Too Damn Rich (46 page)

"Yes. But all identifying words have been
censored. You will know the exact address when the time comes."

"And-a when-a is that?"

He thought: When the Irishman is free.

"Soon," his robotic voice rasped. "In the
meantime—" He jabbed a finger in the Libyan's chest. "—you can
teach our friend here the art of patience. Remember. All your lives
depend on it."

Then he turned and moved soundlessly on
rubber-soled feet, a swift shadow sliding around the structural
columns and down two flights of steel steps. In the loading bay
below, his van door slammed, the engine caught, and tires
screeched.

Then he was gone.

He left the stolen van in the Queens Plaza
parking lot. Quickly, he got out and carried the gym bag containing
his disguise to the far end, where his rental car awaited.

A panhandler bundled in filthy blankets
detached himself from a doorway. "Please, mister? Spare some loose
change?"

He paused, tempted to reach into his pocket.
Then he remembered what Benjamin Franklin had once written: "A fool
and his money are soon parted."

He almost laughed aloud. A fool. Well, that
was the last thing anyone could accuse him of being.

Why break a perfect record now?

"Get lost!" he snarled, and continued
walking.

Fifteen minutes later, he was speeding across
the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge on his way back into Manhattan, the
tires of his car adding yet another buzz to that crazed, constant
din which, from below, sounded like swarms of attacking killer
bees.

He glanced down as he passed above the safe
house.

Sleep tight, my friends, he thought
sardonically. And added aloud: "If you can."

He was smiling coldly.

Special to the New York
Times

NEW YORK, Jan. 19—Robert A. Goldsmith is riding high
these days. The slack sale Tuesday of Old Masters at Sotheby's, the
auction house, has not dampened his spirits. Shrugging aside
worries over tomorrow's Old Masters sale at Burghley's, Inc., the
61-year-old retail and investment billionaire said yesterday that
he plans to form a new global company by merging four diverse
companies.

The new company, GoldGlobe International Holdings,
Inc., would be formed by combining four companies in which Mr.
Goldsmith holds controlling stakes—GoldMart, Inc., Burghley's
Holdings, Inc., the Home-on-the-Range restaurant chain, and
Mystique Cosmetics.

"Today's market is definitely global, whether you're
selling dungarees, million-dollar art, or fast food," Mr. Goldsmith
said in yesterday's news conference in Manhattan, citing planned
expansion to new overseas markets, including former Soviet
republics and South American and Eastern European countries.

"This merger will enable us to put four different
companies into each new market we enter."

Shares in GoldMart, Inc., rose nearly 4 percent
yesterday to $25.85. Burghley's stock was up 40.5 cents to $18.25,
and Home-on-the-Range closed at $12.20.

Mystique Cosmetics is privately owned. Plans for
offering equity in the company were suspended last year because of
investor resistance ...

New York City, January 20

"I'm moving tomorrow," Bambi Parker announced
breathily as she repaired her makeup. "No more roommates. I've
sublet a studio." She moved her gold compact this way and that to
inspect her reflection: up, down, left, right.

Robert A. Goldsmith, half-sprawled in the
backseat of his stretch limo, lifted his massive buttocks a few
inches and pulled up his giant trousers. "This mean your phone
number's gonna change?" His fly went ziiiiip!, and he tackled his
belt.

"Uh-huh." Bambi finished applying lip gloss,
then snapped the compact shut and handed him a folded slip of
paper. "My new address and phone number," she said.

Without glancing at it, he took the paper and
pocketed it.

Bambi had expected him to show at least some
interest, and the fact that he didn't made her feel downright
peeved. "Robert!" she reproached. "Don't you want to know why I'm
moving?"

He looked at her and blinked. "Why? You're
stayin' in town, aren't ya?"

"Well, I'll tell you why. Because I moved for
both of us, dammit! So we don't always have to make it in this ..."
She gestured around. "... this damn fuckmobile!"

Her vehemence took him by surprise. "What've
you got against the car? It's big, private, comfortable, an'
convenient."

