by Judith Gould
“I’ll take good care of her,” Billie Dawn promised the detective.
So, instead of holing up in her bedroom and preoccupying herself with Snake, Billie sat up with Obi and offered what sympathy she could. Only after they got ready for bed did it occur to her that since Obi’s arrival, she hadn’t once given Snake or the terrifying chase so much as a fleeting thought. She hadn’t even noticed that her adrenaline had dissipated and her shakes had vanished. Strange, she thought, how providing someone else with emotional succor was just the tonic she herself needed.
Duncan called. “I’m sorry our evening turned out the way it did,” he told her gently. “If you need anything, I’ll be here.”
“I’m fine now, Doc,” she assured him.
And it was true: she was. Joy’s murder made her own problems seem inconsequential.
“I’m not trying to be pushy, but since this evening’s date was ruined, mind if we try again?” he asked.
“We’ll see,” Billie said evasively. In truth, she didn’t want to get involved with him any further—for his sake, not hers. The incident with Snake proved just how dangerous knowing her could be. Then, feeling responsible for his trashed car, she said, “Yes. Let’s try again.” After all, she owed him something for his troubles, and if that meant having dinner with him, then it was the least she could do. The very least.
“There’s no rush,” he said agreeably. “Anytime you’re up to it, just give me a buzz.”
“I’ll do that,” Billie said, grateful that he was sensitive enough not to try to pin her down to a firm date and time. Besides, despite the disastrous turn their date had taken, the idea of seeing him again appealed to her immensely. “I’ll call you real soon,” she added, surprising herself.
“And next time, we’ll stay uptown,” he promised with a good-humored chuckle, ringing off before he made too much of a nuisance of himself.
Hallelujah opened her window, climbed up on the sill, and eased herself out. She dropped easily down to the terrace, four feet below. Both her mother and Ruby were sound asleep. She knew, because she’d sneaked into their rooms and checked.
She pried open the faulty study window and climbed inside. Playing a flashlight around the room, she avoided the toppled mountain of magazines and headed straight for the easel, selecting ten of what she considered were her mother’s best fashion sketches. She stuck them inside her T-shirt and silently left the way she’d come, wedging the window shut behind her.
She knew that sooner or later her mother would find out what she’d done—and when she did, she’d do either of two things: thank her or kill her.
Back in bed, she dialed her father. “I got ‘em, Pops,” she rasped in her best imitation of a 1930’s gangster. “It went down like a piece of cake.”
“Pops?” Duncan Cooper sputtered. “Pops?”
“Yeah, Pops. I’ll get the pics to ya first thing in the A.M., huh?” And with that, cat burglar Hallelujah Cooper hung up.
Chapter 39
The next day. Afternoon.
Santelli’s Salle d’Armes on West Twenty-seventh Street was jumping. All around, pairs of white-clad fencers, faces hidden behind black mesh masks, did carefully choreographed ballets of thrusts and parries. Their vibrating foils whistled and whipped and clashed.
The sounds filtered into the locker room, where Duncan Cooper had already changed into his fencing outfit. “Well?” he asked the man seated on the bench.
Leo Flood studied the last of Edwina’s sketches, which Hallelujah had smuggled to Duncan that very morning. He looked up. “They’re good,” he said, nodding approval. “In fact, they’re damn good.”
Still in his late twenties, Leo Flood exuded power and prime-time looks. But despite being impossibly handsome and youthful, there was nothing inexperienced about his face: he had the kind of aggressive intensity that is a merger of intelligence with street smarts.
Leo Flood was the epitome of that 1980’s business phenomenon— the young leveraged buyout king who had come from nowhere, with nothing in his pocket, and overnight had set the financial world ablaze.
He was tall, over six feet, and whippet thin, but wiry with lean muscle. Had hair black as ebony and ice-green eyes that pierced. A tan that wouldn’t quit. And slashing, almost Slavic cheekbones, with slanting black eyebrows to match.
Leo put the sketches down. “Know if she’s working for any particular designer at the moment?”
“She used to be at de Riscal, but right now she’s looking around.”
“She designed at de Riscal?”
