by Carole Howey
"I expect you'd better tell us what this is all about, Gar, before I drink much more of this fine swill."
Humble seemed to take his measure, his watery blue eyes demonstrating no hint of amusement or camaraderie. Kieran was equal to his gaze.
"All business, eh, Macalester?" The older man's voice was low and reedy. "I like that. Just what I need, this time."
"We're always just what you need," Billy interjected, his own voice shaded with sarcasm. "Cheap labor with a reason to keep our mouths shut. Ain't that right, Senator?"
Garland started.
"Senator?" He stared from Billy back to Kieran. "Why'd he call you Senator?"
Kieran shrugged. "Ask him."
"Well?" the old millionaire demanded of Billy, who was examining the amber hue of his brandy by the fire's glow.
Billy took a long look at Macalester, then did the same at Humble. "Because he's such a damned fine liar," he said at last, lifting his glass in tribute.
Garland Humble stared at both men for a long moment. Then he laughed as loud and hearty a laugh of profound enjoyment as Kieran had ever heard. It was not a pleasant sound. Neither he nor Billy joined their host in his mirth, and after another moment, Humble lapsed again into a somewhat awkward silence.
"That's good." He poured himself another generous brandy. "It's always nice to learn of your unsuspected talents, Macalester. You'll need every one of them this time, I think."
The large man shifted his bulk, straining at the seams of his gray linen suit as he reached two fingers into his inside breast pocket. He withdrew a small rectangle, which he tossed across the narrow gulf to Kieran. Macalester caught it and turned it over, holding it up to the light of the brass lamp on the table.
It was a photograph. A mere four inches high, it was a full-length picture of a woman—by all measures a damned attractive one—who might have been any age between eighteen and thirty. She was not dressed in regular clothing, he noticed. She appeared to be wearing a costume of some sort, which revealed all of her shapely arms, much of her charming bosom, and even a trim ankle. And he couldn't swear to it, but Kieran thought, for a capricious moment, that he suddenly caught a faint trace of something exotic in the air. Jasmine. He shook his head hard.
"Fine-looking woman," he said at last, tossing the picture to his partner, who offered a long, low whistle. "Who'da thought an ornery old bastard like you could have such a looker for a daughter!" Billy exclaimed.
There followed a deathlike silence, chilling enough to cause Kieran to stare at their host. Humble's features were rigid, and his steel-gray eyebrows met over his bulbous red nose.
"She is my wife."
Chapter Two
The silence following Garland Humble's revelation was shattered by an explosion of riotous laughter from Billy. Garland bore the insult with almost superhuman restraint. Macalester was flooded, inexplicably, with a sense of dread. He wished Billy would shut up. He kept his features bland and said nothing, waiting for the story to unfold naturally, or as naturally as it could, given its bizarre beginnings.
"She's an actress?" Billy's question demonstrated both his keen powers of observation and his utter lack of tact. Garland grimaced. "Worse. A singer. Opera."
Opera! This melodrama was becoming more intriguing by the moment. Kieran was forced to restrain a laugh himself at the thought of the aged curmudgeon Garland Humble wooing a beautiful young woman, actually luring one away from the lively world of the stage to the comparatively prosaic world of the altar. Certainly Garland's almost legendary wealth must have played some part in the woman's decision to marry him. Garland Humble was reputed to be one of the richest men in Texas. Possibly the entire country.
"Never took you for an opera lover, Gar." Billy's continued amusement was beginning to irritate his partner. "Or the marryin' type, either. How'd she get you to the al—"
"Billy, if you don't shut up, I just may have to kill you," the old man growled, looking more than capable of the deed. "I'm going to finish this story, if you don't mind, and I'm only going to tell it once."
Billy, for once, seemed nonplussed. Kieran remained silent.
"Her name is Geneva Lionwood." Garland's gruff tone softened. "I met her in New Orleans three years ago."
He shifted his immense bulk in the leather wing chair, which groaned in protest.
