The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli

by Carolyn Hennesy

  “You needed to ask?” Madame said. “They are Russian.”

  “Get ’em costumes. All of ’em. And find something for us. Olivia, you and Johnny are about to join the circus.”

  Ten minutes later, we were all in perfectly matched tights, leotards, red noses, and yellow wigs. The kids were doing tumbling runs, and I had Johnny and Olivia up on the trapeze with me, which gave me a good vantage point and a defensible position. Learned that in Korea. Johnny was still kinda out of it, so I put him on the catcher’s bar and told him to just keep swingin’ . . . upside down. He seemed to enjoy it and worked himself into a damn good arc. Olivia was the real surprise though. I told her to just fall into the net, over and over again, ’cause I knew she’d never be able to do a trick, see? But I’ll be damned if the dame didn’t keep tryin’ to fly. I was executin’ layouts and doubles, then fallin’ flat out into the net, and then, I’ll be a son-of-a-billygoat, Olivia would try to match me. And she was good . . . real good. So good, I almost didn’t notice Igor’s head stickin’ up outta the floor duct. But I had Madame on goon watch and she clobbered him with a full bottle of vodka, then took a swig as he sank back into the duct. Nikolai and Ivan were comin’ in the practice room door just as Madame covered the hole in the floor with her skirt.

  “What is meaning of this?” she yelled in a voice I hadn’t heard since she caught me not payin’ attention in class once . . . and only once. “We are in the middle of practice! You want to distract my fliers?! Get out!”

  “We are looking for two people, a woman and a man . . . and someone else, perhaps. Did they come in here?” asked Ivan.

  “I tell you to get out! There is no one here who is not supposed to be here. We are State Circus school, hoodlum. Please, you will go look for your hoodlum friends someplace else, da?!”

  Ivan and Nikolai shot a look at the kids, then they looked up at the rig. I saw Nikolai shrug his shoulders and the two of ’em turned to go. Right then, wouldn’t you know it, Johnny fell off the catch-bar and took a header into the net.

  “Johnny!” Olivia screamed.

  Ivan and Nikki were back in a flash.

  “Up the ladder to the girl,” Ivan said to Nikolai. “I will get the one in the net.”

  “Stay here,” I said to Olivia as I dropped down like the other shoe. I rolled to the edge of the net just as Ivan was hoistin’ himself up.

  “Madame?” I yelled. “I could use that bottle of vodka right about now!”

  With a perfect juggler’s toss, she sailed it across the room and smack into my hand. Ivan looked up just in time to see some fine Russian hooch come crashin’ down on his u-krainium. One down, one to go.

  “Care to perform your rope trick, Madame?” I said.

  “With pleasure,” she said, grabbing a long length and tying Ivan up like a birthday present.

  I hightailed it up the ladder to the catch-bar platform, hooked the bar, and brought it in. Nikolai was just about to reach Olivia on the platform at the other end of the rig.

  “Okay, doll,” I said, standin’ on the catch-bar and startin’ to swing. “Let’s see that form!”

  The timing had to be perfect, or we’d need a really big oven for all our cooked goose.

  “And . . . swing!”

  Olivia took off.

  “And . . . drop!”

  She let go of the fly-bar and hit the net . . . only inches away from Johnny. And that’s when I flew off the catch-bar and caught the fly-bar on its way back to the platform. Nikolai was now standin’ where Olivia had been, his gun in one hand and a goofy look on his face. I stuck my legs out like ramrods and launched cosmonaut Nikki out into space, while at the same time executin’ a perfect landing back onto the platform. Nikki crashed into the wall and slid down onto the floor.

  “He’s still alive,” Madame said, puttin’ her hand on his neck.

  “Then I smell a rope trick encore,” I said, midair. I bounced in the net a moment, then helped Olivia and Johnny onto the floor. The kids were jumpin’ and hollerin’ all around us. The sun was startin’ to light up the frosted-glass windows. It was a good way to start the day.

  We dragged Igor from the vent and tied him up with Ivan and Nikolai. Then, right in the middle of a gorgeous St. Pete morning, Johnny (who was by now almost fully recovered from being hopped up by his dad’s flunkies and then beaned by Billy) and I lugged the three muscle-“bound” mooks across the Nevskiy Prospekt and dumped them on the club door stoop. Then we rang the bell and ran.