Duncan gave a short laugh. “Nobody designs at de Riscal except the great Antonio himself. She handled his shows.”
“And her relationship to you?” Leo looked at him slyly. “She your girl?”
Duncan smiled wryly. “Try ex-wife.”
Leo got to his feet and clapped Duncan on the back. “Trying to win her back, eh, sport?”
“Actually, no. It’s just that my daughter claims that with nothing to do, Eds is driving her up the wall. You once told me you wanted to invest in fashion. Fine. I happen to know she’s available and she has what it takes to make a go of it. She knows Seventh Avenue like nobody else—and is a damn good designer herself. So I’m steering you to her. Now that I’ve done that, here’s where I get off.”
Leo looked amused. “Playing it safe, sport?”
Duncan shook his head. “Put it down to inexperience. Fashion’s about as far from my alley as you can get. About the only thing I do know about it is that the competition’s deadly. They say skydiving’s safer.”
Leo looked at him with a glint in his eyes. “Maybe you won’t believe it,” he said, “but that’s what turns me on to it, the risk.”
“Then what you’re really after is a gamble,” Duncan said. “Is that what you are, Leo? A gambler?”
“Everyone’s a gambler, Cooper. Life’s a gamble. Business is a gamble. Hell, in this world, every time you take a breath of what you hope is fresh air, it’s a gamble. And you know what?” Leo grinned. “I kind of like that.”
“And that’s the reason you want to get into the rag trade?” Duncan said incredulously. “Because it’s a gamble?”
“That’s one of the reasons, sure. You see, it’s not money that drives me, Cooper. Money’s just a by-product, a pleasant dividend.”
“Then what does drive you, Leo?”
“The game, what else? The fashion industry’s one of the all-time great gambling casinos around. I mean, everyone knows that Seventh Avenue is sewn up tighter than a puritan’s snatch when it comes to newcomers. And once you’re in among the sharks, it’s like being in the midst of a feeding frenzy. Between the unions, established businesses, and racketeers, it’s the biggest roulette game of them all. Ninety-five percent of all new garment businesses fail. Did you know that?”
Duncan chuckled. “Seems to me that’s the best reason of all to stay well clear of it.”
“On the contrary.” Leo smiled. “I like the odds. They’re my kind of challenge.” He picked his face mask up off the bench and put it on, wearing it like Duncan wore his, with the mesh face guard flipped up. “Ready for a workout?”
“Ready when you are.”
Leo grinned one of his frequent blinding porcelain grins, a grin that redeemed the otherwise disturbingly chilly perfection of his face. “Then let’s go, sport.”
Together they headed out into the gym, feeling utterly at home. Both men could easily have afforded, and been welcomed at, any of the city’s exclusive and more conveniently located athletic clubs, but they went the extra mile and came to Santelli’s for the best reason on earth. The founder, Giorgio Santelli, had been one of the world’s great acknowledged maestros of the sport and his establishment was, at least in the United States, to fencing what the Cyclone is to roller coasters and the Napa Valley is to wine.
Once on the gym floor, they stood on the sidelines a moment and watched the fencing matches in progress. The lunchtime dilettantes had already g
one back to their jobs, and some serious swordplay was in progress.
As always, Duncan marveled at the graceful athletes. Fencing, he thought, more closely resembled ballet than any other sport, and required dedication just as strict, and practice just as stringent. It wasn’t the kind of activity that encouraged deviation. Form was everything.
Leo turned to him. “Having just talked about gambling, care to lay a little wager?”
Duncan looked at him expressionlessly. “What kind of wager?” he asked cautiously.
“Oh, some stakes to make our round of fencing a little more . . . interesting.”
“No way.” Duncan shook his head. “Count me out. You may be a gambler, Leo, but I’m not.”
Leo’s voice was hushed. “Bullshit. Everyone’s a gambler if the stakes are right.” His cold green eyes seemed to burn with an unholy joy. “What do you say, if you win, I back your ex-wife to the tune of three million dollars?”
