A Brush with Death

by Joan Smith

  “A call just came in for the sheikh,” he said in an excited voice. “Ayesha took the message. Said he'd be back at five. The guy asked him to call 487-8321."

  When I told John, his face glowed like a tropical sunrise. “That's Bergma's unlisted number,” he said softly. “It's starting to break. I'd better give Gino a buzz and get him over here. We don't want him stuffing a turkey when the shooting begins."

  He made the call, trying to sound cool, but anyone who knows him well could hear the suppressed excitement.

  When Sheikh Rashid entered the hotel about half an hour later, Export A called to tell us. John came to rigid attention. “This could be it. If Bergma was telling the truth, Rashid should call him as soon as Ayesha gives him the message."

  “Export A will tell us if he returns Bergma's call."

  We sat, watching the minutes tick away on our watches. “It shouldn't have taken him this long,” John worried.

  “Rashid will want time to think, make plans. He may not even phone from here."

  In nine and a half minutes, there was a tap at the door, sending us both up from our chairs as if a high-powered charge of electricity had gone through them. It was only Gino.

  “This better be important,” he scowled. “If I don't get that stuffing made, we'll be eating a dry bird tomorrow."

  “It's important,” John assured him, and filled him in. “It's a good thing we kept you out of it, Gino. Bergma would have suspected the phone was bugged if he'd known the cops were involved."

  The phone rang again. This time three of us were lifted from our seats. I answered. “Hello."

  “Cass, Victor here. You'll never guess who I ran into in Ogilvy's. Charlie Hunter, out doing his last-minute shopping."

  “Who's Charlie Hunter?"

  “The A and R man for Cosmos records. He wants to discuss a deal with me. He suggested we do dinner tonight. You and John can get along without me?"

  Getting along without him seemed a superb idea. “Of course. You just enjoy yourself."

  I hung up as soon as decently possible. We didn't want the line tied up. “Just Victor,” I explained.

  We waited some more, as the last rays of afternoon faded and night set in, early at the end of December. By five o'clock, it was completely dark outside, except for the reflection of streetlights. It was a strange way to spend Christmas Eve. If we left right now, we'd be home by midnight, but it was becoming increasingly clear we wouldn't be leaving at all soon. I hadn't got John's new present or even picked up the old one in my apartment. Of course he'd understand.

  At five-fifteen the phone rang again, shattering the uneasy tedium of our vigil. John took it this time. It was Export A. He listened and said, “Good work. Keep it up."

  As he set down the receiver, his eyes lifted. They were radiant. “Twelve midnight, on top of the mountain,” he said. “I hope one of you knows where that is."

  “Whereabouts on top of the mountain?” Gino demanded.

  “He means the hill in Mount Royal, where kids ski and sled,” I interpreted. “It should be thoroughly deserted at midnight on Christmas eve."

  “So, what's going down?” Gino demanded.

  “The sheikh and Bergma are meeting. Export A says Ayesha gave the message. The sheikh was taking a shower."

  “Cool bastard,” Gino grumbled. “Did she mention the pictures?"

  “She said, and I quote, ‘Rashid wants you to bring the items. He'll want to see them.’ Bergma got all flustered, but they must know he has them. ‘Bring them,’ she said, and hung up.

  “He certainly conned us!” I exclaimed.

  “It isn't the first time,” Gino admitted. “I once let a dame convince me she was rushing a sick kid to a hospital. What she was doing was hustling a load of contraband cigarettes over the border—in a school van yet, half full of kids on a field trip. Cigs are about half price in the States. Taxes. A good thing I gave her a siren escort, or she'd have got away. A big, busty blonde, she was. Well, midnight. That gives me time to go home and finish my stuffing. I'll be back here at eleven. Which means I'll have to miss midnight mass. Jeez, I love midnight mass. But I'll be here. Eleven suit you, Weiss?"

  “That suits me just fine, Gino. If there's any change of plans, you'll hear."

  “Don't stuff the bird till tomorrow,” I added. “The stuffing can get tainted if you put it in the day before."

