If Wishing Made It So

by Lucy Finn

  ‘‘You’re a romantic, Ms. Caldwell. Despite that, here’s what I think we have to do.’’ Tony set out his plan which, while neither brilliant nor complex, showed an astute understanding of human nature. After listening carefully, Hildy thought it might work and agreed to give it a try.

  ‘‘Now,’’ she said, when they had finished discussing Mike and her, ‘‘we need to address the six-hundred-pound gorilla in the living room: What am I going to do with you? I don’t want to keep you. No offense, but I’m not cut out to have a genie for a roommate. But as I promised, I won’t return you to that disgusting criminal. What do you suggest?’’

  Tony G. shook his head sadly. ‘‘There is no easy answer. To get rid of me—and how it pains me to hear you say that you want to—you can make three wishes and I’ll be gone. That’s the traditional way. Or you can unintentionally lose the bottle as did Jimmy the Bug.’’

  ‘‘Can’t I just give you away?’’ Hildy asked.

  Tony G.’s face fell like a collapsed balloon. ‘‘No, no, don’t even consider such a thing. Think of the responsibility you would be taking on, Ms. Caldwell, should you give me and my powers to another person. Wishes are tricky things. Wouldn’t you be at fault if a wish ended up backfiring for the recipient of your largesse? How would you feel if someone foolishly wished to live forever, but forgot to wish she would not keep aging? How would you feel if a person wished for a billion dollars and landed in prison because he couldn’t prove a source for the income? I do not believe that giving a genie away has ever happened, and I am not sure it’s possible.’’

  Tony G. paused in his speech and looked at Hildy like a disapproving schoolteacher. ‘‘Genies are not puppy dogs or Christmas presents. Fate brought me to you. Fate, Ms. Caldwell. You can fight it. You can accept it. You can welcome it. But you can’t give it away.’’

  Chapter 14

  Slipping out of the Trump Plaza and stepping onto the Atlantic City boardwalk later that same morning, Mike took a deep breath of the salt-laden air. He had on his running shorts and his Nikes, ready to do a couple of miles. The sun hurt his eyes. He winced. He put on a pair of sunglasses.

  In the bright light of day, Mike Amante’s troubles did not look any better. If anything, they looked even worse. In addition, he had a splitting headache and other pains he couldn’t identify. They seemed to be originating in the left side of his chest. He figured it was indigestion. He had eaten a whole roll of Tums. Nothing helped. Maybe he was having a heart attack.

  He had called Hildy a dozen times. She had not returned one of his calls. She must be deeply angry at him, and he couldn’t blame her. She’d probably never forgive him for what happened last night. She was such a great kid. He had discovered he still had intense feelings for her. But the more he thought about it, the more she seemed to belong in his past. They lived in different worlds. Who knew if they could have made a go of a relationship? He couldn’t even think about what might have been. He knew it was too late.

  His guilt was killing him, that was the problem. Kiki had been amazingly understanding, more than he would have been if the tables were turned. He had been with Kiki for what, five years? She had always been true to him. She was right, he did owe her a lot. What could he do at this point anyway? The wedding date was set. Kiki had been on the phone all morning with The Donald himself working out the details.

  Yet his stomach churned at the very thought of the wedding. He pulled out a new roll of Tums and popped a few more. What a mess he’d made of things. He’d probably never get to see Hildy again, or at least if he did see her it wouldn’t be like it was last night. Last night, he remembered, making love on the beach, the ocean crashing behind us.

  Shit, he couldn’t think about it. He’d probably break down or something. He’d try calling her again later, just to apologize, just to say goodbye. He left his cell phone back in the hotel room, or he’d never stop hitting the REDIAL button, he thought—then kicked himself for lying. He wanted to call Hildy, but the real reason he left the phone behind was so Kiki couldn’t contact him. She had talked about the wedding since the minute she got up. He needed a break from the situation, and from her.

  Mike began jogging down the boardwalk. He couldn’t believe how hot and humid it had gotten overnight. He took a swig from his water bottle. He felt the sweat on his upper lip.

  He saw Jake waiting for him near Michigan Avenue. When he had phoned Jake around nine, his future business partner said they should run for a while and then talk long and hard. If Mike seriously intended to go ahead with their detective agency, Jake had gotten the case that could make them a name in the business. Did Mike want in?

