The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli

by Carolyn Hennesy

  Walkin’ into the Port Charlie cemetery . . . final lie-down, boneyard, rotter’s rest, the six-feet-under club . . . was never a piece of cake. Too many memories.

  Actually, if I’m bein’ square, I didn’t have any relatives stashed in pine boxes in that particular God’s Acre. In fact, I didn’t know where my folks were; so I just invested the headstones and grave-markers of the townspeople with a sorta bond, if you get my drift, and made them my own.

  “Evenin’, Mr. Richard Overton, born 1813, died 1865. Nice night, ain’t it? Mrs. Stocking, devoted wife and mother . . . lookin’ sharp as usual, doll.”

  I didn’t know them, and they sure as hell didn’t know me . . . but they were my folk.

  I reached the place we’d agreed on, marker 284F, Col. Marion “Have Mercy!” Barrows, sat down, and waited. I didn’t have to wait long . . . this dame had manners.

  “Good evening, Jackal,” she says, stridin’ up real easy.

  “Evenin’, Miss . . . jeez, considerin’ what I know about you, I ain’t sure what to call you.”

  “You have everything, then? It’s all taken care of?”

  “I may have missed a photo or two, ’cause there were a lot, sister, lemme tell you. But I think I got everything, yeah.”

  “May I see it?”

  I handed her a large manila envelope I’d had tucked under my arm. She opened it with one perfect nail and started combin’ through.

  “Excellent . . . excellent. Heavens, I could be here all night. Just give me a rundown, will you? Tell me everything you did.”

  “You were a busy bee from the time you left Princeton to the moment you first set your dainty foot in Port Charles a few years ago. But, thanks to me, we’re gonna be the only two who know it. In that envelope are all the records I’ve destroyed. No one’s gonna know that, when you took up modelin’ in Japan, you also took up with the Emperor for about three months. Evidence of the two girls you had with him? Gone.”

  “Miyuki and Saiko,” she whispered. “They’re young ladies, by now. I miss them so.”

  “Well, I hope you said your good-byes, mama-san,” I said, my voice soundin’ a little too cruel. “Because as far as you’re concerned, they don’t exist. And no one is going to know that you ran that country for six weeks while the prime minister had dysentery.”

  “Good,” she said, wipin’ away a tear.

  “Japanese ambassador to Hungary? Gone. Hungarian minister of internal affairs? Gone. As well as fine art attaché to the Louvre. No one will know that you ‘fixed’ the Mona Lisa during that hushed-up arson attempt back in ’95. Far as everyone’s concerned, all the work is still Leo’s. Bustin’ up that fine art forgery ring from Honduras? Gone. Deposing the South American leader who was about to launch a bio-terror weapon on Nogales? Gone.”

  “I made that look like a suicide, you know?” she said. “I caused a scandal from which the generalissimo knew he could never recover. He garroted himself.”

  She was looking around at the headstones, but I knew she was miles away.

  “And don’t think I wasn’t impressed,” I said. “But . . . it’s gone, doll. So’s the fact that you stopped the hijackin’ of the Luriline off the Coˆte d’Azur.”

  “I was working as a double agent,” she said with a sad little laugh. “Those pirates thought I was just a pretty plaything, but I showed them. Lured them onboard, gave them the all clear.”

  “You saved two hundred and thirty-seven lives that day,” I said. “But no one’s gonna know. People have been paid off, evidence destroyed. That’s the way you wanted it, right?”

  “Right. Go on.”

  “There’s no record of you startin’ the school for rug rats with big brains.”

  “The Exceptionals,” she said, shaking her head. “Gathered from orphanages all over the world. One child came from right here in Port Charles, you know. Her name is . . .”

  “Don’t say it! Don’t speak it out loud. Besides . . . I already know who it is.”

  “I’m sure you do. Which means you know the history that child was given and what her mission is.”

  “You got that right,” I said.

  “But so many other Exceptionals are out there as well! They’re already doing exceptional things . . . following their orders! How did you . . . ?”

  “The ones in public office have all sworn to keep silent. The ones in the underground wouldn’t talk anyway. Plus, if anything ever does leak out, Oprah has agreed to take the credit.”