  He looked deeply wounded. “I know that! I always stuff the bird. No oysters though. Shellfish make Ma sick. I use apples and celery and onions, along with the breadcrumbs and stuff. Oh, and raisins. Very tasty, if I do say so myself."

  He left, and John and I relaxed, for about two minutes. “Victor's away for the evening,” John said contentedly. “We've got four or five hours to ourselves. Got any ideas?"

  “Shopping,” I announced. “I haven't finished my Christmas shopping."

  He looked dumbfounded. “The stores will be closed."

  “Not if I hurry."

  I went to my room and began scrambling into my coat. John followed, grumbling. “You left it kind of late, didn't you? I've heard of last-minute shopping, but this is ridiculous."

  “I just have to get one thing."

  “Oh, you hadn't planned on Victor's being here. Well, I'll go with you."

  “No!” I exclaimed loudly.

  “Is it for me? Look, Cass, we agreed, just a token. If you haven't got around to it, it doesn't matter. Just being here with you is the best present I could have."

  “I didn't forget your present! It's at my apartment. This is something else."

  “Gino? I don't think he's planning on exchanging gifts with us. I got him a bottle of Black Label, but—"

  “It's not for Gino, silly."

  “Who, then? Who else are you going to be seeing between now and Christmas?"

  “Never mind."

  “I'm going with you. I don't want you out on the streets alone after dark."

  “You better stay here and mind the phone."

  “Damn, you're right. Let me call Menard. He can go with you."

  “I won't go far. I'll be fine, John. Do you think I never go out alone at night when you're not here? Don't be so protective. I'll walk softly and carry a big purse.” I lifted my shoulder bag to show him how big.

  He pulled me into his arms. “I can't help it. If anything happened to you..."

  I gave him a fond smile and a light smack on the mustache. “I know. You can't live without me. Except for the ninety-nine percent of the time we're on opposite sides of the ocean."

  “I made a mistake, urging you to go on with your studies. No reason a lady couldn't study French at the Sorbonne..."

  I gulped in delighted surprise. “I better go,” I said, and went, mind reeling with delightful images of the only Paris I know, that seen in movies and magazines. The Eiffel Tower, l'Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, and last but not least, Maxim's.

  In a French mood, I bought John a bottle of Yves Saint Laurent eau de toilette for men. The drugstore was closing when I went in, and they didn't have a wrapping service, so I had to get paper and ribbon too. Then, with the clerk jiggling impatiently, I remembered Victor. He hadn't mentioned receiving my present. I'd sent him a rather nifty pen and pencil set. The clerk outstared me, and I decided one present for my uncle was enough.

  John was pacing the floor like an expectant father when I returned. His worried frown faded into a smile of welcome. “What do you say we order dinner in?” he asked.

  “What do you mean, pizza?"

  “On Christmas Eve? I meant room service. Wine, turkey, the works."

  “You can't have turkey on Christmas Eve, John. You have that for Christmas dinner."

  “Is it a law? I'd like turkey."

  “Yes, it's a law. The anti-Christmas Eve turkey law. I'll have a pepper steak. You can pick the wine. Oh, and something from the French pastry tray. You choose. I have to wrap my present."

  That took about five minutes, three of which were used to cut a huge s
heet of wrapping paper to size with my manicure scissors. The edge looked as though a mouse had gnawed through it, but I folded it under. The bow was bigger than the box. I turned on the TV while I worked, and listened to some boys’ choir sing Christmas hymns. The Christmas feeling was there, just on the edge of my grasp, but not quite getting through to me. I wanted the Christmas feeling. When the present was wrapped, there was no tree to put it under.

  I probably looked woebegone when I went back to the sitting room. “Sorry I messed up your Christmas, honey,” he said. “Would you like to open your present now? It might put you in the mood."

  I was tempted, but the strong arm of tradition held me in its grasp. “Not till tomorrow morning. Let's just sit here and listen to the Christmas carols and imagine there's a tree in the corner. I guess we could probably allow ourselves one drink, since zero hour isn't till midnight."

