The Crasher (31 page)

Esme called early that evening, full of happiness that she’d managed to talk Ted into a spring date for the wedding. Ginny
couldn’t resist telling her about meeting Johnny Peet.

Esme always came straight to the point. “Have you made love yet?”

Indignantly, “Of course not!”

“Why not? I haven’t heard you sound so interested in a man since the Roman Romeo…”

“He was from Milan.” Then, “In any case he’s already tied up.”

“What’s tied can always be untied,” said Esme. Ginny certainly knew that and so did Johnny Peet, didn’t he?

“D’you want to bring him for Christmas dinner?”

“Gosh, no. It’s all too soon. I wish I hadn’t told you…”

She didn’t mean it. She loved Esme and told her everything; well, almost everything. She was going to surprise her at Christmas
with a modern cheongsam, made out of the heavy-twist georgette left over from Poppy’s wraparound.

When she put the phone down she felt excited. Thank God she wasn’t going to Florida. Thank God she was staying put in the
city, ready for duty, all in the good cause of John Q. Peet’s book on society. And then there was that kiss.

She told herself not to read anything into it, but it had been such a sweet, nonthreatening kiss. Surely, it meant he liked
her, and like could turn into… who knew what? At least meeting him on a regular basis meant there would be opportunities for
their relationship to develop.

“May I ask your name?”

Ginny was relaxed because she’d already been at the New Year fund-raising party for PEN for close to forty minutes. Soaking
up the atmosphere in the luxurious Sutton Square townhouse, she was sure she would be able to turn in an unusual report to
Johnny on the hostesses, a different brand as far as she was concerned. A trio of excruciatingly earnest young women, who
talked of imprisoned Chinese dissident poets Ginny had never heard of, they seemed more anxious to flaunt their intellectual
capabilities than their husbands’ money.

“Ginny Walker.”

“From?”

The supercilious blonde accosting her looked about her age, Ginny decided. Her age, but rich, really rich in her black Chanel
suit with discreet diamond and emerald pin and the kind of skin and teeth that looked as if they had been nurtured from the
cradle by an army of experts.

She bared the perfect teeth now in a thin smile as she repeated, “From?”

Although Johnny hadn’t sent her, without thinking Ginny said,
“Next!
magazine.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. No, no, no. Impossible,” the blonde said.

“What’s the problem, Felicity?”

“Someone from
Next!
magazine trying to crash. No way. No way. We would never invite anyone from that magazine again. Never. You must think we’re
out of our minds.” Pincer fingers grabbed her arm, propelling her fast down the stairs and out into the street.

It all happened so quickly Ginny didn’t have time to show any indignation.

“It’s the first time I’ve ever been shown the door so dramatically and it was soooo embarrassing because I left my coat behind
and had to keep knocking on the door, standing in the rain,” she told Johnny the next day.

“Surely they gave it back to you?” Johnny sounded tetchy.

“Not until I was soaked.” Ginny decided to be tetchy, too. She still had the gold-sprayed quill pen she’d been given on arrival
at the party and pointed it at him now, accusingly. “The first time I crash a party for your benefit and not mine and look
where it lands me—in the street. The minute I mentioned
Next!,
it was as if I’d said
Hustler
or
Penthouse.”

Johnny scowled. “You should never say you’re from the magazine unless I’ve expressly told you to do so. I’m not surprised
they hustled you out.
Next!
trashed a similar fund-raiser for PEN a few years back, given by a young woman who had the unforgivable temerity to be exceptionally
beautiful, exceptionally gifted, with strong humanitarian instincts and, the final straw, married to an exceptionally rich
young man. After the
Next!
piece PEN acted like a bunch of nitwits, quarreling among themselves about whether the rich and famous were up to the privileged
job of raising money for poor, persecuted writers. As a result, today they’re desperately short of funds.”

As Johnny described the other PEN hostess Ginny felt a
stab of… what? Jealousy? How stupid, but it sounded as if Johnny had known or did know this young, exceptionally beautiful,
exceptionally gifted, exceptionally rich married woman. How many unmarried women like that did he know and see? Who was the
lucky one he was “tied up with”?

How would she know? The PEN crash was only the third she’d made since signing the agreement before Christmas and this was
their first “business” meeting in the room he kept as an office on the floor below his apartment.

