Too Damn Rich (68 page)

"Oh, for cryin' out loud, don't start
naggin'. I want another one for the road." Charley looked up at the
waitress. "Two more. One for my buddy and one for me. With two
chasers of—" He looked at Hannes. "What's that stuff you drink in
Finland? Acquavit? Or is that Sweden?"

"Charley, we don't need—"

"Neh, neh, neh! Shit," Charley brooded.
"You're startin' to whine like a goddamn wife!" His eyes narrowed.
"Didn't you have a phone call to make?"

"Yes." Hannes got up. "Just a beer for me,"
he told the waitress.

"Two peppermint schnapps," Charley ordered.
"Two."

Hannes threaded his way past the tables to
the phone. He could feel Charley watching him and ignored the
appraising eyes from several extraordinarily beautiful young women
and at least two exceedingly handsome young men. He dug in his
pocket for a quarter and dropped it into the phone and punched.

There was an explosion of breath behind him,
and then a strong hand came around and depressed the cradle. The
coin clinked and fell into the return slot.

Hannes turned around in surprise, receiver in
hand.

Charley glared angrily. "You fuckin'
bastard," he said tightly.

Hannes looked at him blankly. "What's the
matter?"

"You wanna step outside?"

Hannes hung up the phone. "Why?"

"Why?" Charley's face twisted with rage. "You
know very well why, you fuckin' son of a bitch!"

Hannes stared at him. "Actually, I don't," he
said calmly. "Perhaps you'd like to tell me?"

"You were calling her!" The words tore from
Charley's lips.

"Yes?"

"Who the fuck you think I called?" Charley
shouted.

All around, conversation in the room suddenly
fell silent. Two sturdily built men came slowly from the bar where
they had been chatting with some girls.

Hannes could feel the momentary suspension of
time as all eyes fixed upon him and Charley.

Not that Charley was aware of the audience.
He was raging. His fiery Italian temper and chauvinistic
possessiveness had him in its grip.

"Why the hell can't you find your own woman!
Unless you get a special charge out of stealin' someone else's?
That it? Guess it makes you feel more like a man?"

Hannes stared at him for a moment as
everything suddenly fell into place. Then some of the tension went
out of him. "Is that who this is about? Kenzie? You have been
seeing her also?"

"Yeah," Charley snarled belligerently. "As if
you didn't know!"

"I didn't," Hannes said quietly. "I thought
it was over between the two of you. Why didn't you say something?"
And with that, he turned and began to walk away.

But Charley wasn't finished with him quite
yet. He spun him around and slammed him up against the wall.

"Listen, you cocksuckin' douche bag!" He had
Hannes by the shirt. "You think I'm gonna let you get away with
this?"

Hannes stared at him coldly. "I think you'd
better get your hands off me."

Charley's right arm arced and his fist
blurred, but Hannes intercepted it, grabbing Charley's wrist with
his left hand and bringing it to a complete standstill in
midair.

Only the quivering of both their arms showed
the effort it took to still the blow.

"As you can see," Hannes said softly, "we are
not evenly matched. Now, I suggest you settle down and I'll help
you sober up. Afterwards, we can discuss this like gentlemen."

"Gentlemen!" Charley spat, eyes ablaze. "What
would you know about bein' a gentleman?"

"Don't do it," Hannes warned, sensing that
Charley was doubling up his knee to kick upwards. "I do not want
you to get hurt."

"Me get hurt? By you? Don't make me
laugh!"

The anger abruptly left Charley, and he let
go of Hannes and stepped back.

"I'm goin'. But believe me—" He pointed a
trembling forefinger at Hannes "—You haven't heard the last of
me!"

Then he turned and stomped out. The crowd at
the bar parted silently and let him pass.

There was a communal sigh when he was gone,
and the patrons began to murmur. The two bouncers made their way
back to the bar. Then somebody laughed, and conversations continued
where they'd left off.

Hannes decided to leave also. He stopped at
the table, tossed several bills down, then he made his way past the
bar.

"Yo. Buddy." It was one of the bouncers.

Hannes looked at him.

"Nice work, blocking that fist. How'd you do
it?"

"You don't want to know." Hannes turned
away.

"Whoa, there."

Hannes looked back. "Yes?"