  “They let me get away,” Johnny said with a grin, when we were back inside the school. “My father isn’t gonna like that.”

  “Might go all Bolshoi on them,” I said. “Do a couple of dance moves on their heads.”

  “At least,” Johnny replied, laughin’.

  “Now, if you’ll pardonnez-moi,” I said, “I have to teach a few kids how to toss a chicken.”

  The master class went better than I was expectin’ and I realized I was leavin’ my signature trick in good hands. And only one kid let the egg break on his head. We all had a good laugh and I realized that I had to make room, like a gentleman, for the new generation.

  Suddenly, Madame came flouncin’ up, all red-faced. I thought it was just the morning vodka, but it turned out she had news.

  “I still have sources, as you must know, Spinelski. The news of Mr. Zacchara’s disappearance from the club has spread like the wildfire. His father is having the roads, airports, rivers, and train stations all watched for any sign. I’m afraid you cannot leave the country.”

  “Oh, we’re gonna vamoose, all right,” I said, as everybody else ran up. “Pop is watchin’ the usual routes, huh? Then we’ll walk.”

  “Walk!” shouted Johnny, Olivia, the kids, and Madame all at once. Startled me so bad, I thought I was gonna crap myself.

  “Madame, get the school bus ready. Everybody else, back in the red noses!”

  Twenty minutes later, a big orange-and-purple bus full of clowns was headin’ up the Prospekt . . . with no one thinkin’ anything of it.

  “Where are we going?” Madame asked as she drove.

  “Finland,” I said. “I have friends just across the border in Vaalimaa.”

  “I cannot cross. Even with artist’s papers. They have become so strict.”

  “Don’t worry your pretty, stubbled face, sweetheart. Just drop us down a ways from the checkpoint.”

  As soon as we got out of St. Pete’s, we changed back into street clothes. Madame let us off at a deserted spot on the Finnish border and gave everyone a bear hug.

  “I will miss you, Spinelski,” she said in my ear.

  “I’ll see you again, Madame,” I said, not wantin’ to get all sentimental. “You gotta come Stateside for a visit.”

  “You will introduce me to movie stars?”

  “You bet.”

  “Many?”

  “Many as we can find.”

  “Johnny Depp?”

  “Don’t push it. Bye, Madame. Thanks.”

  We walked into Finland, no problem. Seven rug rats, their new mom and pop, and me . . . the Pied Piper. Few hours later, Vaalimaa was in sight. Wouldn’t be long now before we were all on Main Street U.S.A., eatin’ Mom’s old-fashioned apple pie. Outta nowhere, Olivia started singin’ . . . said she was thinkin’ of a scene from one of those big-time Tinsel Town CinemaScope musicals. We got about two choruses in and I decided the sappy lyrics needed a little change.

  Dough . . . the thing she likes to spend,

  Ray, who owes me twenty Gs.

  Me, the guy I like the best,

  Far, fala with extra cheese.

  So, I got no more to say,

  La, it comes right after so,

  Tee, off time’s at noon today,

  That should bring me lots of dough . . . oh, oh, oh . . .

  Chapter 9

  Damian Spinelli

  and the Case of the Treacherous Teacher

  I was walkin’ Maxie back through the park one night . . .


  “Gaahhhh!” Spinelli suddenly cried. His cell phone was vibrating in his cargo pants again, only this time I could tell that it had somehow shifted position on his . . . person.

  “Why don’t you just answer it?” I said. “Don’t you think it might be important?”

  “There is nothing that can sway me from my date with destiny upon the morrow, hence these accounts must be related. That is of utmost, dare I say, paramount importance. Whomever this prankster is, whatever their odious and diabolical game, I shall have none of it,” he said, hitting the “ignore” button. “Now, where was I . . . ?”

  “Just a minute,” I said, putting my hand to my head in a way that reminded me of Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard. “I think I have been very good for this last bit; haven’t interrupted at all. I have just been a regular little stenographer and now I need a minute. Actually, about five.”

