by Scott, D. D.
But our social splashes were going to be more Godfather style, as in private parties for Sonja Medici and our posse.
Events that hopefully wouldn’t end-up even more Godfather in the vein of “Leave the gun; take the cannoli” and “Try the veal, it’s the best in the city”.
Everyone knows that some of the best moments in film have come from organized crime in gastrocentric settings. We were about to see if our life could imitate cinema art. And yeah, I was desperately hoping it wouldn’t.
Here we now were at some little French bistro, and I was fingering the tops of my hair paddles, sort of poised and ready to nail the bitch if I needed too.
‘Course maybe because we were at a French restaurant, instead of the Italian variety the food-crazed mob preferred, we’d be better off.
I was seated on one side of a checkered tablecloth, across from Sonja Medici, next to Roman and R, and interestingly enough Ross too.
I felt as if we were having our own mob family business meeting.
So who was Ross?
Some kind of underboss?
But I didn’t have time to continue thinking about that because Roman, our family don, had decided the meeting should start.
“Thank you for meeting with us,” Roman began, never giving Sonja a hint as to what he was really after.
God it was hot when he went into ultra-smooth, Bond mode. No wonder every woman wanted to be a Bond Girl. Who wouldn’t get a thrill being with their own Bond?
“You’re welcome,” Sonja said, then sighed before continuing, “It’s time.”
“Time for what?” I asked, but before I could ask more, Roman had placed his hand on my knee then gave it a small squeeze, signaling me to stick with our planned script.
Sonja fidgeted. Which I thought was good, but seemed to make the Three R’s nervous.
“I need you to tell me how it is that you’re still managing to conduct business with McCall,” Roman said, calm but with a tone that all of us knew meant would quickly evaporate and turn to intense heat, if need be, to get the information he wanted.
“That’s ridiculous,” Sonja began, although the harrumph and tight laugh that escaped her meant perhaps she didn’t think it was that ridiculous at all. “McCall is in prison.”
“We all know that doesn’t mean much,” Roman said, fiddling with the fork next to his plate of veal.
That was my cue.
“Damn these things are killing my head. Sorry. But I can’t take it anymore,” I said, removing the paddles from my hair, just like R had instructed me to do, then placing them thick end facing Sonja.
Sonja looked at me as if I’d lost my marbles. But little did she know, she was about to lose hers.
I then pressed lightly on the large crystal on the top of my brooch that for this plan, was secured to the gigantic collar of my Owens’ alien dress.
Now, I’d managed to set-up both our weapons and our recording system.
All that was left was for the boys to reel in the super-smelly, queen fish Sonja Medici.
“I’ve talked to Bernie on the prison phones a few times. But those are monitored, so I’m sure all of us here know the details of those conversations,” Sonja said, the confidence in her tone a stark contrast to her body language which looked as if she were wanting to run outta the restaurant as quickly as she could.
“Ahhh. But who do you think is monitoring those calls?” Ross added.
My Ross. Well he was supposed to be my Ross, although the way he was acting today was far, far from the gay, fashion-loving guy I’d thought I’d employed only a few short months prior to now. And what would that Ross know about prison phone monitoring?
Now I was confused even more, because Ross had no lines in the script R and Roman had gone over with me.
Sonja now looked as if she were not only wanting to jump ship asap but disappear forever if she could. Sweat actually beaded the heavy foundation coating her broad forehead. And her super large and dark cocoa-dyed brows knitted together in a what-kind-of-deal-can-I-make-to-live way.
“I presume the prison officials control the phones,” she said, inching up in her seat and resting her arms on the edge of the table.
“One in your, what should I say, delicate position should never presume. You should know by now, that in McCall’s world, there are always front men for everything. Very dedicated soldiers,” R said, his voice never leaving the quiet but deadly strength always lying just under his lowest vibrato.
With that piece of information, Sonja actually looked as if she had to use the bathroom…very urgently.
Although, her getting up and leaving the table only brought back more Godfather images I’d just as soon not be focusing on at this time.
And, if she did get up, I’d be forced to crack her with my hair paddles, which R had reinforced with these ridiculously horrid metal spikes that would not feel very good at all.
Sonja’s tight, ultra-thin lips, parted several times, as if she were about to speak, each time snapping shut because obviously we had her, and she didn’t know what to do next.
“The way I see it, you have a couple of options here,” Roman leaned back in his chair, totally at ease with reeling in the big fish of the world like Medici. “You can either give us the information we know you have then hope to get spared the chair or worse, ‘cause let’s face it, you’ll never make it in prison long enough to get the chair. Or, you can hold onto to what you got and try to keep running, which you’re apparently not very good at.”
Our table suddenly became uncomfortably silent, each of us looking at each other, trying to figure out who knew what and how we were going to get it out of ‘em.
So many secrets. So little time to share them.
“Everything you need is right here,” Sonja said, placing her Blackberry square in the center of Roman’s veal cutlets, red potatoes, and waxed green and yellow beans.
“I don’t believe you, but nice try,” Roman said, pressing the play button on the message Sonja had evidently cued-up.
Bernie McCall’s scratchy, serpentine voice slithered through the cell waves connecting Paris to his prison in The States.