"Where's the fire? Whyn't ya give it a
minute? You know." The bouncer nodded toward the front door. "Let
him cool his heels out there some more?"

"I'll be fine," Hannes said.

But he wasn't fine. His nose was bloody and
he had an ugly gash on his forehead when he staggered, doubled-over
with pain, up the front steps of Kenzie's building.

He leaned on her doorbell.

"Who is it?" she squawked over the
intercom.

"Hans."

"Can't it wait? I just flew in from
Europe."

"Please. Something's ... happened."

There was a pause, and Kenzie buzzed him in.
She was upstairs, leaning over the landing, barefoot and in her
nightgown, when he stumbled in. The moment she saw the way he was
staggering, she ran down to help him.

"My God!" She draped one of his arms over her
shoulder and let him lean his weight on her. "What happened?"

"Just ... get me ... upstairs," he
gasped.

She did as she was told, got him inside, and
bolted all the locks. Then she looked at him. "Who did this?"

"You really don—"

"Cut the shit, Hans." She stared at him,
gingerly touching his puffy eye. He was going to have quite a
mouse. "It was Charley," she said quietly, "wasn't it?"

"Forget it," he muttered thickly.

"Come on. Let me get you into the bathroom
and clean you up. You look like shit."

She gave him a level look.

"And then you've got some major explaining to
do."

It was seven-thirty in the morning when
Kenzie's alarm went off. She groaned and rolled over. She wasn't
nearly ready to get up. Her head throbbed, and she was bleary and
depressed from being up half the night playing Florence
Nightingale.

That on top of jet lag.

I'm getting too old for this shit, she
thought.

She was tempted to call in sick, but decided
against it. Having taken Thursday and Friday off to attend Zandra's
wedding meant that work would be piled up. And, with Zandra gone,
the department was short- staffed. Arnold had been holding down the
fort alone. It's not fair to expect him to carry the entire
burden.

Sighing, she crawled reluctantly out from
under the covers, took a quick shower, and somehow made it in on
time.

Arnold swiveled around on his chair. "Ah so,"
he greeted. "Insider has finarry arrived with the scoop! I want to
hear arr about oh-so honorabbe wedding!" He dropped his routine and
said: "And that means dishing the dirt!"

"How about over lunch?" Kenzie begged weakly.
"I'm only half alive, and there's tons I've got to catch up
on."

"Lunch is fine, and I'll even buy, so long as
you promise not to leave anything out!"

"I promise," Kenzie smiled. She washed two
aspirin down with her coffee and got busy.

At ten-fifteen, Bambi popped her head into
Old Masters.

"Hi guys!"

"Hi," Arnold mumbled, not deigning to look
up.

Kenzie turned around. "Hi."

"I'm glad you're back," Bambi told her.
"Personnel ran an ad in yesterday's Times to find a replacement for
Zandra. The applicants are waiting out in reception. I'd interview
them myself if I had the time, but I've simply got to get my hair
cut. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not." Kenzie smiled brightly,
which wasn't easy. Time had only intensified her loathing for
Bambi.

"Great. I knew I could count on you."

Couldn't you just, Kenzie thought.

"Oh. And one more thing."

Kenzie waited.

"One girl out there looks like a dog," Bambi
warned. "Definitely not Burghley's material, if you get my drift?"
She cast Kenzie a significant look.

Kenzie nodded and smiled until it hurt.

"It's all in your hands," Bambi said
severely. "You may use my office."

And she breezed back out.

"It's all in your hands," Arnold mimicked
archly as soon as she was gone. "I've simply got to get my hair
cut."

Kenzie cracked up. "Arnold, will you stop,"
she pleaded. "I've got to be serious for this."

"All right, just so long as you don't hire
any dogs," he guffawed. "We want Burghley's material!"

Kenzie dug through a stack of color photos
and selected a handful.

"Arnold, where did you put the sample
canvases?"

"They're down in the vault. I'll go get
them."

Kenzie went to Bambi's office, waited until
Arnold had brought the canvases, and then called reception. "How
many job applicants are there for the Old Masters position?"

"Eight."

There goes lunch, Kenzie thought. I owe
Arnold dinner.

"Okay," she said. "Send the first one
in."

