Randall #01 - The Best Revenge

by Anne R. Allen

  A shout rang from below. On the stony beach, two men, dressed in medieval armor, fought for the hand of a beautiful princess.

  The princess was Angela. “They can’t help you,” she called to Camilla. “They’re only little boys.” They were indeed: small boys, no more than eight or nine years old, and their weapons were toys.

  “You’ll have to jump,” Angela shouted.

  Camilla looked at the rocky drop below. She could hear Lester Stokes behind her. Down on the beach, the smiling Angela held out her arms. Camilla jumped.

  ~

  She woke to the sound of keys unlocking the door to her cell.

  The guard had brought nothing with her. No Lancôme; no letters to Dr. Lavinia; not even a Vogue.

  “Where are my things? The things my visitors bought today?”

  “You’ll get them on your way out,” the guard said in a tired voice.

  “Out?” Camilla said. “What do you mean—out?”

  “I mean out.” The woman held open the cell door. “Somebody put up your bail.”

  Mr. Jones was waiting in one of the interrogation rooms.

  “Sit down and relax,” he said when he saw her. “It’s going to take them a while to process you.”

  “But—who?” Camilla said, feeling as if she were going to burst. “Who paid it? Mother? I didn’t think Lester would let her…”

  “Frankly, I don’t have any idea.” Mr. Jones gave an odd half-smile. “The bond was paid by a bank officer acting on behalf of something called the Gold Foundation—some big-bucks charity. Ring any bells?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, I’d say you have friends in high places. Good friends.”

  “High places?” Camilla thought of the cliffs in her dream. “Oh, goodness—it must be Angela Harper. That certainly explains it.”

  “Explains what, Ms. Randall?”

  “My dream. I just had this dream. I jumped off a cliff and Angela caught me. And she has, hasn’t she—caught me?”

  “Someone has.” Mr. Jones looked uncomfortable. “Ms. Randall, now that you’ve rediscovered your VIP friends, will you be requiring the services of a Public Defender? I’ve spoken to your fiancé, but he didn’t seem to know your current financial status.”

  “My fiancé?”

  “Plant Smith. He’s waiting outside. I took the liberty of calling him, since he’s been phoning me every day. I assured him that most people do survive a week of incarceration.”

  “He told you he was my fiancé?”

  “He isn’t?”

  “Well, I guess he is, if he wants to be.”

  Poor Plant. She had been awfully hard on him about the Angela thing.

  “Well?” Glen said, smoothing his cowlick. “Am I still your lawyer?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. There may be a hearing to prove you need me, but—”

  “I’m sure you’ll do your best, Mr. Jones.”

  For a little boy, she thought, as his cowlick sprang back to life.

  Chapter 24—Phase Two

  “Camilla! Darling!” Plantagenet’s voice rang out as the heavy doors shut and Camilla found herself in a crowded room full of desks and typewriters and noisy people.

  She had never seen Plant look so beautiful. He had changed out of this morning’s suit and now wore beige slacks and a deep green cashmere sweater over a cream-colored shirt. She threw her free arm around him and buried her face in his cashmere shoulder.

  Her other arm was occupied with two packages, one with the magazines and make-up from her mother, and the other full of letters for Dr. Lavinia.

  “Are you all right, darling?” Plantagenet took the bundles and discreetly rubbed the part of his ribs where they had made impact.

  “I am now. Thank goodness you’re here. Mr. Jones said you were waiting for me, but that was hours ago.”

  “Four and a half hours, to be exact—but it’s all right, my love.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Jails are fascinating. Great for my writing. Maybe I can do a musical version of The Big House or The Bird Man of Alcatraz. I like that—I could call it For the Birds!” But he suddenly dropped his facade of feigned cheer and looked into her face. “Oh, you poor darling,” he said. “It must have been terrible!”

  “Do I look that awful?” She read the truth in his eyes. She wished she had been able to put on some of the make-up her mother brought, but she hadn’t been given the packages until a couple of minutes ago. She ran her fingers through her hair and tried to smooth out some of the wrinkles from her “Little Bo-Peep Dress,” which had apparently been stored in a small, damp hole since her arrest. “Let’s get out of here.” She had an awful feeling that all eyes in the room were focused on her.

