The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli

by Carolyn Hennesy

  “It does sound like you’re getting sick,” I said, lookin’ at him. “Maybe Sam could rub something on your back!”

  “Maybe someone else could rub you out, Danielle!”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t mind spreading a little vapo-rub,” Sam said. “If you think it would help.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Morgan said. “I’ll be just fine once I get a little shut-eye.”

  “Yes, we do need our beauty sleep,” I said.

  “You both look terrific,” Sam said. “In fact, I don’t know how you do it. Your faces look just the same as they did this morning!”

  “Spackle!” I said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, listen,” she said, lookin’ at Morgan. “I just wanted to come by and say thanks for covering for me like that. I’ve only been with Sandra a few days and already I’ve done so many things wrong, I’ve lost count. If she knew the gun was mine, she would have kicked me out for sure and then . . . I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

  “My pleasure,” Morgan said, carefully fishin’ the heater out of his getup. “There you are. Safe and sound.”

  “Thanks . . . I owe you.”

  “Nonsense,” Morgan said. “Consider the matter dropped.”

  But he didn’t drop it.

  “If you don’t mind my asking . . . what’s an adorable little thing like you doing with such a horrid piece . . . I mean . . . roscoe. I mean . . . gun?”

  “I use it in my line of work,” she said. “Make that past tense. I used it when I was a private dick-ette. That was back home. But I’ve given it up.”

  “Home?” I said.

  “Port Charles.”

  “But being a private dick-ette must be so exciting,” I said. “Why’d you quit?”

  “Oh, the job was fine,” Sam said. Then her face fell like a chocolate soufflé. “Well . . . if you must know . . .”

  “Yes?!” I said, a little too excited. Morgan shot me a look.

  “Oh, I suppose I can tell you . . . after all, we’re practically family now!”

  “Practically,” I said.

  “I was in love . . .”

  “A man!” I gasped. “I knew it!”

  “Danielle, you’re not letting her speak. Go ahead . . . doll.”

  “He’s handsome and tall and smart and sexy. He has the most beautiful blue eyes.”

  “Oh, those blue-eyed ones,” I said, lookin’ at Morgan. “They’re so dangerous. Don’t you think so?”

  “Not always.”

  “His eyes are kinda like yours,” Sam said, definitely not starin’ at me. “Only not as blue and a little closer together.”

  “He sounds divine,” I said. “So what’s the trouble?”

  “He doesn’t love me. Plain and simple. Not enough, anyway. We’re perfect together. We know what the other is thinking. We both love the same kind of life. I understand him and he understands me . . . with one exception. I want to get married, you know . . . make that commitment. He doesn’t.”

  “So he’d rather lose you?” I said. “Sounds like he’s not that smart, after all.”

  “Maybe he’s just scared,” Morgan said, lookin’ away.

  “He doesn’t scare easily, this guy. Anyway, I just couldn’t take it anymore. That’s why I had to leave. I read an ad for the Mello Musicales and you know the rest.”

  “I bet he’ll come after you,” I said.

  “He doesn’t know where I am,” Sam said.

  “If he’s half the man . . . if he’s any kind of man at all, he won’t let that stop him,” I said.

  “Well,” Sam said, “I’ve bothered you enough for one night. Oh, I am so glad you two are here. I feel so comfortable with you both. It’s like I’ve known you forever. Suppose you think I’m silly, huh?”

  “Furthest thing from my mind, honey.”

  “We’ll talk later,” Morgan said. “You get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Night!” Sam said. Next thing we knew, she was headin’ back down the passageway. Morgan stuck his head out to watch her go.

  “She’s wearing the high heels with the little fur on top. Those drive me nuts. What?”

  I was just grinnin’ at him.

  “What?”

  “You are the shmendrick of the century if you let her go, you know that, right?”

  “Shut up, Danielle,” he said, turnin’ away.

  “And I’m not even talkin’ this century!” I said. I was gettin’ excited, so I had to drop to a whisper. “Any century. Past, present, and future. You hear me . . . ?”

  “Keep it up, and I’m gonna save the Cannalzettis some trouble and kill you myself.”

  The Cape Coral Ritz was one of those gingerbread joints; looked like someone dumped a giant two-hundred-room wedding cake on the beach. Lot’s of “froofy.”