  Did he ever. At least he could look forward to the future when it came to his job. He wanted to do this detective agency deal so much, he could taste it. He took another drink from his water bottle. He ran on.

  ‘‘Why do I have to buy you new clothes?’’ Hildy complained. ‘‘Why not just conjure up some?’’

  ‘‘I explained that my powers aren’t unlimited, Ms. Caldwell. I can’t take a human life. I can’t use my magic for self-gain or profit. I can’t wish things for myself, you see. All I’m asking is for you to go over to the Ron Jon Surf Shop and buy me some walking shorts and one of those Hawaiian shirts. I like a lot of red and yellow in the print, maybe something with parrots. Get me a pair of flip-flops too.’’

  ‘‘Wait a minute. You asked me if I had what, a thousand dollars, to spend on your clothes. Those things from Ron Jon’s are going to cost under one hundred.’’

  When Tony G. had made his request earlier, Hildy wondered if he understood how much money a thousand dollars was for her. Spending it would eat up a third of her winnings, money she needed to buy food and gas. But then she rationalized that she wouldn’t have that thousand dollars in the first place if it wasn’t for the genie helping her hit the jackpot. In the end, she said of course she’d buy him what he wanted.

  ‘‘Right,’’ he acknowledged. ‘‘I need the surf shop outfit because I can’t walk around in a toga without getting a lot of attention. But what we planned is all about image. Once I get these everyday clothes, we’re heading back to Atlantic City for me to get what I really need—top-of-the-line Italian designer slacks, a sports jacket, shoes, and a shirt. A men’s shop in Caesar’s carries exactly what I need. A thousand dollars will barely be enough. I need to look the part. But I explained all that.’’

  Misgivings about the whole enterprise made Hildy shiver. ‘‘Right. You explained. You know, maybe we should forget the plan. Maybe I should answer Mike’s calls and just talk to him.’’

  Tony G.’s face looked fierce. He gripped her arm. ‘‘Stay strong. If you call him and talk to him, it will be the perfect opportunity for him to give you an apology and say something like, It’s been nice, but it was just one of those things. Your whole relationship will have become a one-night stand. Is that what you want?’’

  ‘‘No, of course not. But—’’

  ‘‘But—stop worrying about the money. I can conjure up anything you need. And I can dress you with magic; won’t cost you a dime.’’

  ‘‘Why should you? I just bought new clothes. They’re very nice. I don’t need to have genie-made dresses, thank you.’’

  ‘‘Ms. Caldwell, you can’t look like the wholesome girl next door when you see Mike again. You need to take his breath away.’’

  Hildy shrugged. ‘‘I am who I am. I can’t change that. Mike has to love me as just plain old Hildy. Take it or leave it.’’

  ‘‘ ‘Plain old Hildy’? You don’t know what you’ve got, I’ll say that much. Here, watch.’’ The genie opened an empty hand and yet tossed something into the air in Hildy’s direction. A soft cloud of golden glitter enveloped her. It tickled her nose. She sneezed—and felt her clothes moving. She looked down at herself.

  ‘‘What! What happened?’’ Her very cute blue-flowered Ralph Lauren walking shorts and adorable white cami appliquéd with yellow butterflies had disappear
ed. Instead she wore a coppery silk jersey dress with a deep neckline and a side slit that rose embarrassingly high. The dress draped down her body sinuously and ended in an asymmetrical hem. An extraordinary wide leather belt slung across her hips. A matching leather jacket, a lighter adaptation of a traditional motorcycle style, lay draped over a nearby chair. It was too hot to wear it. Her feet had been slipped out of her practical Teva sandals and were now in strapped, open-toed leather pumps with very high heels.

  Tony G. looked immensely pleased with himself. ‘‘From Donna Karan’s latest collection. Nothing like fighting fire with fire. You look—well, go look at yourself.’’

  Hildy stepped into the little bathroom and peered at the mirror of the medicine cabinet. She gasped. The face looking back was definitely her own, but her hair had been streaked with shimmering highlights and cut so that it danced around her face. Gold and diamond earrings dangled from her earlobes. Her mouth was dewy, her eyes were blue pools, her lashes were longer than Bambi’s. She looked like a real-life Barbie; she looked like a top model; she looked like a pop star … but she didn’t look like Ms. Hildy Caldwell, English teacher.