  “All right, darling.” Plantagenet reached for her hand. “Smile, move as fast as you can, and don’t speak a word, no matter what anyone says to you.”

  He clutched her hand and led her toward the large front doors.

  “What’s going on?” His tone frightened her. “Who’s out there?”

  “Reporters,” he said. “They’re just reporters.” He ushered her firmly out the door into a sea of crazed humanity. They were everywhere—covering the steps, perched on the hand railings, and suspended from trucks. There were huge cameras, small cameras, and in-between cameras…and microphones, all coming at Camilla’s face. But mostly there were questions. Hundreds of questions. The air roared with them—

  “Did you kill him, Miss Randall?” “Why did you kill Jon-Don?”; “Are you carrying his baby?”; “Did the Mafia order the hit on Jon-Don?”; “How long have you been a drug addict?”; “Is the party over, Camille?”

  “No comment. Please let us through.” Plantagenet kept his arm tight around her shoulders, pushing her onward through the sea of bodies.

  When they finally reached the curb, Plant pried a cameraman away from the door of an old Datsun. He motioned Camilla to squeeze inside and fought his way to the other side of the car. She pointed to the parking ticket stuck on the windshield. With a string of words she had never heard him use before, Plantagenet grabbed the ticket, started the car, and took off at a terrifying rate of speed.

  “Plant, darling,” she said when he had finally been forced to stop for a red light. “I know you’re upset about the ticket, but do you need to drive quite so fast?”

  “Yes, I do,” he said, pointing behind. “I’ve got to lose at least some of these vultures before we move to Phase Two.”

  She turned around. Directly in back of them was a large van that said “Eyewitness News.” Behind that was a car with the logo of Channel 6. Their Datsun was at the head of a parade of vehicles that trailed for blocks.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “What’s Phase Two?”

  “You’ll see.” He made a screeching U-turn on two tires that took them back in the direction they’d come from. With a whoop and a grin, he crossed four lanes of traffic, made a left turn onto a cross street, pulled a sharp right into a service driveway, and, after a squealing, careening trip through the parking lot of a mini-mall, speeded toward a freeway on-ramp. Four exits later, he pulled off, drove a few blocks at nearly normal speed, pulled one more U-turn, and stopped in a narrow alleyway. He was still grinning.

  “I haven’t had that much fun since I sold my ’66 T-Bird,” he said. But his face grew cautious as he glanced around for a sign that anyone had followed. After a moment, he pulled Camilla from the car, and led her toward a shadowed doorway. With a key he drew from his pocket, he opened the door, motioning her inside.

  She stepped into darkness.

  “Phase Two?” she said tentatively.

  Plantagenet nodded and held a finger to his lips as he led her into the gloom. Quietly, the door closed behind them and they stood in utter blackness. Camilla was aware of nothing but a terrifying noise that sounded like hundreds of stomping feet; then—a series of ear splitting roars—like a dozen angry men preparing to attack. She filtered some words from the staccato roars.

>   The words seemed to be—“Now ain’t that too damn bad!”

  She clung to Plantagenet in terror. Now, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out, quite close to Plantagenet’s elbow, a wraith-like, shadowy figure, dressed entirely in black.

  “Come along, dears. I was afraid you wouldn’t make it. I expected you for the matinée.”

  They followed the black figure through the darkness. A door opened and they entered a large, brightly lit room that smelled of cigarette smoke and coffee. Piled everywhere were bolts of fabric and clothing of every conceivable color and texture. One wall held shelf after shelf of Styrofoam heads, displaying wigs and hats and fierce-looking helmets. On another hung capes and feather boas and yards of sparkling beads.

  The person in black—Camilla wasn’t sure if it was a man or a woman, turned and gave her a broad smile. He or she was about her height and had short, carefully styled red hair. The smiling face was tinted with rouge and lipstick, but the tight black turtleneck and slacks revealed nothing feminine about the slim, wiry body.

