“Such a specific fantasy.”
“It’s too big. He’ll catch us. We’ll go to prison.”
“We need to make him jealous,” Penny decided.
August sighed. “How do we do that?”
“You’ll have to play my young lover.”
It was said with such finality that August didn’t even bother to object. “Fine, but we need to practice the lover part if I’m to play the role with any shred of competency.”
Penny tossed away the magazine she’d been brainlessly thumbing through. “For the sake of competency, then.”
* * *
It had been some time since August had opened up Percyfoot’s chest of wonders. Penny was far superior at luring in marks, and not just because of her feminine attributes. The character she played, though dumb as a soap bubble, really was believable. August was very clever with makeup and wigs, but the young men he portrayed always tasted ever so slightly of gimmick and made the con a bit too sweet to swallow. Perhaps it was from growing up in a theater or from receiving much of his tutelage at the hands of the less than subtle Sergeant Sycamore, but when in costume, he was undoubtedly contrived. His talents were far more suited to breaking and entering, and August was too much of a big-picture man to make a stink at not being included in the more delicate first half of their cons.
Still, he missed it. He loved picking a lock or scaling a building’s facade with spectral ease, but there was something about hiding in another person’s skin, about making someone believe you were another, that was truly intoxicating.
“Perhaps I’ll be a banished Indian prince,” August suggested, carried away by a teal scarf he’d just unearthed from the trunk. “Raised in Britain by a cruel and severe governess, I eventually fled to America, with nothing but my title and unshakable sense of duty to my homeland.”
“I don’t think you could pass as Italian, let alone Indian,” said Penny. “Let’s try something far more Caucasian and far less colonialist.”
August continued, undeterred. “A Russian spy keen to discover the secret of America’s space program!”
“Why would a Russian spy be dating some idiot girl in New York City?”
“Ah, but perhaps your young idiot girl is also a spy. German? Or maybe French? The point being, our partnership, carnal to begin with, soon descended into the shadowy, unlit caverns of love, and though we both know in our hearts that the affair is doomed, that we will most likely be executed for our crimes, our passion for each other cannot be quenched.”
Penny rapped August atop the head with a cane she’d found in the chest. “You’re going to be a trust-fund kid. From California.”
“Perish the thought!” cried August, who thanks to Sir Reginald, had a prejudice against California deeper than the most ancient subterranean metropolis.
“Fine. You can be from Nebraska.”
The thought still rankled, but it was better than the alternative.
After they’d settled on his disguise and worked out a few details, Penny felt they were ready to snare Barreth. She had an uncanny knack for knowing exactly where and when the tycoon would be. August, bedecked in light prosthetics, brought this fact up to her as they walked to their destination.
“There’s nothing uncanny about it,” she replied. “I bribed one of his assistants.”
“You did? How much did you pay him?”
“Not all bribes are financial,” was Penny’s maddening reply.
August was flabbergasted. “You didn’t? Did you really? Which one? How far did it go? And for how long?”
“For god’s sakes, August, stop asking so many questions! You sound like a toddler.”
“I’ll kill him! Unless it’s that strong-looking one. Is it that strong-looking one?”
All his queries went unanswered, for Penny had been tipped off that Mr. Barreth had reservations at a restaurant called Birdsong, and they’d just arrived at the very pretentious entrance to said establishment.
The host or maître d’ or High Lord of the Door greeted them with a low, sycophantic bow, as if they were volcanic gods that would soon require a blood libation.
“Welcome to Birdsong,” the man whispered reverently. “Do you have a reservation for this evening?”
“We do not,” Penny replied flatly.
The change in his manner was sharp as a tack. “Our next available table is sometime in April.”
Penny was unfazed. “Alistair Linton is my father.”
The host was once again all supplicating unctuousness; he might as well have been a crippled gazelle willingly surrendering itself to the cheetah’s jaws. “Right this way, my lady fair. Your table awaits.”
“Who is Alistair Linton?” August murmured as they were being seated.
“One of my old marks. Richest guy I ever knew. Lives in Europe now.”
The first of their servers came, and Penny ordered the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu. August, by no means poor, but then again, by no means rich, blanched.
“We have to make him see that his money isn’t the only reason I’m going after him,” Penny explained as she casually ordered eleven appetizers.
“That’s all very well,” he said, trying to keep his calm while doing some silent mental addition to see whether he’d have to put his brownstone up for sale to pay for the meal, “but I don’t quite understand how we’re meant to pay for all this.”
“Lighten up, August.”
He tried to take her advice, sipping his champagne, but it was for naught; he found he was calculating the net worth of every swallow, and the results were staggering and bleak.
Barreth finally arrived after Penny had ordered them two entrées each.
“Don’t get his attention,” Penny whispered. “Let him come to us.”
But it seemed Barreth was fully ensconced in conversation with the two besuited men he’d come in with, for he hadn’t even flicked an eyebrow in their direction, and they were already halfway through the first of the entrées, a spoonful of caviar served atop what looked to be thinly sliced zebra haunch.
“This is ridiculous,” Penny whispered, not even enjoying the zebra.