“What!” Duncan was shocked, and showed it. Then he shook his head as though to clear it, and relaxed slightly. He grinned sheepishly. “Funny, how your ears can play tricks on you,” he said. “For a moment there, I could have sworn I heard you say you wanted to bet three million. Crazy, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not,” Leo said quietly. “That’s exactly what I said . . . Well?”
Duncan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No, Leo. Maybe you can afford to bet that kind of money, but I can’t.”
“Who’s asking you to?”
“You just got through telling me you’re willing to bet three million on this game. Right?”
“Right.” Leo nodded. “I’m betting three mil on our game, but it’s me and your ex-wife who’re going to be the real winners or losers. Not you.”
“I still don’t get it. What happens if I lose?”
“It’s really very simple. If you lose, you’ll neither be richer nor poorer. You see, your bet is your ex’s bet in absentia.”
“Huh?” Duncan shook his head. “Now you’ve really lost me.”
“Then let me lay it on the line for you. If you lose, I won’t be backing her, in which case she’ll have to look elsewhere for financing.” A faint smile touched Leo’s lips. “Well, sport? Skill-wise, we’re pretty evenly matched. Care to lay your ex-wife’s career on the line?”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I just might decide not to back her at all,” Leo said, his brilliant grin at odds with the softly spoken threat.
Duncan looked at him narrowly. “Are you by any chance trying to blackmail me, Leo?”
Leo assumed a look of utter innocence. “Who? Me?”
Duncan tightened his lips and frowned. He really didn’t like laying bets, even if he had nothing to lose. It was a matter of principle with him.
Leo was waiting.
“All right, Flood.” Duncan stuck out his hand.
The two men crossed the floor to take the place of two fencers who had just wound up their match. Duncan tested his custom-made foil by swishing it through the air a couple of times. It whistled like a whip and quivered nicely. Opposite him, Leo did likewise with his.
Well, Eds, here goes! Duncan thought, and reached up to flip his face guard down.
Still smiling, Leo took off his mask and tossed it carelessly aside.
“No masks, Cooper,” he challenged softly. His eyes were hard and shiny. “You up to fencing the old-fashioned way?”
“Are you nuts!” Duncan flipped his face guard back up and stared at him. “We’ll both get kicked out of here for good! You know the rules!”
Leo laughed. “Don’t be so bourgeois. Rules are made to be broken.”
“Maybe for you they are, but I happen to like coming here. I want to be able to come back.”
“You afraid, Cooper?” Leo smiled tauntingly, showing his sharp canines.
“No, I’m not afraid,” Duncan said firmly, “but I’m not stupid either.”
“Good. That makes two of us. But don’t you think for a three-million-dollar stake I’m entitled to call the shots?”
“If it means impromptu surgery on humans, no. You’re not.”
Leo laughed again. “Come on, Cooper,” he urged with a grin. “If there’s a mishap, I won’t harbor any hard feelings. You can always sew me back up.”
“Yeah, but I can’t very well sew myself up, can I?”
“So? Your associates can.”
Duncan just stood there. “Oh, what the hell,” he said finally, deciding to risk it. He pulled off his mask and tossed it aside. “All right, Leo,” he said quietly. “You’re on.”
“Atta boy!” Leo grinned and Duncan called position. With a metallic clash, they crossed foils in midair.
“En garde!” Leo shouted, and serious swashbuckling began.
Leo lunged forward and thrust his foil at the red heart sewn on Duncan’s chest, but Duncan easily deflected the attack and danced a step backward. Despite himself, he couldn’t help grinning. Maybe Leo was right. There was something primevally appealing about fencing the old-fashioned way and putting your neck on the line. Hadn’t men, since time immemorial, fought sporting duels without benefit of protective gear? And wasn’t there something powerfully, electrifyingly dramatic about such a show of machismo? Puerile though it might be.
Everyone else in the gym stopped fencing and drew around to watch. Somehow, news spread wordlessly that this was no ordinary match. Even the men in the locker room came out and gathered along the sidelines.
Duncan moved faster than lightning, effortlessly parrying and counterattacking. A wild kind of excitement came over his face. His dark eyes glowed rapturously. He knew his foil had never flashed this swiftly or lethally; he knew he had never before fenced with such intense concentration; above all, without even consciously thinking about it, he was secure in the knowledge that he had never fenced this well. It was as if he was guided by some hitherto unknown gladiatorial power.
