of her stroller. “We can’t get onto building that daycare soon enough, Dasha. I’m ready for it to be here like, yesterday.”

  “The wait’s going to be longer than what I thought it was going to be twenty-four hours ago,” I admitted and steered the stroller out of the way while Shona raised perfectly arched brows at me. I would have said she looked like the singer Brandy, except that Shona’s beauty was on a level that was incomparable to anyone on the planet. “The funds I was hoping to have for the daycare got kind of lost in a police raid last night.”

  Her eyes went huge. “What?”

  I grimaced. “Yeah, that did sound bad, didn’t it? Maybe I should have put it another way.”

  “Who cares how you put it? What the hell happened?”

  Briefly I explained the events of the night before while Shona unpacked the stroller and got Arabella settled in a playpen that had become part of the office furniture soon after Arabella was born. When I got to the part of leaving half a million dollars behind, Shone fanned herself and grabbed the edge of her desk as if suffering a dizzy spell. Quickly I poured both her and Konstantin a cup of freshly brewed coffee to make sure she was well-fortified. “You know what they say—easy come, easy go. I did manage to grow my buy-in of five grand to well over a hundred-thousand dollars, so we can stock the pantry for the next couple of months on that and not feel the strain. But it looks like we’re going to have to go about building the daycare and getting new security installed the old-fashioned way—fundraising our booties off.”

  “I’m more comfortable with glad-handing and ass-kissing than I am with you hitting the tables anyway.” Shona took a deep, cleansing breath, then shrugged and sipped at her coffee. “I know it was never a big deal for you, doing that poker thing, since it was your daddy who taught you how to hustle from damn near babyhood. But you’re looking at a girl who won’t even gun through a yellow light, so I was always uneasy about it. Maybe this close call was what you needed to get you to play things on the straight and narrow, and not take such risks in order to get Chicago’s Future to where you want it to be.”

  “Trust me, I’m a reformed woman. No more shortcuts at the poker tables.” And that went double for Scorpeone poker tables.

  The rest of the morning went by in a whirl. Shortly after we opened, a steady stream of people appeared to fill their shopping bags with whatever we had stocked in our food pantry. The area we called “the pantry” was in fact the huge back portion of the building. It held everything from cereal, peanut butter, all types of dried pasta, applesauce and other canned fruits and veggies, baby food, toothpaste, underwear, soap, deodorant and diapers. I had worked out a deal with a local farmer’s market that we’d receive whatever unsold produce they were willing to offer, so that meant every now and again we even had the rarity of fresh orchard crops like apples, pears or plums, or vegetable-patch specialties like green beans, chili peppers or zucchini. Every day there was something different to be found on the shelves of Chicago’s Future, and my heart sang when people went away with good food in their bags and smiles on their faces.

  But there was no doubt about it; the police raid was going to put a damper on our future supply. Since I wouldn’t have the extra scratch to fund Chicago’s Future from this point on, I had to focus all my energy on fundraising the old-fashioned way. That meant finalizing the details of a gala dinner I was putting together for Memorial Day weekend at the Peninsula Hotel on the Gold Coast. At a hundred bucks a plate, I had to pull out all the culinary stops while still making sure I didn’t spend more than I earned. Not to mention I had to come up with some sort of entertainment that didn’t make people weep internally and wish they were anywhere else but there.

  Scorpeone poker was looking better and better.

  The front door opened for the countless time that day, and automatically I glanced over with a welcoming smile. It vanished before it was fully formed when Tiffany Stoddard-Fanning walked through the door.

  No way...

  I blinked hard, just to make sure my eyes weren’t somehow playing tricks on me and conjuring up the snobbiest socialite that Chicago had to offer. To my amazement, not even a hard blink made this hell-in-high-heels woman disappear.

  Holy crap. Tiffany Stoddard-Fanning was really there.

  Since I’d opened Chicago’s Future, I’d had more than a few brushes with the city’s self-proclaimed charity-circuit queen. Sadly, each time I came away feeling like I’d wrestled with a Poivre-scented python and lost. But all those encounters had happened at charity events, like fun-runs down Magnificent Mile, and silent auctions at North Shore country clubs. Our last, most memorable meeting had been at a fashion show at the Four Seasons, where she’d asked if I ever felt awkward trying to fit in with people whose money wasn’t soaked in blood.

  The last place I’d ever expected this rich bitch to show her face at was my little storefront charity, wedged next to a Dollar Plus store and a vacant space that had been broken into a couple months ago to be tagged with gang graffiti.

  “Oh, my dear God.” Coming out of the bathroom after giving Arabella a fresh diaper-change, Shona nearly dropped her kid as she stared at the newcomer. “What have we here?”