August agreed but didn’t have time to say so, because Penny suddenly let out an aria of a laugh, high and loud and gorgeous. The entire restaurant fell silent under the spell of the laugh; when it had concluded, August thought he even heard some applause from a distant table.
Barreth was hovering seconds later.
“Miss Elizabeth?”
“Mr. Barreth!” she trilled, hand on her chest, still recovering from the rapture of her private joke. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were my shadow.”
Barreth smiled, but was instantly perturbed by the presence of August.
“Who is this?” he asked.
Penny and August both felt they’d done a good job with August’s camouflage, and as Barreth didn’t recognize him, it appeared they were right. August was lean by nature, but under his suit they’d padded him ever so slightly so he appeared more muscular, or corn-fed, as Penny kept saying. His hair had been dyed a sun-touched blond, his nose had the slightest upturned piggish quality thanks to a clip in the nostrils, and a pair of shaggy sideburns did their part to mask his distinctive cheekbones.
“You look quite handsome,” Penny had told him as he slipped on a pair of shoes that added two inches to his height.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said bashfully in his best aw-shucks voice.
“Do people really go in for that sort of thing?” Penny had asked, appalled.
“Some must,” he replied, thickening his eyebrows with a pencil. “Thank god we don’t know them.”
At the restaurant, Penny feigned shock and embarrassment. “Please forgive my manners. This is Mr. Andrew Linton,” she said, borrowing the surname of her former mark.
Barreth’s eyes widened. “Any relation to the Lintons on Park Avenue?”
“A distant cousin,” August answered with a faint midwest
ern twang he’d picked up from a production of The Man Who Came to Dinner.
“Andrew is . . . well . . . I guess you could say he’s my . . . boyfriend.”
Now Barreth’s eyes were wide as a midsummer moon.
“I didn’t realize you were seeing anyone seriously, Miss Elizabeth. And just where is your chaperone?”
Chaperone? Were they in New York City or at Ashley Wilkes’s barbecue?
“Oh, but Mr. Barreth, we don’t need a chaperone.” The following question she directed at August. “May I tell him?”
August gave her a patronizing nod.
“Andrew and I are engaged!” she whispered.
Barreth looked as though he’d been shot. It seemed Penny had gotten her hooks into him after all.
“Mr. Barreth, you’re white as a ghost. Please, take a seat.”
The old man sank into a chair and was instantly given a glass of champagne by the waiter who circled their table like a buzzard.
“How . . . how?” was all Barreth could manage.
“We met last week.” Penny tittered. “I’m afraid it was a whirlpool romance.”
“I think you mean whirlwind, dear,” corrected August.
“No, whirlpool. We met at a fountain.”
Incredible.
“Money?” Barreth interjected, still unable to form complete sentences, but desperate for facts.
“Mama’s daddy owned the biggest corn farm in all America,” August replied, dumb as a hay bale, “and my daddy found fortune down in Texas. Oil,” he added with a wink.
Though he was more familiar with the northern types of wealth—inheritance, industry, and entertainment—the words corn and oil still held power. After all, they were the cornerstones of America, along with big cars and the subtle, almost gentle genocide of the country’s indigenous people.
Barreth was devastated, and August delighted in watching him shrivel.
“Soon as we hitch up,” August said, “I’m taking this little lady back home to Nebraska with me. We’ll settle down on Daddy’s ranch. Four thousand acres, all full of corn and cattle.”
“Can you imagine?” breathed Penny. “Andrew tells me Nebraska is flat as a pancake.”
“Flatter,” said August. “And we got bugs the size of Utah. But there’s a certain beauty to it. The land gets to you. Shucks, I can’t explain it, especially to a fancy New York City type. You ever been to Nebraska?”
“God, no,” Barreth moaned.
“Well, you’ll have to come sometime. You can stay in the guest room. My grandmammy died in there. Said she couldn’t stand the smell of cow shit for one more day and took her own life with a revolver—but she always was on a different level than the rest of us. Genius type. And our maid got the blood out of everything. It’s a good room. You’ll like it.”
“Miss Elizabeth,” Barreth whispered, “may I have a private word with you?”
“Anything you need to say to me, you can say in front of Andrew,” Penny said, batting her eyelashes.
“No worries, Lizzy, my love,” said August. “My rattlesnake has to shed a few tears. You two old friends talk freely.”
August excused himself and went to the bathroom, which was large enough to house a midsize orphanage. When he got back to the table, Penny and Barreth were gone, though a wad of cash sat on the table, presumably Barreth’s apology to Andrew Linton for stealing his fiancée.
It was all artifice, but August couldn’t help feeling jealous that he’d been bested by Barreth. He knew he was winning in the long run, that Penny was just buttering Barreth up, but it irked him to know that she was off gallivanting with the man he most despised. Though it was easier to enjoy the second entrée, knowing it was on Barreth’s dime.
* * *
August slept late the following morning; after Penny and Barreth’s departure, he’d finished his meal, left a lavish tip, then spent the rest of the night getting stinking drunk on the remainder of Barreth’s money. Buying drinks left and right, August made hundreds of friends. He toasted each of his newfound comrades with an identical salutation, “To Mr. Barreth, the biggest bastard in New York City!”
