. . . but I held back. For some inexplicable reason, I had refused to count the Jackal out. I had faith that he would return soon, spouting yet another whopper.
I was not to be disappointed . . . in a way: I got my story, all right. However, it arrived in a similarly bizarre fashion as the Venezuelan tale. Several days after I’d told Maxie that I wanted to wait just a little longer, that turning over Spinelli’s tales to her would mean that I had surrendered to the idea that Spinelli was dead and, even though it was roughly six weeks after my all-nighter with the Jackal, I wasn’t ready to do that, a package was delivered to my home with no return address. Inside, a packet of instant hot chocolate from Angelina’s and a wedge of the finest brie from a little cheese shop on Paris’s Left Bank . . . a place I knew well and talked about often. Not knowing who sent it to me . . . and not particularly caring, I sliced into the wedge and found . . .
. . . another cassette.
Unfortunately, Spinelli . . . it had to be . . . had neglected to encase the tape in plastic, and I had to freeze it for a few hours to harden the cheese enough so I could chip it all off, but finally, I was able to push “play” . . .
The Final Chapter
Damian Spinelli
and the Case of the Lady on the Train
It’s real simple.
I hate to disappoint a dame.
Normally, I’d bend over backward for a dame, and Maxie had a few polaroids to prove it.
But when I was flappin’ my gums to Miller-for-the-Defense that night back in Port Charlie, I was so eager to get it all out, all my stories; to sing like a canary and have her record it all for posterity . . . and Maxie, that I’d ignored some phone calls and a text. I didn’t recognize the number. I thought it was an unknown wiseacre, havin’ a little fun with the Master Hacker.
But I shoulda known better than to pass on a phone call. If it’s a dame, she’ll keep callin’, and this one did. And a skirt don’t keep callin’ unless she needs somethin’, real bad.
A few days after my conversation with Lady Law Miller, I was laid up in a hospital in Venezuela, cute little town just north of the Equator named Esmeralda. I’d just squared a rift between Spencer and Corinthos and forced a double-dippin’ rat named Bernie right outta his rat hole. Then, somehow, Bernie got the upper hand and put a piece of hot lead into yours truly. They got me to the hospital, where I went in and out of consciousness for a bit. Then one night, while I was awake, but just barely, I heard a “plop” next to my bed. I leaned over and saw that my pants had fallen off a chair onto the floor; they were shakin’ a little. I reached down and fished out my phone, still vibratin’. I checked the number . . . same crazy number, same wise guy. Then I checked the log. This mook had called roughly thirty-five times since that first call in Port Charlie. Finally, it hit me through the morphine that maybe I should answer the damn phone.
“Spinelli.”
“Oh, thank God!”
The voice on the other end was scared all right, but definitely dame-ish and definitely flirty. Didn’t take long for me to start imaginin’ the face that went with it. Wow.
“I have been trying to reach you for days. Jason gave me your number. Jason? Jason Morgan?”
“I know my partner’s name, lady.”
“I called him for help, but he’s behind bars at the moment. He said you were the man for this anyway. Look, I’ve been on the run for eight days. I made it out of the United Arab Emirates and I just got to Istanbul. I’m leaving on the Orient Express for Venice tonight. From there I have to get to Paris. I thought I had got away clean, but for the last four or five days, I know I’ve been followed. I need your help to reach Paris alive. You’ve got to meet the train, Spinelli . . . somewhere . . . anywhere. If you don’t, I won’t have much time. And this is a matter of . . . oh, no . . . I have to go! I see one of the sheik’s men.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“I’m counting on you!”
“Who is this!?” I said.
“My name is . . . Brenda.”
And then the phone went dead.
The night nurse came in to change my morphine drip; apparently I was goin’ through the stuff faster than most. I dropped off with only one thought: Stone Cold Morgan had placed this gal’s life in my mitts and I wasn’t gonna let him down. Where did she say she was again? Oh, yeah, Istanbul . . .