So Alex was right. Her father was calling the shots. At least some of ‘em. From prison.
“Smart move, Sonja. Well-played. And congratulations, you’ve bought yourself some time,” Roman said, just like our script called-for.
I still couldn’t believe the plan was to let Sonja walk outta this bistro, both alive and without my hair paddle stuck to her face. But who was I? Only a Stylist to The Stars, very misguided in my thoughts that a P.I. Gig might be a nice moonlighting career.
Sonja immediately reached for her purse, and was about to bolt from our table as quick as her little stumpy torso would allow.
“Not so fast, Medici,” Roman said, removing the Blackberry from his veal and handing it to R who immediately wiped the remnants of Roman’s meal off the back of the phone before slipping it into his coat pocket. “You’ve only bought yourself some time with my assistant Ross, who is gonna make your life quite interesting.”
That news—totally unscripted—caused me to lose the appetite for my veal cutlets.
“Ross is my assistant,” I said, not giving a damn that that wasn’t one of my well-rehearsed lines, since apparently we were no longer following our script.
Ross lifted his shoulders and mouthed “sorry”, for the last time, as my assistant.
“Well, he was my assistant. At one time. Right? All mine. I hired him. I paid him. He worked for me.”
Roman returned to his veal, leaving me with a silent answer to my question.
Ross wasn’t my assistant and never had been. He belonged to Roman and R. I’d gone from killing The Three Stooges to meeting The Three R’s.
No wonder Ross had been one lousy, shitty ass fashion assistant. He wasn’t gay, and he wasn’t into fashion. He was a Bond Boy, and preferred to work for a Prince and his Quartermaster than help fill my Red Carpet world with to die for
fashion.
‘Course, I guess the “to die for” part fit both Ross’s worlds.
But did it fit both of my worlds?
That I wasn’t so sure of anymore.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Two days later, not only had I survived European Spring Fashion Week—its theme paying homage to YSL’s seventy’s era jumpsuits—I was now face-to-face with the infamous, Ponzi-scheming King himself Bernard McCall, in his jumpsuit…although his was orange and far from the quality of fabric used in YSL designs.
It was very clear from Roman and I’s interview of McCall, who was of course flanked by impeccably dressed lawyers, who were also probably soldiers in his Cozy Cash mafia-style underworld, that this was our puppeteer.
Interesting how on the outside, people like McCall appear to be on top of the world, people with dangerously charming and privileged exteriors, whose interiors and operations wreak of the underworld normally reserved for mafia dons.
People like Roman and I, with the help of R and Ross, whosever assistant he really was, were taking on the most powerful men on not just Wall Street, but arguably the most powerful men on the globe.
Men who thought, like McCall, that the only reason they’d been brought down was because and by people jealous of their success.
In my short stint as a P.I., I’d learned that no one is policing and regulating our money markets—at least not the SEC created for that very purpose.
“The SEC investigators are idiots, assholes and blowhards,” McCall told us, growing more animated and full of disdain with each question we asked him.
“If you think you and Plum Puddin’ here are some kind of glorified line of defense against my global organization of feeder funds, you’re both beyond delusional,” McCall said then harrumphed, a dark and disturbingly evil twinkle shooting lightning strength challenge straight to our souls.
At hearing the man use a name, that ‘til now, only Roman had called me, I shivered.
Looking at Roman, I noticed even he seemed a bit unnerved.
“Bet you’re both a tad surprised I know about your pet names for each other, right?” McCall leaned back in his cheap plastic chair, a smug grin taking over his already smug expression.
The Cheshire Cat looked angelic next to this monster.
“Don’t ever underestimate my power,” he warned, crossing his arms and doing his best to stare us down.
Which, I must say, was sort of working on me.
But evidently, not on Roman, who pounded his hands on the table, causing my heart to damn near leap outta my throat.
“You’re the arrogant son of a bitch who’d better not underestimate power. Or perhaps overestimating your own will continue to hang your pathetic ass,” Roman said, his voice so quiet, yet controlled to the max, he was scaring the hell outta me as much as McCall.
I reminded myself to never, ever end up on this side of Roman Bellesconi, Prince Yada Yada Yada.
“People are tired of walking away from their shadows, sleeping with guns in their beds, and checking under the chassis and in the wheel wells of their cars because of you and your cowardly thugs,” Roman said, shoving his chair back with the backs of his legs then slamming it against the table the rest of us were still seated around.
“You’ve fucked with the wrong family, the wrong fortune, this time, McCall,” Roman said, after coming to stand behind Bernie then lowering his face next to his, his jaw so rigid and rock-like, if it brushed McCall’s, one or both men would implode.
“We’ll see about that,” McCall said, never flinching, although I swore he wasn’t carrying the same level of confidence as only seconds prior to Roman turning bad cop.
“Yes, you will indeed.”
With that promise, Roman signaled to me, by moving his head toward the door of the interview room, it was time for us to leave.
As I got out of my chair and shoved my notes back into my tote, Roman broke the sudden silence in the room by slamming down Sonja’s personally engraved Blackberry onto the metal table that so far still stood between us and McCall, although, the rate these two were going I was betting one of ‘em overturned it. And my money was going on Roman.