  “You must be Camilla, our naughty little heiress,” the person said, extending a slender white hand. “I’m Francis Xavier Callahan. Franny to my friends.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it with a flourish. “And I know we’re going to be friends, dear. After all, we have so much in common—the same dress size, the same taste in men.” He gave Plantagenet a flirtatious smile.

  Plantagenet did not smile back.

  “Oh, don’t worry, dears,” Franny went on. “I’m blissfully attached at the moment. Wouldn’t think of straying. Not when he comes complete with his own little mansion in Beverly Hills. Which reminds me—”

  He rummaged through a pile of costumes, papers, and sewing notions on a large desk by the door and extracted a set of keys. He handed them to Camilla.

  “There you go, dear heart. The little one opens the mail box. I’d appreciate it if you could check it every so often. And don’t over-water the dieffenbachia.”

  She stared at the keys. This was more than surreal.

  “Franny is going to lend you his apartment in Venice for a few weeks until things calm down,” Plantagenet said. He took the keys and carefully put them in his pocket. “It’s awfully decent of you, Franny. You’re saving our posteriors here. You have no idea what we’ve already been through trying to escape those media vampires.”

  “Only too happy to help a friend who’s sure to be rich and famous by the end of the year. Besides, I haven’t stayed there in weeks. Not since I moved in with You-Know-Who. I’m only keeping the place in case I get restless.”

  The door burst open and a handsome, slightly built young man rushed in. He wore a sailor shirt and hat and very little else.

  “Goddam crotch ripped out again.” He tossed pair of white pants at Franny. “And the sleeve’s going too.” He lifted an arm to show a split seam.

  “Better let me have them both.” Franny studied the shirt, gave Camilla a scrutinizing look, then turned back to the dancer. “You don’t wear these again tonight?”

  “I’m not on again till ‘Honeybunch’.” The young man stripped off his shirt. “These I won’t need till the matinée tomorrow.”

  “Hat, too,” Franny said. “We like to keep our costumes together.”

  Wearing nothing but a dance belt, the man walked out of the room, taking a cigarette from the pack of Virginia Slims that lay on the desk.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll give you a pack one of these days.”

  “You’ll give me more than that one of these days,” Franny said with a lascivious grin as he walked over to a table housing several sewing machines.

  He studied Camilla again. “You are going to be such a cute little sailor, dear heart.” He put a spool of thread on one of the machines. “Plant, there’s another suit on the chair. Why don’t you try it on?”

  “Franny, we don’t have time to play.” Plantagenet bounced from one foot to another, as if he were trying to keep in motion. “I just need the keys to the rental car. I left your Datsun in the alley. I got a parking ticket, but I’ll pay it right away.”

  “Of course you will, dear, because otherwise, Alexander the Great and all his little friends will go on stage stark naked on opening night.” Franny finished up the pants seam and started to work repairing the shirt. “Now, Miss Camilla, do what Aunt Franny says and put on your sailor suit. Plant, you try on the red wig over there. I think we should put our heiress in the black one. With some Light Egyptian pan-cake, we can turn her into the cutest little Filipino sailor.”

  Plantagenet laughed. “Disguises? Oh, Franny, don’t you think it’s a bit much?”

  “Never underestimate the power of the media,” Franny said. He handed the repaired sailor costume to Camilla. “This will fit you perfectly. Just make sure it’s back for the matinee. Put it on, dear.” He casually unzipped the back of her dress and turned to Plantagenet. “Especially when the media is onto a juicy story. And she is a juicy story, our Camilla.”

  After a frantic look around the room for a place to change, she pulled off her dress.

  “Slip, too,” Franny said. “It’s a definite Fashion Don’t for a sailor to let his slip show.”

  She took off her slip, uncomfortable in a way she’d never felt before—to be so unclothed in front of Plant.

  “So tell me, dear heart, just between friends,” Franny went on as she scrambled into the costume. “What was Jon-Don like in bed?”

  “Mr. Callahan,” Plantagenet said in a fiercely quiet voice. “Will you shut your Nellie trap?”