  Good question, I thought as my office manager made it to her desk to set her daughter up for some lunch, though I didn’t blame her for not taking her eyes off our visitor.

  “Tiffany Stoddard-Fanning, in freaking Bronzeville. Will wonders ever cease.” I couldn’t have stopped the words if my life had depended on it. With one encompassing look I took her in, from h
er Louboutin studded wedges, to her Adele-retro bouffant red hair reminiscent of Ginger’s on Gilligan’s Island, but sadly without the sex-bomb appeal. “Are you lost? The dollar store’s next door, if that helps.”

  Konstantin barked out a laugh before clamping his mouth shut. Tiffany’s thin mouth tightened as well, while the rest of her face remained Botox-frozen in what I often thought of as her living-death mask.

  “I’m exactly where I want to be, Dasha dear, of course.” Ignoring everyone else in the room, she gestured a French-manicured hand at the single chair facing my desk. “May I?”

  “Knock yourself out.” Seriously, knock yourself the hell out. “Did you not receive the payment for dry-cleaning that I sent you? Five hundred bucks should have more than covered the stain I made when I poured my cosmopolitan into your store-bought cleavage.”

  Kon made another sound—I wasn’t sure if he was laughing or choking to death—while Shona bugged her eyes out at me. For her part, Tiffany’s living-death mask rippled with some kind of emotion that almost made her appear human. Well, human-ish. I didn’t want to go overboard.

  “Actually, that unfortunate... incident... is why I’m here,” she announced delicately, setting her purse on her lap. It was a tiny piece of confection, just big enough to hold a cell phone and a limitless credit card. I was fairly certain its price tag was more than two months’ worth of rent I paid for Chicago’s Future. “The fact is, I think it’s important that you and I find a way to get along.”

  “Really? You... you want us to be friends?” I was so flabbergasted I could barely put the words together.

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t look so surprised. I certainly don’t want us to be enemies. Chicago’s charity world is a surprisingly small pond, as I’m sure you’re aware. And while I’m the biggest fish around, you’ve become quite a surprising force to be reckoned with as well. I want you to know that I genuinely respect that.”

  Ooh. I was important enough to be acknowledged by not-sexy Ginger. Yippee. “Thanks.”

  “I even saw you the other day on television, during the local evening news. So impressive. You were doing a food drive with one of my best go-to donators. You two seemed to be getting along quite well.”

  Aha. The real reason for Tiffany’s visit was becoming clear. “Jerry DiFiore owns one of the most successful grocery store chains in the state of Illinois. Since Chicago’s Future is all about feeding this city’s underprivileged children and making sure that no child goes to bed hungry, it seemed only logical to approach him to see if he was willing to sponsor a food drive. As you probably saw on TV, he was very enthusiastic about the project, to the point where he suggested that the food drive we were doing eventually evolves into a bi-annual event. He’s Chicago born and bred, and like me, he realizes this city doesn’t have a future if we don’t find a way to take care of the next generation.”

  “Of course.” Tiffany tilted her sculpted, not-quite-as-awesome-as-Ginger ginger head. “Jerry’s a fine man with a big heart and deep pockets. But understandably, those pockets don’t go on forever.”

  “Nobody’s pockets go on forever.”

  “Exactly the point I was going for, Dasha, so I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  I’ll just bet. “What is your point, Tiffany?”

  She offered a closed-lip smile. “You haven’t been doing charity work for long, so I feel it’s important that I go out of my way to educate you on how our charity community works around here.”

  “Oh, man. Shit’s getting good now.” From his position near the door, Konstantin’s eyes lit up. “You educating her.” He looked over at Shona, who was trying to watch the exchange while spooning food into Arabella’s eager mouth. “Wish I had popcorn for this.”

  “Ignore him,” I encouraged Tiffany, while my deadpan poker-face slipped into place. I was fine with my opponent showing all her cards at once. It wasn’t my fault she was an idiot. “Please, go on.”

  That no-teeth smile reappeared. “You see, Dasha, not everyone is privileged enough to be able to give to the many, worthy charities that hold this city together. That’s why there’s a certain understanding among the various charity leaders that we don’t hound the same heavy-hitting contributors, out of fear of bringing about a case of what I like to call charity fatigue.”

  “Charity fatigue,” I repeated, as if thinking it over. “Could you expand on that?”

  “Just imagine how exhausted you’d be if every charity in the city was constantly on your doorstep, looking for a handout. That’s what we want to avoid.”

  “We, as in the city’s charity leaders? Or did you just slip into the Royal we? Sorry, I couldn’t tell.”