Back and forth he and Leo danced in front of their rapt audience. Leo had strength and youth on his side, while Duncan had the deft touch of a surgeon’s hands. More important, unlike Leo, Duncan had been fencing for nearly twenty years now, and had been taught by the late maestro Giorgio Santelli himself.
Leo battled with grim concentration. His lips were pulled back across his teeth, his stretched grin that of an animal hungry for the kill. Seeing an opening, he went for Duncan’s red heart.
Duncan had been expecting just that, and locked foils with him. Leo cursed, and Duncan laughed with devilish joy as Leo tried unsuccessfully to free his weapon.
“Well, sport?” It was Duncan’s turn to taunt.
Leo didn’t reply; he was expending every ounce of effort to fend Duncan off.
It was like trying to push a Sherman tank uphill. Duncan couldn’t be budged. Leo’s arms trembled under the exertion, and his foil quivered in a blur. His face turned beet red. “Damn you, Cooper!” he managed to growl from between his teeth.
Duncan grinned. “Qué será, baby. You got what you asked for.” Without warning, and seemingly without effort, he pushed Leo back.
Leo lost ground but quickly recovered. He was starting to get angry. What was it with Cooper? he wanted to know. In the past, Duncan had never fenced with such furious concentration, style, or skill. Had he been holding back, using only a fraction of his skills? Or was he suddenly possessed of a superhuman urge to win? It was as if he and the blade were one.
Leo’s adrenaline kicked in like a supercharge. Winning fever was like a roar in his blood. He narrowed his eyes and drew his lips back in a snarl. He could feel the power and the glory shooting through his veins, could hear the clashing of steel against steel with an otherworldly clarity, and the voices of triumph calling.
Kill, kill, KILL! Here in the arena where there existed no one but the enemy and himself. Where he brandished his foil like a steel erection and made men tremble before him!
Fortified with invincibility, Leo launched an aggressive new attack. Duncan
had his hands full now, and this time it was Leo who laughed. “Whatsamatter? You tiring, Cooper?”
“Like hell I am!” Duncan managed to grunt, then feinted sideways.
Leo was waiting. Ignoring the feint, he lunged past Duncan, his blurring foil whistling through the air to draw blood.
Slash! Duncan felt, rather than saw, cold silver steel slicing through warm buttery flesh.
The audience gasped collectively in disbelief. Duncan’s cheek had been sliced open and was pouring blood.
There was a sudden tension in the sidelines now. The silent thoughts of the audience could be felt as tangibly as if they had been roared. How dared Leo Flood have the monstrous effrontery to turn this ageless, time-honored gentleman’s game into a bloody battle?
The wound didn’t deter Duncan; it roused some deeply dormant mortal instinct, and he was like a beast coming awake. One moment he was fencing with incredible skill, and the next he became a blurring powerhouse. He whipped his foil with awe-inspiring strength and speed. The gym was no more; the audience blurred into nothingness. His foil had become a writhing, living silver dragon breathing terrible sparks and awesome fire.
He came at Leo like a killing machine, thrusting and lunging.
A sudden fear came over Leo as he fended Duncan off. This was no mere offense. This had become a vindication, a cause, a fight for honor.
Duncan’s living foil clashed and clanged and clashed again, raining blow after blow faster than the eye could see. Time and again it whistled past Leo’s face with bare fractions of an inch to spare. Each time, the audience gasped, and Leo knew, for certain and with disconcerting humiliation, that Duncan was toying with him, that if he wished, he could easily slice him to bits.
Leo struggled to deflect another thrust. Again parried a lunge. It was all he could do just to hold Duncan off.
A giddy sense of savagery such as he had never known had taken hold of Duncan. Cruelly now, he played with Leo. With every other thrust or lunge, he brought his foil so close to Leo’s face that the other man cried out. Yet the foil never touched skin. The fury, virtuosity, and, yes, purity of Duncan’s moves were astonishing; the audience’s gasps became sighs of appreciation.