As she reported on what had transpired in the first few weeks of 1995, Johnny was riffling through a filing cabinet. “Go on,
go on. I’m listening, but you’ve given me an idea. Good. Here it is.” He was clutching a bunch of clippings. He sprawled across
a weather-beaten old sofa. “Listen to this.”

So he hadn’t been listening to her. He’d been reading his sought-after clip. Okay, she was getting paid, wasn’t she?

“How do you explain Arnold Scaasi to Galway Kinnell? How do you explain Marty Raynes to Allen Ginsberg?” he read, with the
same hint of a laugh in his voice she’d detected at the Guggenheim.

“How do you?”

“This is the piece I told you about, the cynical job
Next!
did on one of the better fund-raising days of PEN. I guess these people were on the guest list. With what’s happening to
PEN’s fortunes today, this will make a good introduction. Thank you, Ginny, for jogging my memory.” He patted the sofa. “Come
sit and resume your report.”

She was attracted to him. Could he feel her body wanting a response from his as she sat in the small space he’d allocated?
To make matters worse, he lazily flung an arm along the back of the sofa. “Good, good,” he said from time to time as she read
from her notes.

There was silence when she finished, then, “Money and power run this town, Ginny.”

“What about sex?”

“What about sex?”

His slow languid smile unnerved her. She knew she was
blushing, but he seemed to like it. “Pretty, such a pretty blush,” he said, tracing its progress from her collarbone to her
brow. “Who taught you to blush like that?”

“Taught me!”

This time it was his phone that rang.

“Yep, yep, of course I know her. Okay…” he looked at his watch. “Okay. Thanks for telling me.”

He switched on the small television positioned precariously in his bookcase. “You’ll be interested in this, colleague.”

“… and it appears the thieves got away with a ransom in jewelry and precious artifacts,” ABC’s Bill Beutel was saying, as
first a picture of 834 Fifth Avenue appeared on the screen, followed by a picture of… Ginny put a hand to her mouth. It was
Luisa dancing with an elegant man with hair as glossy and black as her own. In a voice-over Beutel continued, “Madame Perez
de Villeneva, seen here with her estranged husband, was planning to leave New York this weekend for a business trip to Europe.
It was only when her travel plans were advanced by a day that her personal maid discovered the robbery, the work, New York
Detective Armitage confirmed, of a highly skillful professional gang.”

Johnny switched the television off. He was tense.

“How terrible,” Ginny said lamely.

Several minutes passed, then Johnny blinked, as if surprised to find her still there. He took a deep breath. “Yes,
pauvre
Luisa. This must be a big blow. I always told her not to travel with the family jewels. Funnily enough, I don’t think she
took ’em anyplace but New York. I heard her tell my father once she needed her jewels in New York to give her confidence.”
He talked hurriedly, not thinking much about what he was saying, wanting to get rid of her. “I must get over there to give
her my condolences. I doubt she’ll get them back.”

“Why… why d’you say that?”

He looked at her guardedly. Another silence, then, “There’s an international gang operating out there. They keep track of
where the really important gems are, following them with the same dedication we give to watching our stocks. I’ve been
studying some of these recent robberies, that’s why I got the call. Okay, Ginny. That’s all for the day. I’ve got to get to
work.”

As she caught the bus downtown, Luisa’s array of sapphires and diamonds shone in Ginny’s mind. She had to call Alex and tell
him the terrible news. He’d be devastated. Where was he? In London. He’d told her last week he had to go back to London.

As soon as she reached the loft she looked for Alex’s London number. It was a new one. She knew she’d written it down in her
tiny kitchen. There it was. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d called him. Probably when Ricardo left. She had to get
the international operator because she couldn’t remember the code for Great Britain. The phone rang and rang. She was about
to hang up when a sleepy male voice answered.

“Could I speak to Alex Rossiter, please?”

“Who?”

“Alex Rossiter… Rossiter… I’m calling from the United States, from New York.”

“You’ve got the wrong number, love. Sorry, no one of that name here.”

“Is this London? 755-9443?”

“Yes, love, but Alex doesn’t live here now and never has.” She heard the receiver go down.