  A flash of irritation surfaced through the Botox mask. “We don’t want the high rollers in this city to view all charities as money-sucking leeches. That’s the bottom line here, Dasha. Everyone within the city’s charity community has an understanding that there’s a pecking order when it comes to approaching those who have money and are willing to donate. You need to know your place.”

  Shona splatted creamed peas over Arabella’s chin. “Damn.”

  Oh no, this rich bitch did not just say that to my face. “I really wish I had a cosmopolitan in my hand right now.”

  Her eyes widened. “Pardon?”

  “I assure you, I do know my place. I am curious, though. Where do you think my place is, Tiffany? Please, I invite you to enlighten me.”

  “I know where it’s not,” she returned without batting an eye. “It’s not standing at the side of one of my biggest contributors to the fund that keeps the Chicago Ballet and Dance Company in business. In the very small world of charities, it’s imperative that we all play nicely together so that our wealthy contributors don’t suffer charity fatigue. That begins and ends with not stealing each other’s toys.”

  “I hope you’re not referring to Jerry as a toy, because he struck me as a down-to-earth, blue-collar kind of guy who wouldn’t like that.” I didn’t take my eyes off her as I gave her a closed-lip smile of my own, and I knew mine was better. Whether or not it was something to be proud of, going for the throat was one thing a Vitaliev knew how to do better than anyone on the planet. “But I could be wrong. Tell you what—I’ll make a point of asking him on your behalf when I see him next.”

  Apparently Tiffany had more than a little Vitaliev-like ferocity in her too, if the hard light in her eyes was any indication. “Seriously, Dasha? You’re going to tell on me?”

  “What can I say, once a little sister, always a little sister. For what it’s worth, Jerry probably won’t give a damn about this visit of yours,” I added honestly, shrugging. “I specifically asked him if I would be stepping on your toes by coordinating this food drive with his grocery chain. He explained that the ballet company is his wife’s true passion, but it’s not a passion he shares. Making sure his grocery store chain has a super-sparkly public image—something that can’t be avoided when you make a massive public show of feeding underprivileged children—is all that Jerry cares about. So make no mistake, Tiffany. I didn’t poach one of your biggest contributors. Mrs. DiFiore is still solidly on your bandwagon. Jerry DiFiore never was, so talking to me about him means that you don’t know your place. But you do now, right? Or so I need to continue to educate you?”

  The silence ballooned as I waited for her to figure out what to say. Finally she huffed. “Well, I can see talking to you in a civilized manner isn’t going to get me anywhere.”

  “Really? I feel we made great progress here since we were able to educate each other about who’s who and what’s what. Now, is there anything else you’d like to discuss? I’m in a good mood and luckily for you I don’t have a beverage in my hand. Now is as good a time as any to chat, and I’d hate for you to think that this was a wasted trip.”

  She drew in a long breath that pinched her nose together, and I could almost hear her counting to ten. Then she smiled and in spite of myself, my admiration for her went up a notch. In another life
, she would have made a decent poker player.

  “As it happens, I’m hosting a Spring Fling dinner gala in a few weeks, co-hosted by the wife of my good friend and basketball Hall-Of-Famer, Michael Jaye. By the way, have you met him? That man makes it his business to know all the important people in Chicago.”

  Seriously, this chick needed to be bitch-slapped in the worst fucking way. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “I would be happy to introduce you if you decide to come. It’s just five-hundred dollars a plate, something I’m sure you can afford, and it’ll be well worth it to you to see how one of these events should be run. In addition to having your picture taken with Michael for a small donation to the ballet company, we’re also going to have the famous Russian dancer Mikhail Zeitzev perform a pas de deux with his new partner, Juliet De Winter. Have you ever heard of them?”

  “Feel free to send me the particulars on the gala, and I’ll be sure to put it on my calendar.” I wasn’t sure which had me more choked up—her appalling, elitist snobbery, the shameless name-dropping, or the whopping five-hundred dollar price of admission. I really needed to get my shit together if I wanted to keep up with the likes of—

  The door suddenly burst open and a flood of people surged in. My stomach lurched in shock when it dawned on me that most of them were in police uniform.

  “What the...?”

  Konstantin, who had been standing near the door, immediately pivoted to try to stem the tide, but there was no stopping it. He made a move toward his jacket that alarmed me so much I surged to my feet, ready to leap over the desk if I had to. “Kon.”

  Violence danced like madness in his eyes as he snapped his head toward me. Then his jaw knotted in an obvious bid for control, his chest heaving as he took several calming breaths. My attention shifted to a smallish, spare, middle-aged man with a thick pelt of salt and pepper hair who separated himself from the mob to aim for my desk. Unlike the others, he was dressed in a suit with a flak vest over it, the word “POLICE” emblazoned in white letters across on the left side of it, along with a gold badge hanging on a chain around his neck.