  “Is the Brusque Lady of Justice ill? May I get you a curative, restorative, or tonic of some sort?” Spinelli asked, looking genuinely concerned.

  “No,” I replied. “I just have to process. I had no idea, Jackal-hopper, that you were capable of astonishing me to such a degree. So, we’re going to sit quietly for five minutes and you’re not going to say anything. All right? No . . . don’t even answer that. Just . . . sit.”

  “May I . . . ?”

  “I will take this pen and commit bodily harm. To you. Your person. Sit.”

  He was good for, maybe, thirty seconds and I took a chance on closing my eyes. Then, across the table littered with plates, I heard him . . . heard him . . . open his mouth.

  “If . . .”

  “Stab you. Might have to stab you.”

  I tried to think of the next time I would be able to soak in a tub full of my Himalayan bath salts . . . with or without Max. I tried to think of the upcoming Lorente trunk show in Manhattan and how Kate said she would arrange tickets for Alexis and me to attend. I tried to imagine the only decent martini in all of Port Charles, the one made by my silent but wise three-days-a-week houseboy, Kwan. I tried to recall Ella singing “A-Tisket, A-Tasket.” I tried to focus on my pet snake, Freckles.

  Instead, all I could think of was Spinelli, in red tights, flying through the air with the greatest of ease; I realized I might never have a decent night’s sleep again.

  “Okay,” I said finally, opening my eyes. “You can con . . .”

  Spinelli had, silently, pulled his fedora down over his eyes and had his hands resting on the table, palms up. He was delicately mouthing some sort of . . . chant . . . over and over again.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am invoking inner peace and harmony for you using a traditional Shintoist prayer,” he replied.

  For some reason, I could think of nothing cute or cutting to say. I found myself genuinely touched. There were stranger things that happened in the world besides what this scrawny, possibly deranged, but assuredly brilliant boy was telling me. Maybe it was all actually . . .

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m back. Where were we?”

  Spring in Port Charles came early that year and Maxie said she wanted to stretch her gams. We’d just had about a pound of New York, rare for me, and a baked ’tater, fully loaded, each. We looked like those crazy snakes in Africa that swallow eggs whole, shell and all. We get back to her place and I go in for the big kisseroo . . . when my phone started vibratin’. For a second, I thought it was Maxie, makin’ my heart race just a little faster, but she pulled away like she’d just been bit . . . which sometimes she likes, but not right then.

  “What’s up, doll?” I said. “Get back here . . . you’re sendin’ me!”

  “Spinelli, it’s your phone . . . either answer it or turn it off!”

  I chucked it across the room.

  Stupid move. It started vibratin’ again; whoever wanted me, wanted me bad. I left Maxie all ruffled up on the couch and picked up the phone. Normally, I don’t answer numbers I don’t recognize, but I got a funny feelin’ about this one.

  “Spinelli,” I said.

  “It’s Robin . . . Scorpio Drake.”

  “Heya, Doc. What’s shakin’? And I sure hope it ain’t your hands.”

  “Uh . . . yeah. Look, I need to talk with you. Something’s come up and it’s serious . . .”

  “It’s kinda late, y’know? And I was right in the middle of . . . a delicate operation, if you get my drift.”

  “Spinelli,” Robin said, soundin’ real serious-like. “This could cost me my career . . . maybe my family. Everything. I’ll pay you anything you want; I’ll give you everything I have, but please . . .”

  “Whoa . . . hold up there, sawbones. No need for talk like that. I’m sure whatever it is can be fixed . . .”

  I looked at Maxie, the front of her sweater-set doin’ a little heave-ho, and I was about to tell Robin that whatever it was could also wait until morning. But then Maxie gave me the look—the one that said “Go . . . somebody needs you more than I do right now.” On occasion, that look had also said, “I may be here when you get back, or I may be under a table at the Metro Court, collecting a little pocket change. Take your chances.” But I counted on the sixteen ounces of steak and the sour cream to keep her home. I kept my eyes on my non-bride as I talked to Robin.

  “Coffee shop. Corner of Adirondack and Crescent. Twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll be there,” she said, and clicked off.

  “Baby . . .”