  “I ordered wine with dinner. Let's wait. I'll tell you what, why don't you go and take a shower and put on one of those fancy dresses? Maybe that'll put you in a party mood."

  I didn't want a party mood; I wanted a—the Christmas mood. I felt an atavistic longing for the trembling excitement of Christmases past, believing in Santa Claus, aching with impatience for him to come. It hadn't been like that for years, but the memory returned every December.

  “Dinner isn't coming till seven, so you can take a nice relaxing soak if you like. I think I'll do the same,” John said.

  The hotel supplied little samples of assorted toiletries, including a bubble bath. I decided to indulge myself. It was strange that I thought so little about the case as I lay in the warm water, with bubbles tickling my chin. That was on hold till midnight or thereabouts. For the next half hour I just let my mind roam. It often veered in the direction of John's present for me. He already had it, and it wasn't big enough to be obvious in his room. Something small, then. A ring?

  That was what I wanted. I didn't care if it was a small diamond. I didn't care if it was a zircon, just as long as it was an imperishable piece of metal I could stick on my third finger, left hand, as a symbol of our love. Or a token, if you will.

  Since the white gown had had one outing, I wore the gold one. I shimmered like sunshine on water when I stood at the mirror. Even the punishing fluorescent light over the sink couldn't completely mar the effect. It was my hair that did that, so I twisted it up behind in a swirl and used a lavish hand with the eye makeup. I wore Sherry's present again on my ears. I really loved those heavy, uncomfortable earrings. They tinkled like tiny wind chimes at my ears and looked festive.

  When I was all set for my grand entrance, I opened the door and went into the sitting room. I blinked, and stared, unable to believe my eyes. It had been transformed into a perfect model of Christmas Eve. A tree, fully decorated, had grown in the corner. Beneath it lay an embarrassment of beautifully wrapped presents. Poinsettias were everywhere. Tinsel bedizened the doorway. Tears dimmed my eyes, and a mute surge of emotion swelled inside me. The boys’ choir on TV was singing “Silent Night."

  Through the mist of tears, I saw John, looking haggard and sweaty from his task. He hadn't taken his long soak or even changed. He had been scurrying around like a squirrel to create this miracle. I ran into his arms, blubbering like a baby. “John, how did you—where did all this come from? Oh, I feel so—"

  He crushed me in his arms and kissed me into silence. What made me think I needed a ring? I had something better than cold metal. I had a sweet, caring man, one in a zillion, and an unforgettable moment I'd relive a thousand times. I dabbed at my melting mascara and just looked at him.

  “You!” What could I say? “Oh John, this is too much. I feel—and I only got you a stupid book."

  “Sweetheart, I don't need any present but the look on your face."

  He meant it too. I didn't really need any present but the look on his face and the love gleam in his eyes. “I hope these aren't all for me!"

  “Not all. There's something there for Victor and Export A."

  “How did you do all this? I was only gone half an hour."

  “Forty minutes. Export A and the staff did most of it. I ordered the tree and trim yesterday, and the stores wrapped the presents for me."

  “But when did you buy them?"

  “I picked out most of them when we went shopping for your working clothes and had Export A keep them downstairs. I noticed the things you liked but didn't buy."

  “Oh lord, I feel like such a piker."

  He lifted my chin and smiled into my eyes. “Hey, it's a fiancé's prerogative to load his beloved down with a bunch of foolish stuff she'll never use."

  “Never use! That's what you think! If that white cashmere turtleneck is there, I may put it on and never take it off."

  “Oh yeah, it's there. And the plaid slacks—"

  “No, don't tell me!"

  “Aren't you going to open them?"

  “Of course I am, on Christmas morning. I have the Christmas feeling, John. And it isn't the presents. It isn't that at all. It's—oh, it sounds so corny. It's love."

  “We like corn, out in Nebraska,” he said, and took my hand to point out various details of the decor. “Since you're so traditional, I got all red poinsettias. They come in white and pink now too."

  I squeezed his hand. “I like red best."

  He squeezed mine back. “I thought you would."

  The room started misting up again. “I just can't believe it. You did all this."