The interviews began.

On the surface, each of the first seven
applicants seemed well-groomed, bright, articulate, and qualified.
Their ages ranged from the mid-twenties to the late thirties.

The five women were attractive, appropriately
dressed, and perfectly made up. The two men were handsome and wore
expensive conservative suits. Each had worked at one of the other
auction houses or a gallery, and while their resumes were
impressive enough, Kenzie knew better than to trust in that
alone.

She used the photos and sample canvases to
test their expertise. All seven misidentified at least two of what
should have been ten easily distinguishable works. That was bad
enough. But it was the close-up photos of various artists'
brushstrokes and techniques which proved everyone's undoing.

Not one of the seven passed.

Kenzie was aghast. Good Lord, she thought. I
wouldn't want to have to rely on any of them! They're all
hopeless!

She ended the seventh interview the same as
all the others, with a brisk handshake, a smile, and the words:
"Thanks so much for coming in. We'll be in touch."

To let you down easily, she didn't say.

She called reception. "I believe there's an
eighth applicant?"

"That's right. Would you like me to send her
in now?"

"Please," Kenzie said.

Before long, there was a loud crash outside
the door. Kenzie gave a start and got up to investigate. When she
opened the door, she found a woman on her hands and knees,
retrieving a pile of dropped books.

"I'm sorry," the woman murmured, glancing up
nervously.

Kenzie smiled. "That's quite all right. Do
you need help?"

"No, no. Please." The woman bit her lip. "You
are ... Ms. Turner?"

Kenzie groaned inwardly. Oh, no, she thought.
Don't tell me. "Yes ... ?"

"I'm here about the interview."

So this is who Bambi meant. "Well, you'd
better come in, then."

The woman tottered inside and put her books
down on a chair.

She was, to put it generously, a frumpy plain
Jane. She was of average height with a splotchy complexion. Mousey
hair pulled back in a bun, little wire-rimmed granny glasses, and
no makeup.

Her clothes were drab and two sizes too
large. The cuffs of her cardigan were so long they hid all but the
tips of her fingers.

The nails were bitten down to the quick.

Kenzie felt a wave of pity. Dear God, how do
I handle this? I mustn't hurt her feelings.

"Please." She indicated a seat and smiled,
she hoped reassuringly. "I take it you've brought a resume?"

"A ... resume? Oh. Yes. I have . . ."

The woman dug through a handbag which had
been repaired with duct tape, and the papers she produced were
wrinkled and grease-stained. She did her best to smooth them with
her hands.

"
Scusi
." She smiled apologetically as
she held them out.

Kenzie took them. "All right, let me just
glance over this a mo—" Her smile froze. "It says your name is ...
?"

"Annalisa Barabino," the woman supplied.

"Right," Kenzie said weakly, wondering: Why
does this have to be the woman Mr. Spotts called about? Why
couldn't it be someone less clumsy and more presentable?

Yet despite its condition, the resume was
highly impressive.

But then, it would have to be, for Mr. Spotts
to recommend her.

At this point, Kenzie was beyond surprise.
She simply presumed Annalisa would pass every test with flying
colors, which she did. Her eye was superb, and her knowledge
encyclopedic.

If only, Kenzie thought despairingly, she
didn't look like a bag lady!

"Mmm," she murmured, drumming her fingernails
on the desktop.

"Please? Is something wrong?"

Yes. Everything.

"Well, er, it has to do with your ... ah,
image," Kenzie said tactfully.

"My—"

"I have an idea," Kenzie said. She snatched
up the phone and pressed three digits. "Arnold? SOS."

"What's wrong?"

Kenzie glanced at Annalisa and smiled to put
her at ease. "Eliza Doolittle requires Professor Higgins."

"Oh-oh. Sounds ominous."

"Well, it is a challenge. Tell you what. It's
too late for us to have lunch, but if you can swing this, dinner's
on me. Le Colonial, Daniel, Petrossian, you choose."

"Dinner! At Petrossian! Kenz, why do I smell
snake oil?"

"You don't, but your flawless taste is
desperately required. And do hurry, will you? Or don't you want to
pull a fast one on Bambi?"

"What! Well, why didn't you say so in the
first place? Be right there!" he sang.