Istanbul . . .
Istanbul . . .
The closest major airport was in Colombia, a few days away walkin’. If I kept a sharp eye on my stitched-up side, I knew I’d be okay. Three days later, I had the control tower in my sights.
There’s only one thing worse than pickin’ thorny Venezuelan and Colombian undergrowth and the fangs of a large green viper outta your derriere, and that’s sittin’ on said derriere on a trans-Atlantic flight from Bogotá to Budapest. At first I was a little worried about the snake bite, then I got wise and realized that my days in the Colombian coffee fields had provided my system with plenty of Bothriopsis bilineata anti-venom. I was fine.
Somewhere over Nova Scotia, when I figured the flyboys pretty much had a handle on the flight, I pulled out my phone. I needed to do two things and I couldn’t let any pansy-ass airline navigation equipment regulation blah blah get in my way. First, I needed a ticket on the Orient Express outta Budapest. The reservation link said the train was full up.
Not for me.
I chose a name at random.
“Good-bye, Mr. Frons . . . and wife,” I said, hittin’ the “cancel reservation” button. “And thanks very much for your suite on the Express. Hope you enjoy Hungary, ’cause you’re gonna be there a little longer than you thought.”
Then it was time to do some research on Brenda.
My in-flight readin’ began to turn up some interestin’ facts about one Brenda Barrett, the woman who had been the talk . . . the talk of Port Charles. She had proved to be just too much woman for both Jax and Sonny . . . which had made me choke a little on my coach-class salisbury steak: too much for Dimples Corinthos? How was that even possible? She was in love with them both at various times, but the timing never seemed right with either guy for anything to stick. She had been married to Jax for a few years early on, then she bounced to Sonny, but he’d left her at the altar.
That’s when the story got really strange. Apparently her mom, Veronica, had some sort of nasty disease, Huntington’s chorea, and odds were pretty good that Brenda and her sister, Julia, would have it too. Then there was the car accident which sent Brenda and her mom off a cliff and into the big drink, where Brenda was fished out by Luis Alcazar. He kinda held her hostage on his yacht and then . . . wait for it . . . fell in love with her. Luis took Brenda to Switzerland for tests and promised to stick by her if she was really sick. But he tricked her into thinking she actually had HC, when in fact she was just fine. Brenda then discovered Luis had evil business dealings involving Sonny that could put him in danger; she knew she had to warn Sonny, and that’s when everyone back in Port Charlie realized Brenda was still alive. She got her heiny back to the States, but it turned out both Sonny and Jax were now married to other gals. So what did Brenda do? She married Jason Morgan, of course. Why? Because she knew he wouldn’t have any trouble at all stickin’ her in an institution when the chorea started takin’ away her mind.
Then, somehow, Brenda found out that she wasn’t sick after all. She divorced Morgan and set her sights back on Sonny . . . who just happened to now be married to Carly, so he was a no-go. Change of plans and Brenda decided to marry Jax . . . again. But she made the mistake of kissing Sonny good-bye, which was witnessed by Carly who couldn’t wait to tell Jax. Jax left Brenda at the altar.
Being jilted in a white dress twice in one lifetime is too much for any gal, and she decided to get lost. Good ol’ Morgan was the only one who’d drive her to the airport so she could amscray outta Port Charles. That was the last anyone had seen of Brenda Barrett.
And that was only the first page of notes.
&
nbsp; Strange enough, there was no snapshot of her mug to go with any of the dirt I was pullin’ up. Someone, somewhere was keepin’ Miss Barrett’s face a secret.
I leaned back in my seat.
So this was the dame that Morgan never liked to talk about . . . hell, never even liked. I popped a few pretzel sticks as I realized that this was the woman who truly got under his skin . . . and not in that smooth, bubbly Elizabeth way . . . and not in that scratch-that-itch-’cuz-it-feels-so-good Sam way. This was the “pain in the ass” that drove him nuts.