  “She’s always been so good about that. I have to send her a thank-you note . . . maybe some chocolates.”

  “Don’t do anything, y’hear me!” I said . . . too loudly. “No trail back to you! It’s all taken care of. You didn’t stop Russia’s second nuclear disaster by throwin’ yourself on the rods and changin’ the heat ratio.”

  “My hair was curly for three years after that,” she said.

  “You don’t have access to Hubble photos showin’ space ships circlin’ Saturn.”

  “They’re hanging in my bathroom in Manhattan.” She giggled now. I sensed she was easin’ up just a bit. “People think I’m a science fiction nut. I keep a copy of Asimov short stories by my bed, just to keep up the charade.”

  “You don’t have to keep up anything anymore, sister. You can toss ol’ Isaac in the circular file if you want to now; although my personal suggestion would be to read him. He’s good. Although you already know more than most about science ‘fiction,’ am I right?”

  “Ah,” she said, with a sideways glance. “You mean the time travel.”

  “No one will ever know that you were pulled off a NASA shuttle mission at the last moment and sent to Switzerland to test the ‘Tempest 3 Portal.’ But, just ’tween you and me and the colonel here . . . how far into the future did you go?”

  “Twenty-five years,” she said. Then her smile got real big. “It’s funny, you know. People think I have my pulse on the latest trends in fashion. Truth is, I just stole what I saw from the future and brought it back to the present.”

  “I disagree, Ice Queen. I say you started leadin’ the pack now . . . and then you saw the results when you traveled ahead in time.”

  “You’re sweet, Jackal,” she said, squeezin’ my arm for a second. “Go on.”

  “That’s it for the majors. Let’s see . . . you weren’t the produce manager for Gelson’s supermarkets in California. You didn’t become a cobbler in Milan. You didn’t invent the Cosmopolitan, Coke Zero, or the Frappuccino. You didn’t insist that Subway stick with the oil-and-vinegar mix when they wanted to discontinue it.”

  “Such good sandwiches,” she whispered.

  “You didn’t take over for Mother Teresa when she had scurvy for three days.”

  “I might want to keep that,” she said.

  “Then you risk everything else comin’ out. This is a tight little fishnet stocking you’ve woven, doll. One snag and the whole thing unravels.”

  “Fine . . . lose Calcutta.”

  “You didn’t cap an oil well outside of San Antonio. You didn’t score thirty-six goals in the one and only season for the Ottawa Ovaries. You didn’t invent the Snuggie. You don’t know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried. You didn’t translate the complete works of Dostoevsky into Swahili, and you weren’t on the rodeo circuit for two years under that name of ‘Catastrophe Sal.’ ”

  She sighed. Even her sigh was pure class.

  “That’s it, then.”

  “That’s it,” I said. “The cover story’s in place. Photos, articles, scandals, the works. As far as anyone will ever know, you just went to the Big Apple and started workin’ to become a fashion tycoon.”

  I took a long pause.

  “But I don’t get it,” I said. “Why? Why the cover-up?”

  It was her turn to get real quiet.

  “I want to go back home . . . even if it’s just for a little while. I’ve been lucky so far; none of this has found me. Most of it I did out of necessity. Hell, most of it I did to survi
ve. I covered my trails well, crossed my ‘t’s’ and all that. But I want a clean slate. I may come back to Port Charles from time to time, but from now on I just want to live on my own terms . . . no fear.”

  “But, and I never thought I’d say this to anyone; you’ve done more than I have. You’re out there, fightin’ the good fight. Helpin’ those who need it the most and puttin’ the bad guys outta commission. And lookin’ like cake while you’re at it. You’re . . . you’re a real special dame. The world should know . . .”

  “Come on, Spinelli,” she said, lookin’ me square in the ojos. “You’ve saved this country from complete destruction three times already and no one will ever know about that, will they?”

  “Nope.”

  “You understand, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do,” I said, and I was on the level. I did.

  “Take care, Spinelli,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “You, too. And . . . I’ll just say it. You got my respect.”

  She nodded her head and smiled.

  Then I watched Kate Howard walk away into the mist.