  ‘‘Now for the test,’’ Tony G. said. ‘‘Go over to the surf shop and get my clothes. Let me know what happens.’’

  When Hildy returned a half hour later, she wore a stunned expression as if she had walked through the looking glass into an alternate world. ‘‘I’ve never experienced anything like that before.’’

  ‘‘Tell me about it,’’ Tony demanded.

  ‘‘First this stock boy looked up when I walked in and dropped a whole stack of boxes. Then two salesmen got into an argument about who would wait on me. The one who did fell all over me. The other guy kept asking if he could get me a soft drink or a snack. They acted so goofy. Did you put a spell on them?’’

  Tony G. took the shopping bag from Hildy’s now perfectly manicured hand. ‘‘Nope. You’re a knockout. I thought you had the potential. You look great. Now remember, you need to carry yourself like you know you look great. Understand?’’

  Hildy nodded. She straightened her shoulders and tossed her head, making her razor-cut hair shimmer.

  ‘‘That’s it. Now we’re ready to roll.’’

  Back in Atlantic City another plan of action was being made.

  ‘‘Here’s what we got.’’ Jake pushed a file across his desk toward Mike. ‘‘Take this and read it over later. Basically, here’s the deal. Remember the guy we nabbed for taking the skid steer and backhoe off that building site?’’

  ‘‘Sure. Marty Bisignano, also known as Marty Biz. That got him charged with grand theft larceny.’’

  ‘‘Right. Obviously he wasn’t acting by himself. He had a flatbed to pick up the equipment and he had somebody to take it to. He looked totally legit. He wore coveralls embroidered with the leasing company’s name, and he had an order on the leasing company’s letterhead to remove the equipment.

  ‘‘It was unlucky for Marty that the foreman at the site got a hair up his ass when Marty explained, very politely I understand, that he was taking the equipment out for maintenance. The foreman started bitching that he needed that backhoe and stormed off. He also got suspicious. Marty didn’t know the foreman went and called me, since I was working security on the project, to check it out.’’

  Mike laughed, remembering what happened next. ‘‘I had already gotten a skid steer and a bulldozer stolen the week before, same scam. I’m sitting in your office at the time. You and I go flying down to the building site and park your pickup in front of the flatbed. We get in a screaming argument with Marty to keep him busy until the cops show up and arrest him. It was sweet.’’ He grinned at the memory.

  ‘‘Yeah, and once we had this guy’s name, I was able to find out who he’s connected to, a local mobster down here named James Torelli. Marty Bisignano is facing a lot of time, but he’s not talking to the cops. They haven’t found where the machinery is being stashed. And they haven’t been able to get to Marty Bisignano’s boss. But I figure we can.’’

  ‘‘But why? What’s in it for us—besides the glory and our name in the paper?’’

  ‘‘It’s like this, Mikey, my man. A billion dollars of construction equipment is stolen every year in the United States. It’s easy. Most manufacturers, take Caterpillar for instance, use this one-key-fits-all approach. Believe it or not, the same damned key turns on, you know, their whole line of backhoes. You can buy a set of keys on eBay and drive off with almost anything you see sitting on a building site. And since construction equipment isn’t licensed or registered, most of it can safely be resold in another state or shipped to Mexico and China.’’

  ‘‘Any of it ever recovered?’’ Mike asked.

  Jake fiddled with a pen while he talked. Now he wrote a number down on a Post-it notepad and flipped it around for Mike to see. ‘‘What’s that say?’’

  ‘‘Six and a half to ten percent?’’ Mike said. ‘‘That’s it?’’

  Jake tapped the pen up and down on the desk. ‘‘That’s the average. It makes me think nobody’s looking for the stuff. We’re not talking Tonka toys here. You’re telling me nobody can find stolen bulldozers, stolen backhoes? You can’t hide them under a tarp in somebody’s driveway.

  ‘‘Yesterday I started contacting some of the other construction companies with projects in this area. And guess what? Close to six million dollars’ worth of equipment has been taken from sites in and around Atlantic City in the past two months.’’