I didn’t know what the minx had been up to in the last few years, but I had a feelin’ she’d tell me once I found her on the train.
I had calculated the travel time of the Express from Istanbul to Budapest and, with my days of hoofin’ it from the hospital to the airport, and with flight time factored in, I was gonna be on the platform just as the grand gal pulled into the station.
And damn if I wasn’t.
I had bought some new duds, done a quick re-block on the fedora, and got myself a little steamer trunk. I looked like a regular swell climbin’ aboard.
As I passed the ticket agent, I heard a man shoutin’ at the top of his lungs, “What do you mean my reservation has been canceled?! We have been booked on this trip for months! I want to speak to your supervisor!” I tipped my feddy down low and thanked Mr. Frons again . . . real silent like.
I stowed my baggage in the compartment—felt like I had walked into a room for a king . . . Mr. Frons knew how to travel. But I didn’t have time to look around at the bric-a-brac. I knew I needed to find Brenda, and fast; I hadn’t heard a peep from her since that phone call in the hospital.
I also knew I couldn’t just go bangin’ on every door in the consist. Only one place to go, only one fella who was gonna know everybody on the train (and probably more about ’em than he ever wanted to). I felt myself a little parched, so I went in search of the club car . . . and the bartender.
Three cars down, I hit it. Walked back in time about a hundred years . . . which was just fine by me. I bellied up to the bar and asked for a Tom Collins with an orange soda chaser. That’s when I knew this train was pure class: I didn’t even get a smirk from the guy in the white coat and bow tie.
“Right away, sir.”
“Maybe you could help me,” I said, as he set the drinks on cocktail napkins.
“What would you like, sir?”
“Little information.”
“If I am able to help . . .”
“I’m lookin’ for a dame . . . travelin’ alone, see? Probably keeps to herself a lot. She’s a looker, this one. The kind that makes you think twice if you gotta ring on your finger. Stats say she’s got dark hair, a hundred pounds drippin’ wet . . .”
“Say no more, sir,” the booze-master said. Then he pointed to the end of the club car. “We have several ladies with us who’re traveling alone this trip. But one and only one comes close to your description. I believe you’ll find her at the backgammon table.”
Then he leaned in, real palsy-walsy.
“Myself, I am not particularly fond of the fairer sex, yet even I was breathless when she came aboard.”
“Riiiight. Okay,” I said, leanin’ back. “Thanks for that. Keep the soda iced for me, will ya, friend?”
I slapped a Jackson on the bar for his trouble and picked up the Tom Collins. The club car was crowded with new passengers claimin’ seats like they were dogs stakin’ out hydrants. Folks were trippin’ over themselves tryin’ to find space, and my Collins splashed about as I fought my way through. Finally, a space cleared, and I saw the back of a head of long, dark chocolate-brown hair. There was no one sitting across from her and I swung around her seat and faced her like I was just another tourist on his way to Venice. Just another schnook. One look at her and I realized how right I was: That image that I’d started to build when I’d first heard her voice on the other end of my phone? Not even close.
Brenda Barrett was Ava Gardner, Liz Taylor, Lana Turner, and Vivien Leigh all rolled into one. Then the good Lord coated her with a little Venus just for kicks and good measure. My stomach fell flat on the floor. I knew I had a gal back home: “Maddie”? “Maggie”? I tried hard to picture her . . . but . . . but . . . and her name began with an “M” . . . I coulda sworn it was an “M.”
Then I remembered what Dickie Burton had done the first time he’d seen Liz. He was so startled . . . so completely speechless . . . that he just laughed.
This was that moment. I started to chuckle, which made Brenda Barrett scowl.
Beautiful.
Then, I followed with Burton’s famous lame-o first line:
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a very pretty girl?”
Brenda stared at me as the Express went into a tunnel. She was still starin’ when we came out the other side.
“The answer to your question is . . . yes,” she said.
“Miss Barrett?” I whispered.