"She was beautiful, Macalester." Kieran did not need the use of his name to tell him that Garland Humble was speaking only to him. "And she had—has—a remarkable soprano voice like nothing I've ever heard. And I've heard them all: Nilson, Calve, Fursch-Madi, Sembrich—"
The names meant nothing to Kieran, although Garland recited them as though they were the names of the books of the Old Testament, and he, Macalester, were a Sunday school teacher. It was a little unnerving.
"—understudying for Lucia di Larnmermoor at the time. Understudying! With that voice!"
"Incredible," Macalester interjected politely, although he had not the faintest idea of what Garland was talking about.
"I spoke to the management. I paid them ten thou-sand dollars to let her sing the role. I sat in the box for every performance. She was brilliant. She was… grateful. More than grateful, I thought. Or hoped. When she said 'yes,' I thought I'd died and gone to heaven."
My God, he's serious. Kieran saw the old man's eyes glisten in the pale light of the dying fire. Billy, mercifully, remained silent.
"For six months, I was the happiest man alive." Garland's voice went a shade darker. "Then one morning, she'd gone. Vanished. Packed up and left during the night, without so much as a by-your-leave. I was—" He paused, breathing a deep, broken sigh.
"I want her back, gentlemen," he said finally in a sharp voice.
"And," Billy ventured at last, sounding doubtful, "you want us to get her for you."
Kieran felt a knot in his stomach, around which the brandy twisted like a mean snake. Garland sent a measuring look his way.
"Not exactly." The old man looked straight into Kieran's eyes.
Kieran did not look away. There was more to this story, he sensed, but Garland's bright eyes, the color of robin's eggs, gave him no satisfaction.
"Where is she?" he inquired, laying a finger beside his cheek as he rested his elbow upon the arm of his chair.
"New York City," Garland replied promptly, tugging on the silken cord that hung beside his chair from the ceiling. "You can leave tomorrow. Naturally, I'll pay your expenses."
"I never been to New York." Billy sounded impressed. "I hear tell ladies walk the streets in their nightgowns."
Hallis entered the room quietly, carrying something. In the darkness, Kieran could not make out what it was. Billy, facing the other way, did not seem to notice him.
"You're not going to find out, Billy," Garland re-marked in a casual tone. "Leastwise, not this trip. I want Macalester to handle this alone."
"Why?" Kieran wondered why he was not surprised by this news.
Garland waved a fat, impatient hand. "Because this job calls for finesse. Tact. Intelligence." Kieran could not resist sending a smug grin in his partner's direction. Billy scowled.
"Besides," Garland seemed unaware of the looks exchanged by his audience, "you're not as good-looking as Billy is. Hell, if I send him up there, the two of them might just up and run off together."
It was Billy's turn to gloat. Kieran looked away from his partner, annoyed at the warmth in his own face. Garland Humble would pay for that remark, all the more insulting because of its offhandedness, as though Humble need not concern himself with Kieran's feelings. Kieran didn't mind that Billy was better looking than he, but he did object to having his nose rubbed in it in so careless a fashion. He did have his pride, after all.
"What's it worth to you, Gar?" He ran his finger across his lips as he considered his host.
"Ten thousand."
From the corner of his eye, Kieran saw Billy sit bolt upright in his chair and gulp. Kieran felt a faint smile trace his mouth.
&
nbsp; He shook his head. "Not enough."
Garland's eyes widened, then narrowed again.
"What are you after, Macalester?"
"A letter." Kieran responded promptly. "A real nice letter to Governor Roberts, all about how Billy and I have gone straight, and how we deserve amnesty, and how you're going to help him get re elected."
"And the ten thousand dollars," Billy added. God bless Billy's larcenous heart.
Garland's hairy jaw dropped.
"That's outrageous!"
Kieran settled back in his chair, crossing his right boot over his left knee. "That's the price."
Garland Humble stared in open-mouthed astonishment for a full half-minute, but Macalester knew it was all a show. Ten thousand dollars was pin money to Humble, and that letter, along with its inference, wouldn't cost but a few thousand more. No doubt Garland considered himself more than fortunate to get off so cheaply. At last, he closed his lips, sealing the hole that had appeared between his mustache and beard.