So it was well past noon when August, deeply hungover, stumbled into a diner and feasted upon eggs over easy, bacon, hash browns, and cup after cup of terrible coffee. After the meal, his hangover wasn’t gone, but it was behaving itself. He went back home and awaited the inevitable phone call from Penny, detailing her half of the evening and what their next step was.
But the call never came. August didn’t worry; Penny generally slept later than he did. She was probably exhausted after a tedious night spent with Mr. Barreth. On days like this, she usually called in the late afternoon, wanting to grab a spot of lunch, though humans operating on a normal schedule would’ve called the meal dinner. August napped off the rest of his hangover and woke just after five. No calls, and no messages on his service either.
With a spine-cracking stretch and just a tug of worry, August decided to walk over to Penny’s apartment. He could use some exercise after a day spent lounging, and Penny was probably still asleep. He’d wake her, they’d have dinner and spend the rest of the night in bed. What a charming notion.
He rang her buzzer with aplomb. Knowing full well that Penny could sleep through a bombing, August alternated between short staccato bursts of buzz and long, drawn-out wails. Finally a tinny voice answered through the intercom.
“Who the hell is it?”
The voice belonged not to Penny but to her detestable roommate Carol, a woman with the soul of an asp.
“Carol, it’s August. Is Penny in?”
“Why should I tell you?”
All conversations with Carol, even the simplest, were transformed into a battle of wills.
“Carol, please buzz me up. Penny and I have a dinner engagement.”
“How do I know you’re not in some terrible fight, and this is a ploy to get upstairs so you can kill us both?”
“For god’s sakes, Carol, just ask Penny if we’re in an argument, if you’re so concerned.”
“Can’t,” was the reply.
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t ask her.”
“And why not?”
“She’s not here.”
August slowly but forcefully pounded his fist against the brick wall of the building.
“Penny isn’t home?”
“Nope.”
“Was she home earlier today?”
“Not sure. Last time I saw her was last night. She rushed in and packed a suitcase.”
“A suitcase?” Why the hell would she pack a suitcase?
“I gotta go, my show’s on.”
“Wait, Carol! Did she say where she was going? Carol?”
But the intercom was silent. He buzzed the buzzer with scathing conviction, but to no avail; she’d probably disconnected the damn thing, the heartless snake.
As he was preparing to pick the lock of the front door in broad daylight, a practice he tended to avoid, a man who lived in the building came out, and August was able to slip inside before dashing up the four flights of stairs to Penny and Carol’s apartment, where he promptly started pounding on the door.
“Who is it?” came the trumpet blare of Carol’s voice.
“It’s August March, you wretched villain! Now open the door before I break it down!”
“My show’s on!” Carol screamed.
August had no patience. He didn’t break the door down because he was an elegant man, and also not strong enough. He did, however, make smart work of the lock, and was in the apartment within twelve seconds.
“Help!” Carol screamed as he stepped inside. “Murder!”
August shut the door. “Silence, you inhuman gorgon! You piceous witch! Where is Penny?”
“I don’t know,” Carol said, stunned into answering. “She burst in last night, going on and on about how everything was working out, and packed up her suitcase.”
“Did she say where she was going?” Augu
st demanded.
“No. I figured she was moving in with you, the way you two have been carrying on. Not that I judge,” she added, though in his experience, people who said they weren’t holding judgment had already tried and sentenced the defendant.
August was baffled. He ran a hand through his hair and paced Carol’s apartment absentmindedly.
“A suitcase? Why a suitcase?”
Carol, though deplorable, did have a strange man stalking about in her apartment in a state of duress, and was well within her rights to say, “I think I’m going to call the police.”
Frustrated, August threw the telephone out the open window and shouted, an exact facsimile of a madman, “Never! Never shall you call the police again, oh wretched shrew!”
Carol screamed, in genuine terror this time, and he was hauled back to reality. “I’m sorry, Carol. Afraid I lost my head a bit. Do you remember anything else, anything at all, that Penny said?”
“No, you crazy bastard! Get the hell out of here!”
The walk home was an angry streak of confusion, as was the rest of the night, though he tried to dull it with whiskey. But no matter what he drank, the questions kept haunting him, viscous specters that fed on his unrest.
Why a suitcase? Where had she gone? What was the plan? When would she return?
And why a suitcase?
Where was Penny?
* * *
During the first few days of Penny’s absence, August had imagined all sorts of sensational fates for his beloved. The classics, of course: murder, kidnapping. But the longer she stayed away, the more elaborate his dark fantasies became. Maybe Barreth had her chained up in some abandoned hotel room and was torturing her. Or she had packed her suitcase and gotten on a plane, but the plane had crashed and she was now clinging to a piece of wreckage somewhere in the Atlantic, dying of dehydration and exposure. Or maybe Carol had killed Penny. Fuck Carol!
Days passed, each more terrible than the last. This state of unknowing was insufferable. Why did people always leave? Was it so hard to stay in one place, to put some roots down and be solid? Dependable? Why had Penny left him?
August toyed with going to the police, but what could he possibly say?
The Astonishing Life of August March Page 19