Her eyes went wide; they looked like two Oreos floatin’ in bowls of milk.
“Spinelli?”
“At your service,” I said, sittin’ down, keepin’ my voice low. “What are you doin’ out in the open like this? You say you’re bein’ followed and you’re givin’ ’em a clear shot at you.”
“It’s because I’m out in the open that no one will risk making a move,” she said.
I thought a moment.
“Smart gal,” I said, lookin’ around. “You’re sure they’re here? I don’t see anyone suspicious.”
“The fellow chatting up the lady with the Pekingese? One. Then there’s a man reading the London Sunday Times . . . upside down. The third man is eating cashews and talking Kafka to a deaf woman by the bar.”
She had them all pegged.
“Fine,” I said. “Cashews, Pekingese, Sunday Times. Got it. Then we’re not goin’ anywhere for a while. You’re a friend of Morgan’s, so that makes you . . .”
“He’s no friend of mine,” she said, real simple . . . but a little too fast. “He’s just the only man I trust. And he trusts you, so that’s good enough for me.”
“Tell me how your potato landed in this stew.”
“I left Port Charles almost eight years ago. I bounced around for a while, odd jobs, modeling . . . nothing serious. Then I was recruited by Interpol and went to work in international counterespionage. Oh, and I did some charity work on the side. Interpol got a tip that a minor sheik in the United Arab Emirates had the code for a new kind of weapons technology and a taste for leggy brunettes. I was sent on a ‘modeling’ job for a phony magazine and one day, the sheik’s men kidnapped me . . . just as we thought they would. For the last three months, I have been in a harem of over three hundred women. I started out as ‘number eighty-five concubine’ . . .”
I had to wonder what numbers eighty-four and up looked like.
“. . . and I worked my way up to number three. Which meant that I was invited into the sheik’s private rooms and that I had the opportunity to steal the code, once I found it.”
“Did you?” I asked.
“You bet I did,” she said. She reached into her blouse which, of course, made me knock over my Tom Collins.
I bent to pick up the glass and when I straightened, Brenda was holding a ruby the size of a tomato. Not a beefsteak . . . but not a cherry either. Maybe a Roma.
The man eating cashews started choking a little.
“The code has been etched onto this. And this is also the triggering device for the weapon, once it’s built.”
“Double trouble,” I said. “Where did the sheik hide it?”
“His navel.”
“Which means you had to get real close.”
“I did what I had to do,” Brenda said, tuckin’ the ruby away. “For my country. For humanity. It wasn’t easy.”
“I bet not.”
“He was an ‘outty.’ ”
“Huh,” I said, tryin’ to get that image outta my head. “So what’s your plan, beautiful? Be
. . . Uh. Be good, for goodness sake . . . uh . . . Brenda. What’s your plan, Brenda?”
“I don’t have one. I just know that I have to get the ruby to Paris. My connection from Interpol is waiting. This train only goes as far as Venice, which I thought might have thrown the sheik off the scent. But his men are here. I have to either lose them or kill them. Then I have to get back home to Rome. I have a modeling job waiting.”
“Right,” I said. “What is it this time? Stolen documents? Chemical weapons formulas?”
“Italian Vogue.”
“Oh, it’s an actual . . . modeling . . . job. Gotcha.”
The strength of Crawford, the smarts of Stanwyck, and maybe the insecurities of Monroe.
“Okay, well we ain’t gonna lose these mooks,” I said. “So we’ll do it the hard way.”
“I’ve never killed anyone before. That’s why I called Jason.”
“And that’s why he told you to call me. Here’s the plan . . .”
Eight hours later and the sun was starting to dip. We were cutting through Austria on our way to Italy, the Express slitherin’ like a serpent past castles and along rivers . . . or were we in Slovenia?
Earlier that morning, as we’d left the club car, I made a loud show of tellin’ Brenda I’d see her for dinner that night . . . I’d pick her up ’round seven at her suite.
The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli Page 21