"You're a pair of bold rogues." Garland folded his fat, white hands upon his chest, displaying a thick diamond-and-gold ring on his index finger, a sure sign that he was satisfied with the deal. "I'll add a condition of my own."
"That being?" Kieran inquired patiently.
Garland sent a glance Billy's way.
"Mr. Deal stays here with me. As my guest. And my insurance."
"Your hostage, you mean!" Billy declared hotly, rising in a menacing fashion.
Hallis, who had been standing unobtrusively several feet behind Billy's chair, came forward, quick and quiet as death. Before Kieran could utter a warning, the butler swung a hard blow to the back of Billy's head, and the younger man crumpled instantly to a heap on the floor. Too late, Kieran realized that the object Hallis had been carrying was a blackjack.
"Damn it, Hallis!" Garland snapped, even as Kieran leaped up. "I told you not to—now he's probably bleeding all over my Ispahan."
Kieran knelt to examine his friend. Billy was out cold, and there was a sizable welt forming on the back of his head, staining those blond curls with a thin line of crimson. He was still breathing. Slowly, Kieran looked up at the butler, whose satisfied expression changed to one of terror. The older man took several steps backward.
"Mr. Macalester." His voice quavered. "I didn't mean to—"
"Stop whimpering, Hallis." Kieran cut him short. "I'm not going to do anything to you. But you'd better steer way wide of Billy from now on. And if anything bad happens to him while I'm away, I'm holding you personally responsible. If he has so much as a hangnail when I get back, there won't be any place where you can hide from me. Just remember that. Billy Deal may have his faults, but he never sucker-punched anybody. He's no damned coward."
"Get out of here, Hallis," Garland ordered the butler. "I'm sorry about this, Maca—"
"Like hell you are." Kieran spun on his host, his anger rising like molten lava in the core of a volcano. "Hallis was acting on your order. I bet you told him to take Billy out if he showed any signs of resisting. Damn you, Humble. If I find out that this is a setup—"
Garland gripped the arms of his chair, his fat knuckles turning white. "Calm down, Macalester." Kieran had to admire the irritability in the old man's voice, which contradicted the terror in his eyes. "Nobody's setting you up. It isn't you I don't trust. It's her. I just want to be sure that you don't forget your job when she bats her eyelashes at you."
Macalester did calm down, almost against his will.
"I thought you weren't worried about that, being as I'm such an ugly old cuss."
Garland chuckled, getting up slowly from his chair. The chair, Kieran reflected, had to be relieved.
"Take him upstairs." The old man gestured to the pile on the floor that was Billy. "Your rooms are ready. And you have a train to catch in the morning."
Kieran looked the fat old spider straight in the eye.
"I'm going to catch it with that letter in my pocket, Garland. You may trust me, but I don't return the favor. You can date it a month from now, if you like, but that letter is mine, as of this moment."
This was not negotiable. Garland nodded slowly, not averting his gaze.
"Alright, Macalester. As a gesture of good faith. But—"
Here it comes, thought Kieran, clenching his jaw. Humble's caveat. With Garland Humble, there was always a caveat. And it was always pricey.
"You have one month to return my wife to me. Thirty days. After which time, William Deal becomes my property to dispose of as I choose, including, but not limited to, turning him in for the reward. At least it'll make up for my out-of-pocket. We'll see just how deep your loyalties run."
Kieran laughed, more amused than alarmed by what the old man no doubt had hoped was an ominous warning.
"I hope it takes me considerably less that thirty days, Gar. The idea of spending that much time with any woman who would marry you is about as appealing as playing 'keep away' with a pint of nitroglycerin."
Garland smiled faintly. "You just keep on thinking that, Macalester."
Now that, thought Kieran, staring hard at the old man again, did sound like a threat.
Chapter Three
"He is stupid!" Soprano Geneva Lionwood wrenched the startled, inept tenor's music from his trembling hand and hurled it to the stage before her. An obligato of colorful Italian insults ensued.
"You are stupid," she spat back at the red-faced man across from her, this time in flawless Italian. "This is the fifth time you've walked on my cadenza in this rehearsal alone. If you do it one more time, I'll have you skewered and roasted for the pig you are!"