  Chapter 11

  Damian Spinelli

  and the Case of the Contrived Contralto

  Maxie and I didn’t get to the flickers much. Mostly ’cause I was a little twitchy at leavin’ her alone to go get popcorn. Twice I‘d come back and found her in the back of the movie house playin’ “Who’s Got the Goober?” with some joker neither of us knew. If I didn’t have such a good grip on my manhood, I mighta taken it real personal.

  “You can’t say that,” I said, flipping off the tape recorder and putting my head down on the formica table.

  “Innumerable and heartfelt pardons, Beautiful Barrister, but what has you so exasperated?”

  “You cannot say that you have or had a grip on your . . . your . . .”

  “Oh! But of course not. Naturally, what you are thinking that I was thinking is not at all what was meant. I only wished to infer that I am dealing with any insecurity issues regarding my masculinity and my non-bride with forthrightness, clear thinking, and a great deal of therapy.”

  “I can only imagine,” I said, flipping the “record” button back on.

  However, that night it was a double feature at the Port Chuck Bijou: The Prisoner of Zenda with Stewie Granger, and A Stolen Life with Miss Bette “Don’t You Get Fresh with Me, Jack Warner!” Davis. My blonde baby hadn’t known flickers were even around before the early ’70s, so this was one set of peep-shows I didn’t want to miss.

  First, we watched James Mason take his final powder and Maxie loved it. Then, Bette Davis was just confessin’ her whole mess when suddenly my cell phone started to vibrate. It was a country code I didn’t recognize at first.

  “Spinelli,” I whispered. (I hate rubes who think the movie theater is the perfect place to have a real, real loud conversation. Makes me wish I had a taser.)

  “Thank God! It’s Alexis. I’m in trouble, Spinelli. It’s bad. She kidnapped me. I’m on the island . . . and . . . and she’s gone crazy! Really crazy this time! Oh, God . . . I . . . I have to go. Do something. Help me!”

  I was almost up and outta my seat when the line clicked off . . . dead; I didn’t have a chance to even open my puss.

  “Wrong number?” Maxie whispered.

  “Nope,” I said, real low, slippin’ the phone back into my pocket, realizin’ the mystery country code was for Greece. “She knew exactly who she was callin’. You stay, baby. Don’t miss the end. I gotta get packin’. The dame’s in bad shape from the sound of it.”

  “Dame? What dame?”

  “Alexis Davis.”

  “I can finish the movie another time. I want to help you, if I can. What’s wrong?” Maxie asked, followin’ me outta the movie house.

  “Don’t know yet. All’s I know is that I’m headin’ east. Next stop . . . Cassadine Island.”

  Suddenly, I had a funny feelin’ that there might have been a reason we’d been watchin’ those two particular films that night.

  There was a twelve-seater at the Port Charles airstrip, and I thought about hot-wiring her for about a minute, until I realized that I didn’t know how much fuel was in her tanks and a whole lotta questions might be asked if I needed to gas her up. It was a lousy idea all around. I fished my Greek passport out from my “travelin’ ” trunk and was at Kennedy within two hours of gettin’ Alexis’s call.

  “Mister . . . Papadopolis?” asked the stew in first class, leanin’ over so’s I could get a whiff of her Jean Naté After Bath Splash Mist.

  “Sweet Jesus, you shouldn’t know those things, Spinelli!” I said.

  “What?”

  “You shouldn’t know that Jean Naté comes in an ‘after bath splash . . . whatever!’ ”

  “Mist.”

  “STOP IT! Right there! THAT! You’re gonna get beat up in an alley if you keep this up. You need to say something like ‘a whiff of her perfume. It was expensive, like she probably was.’ Something like that.”

  “But, and with all due respect, Brassy and Somewhat Ballsy Barrister, I do recall you saying that, although these are the stories of my life which involve your clients to a certain degree as well as other peripheral members of Port Charles’s ‘who’s who,’ they would only live in note form. Yes, they must be told, but after the telling, you said they would only live on in secret . . . on your computer, I believe.”

  I sighed.

  “Yes . . . yes . . . you have me there. I did say that.”

  He clapped his hands together.