  “Just go,” Maxie said, shakin‘ her pretty blonde hair. “I’m going to curl up with the latest issue of Crimson and check out my work. I’m the real brains behind that company, you know.”

  “I know,” I said, smilin’.

  “I want to see if the layout of the Maha Chang show came out as good as I think it did. Or I may read some Proust. So . . . just go already.”

  She grinned at me as I bent down to plant one where it counted. I was halfway to my car when I stopped cold.

  “Proust?!”

  I found Robin already sittin’ in a corner booth, way back, her fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee, black as the mascara streaks runnin’ down her face.

  “C’mon,” I said, slidin’ across from her, “can’t be bad as all that.”

  “What’ll it be, Jackal?” Candy asked, stridin’ up, her waitress uniform just a little too tight.

  “The usual, Candy, thanks.”

  “One cuppa coffee with an orange soda chaser. Comin’ right up.”

  When Candy got a good distance away, I turned to Robin.

  “Tell me what’s got you lookin’ like Alice Cooper.”

  “Where do you want me to start?” she asked. I could tell she was barely holdin’ it together.

  “Take it nice and slow and start from the beginning.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “You won’t tell anyone else?”

  “That’s what you’re payin’ me for.”

  “Okay. When I was in med school at the Sorbonne . . . in France, I had a professor . . . Mr. Xavier. He was nice enough and I always did really well in his classes. But more than that, I always felt like I could go to him if I had a problem understanding organic chemistry or submolecular biology, and he wouldn’t laugh the way some other professors might have done. So, I liked him. When I came back to the States . . . before I started my residency, I got a letter from Professor Xavier saying that I had accidentally skipped one course in France—an important course in EGC interpretation—and the Sorbonne was going to deny my diploma until it was completed. He went on to say that, as luck would have it, he just happened to be coming to the States to teach that very course over the summer in a little college in New Hampshire. He could get me in, the Sorbonne would be satisfied, and no one here would ever know. So I spent the summer in Monadnock. And it was easy, you know? It was pretty basic stuff, so I was acing it. Then one day, my lab partner didn’t show up for class because she’d contracted cholera . . . or something, I don’t remember . . . and Mr. Xavier stepped in real quick and
offered to partner up for the lab portion of class. So, one thing leads to another, and as I’m sliding the sample ECG across the desk, our fingers touched and . . . and . . . that was it. We sort of . . . saw . . . each other for the rest of the year. And it was great . . . he was great. He’d joke with me all the time that just because I was dynamite in the . . . uh . . . just because I was a good girlfriend, he was still going to grade me fairly and all that. So the summer ended and I told him I was leaving to start my residency. Only . . . only he didn’t want to let me go. He told me that he’d been in love with me ever since I started at the Sorbonne and he’d arranged the whole summer teaching position just to be close to me. Now he was going back to France and I was going to come with him and be his TA while I also took care of our kids. I told him no thanks . . . but in a nice way . . . and suddenly he turned into this completely different person. He became a monster; telling me that if I didn’t spend the rest of my life with him he would find a way to destroy me. And, if I ever had a child with someone else, he would visit me personally to make me miserable. I got away from him so fast . . . I just ran. Back to the dorm, threw my clothes in my car, and got out of town. I tried to disappear. My dad called in a favor from one of the doctors here at General Hospital and he got my residency changed, but I didn’t tell him why. I didn’t tell a soul. And I didn’t come home right away, either . . . I drove to a few towns, just for a few days apiece. I finally threw Phinneas off the scent.”

  “Phinneas?”

  “He was English . . . and French . . .”

  “I wouldn’t even have a drink with someone named Phinneas. Just on principle,” I said, downin’ my orange Nehi. “So he was a dirty rat, eh? Reminds me of a few book-heads I squared off with myself. But why the tears? You left him on the side of the road and your life’s great, right?”

  “It was . . . it has been, pretty much, up till now. Losing Stone was tough. And getting AIDS . . . that pretty much changed everything, some things for the better, some others . . . not so much. And there have been a few bumps in the road with Patrick, but nothing we couldn’t get over. But now . . . now I have Emma. And somehow, some way, Phinneas found out about it. He showed up two weeks ago . . .”