  On our way up the front steps, we passed a line of geezers, not one of ’em under eighty, rockin’ on the veranda and checkin’ out the new arrivals. Apparently, this was where millionaires came to die or find new wives. Or both. Morgan got his heel caught on the top step, and I bent over to help him get it loose. Someone wolf-whistled in my direction. I looked up and coulda sworn I saw a real familiar face about ten chairs down, givin’ me the once-over. Morgan stood up and looked where I was lookin’.

  “Hey,” he whispered. “Is that Edward . . . ?”

  “Keep it moving,” I said.

  “What’s the holdup?” Sandra called from the front drive. “We have a show in less than two hours, You’ve got your room keys, now ándale!”

  “Jeez, it’s like we’re a couple of lobsters in a tank,” Morgan said as we walked past the front desk, turning heads as we climbed the stairwell. “You’d think no one had ever seen a couple of . . .”

  “They still haven’t,” I said.

  “Yow-ZA!” came a voice from below. It was a voice I knew well.

  “Move!” I said.

  Our first show in the grand ballroom was finishin’ up nicely. Sam was at the microphone, croonin’ the last song, a sweet, up-beat number:

  Your kisses do things to me;

  They make me weak, I can hardly see.

  Your kisses do things to me;

  You know-o-oh . . . vo-di-o-doh!

  Morgan and I were layin’ back to let her voice shine.

  “Did you know she could sing?” I asked, sideways.

  “Not like that,” he answered. “She doesn’t even sound that good in the shower.”

  “Hidden talents, my friend,” I said. “Let her get away and I’ll take a run at her myself.”

  “Yeah, well don’t look now, but someone’s doing a little sprint toward you.”

  I looked out into the audience and, sure as Maxie’s got a bottle of bourbon on her nightstand and thinks fidelity’s for suckers, there was Fast Eddie Quartermaine slippin’ the maître d’ a twenty for a table up front and never takin’ his eyes off me. He was holdin’ a bunch of roses in his mitt.

  “Cripes, what’s he doin’ here?” I muttered. “He could blow the whole thing!”

  “Only if he finds out you’re you.”

  “I ain’t gonna let him get that close,” I said.

  Sam finished her number, Sandra gave a cheerful goodnight, and we started packin’ up our instruments. I was almost off the bandstand when a hand caught my arm.

  “Watch it, buster . . .” I said in a less than feminine voice. “I mean . . . unhand me, sir, or I shall have to call the management!”

  “I beg your pardon, miss, but my name is Edward Quartermaine and I just wanted to tell you how much I admire the way you handle that trombone. You have a nice slide.”

  “Thank you . . . Edward, did you say? Well thanks, Ed. And now, if you’ll excuse . . .”

  “Might I have the pleasure of your company for a late-night supper aboard my yacht?”

  “Your yacht?” I said, forgettin’ myself. “Your yacht went down in a storm a while back off Farrin’s Point!”

  “Yes,” he said, l
ookin’ all kinds of confused. “But how did you know about that?”

  “Uh . . . uh . . . well, it’s just that news of that nature gets around. Oh my, yes, it was all over the society . . . yachting columns. Terribly sad. Let’s see, what was the name of your ship? That’s right, the Smilin’ Lila . . . I believe.”

  “Well this is the new yacht: Lila Smiles Again.”

  “Oh, I’ll just bet she does,” I said.

  “Shall we say eleven-thirty? I’ll pick you up dockside in the speedboat.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t make it tonight. Thanks anyway.”

  “Tomorrow, then?” Eddie asked.

  “You can try!”

  I got back to the room I shared with Morgan and found a note.

  Walking on the beach with Sam

  I chuckled to myself. Morgan might blow it . . . our cover and the opportunity. Then again, maybe not. All night I’d been watchin’ him watchin’ her. Something was happenin’, all right, and I knew he was lookin’ at Sam with a . . . fresh eye. When he got back, he was quiet for a bit. Then he started talkin’. If I was hearin’ right, their conversation went somethin’ like this:

  Sam: Oh, I just love being down here . . . the sand, the ocean, the palm trees!

  Jas: They’ve got beaches where you come from, don’t they?