  Mike sat back in his chair and whistled. ‘‘That’s a helluva lot of machinery. Where is it now? That’s the million-dollar question.’’

  ‘‘A million bucks is right. I made some arrangements with these companies. They’re all hurting because of the lost equipment. They’re falling behind on their schedules. They get hit with big penalties if they don’t finish on time. So here’s the bottom line: We find the equipment and get it back, we get twenty percent of everything we recover. You do the math. If we can bust the people behind the theft ring, we’ll get a hundred-thousand-dollar bonus from the biggest company I talked to.’’

  ‘‘So what’s your ideas for investigating this? Where do we start?’’

  ‘‘Marty Bisignano is out on bail. The court is making him wear one of those ankle bracelets so he can’t make a move without them monitoring it. I know his address. He’s sure to be home. And since he can’t go visiting any of his old friends, I say we do what we do best: watch his place and see who comes calling. Maybe it’ll just be the Papa John’s Pizza delivery guy. Maybe it will be somebody interesting.’’ Jake leaned forward, his voice turning serious. ‘‘Mike, you better think about how deep you want to get in this.’’

  ‘‘You know I want to do this. Why are you even asking?’’

  ‘‘Because this James Torelli is a killer. He finds out we’re snooping around, he’s likely to come after us. If we’re not careful, bang, bang, we’re dead. Is the money worth it to you?’’

  Mike gave Jake a long steady look. His life was in shambles. He didn’t want to go back to the hotel room and see Kiki. He didn’t want to go to a bar to drink away his troubles and brood about how screwed up he felt. He didn’t hesitate before he answered his partner. ‘‘The money isn’t worth it. Getting our business started is. We can do this, Jake. I’m not afraid of this mobster. If he wants to kill me, he’s going to have to find me—before I find him.’’

  Jake gave Mike a broad smile, his teeth bright white in his dark face. ‘‘I figured you might feel that way. I brought you a present.’’ He took a wooden case smaller than a shoe box out from under his desk and slid it across at Mike.

  Mike opened the lid. A black 9mm Beretta lay in the blue velvet interior. ‘‘I’m going to need a license to carry this.’’

  ‘‘No problem,’’ Jake said. He threw a piece of paper on the desk. ‘‘I have friends in high places. I asked them to expedite your PI license and this permit. I also got a call from our lawyer, the one who drew u
p the papers to incorporate our agency. He’s only waiting on one thing before he files in Trenton and we’re in business.’’

  ‘‘What’s that one thing?’’ Mike said, taking the gun out of the box and holding it in his hand.

  ‘‘Our company’s name.’’

  For the next half hour, Mike and Jake tossed around some ideas. The best they came up with was JM Detective Agency, Got-Cha Surveillance, Integrity Investigators, and Catch-M Private Investigators.Nothing hit them as being perfect. They decided to go out for breakfast before starting their surveillance of Marty Bisignano, aka Marty Biz.

  While devouring his own plate of eggs, sausage, hash browns, rye toast, and black coffee, Jake watched Mike pushing a Western omelet around on his plate. Gloom hung over him as visibly as a black cloud.

  ‘‘Okay, partner. Something’s eating you up. You worried about this job?’’

  Mike shook his head. ‘‘Nah, it’s personal crap.’’

  ‘‘I read in the paper this morning that you and Kiki set a date. But you sure as shit don’t look like a happy man. You want to talk about it?’’

  Mike did, but he didn’t know how. He picked up the salt shaker and started to toss it idly from hand to hand. ‘‘Nothing to talk about. I met someone I used to know. Old girlfriend, cute as a button. Well, things got out of hand. I didn’t keep my pants on when I should have. Kiki found out and went ballistic. But it’s over and done with.’’

  Jake took a swallow of the strong hot coffee, then set it down with great care. ‘‘Mike, my friend,’’ he said with deliberation. ‘‘This situation involves two women. You screwed both of them in one way or another. I’d bet dollars to doughnuts this is not over and done with.’’

  Jake reached one large brown hand across the table and delicately picked up a pinch of salt from the trail of white that had fallen out of the shaker Mike had been fooling with. ‘‘Bad luck to spill salt.’’ He tossed it over his left shoulder. ‘‘You believe in luck, Big Mike?’’