"Maybe for you it is, but every once in a
while, I'd like to do it in bed. Besides, my new digs are just as
convenient."

Women, he thought, giving an inward groan.
Why is it they're always hell-bent to complicate the simplest
thing?

For his own part, he couldn't imagine
anything more convenient than this car. All he had to do was open
the door and in she'd hop.

What the hell do we need a bed for?

"Anyway, I want you to come and see it," she
was saying. "Why don't you drop by tomorrow? And plan on staying an
hour or so?"

She showed the pink triangular tip of her
tongue.

"You won't be sorry, Robert. I guarantee
it."

"Okay," he grumbled, hoping he wouldn't live
to regret it. Lately, it seemed that no matter which way he turned,
women were putting the screws to him. "But I better not have to go
out of my way to get there," he growled.

"You won't," she assured him quickly. "I
already told you that."

"So where is it?"

"Right up there." She pointed at the roof of
the limo.

"Huh?"

"Auction Towers," she said, casually dropping
the bombshell.

"Where?" he exploded, going purple with rage.
"Are you fuckin' nuts? You think I'd be caught dead visitin' you in
that building? We might as well take an ad out in the Times!"

"Calm down," Bambi said, unperturbed. "Don't
you see, Robert? You own that building, or at least the unsold
apartments. Plus, one of your companies manages it. If anyone has a
right to be seen coming and going from there, it's you."

"The missus ever found out, my goose'd be
cooked." He made up his mind. "No way am I gonna set foot up there.
And that's that!"

Bambi sighed to herself. She'd had an inkling
that he might take it badly at first. But this badly? She hadn't
counted on that, and wondered if she mightn't have seriously
miscalculated.

Not that it mattered. She was determined to
put her foot down.

He punched the button in the door panel to
signal his chauffeur to pull over.

Within moments, the limo had coasted to a
halt in the no-standing zone of a bus stop. Without another word,
Robert chucked open his door.

Bambi hesitated, then climbed over his
splayed legs. Once outside, she ducked down and stuck her head back
inside. "The apartment number's on the note," she said, striving to
sound firm. "We'll meet there, or not at all."

"You're really tryin' my patience," he warned
in a dangerously quiet voice. "You might as well get it into your
head. I'm not settin' foot up there. Ever."

"And I'm not setting foot in this car until
you do!"

They glared stubbornly at one another, each
refusing to back down. Bad vibes ricocheted like bullets.

"In that case," he said quietly, "it's over."
He started to close the door, but she grabbed hold of the
handle.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Robert,"
she said stiffly. "If you change your mind, call me."

"Better not hold your breath," he
advised.

"I won't. But at least there's one silver
lining to this cloud! The carpeting in this car's been hell on my
pantyhose!"

And with that, she slammed the door, tossed
her head, and marched off to work.

"If madame will permit a suggestion?"
murmured Sergei, Becky V's hairdresser, to whom Dina had recently
defected.

"By all means, sweetie," Dina said
magnanimously. "Suggest away!"

They were in Dina's in-home beauty parlor, a
mirror-sheathed room replete with adjustable chair and chock full
of professional equipment. Dina, submitting to her daily coif and
manicure, was, at this very moment, receiving a silk wrap from May,
the pretty Asian manicurist.

"I was thinking, madame would perhaps like to
update her look?"

Dina frowned at her multiple reflections.
"Update? In what way?"

Sergei gathered her hair in both hands,
pulled it up, and held it in place atop her head. "Very Claudia
Schiffer," he raved.

Dina studied herself critically. It made her
look, she thought, as if she was sprouting a fountain of blond
hair. "I don't think so, Sergei. It's ... too Ivana."

"But youthful, no?"

"Perhaps, but it's not me. The usual will do
just fine."

"As madame wishes," he murmured,
acknowledging her superior taste.

Dina settled back in the chair. Being a slave
to couture was one thing, but following the latest trends? No way.
Let ordinary women copy Claudia Schiffer and Ivana and Princess Di;
she, Dina Goldsmith, had her own signature look down pat, a look
from which she never deviated, and which was instantly
recognizable, not to mention highly photogenic.