McCall, obviously very familiar with the Medici crest, flinched upon recognizing it on the phone’s Swarovski crystal embedded cover.
“Look familiar?” It was Roman’s turn to gloat. “Many things on the data saved on this beauty sure sounded familiar.”
“I’d like to go back to my cell,” McCall requested of the guard closest to him and his attorney, who interestingly enough, had never said one word our entire visit. “This conversation is over.”
“Not by a long shot.” Roman said.
And not a one of us in that overly stark and sterile room wouldn’t believe the threat and promise held tight by his tone.
“One more thing,” Roman said while taking Sonja’s phone and curiously pushing a few buttons before turning the screen to face McCall.
“Do you happen to have Veruschka’s number handy? It appears Sonja wiped it from her phone.”
McCall’s neck flushed a medium pink before turning into the red of raw, steak tartare.
He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly choked before any words came out.
I had no idea what all this meant, but apparently, it meant a lot.
And obviously, it was also one of the tidbits my Secret Bond had chosen to keep to himself.
But dark wasn’t in this season. The Spring runways had been full of light. So I wasn’t staying in the dark anymore either.
If Roman didn’t feel like spilling the beans, I should probably plan on getting to know Veruschka very well.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Two weeks later, I was basking in having just returned to Music City, after making Camilla de Vil the talk of Tinsel Town, not because she’d dared blow about anything she’d been through in Europe…somehow, R had taken care of her having instant amnesia to all that. She knew nothing about anything Cozy Cash Op related.
All she did know, and couldn’t keep from blowing all over Hollywood, was her new-found respect and adoration of me and all the glorious experiences I’d personally given her at Spring Fashion Week.
I’m not sure what kinda cocktail R had given the bitch, but she’d managed to make my Styling Empire successful at all new levels.
Walking into my fave Jiffy Mart once more, on the corner of Pike’s Place and Sweenie Avenue, all I needed was a bottle of Naked Juice.
I was due at the airport in thirty minutes to board Roman’s plane back to The House of Savoy.
Hell, who was I kidding, no one could be satisfied calling that grand estate a “house”. And quite frankly, “castle” didn’t cut it either. Buckingham looked like The Bronx against My Bond’s beast of an estate.
So Naked Juice and a European Office for my rapidly growing international clientele…that’s what I was after.
And Roman had graciously offered to allow me to use our old suite in the castle as a home base ‘til I found a building in Milan to make my own.
I pulled into the parking space at the Jiffy Mart that only a few weeks ago had been the start of a P.I. adventure I’d never dreamed of.
And wow was I relieved to see a cute little neon green, Nissan Leaf electric car in the spot that last time had belonged to the Range Rover holding my first Dead Guy.
After buying my fave, all-things-green swamp juice, and immediately satisfying my sugar issues with a few quick sips of the healthy elixir, I walked back to my car, then fumbled for my keys in my new Victory by Victoria bag.
“No need to worry about your keys,” I heard a very Russian, and very recognizable and cultured voice inform me.
I turned around, thinking the voice had come from the neon green Leaf, then quickly surmised it had…and from the back end of the Glock that the Leaf’s driver, Roman’s Granny Veruschka, now had pointed at my head.
Damn.
Why can’t a gal just get a Naked Juice when she wants one an
d not have to deal with another thug guard gone-wrong?
THE END
Lip Glock
Book Two of the Cozy Cash Mystery Series
Chapter One
Life in a castle ain’t all it’s cracked-up to be.
Especially when you’ve arrived, against your will, at the wrong end of a Glock.
A Glock held to your chest by a woman old enough to be your Granny, and who’s endowed with monster-sized lips, formed into a maybe-evil-maybe-not, super-botoxed, Cheshire Cat grin.
And I mean it…Granny Veruschka’s lips take-up half her damn face. A face that once graced the world’s top fashion magazines, attached to a still-hot body that once prowled the high-end catwalks in all the world’s fashion meccas.
But now, that face — that had seen one too many botox injections, and a body, although still sleek and cat-like, currently filled with who-knew-what-the-hell kinda’ motivation — had held me at Glock-point.
So now…here I sit, in my fave of all positions — the fetal position…my new M.O. — gazing at the Actaeon sculpture in the ancient design of a water-filled cascade behind the Milan castle where I’m now being held hostage.
Not familiar with the story of Actaeon?
Here’s the scoop…
Actaeon is a figure from Greek mythology. His story has become an iconic motif in both Renaissance and post-Renaissance art, in which the hunter becomes the hunted.
Are you starting to get why I’m in the fetal position staring down good ‘ole Actaeon?
Let me make it perfectly clear and paint y’all a rather disturbing snapshot.
Actaeon was once a hunter of stag and wolves, but thanks to Artemis, another Greek Mythology big-shot, Actaeon was turned into a stag himself. His hunting dogs were turned into the wolves he hunted, and they ripped him apart.
Kinda the story of my life the last couple of weeks.
I’m Zoey Witherspoon, a fairly new, badge-toting P.I., and lately, I’ve been on Thug Guard hunting a twisted bundle of Ponzi-scheming turds.