Another vituperative recitative of scathing Mediterranean insults followed, this time from the orchestra pit. Italo Campanini, the world-renowned tenor who brought crowds to their feet at La Scala, Covent Garden, the Academy of Music and dozens of other opera houses throughout the world, had walked on her cadenza. Again. And now the conductor, Campanini's countryman Vianesi, was berating her for it. This was insupportable. Abbey must know. And Blaine must back her up.
"But he is wrong!" Still in Italian, Geneva pleaded with the conductor, although she could not see him for the footlights. "Tell him! There are a full three measures of three there, with a fermata and ritardando. Even if the direction wasn't specific, it makes no sense musically or dramatically for him to take a single step before I finish my cadenza!"
"Disgraziata! How does she expect me to change my costume for the next scene if I am standing here with my thumb up my fundament waiting for her to finish?" Campanini, obese, perspiring, appealed to the invisible conductor. "I remind Signorina Lionwood that it is Campanini's name above hers on the handbills!"
"And it is Gounod's name above yours!" she retorted, giving the luckless score on the stage a little kick. "And Mr. Abbey's! I very, much doubt that a man of Mr. Abbey's reputation wants his premier production literally trampled to death by a selfish oaf of a—"
"Miss Lionwood!"
Henry Abbey, new director of the even newer Metropolitan Opera House, halted the commotion from the wings with his stentorian exclamation. He was a paragon of grace and diplomacy as he strode smoothly out onto the stage, and Geneva was relieved. She didn't like him personally, but that was not important. Abbey was a man of musical integrity at least, and was, moreover, an American, like her. His will must supercede Campanini's. Even Vianesi's. This round was surely hers. She smiled at his approach.
"Mr. Abbey—" He held up a hand.
"Not another word, if you please, Miss Lionwood." He turned to Campanini, and Geneva could scarcely contain her delight at the dressing down that the tenor was about to receive. If she was lucky, Abbey would give the conductor a courteous but firm rebuke, as well.
"Please accept my apologies on behalf of Miss Lionwood, Signore." Abbey spoke in Italian and bowed low to the tenor. "She is young, and she does not yet know the way of things."
Geneva felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. Over Abbey's bent back, Campanini s
ent her a triumphant sneer. Before she could recover, Abbey straightened and turned to her, wearing the look of a stem, scolding papa.
"Let us have no more of these outbursts," he cautioned, still speaking Italian, shaking a finger at her. "Signores Campanini and Vianesi are busy and important men who have been performing opera since you were a child. Neither of them needs the instruction of a young snip with a wealthy patron."
Geneva bit her tongue and waited. It was all true: She was hardly the headline performer, all those present were far older and more experienced than she, and she did enjoy the patronage of Blaine, Lord Atherton, which was largely responsible—all right, then, wholly responsible—for her having been granted the role of Marguerite in the Metropolitan Opera House's premier performance of Gounod's Faust, although her ability to perform the role in her own right was unquestioned. But surely Abbey could not mean to allow these proud, pompous asses to make a gross mockery of Gounod's genius!
Without another look at Geneva, Abbey started off.
Mind yourself, now, girl, Audrey, her friend and wardrobe mistress, would warn her, Geneva knew—if she were there. But Audrey was dressing Calve across town at the Academy of Music.
Pride, and a sense of fairness, got the better of Geneva's instincts for self-preservation.
"But Mr. Abbey—"
"Look here, miss." Abbey spun on her and spoke in cold, crisp English. "We both know that the only reason you stand here at all is because you have the favor of a prominent patron of the art. I cannot dispute your right insofar as the music is concerned, but I, and the opera house, stand to lose far more by angering Campanini and the others than by catering to your whims, right or wrong. I have kept silent as to the means by which you have secured the favor of Lord Atherton," he said with a knowing leer, "and thus the leading role for this production. I expect you to keep silent in the matter of how I manage it. You are expendable. I wanted Nilson for the role. If you cause me any more trouble, I'll see to it that I get her, and Lord Atherton's bequest be damned."