She found Alex’s old number and called there, but the phone had been disconnected. It unnerved her. She felt strangely frightened;
she didn’t know why. She called a few friends she thought might know where he was, but they hadn’t seen him in months. All
the time she was putting off calling the one person who would probably know his whereabouts. Poppy Gan.

To Ginny’s surprise, for the first time Poppy answered the phone herself. “Alex? Now where did he say he was going?” she drawled.
“He had dinner with us only last weekend or was it the weekend before. No, we were in L.A. the weekend before…”

Ginny gritted her teeth to control herself. “It’s really important, Poppy.”

“Gee, I wish I could remember and I can’t ask Pussy—he left last night on some mysterious business trip.” She squealed. “That’s
where Alex is. He told me Alex was going to be his chaperone. Isn’t that cute?”

“Where did they go?”

“Gee, that’s the problem. I don’t know, but it’s far, far away… they took the new G 5 to someplace like Indochina or Polynesia
or…”

“Indonesia?”

“That’s it, but Pussy will be home Friday, he promised, so I’m sure Alex will be, too.”

“In London?”

“No, New York, but don’t ask me for his new number. I don’t have it.”

New York. New number. Indonesia. Svank and Alex had left only the night before for Indonesia. When had the robbery taken place?
Ginny rubbed her eyes. What was getting into her? Now she felt really jittery. Should she call Aunt Lil, Alex’s mother? No,
she was ashamed she hadn’t called her in months, although she’d heard she hadn’t been well. Perhaps her mother might know
something. Aunt Lil and her parents were regularly in touch.

It was nearing eight-thirty. Too late to call her mother without causing some ridiculous concern, and yet she felt she had
to talk to someone who might know where Alex might be.

Unfortunately, her father answered. “What on earth is wrong, Ginny?”

“Nothing, Dad. Everything’s great,” she lied. What could she tell him to get him off the phone and get her mother on? What
news, in his opinion, could justify a call at eight-thirty at night? There was only one thing she could think of.

“I wanted to tell Mother about the nice man I’ve just met…”

“That’s very thoughtless of you, calling at this hour. You know how I feel about late night phone calls—”

“He’s Quentin Peet’s son.” Silence. The next minute her mother had picked up.

“Are you all right, darling?”

“Yes, Mother. I called to tell you I’ve been seeing Quentin Peet’s son, Johnny. I thought Dad would be bowled over by the
sound of that name, but it didn’t seem to impress him at all.”

“No, dear. Your father went off Mr. Peet because he never answered his letters personally, however long and scholarly, just
sent a printed acknowledgment.” Her mother replied in the matter-of-fact voice she had long used when referring to her husband.
“Are you all right?” her mother asked again.

“Yes, perfect.” Ginny tried to sound casual. “I just wondered if by any chance you know where Alex might be?”

Her mother took so long to answer Ginny thought the connection was broken. “Hello, hello, are you still there?”

“Yes, dear. I don’t know. Is there any special reason for asking?” Ginny knew her mother so well; she was covering something
up.

“Is he in London? Do you have a number?”

“No, dear. I don’t, but why do you want to know? Is something wrong?”

“No, no. Just some news I thought he’d be interested in knowing.” Ginny paused. “Is Aunt Lil any better?” Without waiting
for the answer, she added, “I guess she’d have his most recent number, wouldn’t she?”

Her mother snapped back quickly. “I don’t want you worrying Lil. No, Ginny, she’s far from better, but she doesn’t want anyone
to know, especially not her pride and joy of a son.”

Often when her mother referred to Alex in her own sarcastic way, she’d soften her words with a laugh. Not this time.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“They’re not sure, but your Dad and I don’t like the sound of it…” Their conversation meandered along, not going anywhere,
except, Ginny felt on putting the phone down, to leave both of them feeling concerned about the other.

At ten o’clock she turned on Channel 5 to hear the local news. The lead story was still the robbery. Now they had interviews
with the doorman and a friend of the personal maid, who’d been visiting and had seen a tall dark man watching the
building when she left in the early evening. Finally the personal maid herself was shown, talking in broken English about
the safe hidden so cleverly behind a wall in Madame’s bathroom. “Apparently not cleverly enough,” said the TV reporter. It
all amounted to nothing.