  Sam: It’s not the same. They’re cold and kinda rocky, and nobody wants to walk with me.

  Jas: Well, you’ll pardon my saying so, but you don’t seem like the kind of a girl that would be interested in moonlight walks and all that romance stuff.

  Sam: I know. That’s the trouble when you’re a private dick-ette and have to carry a gun. Dressing like hookers and drug addicts. Being held hostage and nearly blown up. And when you have a past like mine . . . real rough, you know what I mean?

  Jas: Mmmmm.

  Sam: No one thinks you have a feminine side.

  Jas: Like your guy back home?

  Sam: Yeah. But that’s one of the things I thought he loved most about me. The rough and tumble. I was able to hang with him, not drag him down on various jobs we had. I was his equal in many ways.

  Jas: But maybe he didn’t want that. Well, not all the time anyway. Maybe he wanted a little perfume and lace every once in a while.

  Sam: If he did, I never knew about it.

  Jas: Well your guy may not have realized it until now . . . with you being MIA and all.

  Sam: He’s not my guy. I sure wish he was. But I’m thinking now that I have to let him go. Not just physically, not just by running away, but here (she pointed to her heart), you know?

  Jas: It . . . it would be a shame if you did that.

  Sam: I have to . . . for me. I have to . . . learn . . . not to love him.

  Jas: Well . . . some guys don’t come around as fast as others, but if you slip away, he’ll regret it. He’s probably up in . . . where is it, again?

  Sam: Port Charles.

  Jas: Right. Well he’s probably up in Port Charles, realizing you’re the best thing that ever happened to him. As they say, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone, right?

  Sam: I suppose. But I’m afraid it’s too late for me. Thanks anyway. You sure are smart.

  Jas: Oh, I wouldn’t say that . . . not by a long shot. In fact, sometimes I can be pretty dense.

  Sam: You know what? I don’t know anything about you!

  Jas: Nothing much to tell. Just me and my piccolo. Schenectady Conservatory for a few years. Some time in Europe. Boring, boring.

  Sam: Doesn’t sound boring at all. Sounds exciting! Hey, you know what else sounds exciting? A skinny-dip! C’mon!

  (Here, she lost her dress and . . . everything . . . and headed into the water)

  Jas: Oh! My, my . . . look at you in your . . .

  Sam: The water’s great!

  Jas: Heh heh . . . no, I don’t think it’s for me. I just washed my . . . hair. But you paddle around all you want. I’ll just sit here and watch . . . and drool.

  Sam: What?

  Jas: I said . . . I’m cool! I mean I’m fine. The night air and that cold water . . . I might catch a chill! Take your time, I’ll be right here.

  “From what you’re tellin’ me, Morgan, you left Sam at her door an hour ago and you just got back here now. What were you doin’ in between?”

  “I was too worked up to sleep,” he said, pullin‘ off his getup. “Sam came out of the water and I knew I was gonna be up all night. I’ve never seen her like that before, y’know, Spinelli? And I’m not talking about the outside . . . I mean on the inside. She was vulnerable and sweet and kinda shy. It got me. I walked around for a bit, then I asked the desk clerk if he would mind opening the gift shop so I could buy some bicarbonate and some Sleep-eze.”

  “Sounds like love has found Andy Hardy.”

  “Shut up,” Morgan said, floppin’ down on his bed. “God, Spinelli . . . what if you’re right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, it would be horrible. Terrible. Jeez . . . you might even be happy.”

  The next coupla days went real smooth. I mean smooth for two “musicales” that needed a shave before each show and kept belchin’ in public. Swimmin’, volleyball, and gettin’ tanned. Morgan and Sam were becomin’ thick as thieves; Sam was gettin’ a little more depressed about “the guy back home” every day (although Morgan said she was tryin’ like hell to hide it). Eddie Q kept followin’ me around like a spaniel. I wondered why he hadn’t recognized Sam, then I realized her blonde wig and big . . . voice were too much for even Fast Eddie to see through. Guy was gettin’ old.

  A day later, Eddie had cornered me in the hotel cafe while I was eatin’ a bologna and Muenster with coleslaw and honey-mustard dressing on matzoh. He told me the reason he was down in Florida was to find a new wife and start another family, ’cuz he was gonna disown the “miserable spawn I have now.” I decided this story was too good to pass on and I said yes to Eddie’s invite for a late supper that night on the Lila Smiles Again.

