by Nic Saint
He eased the door closed, and smiled at the fond memories this place brought to mind. Since they were kids, he and Rick had been best buds, had survived college together, and even after graduating, the bond between the two men had never wavered. Many was the night they’d watched football games together in this very apartment. Or Bomer had nursed one of his legendary hangovers hiding from his old man.
Though they’d obviously gone in very different directions in life—Rick quickly making a name for himself as a reporter and Bomer as Manhattan’s most fearless party animal—the respect and mutual admiration had always remained.
Curmudgeon Rick and the ever charming Bomer were an odd couple, to be sure. What provided the foundation for their unusual friendship was perhaps a mutual understanding that to be truly happy, a man should be free and uncommitted.
Rick had managed this by remaining a staunch bachelor, practically living like a Trappist monk, whereas Bomer had gone to town on Manhattan’s female population with the idea that he could bed them all before he was through. And he’d practically succeeded when he’d run into Charlene Falcone, who had managed the one thing none of the others had: she’d stolen his heart, and refused to return it.
Bomer’s dad had seized this opportunity to start steering his wayward son in the direction of the family business, and now Bomer, who’d shirked work as if it were the plague, had actually buckled down and was trying to meet Dad’s demands.
His was a simple mind, and his father had given him no opportunity for misinterpretation. Bomer wanted to marry Charlene. Charlene wanted to marry Bomer under the assumption that Bomer was filthy rich. If Bomer wanted to remain filthy rich, he had to work like a dog, and work like a dog he had.
Not that anything had come of it yet, but Bomer was nothing if not an optimist, and he kept thinking that if only he kept staring at that blank document long enough, something had to give. Wasn’t that what all great men did?
He set foot for the bar, thanking his lucky stars and Rick for this opportunity to be alone for a couple of days, and examined Rick’s storage of liquor. Even though he might have given up his serial womanizing, there were still plenty of vices left to enjoy, one of them being alcohol.
He poured himself a stiff drink, gulped it down in one go, then provided a refill. After repeating this procedure three times, he took his glass and ambled over to the window providing a look at Manhattan and the Hudson River.
He sometimes envied Rick this stunning view. Not many reporters were able to afford an apartment like this, but then Rick wasn’t a mere reporter, of course.
He took his drink to the dining room table, plunked it and himself down, and with a deep sigh opened his laptop, prepared to dive into his work again, this time interrupted by no one.
He’d stared at the blank document for about ten minutes when he rubbed his eyes and sat back. His stomach was grumbling so he crossed the room to the kitchen and inspected the contents of the fridge. A smile spread across his features at the veritable feast. Even though Rick hadn’t been home, the fridge was fully stocked. He took out the necessary ingredients for a turkey sandwich and set about preparing the humble feast.
And he’d just shoved the first part of the self-made meal into his mouth, when the doorbell rang, and he uttered a loud curse.
Fully expecting this to be the maid, he wandered over to the intercom, and started violently when he saw the familiar form of Charlene Falcone gazing back at him. She was looking peeved, and he inwardly cursed Rick.
The doofus must have given him away!
Shaking his head, he saw no other course of action than to bid the girl of his dreams entry. It looked like work would have to take a backseat for the rest of the day. And night.
He pressed the buzzer. Quickly devouring the rest of his sandwich, he strode to the door. If he knew Charlene well—and after their six months engagement he considered himself an expert on all things Charlene—she would be pretty pissed that he’d ignored her last couple of messages.
The moment she stepped into the hallway, he approached with outstretched arms. “Darling!” he cried.
Charlene, far from looking peeved, looked positively flabbergasted. “Bomer?” Almost immediately surprise gave way to pique. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Bomer now saw all. Rick Dawson was innocent. His friend hadn’t given him away after all. Charlene, when frustrated in her attempts to collar her fiancé, had simply decided to pay a visit to the next best thing: her fiancé’s best friend Rick, hoping he could enlighten her about Bomer’s whereabouts.
“I—I can explain,” he quickly said, hoping to ward off the irritation that was rising rapidly to Charlene’s reddening features.
“I thought you were working!” she exclaimed. “I called your father and he said you were holed up in your office working like a maniac. But when I called your secretary she said you went completely off the grid and even she didn’t know where to find you!” She gestured to Rick’s bachelor pad. “And now I find you here, probably entertaining a dozen women and planning to spend the night with a dozen more!”
“Darling, it’s not what you think,” Bomer tried feebly to inject himself into the conversation.
“What I think doesn’t matter!” she screeched, stomping her foot.
She looked so cute when she was mad, he thought, though he refrained from voicing the sentiment. “I was just trying—”
“To get away from me!”
“Well, yes,” he admitted, then realized his grave error when her eyes widened and her jaw dropped.
“I knew it!” With a rapidity that was only matched by her forcefulness, she stalked to the door.
“Charlene, honey!” he cried desperately. “I can explain!”
“Tell it to your whores!” she screamed, then practically leaped out the door, only to turn around and present her closing statement. “The wedding is off!”
“Darling!”
But he was talking to a closed door.