  “Then ‘Jean Naté’ may stay?”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s me,” I answered.

  “Would you like something to drink before takeoff?”

  “He’ll have what I’m having,” said a voice behind her.

  She turned and I looked up to see Nikolas Cassadine . . . “Cassi” I called him when he wasn’t lookin’ . . . waitin’ for the window seat.

  “Two gin and sodas, Miss, thank you,” Cassi said.

  The stew turned to look at me.

  “That’ll be fine, doll. Put a twist in mine.”

  “Jackal,” Cassi said, settlin’ in.

  “Prince,” I replied. Outta respect, that’s what I called him when he was lookin’.

  “Doing a little vacationing in Greece?” he asked.

  “Maybe. You? Gonna see some sights? The family maybe?”

  “I’m going to do just that,” Cassi answered.

  “You got a lot of family over there,” I said.

  “I do.”

  “You’re not taking the Cassadine jet?” I asked.

  “It’s out of commission,” he said, real slow.

  “You mean you can’t take it . . . because it’s already in Greece.”

  “Then you know!” he kinda yelped.

  “Shhhh,” I said. “What are you doin’ here?”

  “I got a call from Alexis about an hour and a half ago. Helena kidnapped her and the girls . . .”

  “Molly and Kristina are there too?”

  “Helena has them all. Alexis couldn’t get much out except that my grandmother has gone completely mad and she plans to ‘do’ something to Alexis and make the girls watch. Just like Helena made Alexis watch when she killed Alexis’s mother. I’m on this plane because I didn’t want to charter anything. I didn’t want to tip off Helena in any way.”

  “You gotta fun family,” I said.

  “You don’t know the half of it. Now . . . why are you here?”

  “Alexis called my cell two hours ago. Told me where she was and that she needed help. That’s all I know.”

  “You mean,” Cassi said, “she called you before she called me?”

  “Looks that way. Now listen, Prince, I don’t mind Alexis hedgin’ her bets, and I don’t mind you taggin’ along. Just one thing we gotta get straight. I work alone, see? You wanna play on the beach and get a tan? Fine. You wanna eat some flamin’ cheese and throw a few plates? Fine. Just stay outta my way.�
��

  Nikolas turned toward the window as the wide-body lifted off. For a second I thought he might be cryin’. About an hour later, he turned back.

  “Listen, Jackal,” Cassi said softly. “I know you’re the best. I know that’s why my aunt called you. But I also know why she called me. I can get us in! Onto the island, I mean.”

  “Piece of cake,” I said, flippin’ through my in-flight magazine.

  “Look, I know you could do it,” Cassi said. “But it would cost you a lot of money in bribes. People expect to be paid for their silence or their help. And it would take you time. And . . . dammit . . . that’s time Alexis might not have!”

  “Easy, sport . . . easy,” I said. “You’re right.”

  “I am?”

  “You bet,” I said, and I meant it, ’cause he was. “We’ll play it your way until we get onto the island, okay? Straight down the line. Then, once we’re on land, you let me take over. You do what I say when I say it. Jake?”

  “Jake,” Cassi said. “Thank you.”

  “Cassi, this is the beginnin’ of a beautiful friendship.”

  “Uh . . . okay. Did you say ‘Cassi’?”

  We made one stop after gettin’ off the plane: a little souvenir shop inside the airport. Forty-five euros and two Greek fishing caps later, we flagged a taxi to take us to the coast. Just two nice Greek chumps visitin’ the old sod. No limos, no town cars, no helicopters . . . no cushy ride for the Prince. But for all his rich-kid airs, Cassi was turnin’ out to be a regular joe, and a smart one. He didn’t say one word to the cabbie, made me do all the gum flappin’.

  “Everyone in this country has either been paid off, hunted by, nursed by, slept with, or knows someone who has been killed by the Cassadines. One word out of me and my grandmother would know I’m in the country within five minutes,” he told me as the plane was landing. “You should do all the talking until we get to the coast. How’s your Greek?”

  “Souvlaki smooth,” I said.

  “I had a feeling it would be.”

  Five hours and a whole lotta silence later, we reached a fishing village on the coast, the nearest launch point to the island.