  “I only have these few days to spoil you. This is to make up for all the dates we've missed. And all the phone calls I didn't make. I guess I got a little ticked off a while back when I called two or three times and you were out—on dates with other guys.

  “Sherry didn't tell me!"

  “That's because I'm a cunning rascal. I didn't tell her who was calling. I was working myself into a real lather."

  “If it bothers you that much, I won't see other men."

  He considered it a moment. “No, that's unreasonable. A coed wants to go to the college dances and things. Just remember who it is you love."

  “I'm not likely to forget it."

  Dinner arrived on a trolley, and we just stood gazing lovingly at each other while the waiter arranged it. He must have thought we were both zonked on something. We didn't say a word. Before we ate, John poured the wine and proposed a toast.

  “Merry Christmas, darlin'. I hope it's the first of many we share."

  “I'II drink to that, John."

  CHAPTER 17

  “I wonder if Ayesha will go to Mount Royal with the sheikh,” I mentioned, over coffee. John wanted to keep his head clear for business, but I was sipping a liqueur.

  “He won't take a lady along. We don't really know how deeply she's in all this. She's probably just an innocent messenger."

  We exchanged a certain look, a kind of contest of wills. He had refused to let me go with him; a decision not yet accepted by me. After our splendid evening, I wasn't in a mood to fight about it, but subtler persuasions might be brought to bear.

  “You've got a job to do here,” he pointed out. “I'll leave you the number of the car phone. You're going to phone us and let us know when the sheikh leaves the hotel. We want to be there early."

  “You know perfectly well that the Mountie Gino has downstairs is going to do that. Don't patronize me, John."

  “No, the Mountie's going to follow the sheikh and just make sure he goes where he said he was going. Christmas Eve, we didn't want to call in any more men than necessary. You have that phone number I gave you?” I nodded sulkily.

  It was ten-thirty. John was leaving at eleven. “I wish Victor would get back before I have to leave,” he worried. “I don't like to leave you here alone."

  I was swift to point out, “I'll probably be in more danger here than if I were with you."

  “That bone's already been picked clean, darlin'. You're staying here."

  “Then I might as well get sloshed,” I said defiantly, and poured myse
lf another glass of Bailey's Irish Cream. John knows it's my weakness and had given me a bottle in one of those gifts under the tree. It was the only one I opened.

  “Why not? It'll help you relax."

  Our idyllic evening had been interrupted by calls to Gino and visits from Export A. It had been arranged that John would meet Gino a few blocks away, at the corner of Sherbrooke and Crescent.

  “I'll have to stay awake long enough to phone you when Export A lets me know the sheikh has left though,” I pointed out.

  The quick look of surprise that flickered over his face told me the Mountie downstairs had been ordered to do that. John didn't say anything, but I ribbed him about it. “If the job's already been assigned to someone else, tell me."

  “No, no! You phone,” he insisted. “That way, I'll know you're safe."

  It was a crumb to appease me. I looked at the tree, with presents all around the floor beside it, and relented. He was only making me stay here because he didn't want me to be in any danger. I knew that and appreciated it. I was only frustrated, not angry.

  “Take care of yourself, John,” I said softly. “What time do you think you'll be back?"

  “Not before two. We'll have to take them down to the station. Don't wait up for me."

  “As if I could sleep!"

  We sat together on the sofa, looking at the tree and talking and kissing till it was time for John to go. Then I sat on alone, just thinking. It was so quiet you could hear the poinsettias breathe. I turned up the TV and poured myself the last cup of coffee to make sure I stayed awake. At eleven-thirty, Export A phoned up and said the sheikh had just left, alone. Ayesha hadn't accompanied him. I dutifully called Gino's car and relayed the information, fully aware that the Mountie had beat me to it, but John might worry if I didn't phone as arranged. Victor still hadn't returned. I wondered what Ayesha was doing. This would be her chance to break free of Rashid, when they arrested him. She could return half the stuff she'd bought at the store and live on that till she got work. I'd speak to Victor about the work.

  When the phone buzzed ten minutes later, my heart jumped straight into my mouth. It was only Victor. “Are you still up?” he asked.