CHAPTER 27
“So. Young man. What can I do you for?”
The graybeard at the desk eyed him with a kindly eye. Jerry didn’t really know where to begin so he decided to use the old NYPD gag that had worked so well before. He quickly flashed his badge, just long enough for the initials NYPD to make their usual impression but not long enough to figure out the thing was a badly produced replica of a badly rendered fake he’d once found on the internet.
“NYPD,” he coughed. “Detective Jerry Vale. I was wondering if you have a Richard Dawson staying here. Also known as Rick Dawson.” The way he said it gave every indication this Rick Dawson was a villain of the worst kind, which was exactly what he meant to convey.
“Police business, eh?” the old man asked with a frown. “Well, did you bring a warrant, Detective?”
Jerry goggled at the man. This was the first time in his long career that he’d been asked to produce a warrant. Usually people simply blanched and gave at the knees. This old geezer, on the other hand, was determined to play it rough.
“I don’t need a frickin’ warrant to inquire whether a guest is staying at this establishment or not,” he said officiously.
“Oh, yes you do,” the old guy countered, fixing him with an unfriendly glare. “The privacy of our guests is very important to the Happy Bays Inn, and unless you have some paperwork on you to establish legal grounds for obtaining such information, I suggest you think things through and try again some other time. With some luck, you might catch my wife.”
“Would she be willing to divulge the information I desire?”
“Nope. But she’d be willing to get in touch with Virgil Scattering. In case you didn’t know,” he clarified when seeing Jerry’s blank look, “Officer Scattering is by way of being Happy Bays’s resident copper. Something you would know if you’d gone through the proper channels and not proceeded half-cocked.”
“I see,” he said, wondering whether he should give the old guy a knuckle sandwich or simply show hi
m his gun and tell him to quit stalling and hand over the registery. He decided it wasn’t worth getting into trouble with local law enforcement, so he merely gave the man a dirty look, and went about his way.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered as he returned to the car.
“The bird has flown?” Johnny asked.
“No, some old guy wants to play hardball. Won’t tell me about Dawson without a warrant.”
“Tough guy, huh? You want me to beat it out of him?”
“Better not. He threatened to call in the local heat.”
“That thin fellow. Virgil something. I’ve seen him.” He reflected for a moment. “I can take him.”
Jerry shook his head. “And where would that get us? You can’t go around beating up local coppers, Johnny. If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a hundred times. We need to be inspicopous.”
“You mean inconspicuous, Jer?”
Surprised that his partner would know a ten dollar word like that, he grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Splitting hairs wasn’t bringing them any closer to Dawson. He sank in his seat and gave the matter some thought. Then it dawned on him. Dawson had become some sort of acquaintance of the Bell woman. In her own admission she’d been in touch with him a couple times. He hit the steering wheel, elated with this sudden brain wave. “Felicity Bell.”
“Yeah, what a coincidence, huh? We do keep running into her.”
“Huh?” Looking up, he perceived that Johnny was right: before his very eyes, he saw Felicity Bell stepping from the Happy Bays Inn and walking over to a white van parked a little ways away. The decal on the van read ‘Bell’s Bakery & Tea Room.’
A delivery van. Of course. Hadn’t she mentioned Bell’s delivered bread to the home? He hopped from the car, and called out, “Hey, Fe!”
Felicity turned, and saw Detective Vale approaching her at a gallop. She smiled a knowing smile. So according to Rick this detective really wasn’t a detective but a guy working for Chazz Falcone, huh? Only one way to find out.
“Hello there, Jerry. What a nice day.”
“Yeah, great day. Just great,” he said, a little winded. Pressing a hand to his waist, he wheezed slightly, then continued, “Look here. I forgot to ask you before, but would you have any idea where I can find Rick Dawson? We need to have a chat with him about the investigation.”
“Ah, the investigation,” she said, nodding.
“That’s right. You told us you wanted to press charges against the guy?”
She waved a hand. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided it’s better to forgive and forget.”
He looked appalled. “Forgive and forget? Whatever the hell for? Pardon my French,” he instantly added, “but he did write that scathing article about you.”
“I’ve thought things through and I now see that he meant no harm when he wrote those words.”
“No harm? I think you’re wrong, honey—I mean, Fe. I think he meant to do you all the harm in the world.”
“I had a chat with him just now and—”
“Just now?” The detective’s eyes went wide. “You mean to say he’s here—at the Inn?”
“He was, but now he isn’t.”
He stared at her, visibly flustered. “I don’t get it.”
“It doesn’t matter. What I meant to say was that I’m dropping all charges against Mr. Dawson so that’s the end of that.”
“But, but, but—”
“Oh, and could I please have another look at your badge, Detective?”
He gulped. “My—my badge?”
“Yes. You see, I’m writing an article about Rick Dawson, and my editor told me to get all my facts straight.”
“Well, look here,” Detective Vale began, slowly moving backward, “I seem to have left my badge in the car. If you would care to wait one moment…”
“I’ll wait right here, Jerry,” she said sweetly, and folded her arms across her chest.