Brisk knocks presaged Dina's secretary, who
came charging in. "You've got a long-distance call," Gaby
announced, in that James Earl Jones voice of hers. "From It'ly."
She lifted her eyeglasses, which dangled from around her neck, and
used them to consult her spiral notepad. "Mon ... gar ... dini?
Some name like that. You in or not?"

"Of course I'm in," Dina snapped. "You know
very well I was waiting for this call. Gaby, quick! Hand me the
phone!"

"Who do I look like?" her secretary groused.
"Step n' Fetchit?"

Sergei diplomatically intervened. Reaching
for the phone, he handed it to Dina with a flourish.

"Why, thank you, sweetie!" she purred.

And, flashing Gaby an acid look, she added:
"At least someone around here's versed in the social graces!"

Gaby smirked. "Yeah, and he even looks every
inch the gentleman, too," she said snidely, referring to his curly,
waist-length mane, yellow- tinted glasses, and white snakeskin
cowboy boots.

Dina had better things to do than listen to
petty squabbles. Pressing the talk button, she crooned, "Hel ... lo
... oh?... Signor Mongiar- dino? ... Mrs. Goldsmith here ... You
spoke to Becky V? ... Yes, she did mention something about your not
working overseas anymore ... I was positively heartbroken ...
You'll what! ... Make an exception? ... I can't thank you enough!
... This coming Monday's purrrrrfect... Naturally, there are no
budgetary constraints ... Cost is no object ... I'm looking forward
to meeting you also ... Thank you, Signor!"

Sighing with pleasure, Dina handed Sergei the
phone, leaned her head back against the padded headrest, and let
her eyelids flutter shut.

Ah! she thought dreamily, as May got busy
silk-wrapping her right hand. How simply marvelous!

She could see it already! A Mongiardino
interior to rival Becky V's!

No wonder I'm feeling so heavenly!

In that case, it's over
... Robert's
words left Bambi badly shaken. So much so, that she deviated from
her morning ritual and foresook popping into The Club. The last
thing she needed on this, of all days, was powder room gossip,
especially since she herself might soon be the subject of it.

All Robert has to do, she thought, is pick up
his cellular phone and call personnel. That's all that stands
between my job and a pink slip.

She couldn't imagine the humiliation. Just
thinking about it was enough to give her chills.

I'd rather die.

Instructing her secretary to deflect all
calls, Bambi holed up in her office, where she sniffed sachets of
apple-spice herb tea (to reduce stress), while agonizing over her
spat with Robert.

How could I have been so stupid as to give
him an ultimatum? That's the province of wives, not mistresses!

Nor was it like her to lose her cool. What in
hell could have possessed her?

When she finally began to calm down, she
wracked her brains over how to go about exercising damage
control.

Should I swallow my pride, call Robert, and
apologize? she wondered. Should I wait for him to call me? Or
should I let sleeping dogs lie—and see what develops?

Trouble was, she had no idea. This was
unexplored territory. In the past, she had always been the center
of attention, and it had been the boys—and then the men—who'd
danced attendance, and who'd had to kiss her and make up.

Yes, but would Robert?

She really didn't know. He was in a different
league from most men, and aside from sex, remained an enigma. She
had yet to discover what made him tick.

Several times, she found herself reaching for
the phone and punching his number—only to realize what she was
doing—and quickly slamming the receiver back down.

If only she could confide in someone, ask
their advice! But who?

Certainly not any of the girls from The Club.
Divulging a secret to one was like telling them all, and
speculation about the man in her life would spread like wildfire.
Sooner or later, they'd put two and two together.

After much soul-searching, Bambi finally made
up her mind. It's up to Robert to call me, she decided.

And if he didn't?

Then screw him, too.

Robert's motto was this. If you can't fuck it
or eat it, then piss on it.

Which, figuratively speaking, was what he'd
done to Bambi. He had no intention of ever seeing her again. That
was in the morning.

By the time noon rolled around, he found it
difficult to concentrate on work. Visions of Bambi doing what she
did best kept intruding.