  “Terrific,” he grinned, loosenin’ his dentures. “I’ll pick you up right after the show!”

  Later I met Morgan in the lobby and we started up the stairs to change into our show outfits, when who should be comin’ down from the second floor but Berto and Lorenzo Cannalzetti, Enzio’s sons and top men.

  “Let’s take the elevator,” I suggested.

  “Good idea.”

  We turned around just as the Don himself strolled through the lobby with two torpedoes by his side. Morgan and I just stood stock-still and looked up at the floor counter. Me, I said a little prayer.

  They huddled together, waitin’ for the lift. Morgan and I were trapped. One of the sons had news, I could tell, but the others motioned for him to keep mum. The elevator doors opened and the seven of us crammed inside, makin’ eight, with the operator.

  “Whaddya got?” said Enzio.

  “They’re here, all right,” said Berto. “Room four-sixteen. We just came from there, but they’re out.”

  “Are you certain?” the Don said. “I don’t want to have made this trip for nothing.”

  “Papa, we have the proof,” Lorenzo said. “Morgan bought some bicarbonate and sleeping pills at the gift shop two days ago. And he used his credit card. We traced it here . . . and the desk clerk says their room has been occupied since then.”

  Outta the corner of my eye, I saw Morgan’s eyes go wide, then close in what I figured was complete embarrassment; but that didn’t keep me from givin’ him an elbow in the ribs.

  “Oooof!” he gasped.

  Stupid of him, more stupid of me . . . now we was noticed. And boy, did they look. Gotta give ’em credit, at least they took off their hats.

  “Pardon me, miss,” said Berto to me. “But haven’t I seen you someplace before?”

  “Who, me?” I said, pretendin’ to dab at my lipstick. “Oh no, I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, don’t we know you two from someplace?” asked Lorenzo.

  “I’m sure you’ve a
cquainted yourself with any number of personages, my good man . . . but they were not we . . . us . . . we two,” I replied.

  “They look familiar to me too, boss,” said one of the torpedoes.

  “What’s your name, toots?” asked Enzio.

  “Our names are none of your beeswax,” said Morgan.

  “I was only askin’ because I thought you might like to have a little supper . . . ?”

  Just then, the elevator slammed to a stop, then shook three times like a cocktail shaker . . . Morgan and I were the hooch, and the Cannalzettis were the ice.

  “Sorry about that, folks,” said the operator. “This old girl’s been acting up lately. They’re supposed to fix her sometime tonight. Just give it a sec . . . she usually starts right up.”

  And, presto-change-o, the elevator started movin’ again with all of us inside tryin’ to adjust our hats and whatnot. I was tryin’ to straighten my seams. Morgan didn’t realize that he’d dropped the room key.

  “Fourth floor,” said the operator.

  “This is us,” I said, inchin’ past Berto. “Excuse me. Pardon me.”

  “Goodnight,” Morgan said, startin’ down the hall with me.

  “Hold up a moment,” said the Don. “I think you dropped this.”

  Morgan froze. We turned, and Enzio was holdin’ the room key. Morgan gave a little smile and walked back to get it.

  “Thanks,” he said. But as Enzio was handin’ over the key, he glanced down at the number.

  “Four-sixteen!” he yelled.

  “I knew we’d seen ’em before!” shouted Lorenzo.

  “It’s Morgan and the scrawny one!” yelled a torpedo.

  “Get ’em!” said the Don, as everybody drew their guns.

  Morgan slammed shut the elevator doors fast, and we hightailed it down to our room. But even as we bolted the door, we could hear the whole gang runnin’ back down the main stairs.

  “Out the window!” I kinda whispered . . . and kinda screamed.

  “Where’s my piccolo?” Morgan said, rummagin’ through the room.

  “Forget the . . . !”

  “My mother gave me that piccolo, and I’m not leaving without it!”

  Enzio’s torpedoes were now throwin’ themselves against the door. Finally, Morgan found the piccolo, and ten seconds later, we were shimmyin’ down the drainpipe to the third floor. We found an open window just as the torpedoes stuck their heads outta our room.