She watched with interest as Jerry Vale quickly made his way to his car, hopped in, put the car in gear, and tore from the parking lot of the Happy Bays Inn in a cloud of dust. She shook her head. “What do you know?” she muttered. “So Rick was right all along.”
Just at that moment the door of the Inn opened, and the man in question strode out, a suitcase in hand, and a look of determination on his face. She waved at him and he waved back.
“Want a ride?” she asked cheerily.
“Sure.”
“Hop in.”
Moments later, they were cruising down the road, and she suddenly remembered a vital part of giving someone a lift. “Where are we going?”
“I really don’t want to inconvenience you,” he said. “Just do your usual thing, and when you’re all done, you can drop me off at Casa di Amore.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Casa di Amore?”
“Yes. Do you know the place?”
“Of course. Everybody does.”
“That’s fine, then. I hope it isn’t too much trouble.”
She shook her head, then frowned as she tried to remember what it was she’d wanted to tell him. Oh, of course. “I just had a chat with Jerry Vale.”
Rick shot up in his seat. “My God. What did you tell him?”
“I asked to see his badge. Funny thing. Instead of showing me, he bolted.”
“Bolted?”
“Like a bat out of hell.” She glanced over to him. “Looks like you were right after all. There is something very fishy about Detective Vale.”
Rick shook his head. “You shouldn’t play games with that man. I told you he and his partner are extremely dangerous.”
“Yes, you told me. I don’t think he’ll harm me, though. I practically saved his life last night.”
“Did he ask about me?”
“Yes. Wanted to know where he could find you.”
He moved restlessly in his seat. “And?”
“And what?”
“Did you tell him?”
“Of course not. And before I make up my mind whether that was a good thing or a bad thing you need to tell me all about that investigation of yours. I think I’m ready to thresh this thing out once and for all.”
“You are, are you?”
“You told me once you were going to teach me how to be a reporter, remember?”
“I remember.”
“Of course that was before I started throwing frying pans at your head, and showering you with mugs of steaming hot coffee.”
“That’s all right. I want to teach you.”
“You do?”
“I read that article you wrote for the Happy Bays Gazette.”
“Oh.”
“I liked it. Very pithy and to the point.”
“I didn’t write that. My editor Stephen Fossick rewrote the whole thing. I don’t think there’s even a comma left in there that’s mine.”
It had irked her a great deal when she finally picked up the paper that morning and found that Stephen had pretty much changed every single word. He’d even changed the headline from ‘Ruckus at Rafi’s’ to ‘Rafi’s Deli Robbed at Gunpoint.’ It just didn’t have the same ring to it, she felt.
“I’ll help you write the next one, and I promise you that your editor won’t have to change one iota once I’m through with you.”
She gave him a grateful smile. “That’s very kind of you, Rick.”
“It’s the least I can do for the woman who rescued me from Jerry Vale.”
“Now then. What’s all this about Chazz Falcone? Spare no details. I want to know all.”
Rick sighed and sat back in his chair. “How much time have you got?”
“It takes me two hours to finish my round. Is that enough time for you?”
He grinned. “Just about.”
“Well, then. Don’t let me stop you. By all means tell me all your secrets.”
CHAPTER 28
“So what’s the deal with this Falcone character? Why do you make him out to be the worst human being ever to walk the pl
anet?”
They were driving along Hutton Street, having made one delivery at Mrs. Cruise’s place. Mrs. Cruise, a regular customer at Bell’s for half a century now, liked her bread fresh and crusty, and Felicity usually delivered it straight to the old lady’s kitchen.
Things were going smoothly, and they’d developed a system of some kind: Felicity pulled over, handed Rick the delivery, told him where to put it, and he hopped out and placed it just so. He was quick off the mark, made a great touchdown, and returned to home plate even before she’d put the car in park.
She could get used to this.
“I’ll tell you what the deal is,” he grumbled. For the past hour, he’d given her the lowdown on the art of writing the killer article, and she was now in such mellowed mood, she was starting to see that her initial impression, contrary to what Alice might think, had been completely wrong after all. The man wasn’t merely easy on the eyes, he was a real treat to be around as well.
He waxed eloquently on hard news versus soft news, leads and jumps, cutlines and datelines, roundups and rowbacks and even mastheads and bulldogs. But now that he came to the heart of the matter, his demeanor changed, and his face took on a set look.
“Chazz Falcone came to this country some forty odd years ago. He started from scratch, but already possessed the trait that would mark his whole career.”
“Backbone?”
“Treachery.”
“Oh, I see. One of those, huh? Unkind to animals and small children.”
“Unkind to just about anything and anybody. He set out to build himself an empire and that’s exactly what he did.”
“I think I’m starting to see the picture. He’s one of those guys who wants to be a millionaire by the age of six, then flies into a temper tantrum when he hasn’t reached his goal by the time his seventh birthday rolls around.”
“He actually became a millionaire at twenty-one. Then managed to double his fortune every year since.”
She frowned. Math had never been her strong suit. “Pretty rich, huh?”