  “Sorry,” Franny said meekly. “Just trying to make conversation.” He smoothed the collar on her shirt. “A perfect fit. Isn’t it a perfect fit, Plant?”

  Plantagenet studied her for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think it will work.”

  He picked up the sailor hat from the desk and put it on her wigged head, stood back and burst into laughter. “In the Na-avy!” he sang, breaking into the Village People anthem. “In the Na-avy!” He laughed and danced her around the room. Franny giggled and joined in, complete with disco moves.

  Camilla could do nothing but disco along with them.

  Chapter 25—A Polka Dot Submarine

  By the time they reached Venice, Camilla’s sides ached from laughing. Even though they hadn’t seen anybody following when they left the theater—by the shop door, carrying a couple of papier-mâché palm trees as cover—Plant took them on another careening ride through the environs of Los Angeles, this time in a rented ’82 Chrysler with some real pick-up.

  Now, as they walked down the pathway to a tiny building behind the main house at the address Franny had given them, Camilla joined in as Plant sang his repertoire of nautically themed songs.

  “We all live in a yellow submarine,” Plant searched his pockets for Franny’s keys.

  “Yellow submarine, yellow submarine.” Camilla deepened her voice to an almost masculine range.

  “Shut up, you goddam faggots!” shouted an angry voice from the front house.

  This outburst convulsed them both with such a fit of giggles that when Plantagenet got the door open, they almost tumbled into the room, falling together onto a black chintz sofa, where they sat panting for air.

  Wiping his laugh-tears with a sleeve, Plant said, “God, I’m hungry. Are you hungry, sailor?”

  “I could eat a whale.” Camilla looked at her watch. It said 10:34 PM. she hadn’t eaten since her jail breakfast.

  “Let’s see what Franny’s got in the fridge.” Plant explored an alcove that contained a tiny sink, a stove and a small, ancient refrigerator. “Oh, yum. Some bread that’s eligible for Medicare, a jar of mustard, and half a burrito that Father Junipero Serra left behind in 1725.”

  “What kind of mustard?”

  “Darling, I wouldn’t feed you a jar of mustard for dinner, even if it was Grey Poupon.” He searched Franny’s cupboards. “Since Franny obviously does not often dine at home, I think I’d better
make a jaunt to the local market. What do you feel like?”

  “Anything. As long as it’s fast.”

  Plantagenet opened the door and tilted his sailor cap forward.

  “Two burgers and fries for our fighting Navy men. I promise not to stop at a tattoo parlor on the way home.” He walked off singing ‘Anchors Aweigh’.

  Her giggles stopped as soon as the door shut behind him. She felt alone and trapped in the tiny apartment. She looked around, expecting to find a door to a bedroom, but soon she saw that the place was just a tiny one-room studio, probably a converted tool shed. It might have seemed quite cozy and dollhouse-like, but unfortunately, it was decorated entirely in screaming red and black lacquer and chintz. A huge picture of Liza Minelli in her red dress from New York, New York dominated a whole wall. The one small window was nearly obscured by a yellowing dieffenbachia. She took a red satin pillow, shaped like a giant pair of lips, from a black and red polka-dot chair and tossed it on the couch, where a number of similar pillows were arranged. It didn’t help. The place was going to take some getting used to.

  Feeling decidedly silly in the sailor suit, she ripped off the hat and wig and washed off the heavy make-up. In the only closet, she found a sort of unisex short black satin kimono. Franny was right. They wore the same size.

  She turned on the small TV perched on an entertainment center under Liza’s picture and tried to relax as she watched the end of a Love Boat episode. But the music stopped abruptly and a blonde woman announced happily that something unspeakable had happened in El Salvador. She smiled and went to the next topic—

  “Camilla Randall, the jet-set party girl accused of killing actor Jon-Don Parker, was released on bail this afternoon.”

  The picture changed and Camilla saw herself, clutching Plantagenet, making her hurried exit from the county jail. In the wrinkled, childish dress, with her stringy hair and no make-up, she looked like some 5-year-old who’d just been rescued from a well. She sank further down into the polka dot chintz as she watched herself smirk at the camera.