Too Damn Rich (81 page)

"And to think they're all coming here because
of the Becky V auction," he marveled softly, shaking his head.
"Unbelievable."

"Not if you bear in mind who Becky V was, Mr.
Mayor," Fairey said quietly. "Besides being a national icon, she
was inarguably the most famous woman in the world."

"True." The mayor nodded. "Tragic, what
happened to her."

There were murmurs of agreement.

Robert decided it was time to chip in his two
cents. "Somethin' else to keep in mind," he said, changing the
subject. "Becky V's art treasures."

"Yes?" the mayor said.

"Well, outside a few museums, so many
masterpieces've never been in any one place at one given time. Our
insurance company's bustin' its gut tryin' to get other companies
to help underwrite the policy. Four to six billion's a lot a
simoleons."

The mayor leaned forward and stared. "Did you
say ... billion? With a 'B'?"

Robert returned his stare. "That's
right."

"Holy cow." The mayor leaned back in his
chair and whistled softly. "I see that this is going to mean more
than just a day or two of extra police presence."

"I'd say it's justified," Robert said.

"Yes, but we're talking a major tab here. And
the city's stretched thin as it is."

The mayor rolled back his chair, got to his
feet, and moved over to the windows. He looked out thoughtfully,
silhouetted by rain-squiggled glass. "Also," he said, rubbing a
hand over his face, "the taxpayers are going to scream bloody
murder. They'll want to know why their hard-earned money's being
spent protecting a very small segment of very rich people who've
gathered for a very exclusive, private event."

"You might," Robert said serenely, having
come armed with figures, "remind them that Burghley's paid over ten
mil in city taxes last year. An', that doesn't include another
eight point seven mil we collected in sales tax. You want, I can
reel off the fed and state figures, too."

The mayor turned around, walked back to his
desk, and lowered himself into his chair. "I don't believe that'll
be necessary."

"You ask me," Robert glowered, "we're
entitled to some protection."

The PC spoke up. "If I may suggest something,
Mr. Mayor."

"Suggest away, Ed." The mayor smiled bleakly.
"Heck, I'm open to any ideas."

"Well, you know the old saying about an ounce
of prevention."

"What about it?"

"For starters, Detective Ferraro and Mr.
Hockert can do a study of Burghley's security system, see what
flaws can be ironed out. The same goes for whatever transport
system is used to move the art. That'll take care of the first line
of defense, if Mr. Fairey's amenable to putting their findings into
effect."

"I certainly would be," Fairey said.

"Then I'm in favor of it." The mayor looked
at Hannes and Charley. "Take all the time you need, gentlemen."

"Thank you, Mr. Mayor," Fairey said.

"However," Hizzoner pointed out, "it still
doesn't solve the cost dilemma of providing extra police
protection."

There was a moment's silence, then Robert
spoke. "Seems to me, the city'd try harder to keep its tax base
here."

The mayor blinked. "I'm not sure I follow
you, Mr. Goldsmith."

"Oh, I think ya follow, aw right. But let me
spell it out. I could, for instance," Robert said, putting the
screws on the mayor, "move our warehouse from Long Island City over
to Jersey, and use Jersey truckin' firms. Hell of a lot cheaper
than what it costs us here."

The mayor frowned.

"For that matter, I can move GoldMart's
headquarters and my investment office across the river, too.
Everything's computerized, so it doesn't matter where we are. But
the city'd lose out on an annual tax base of sixty to seventy
mil—minimum. More, if we move some a our employees, too."

"I ... see," said the mayor slowly.

"Guess you do. This is one a those times the
city's got to divvy up an' do its duty."

The mayor did not look happy. "It seems you
have us over a barrel," he sighed. "I'll see to it you get the
extra police protection."

Robert rose to his feet. "Good. Glad we could
see eye-to-eye."

A pizza, a large, double cheese, fried
eggplant and onion pizza," sighed Kenzie ecstatically as she
dropped two nylon carry-ons and three shopping bags to the floor
while Charley struggled her suitcase into her bedroom.

Kenzie felt both electrified and exhausted—a
pardonable condition, considering she had just returned from a
two-month European sojourn, in which every waking hour had been
devoted to cataloging the paintings in Becky V's various palazzi,
palacios, villas, elegant apartments, and town- houses. She had, in
fact, studied so many masterpieces that they still tumbled,
helter-skelter, around in her sassy little head like clothes in
some cosmic dryer.

"But please, Charley, please tell them to
hold the olives," she called out beseechingly. "Between Madrid,
Seville, and Athens, I swear I was ol- ived to death."

"And Monte Carlo?" asked Charley, coming back
out into the living room.

"A sunny place for shady people. Why, it made
me feel positively pre- pubescent! Really, Charley, I've never in
my life seen so many pickled old farts. Wall-to-wall elephant
skin—no amount of diamonds could help those pachyderms! I vowed
never to lie out in the sun again. Oh," she exclaimed happily,
flopping down on her cut-velvet, Napoleon III sofa, "but it does
these bones good to be home! Even if this place seems to have
shrunk in my absence."

"A result, no doubt, of all those palaces you
stayed in."

"You can crack all the jokes you want. But
between you and me, I've never seen anything like it. I mean, every
one of those places was a museum. A girl could get used to living
that way, Charley," she said, stretching luxuriantly. "Uh-huh, she
easily could."

"Earth to Turner, Earth to Turner. Come in,
Turner—"

Kenzie tossed a cushion at him, which he
easily deflected.

"Well?" she asked. "Gonna order that pizza?
Or you'd rather I starve?"

"What's the matter? Airlines suddenly stopped
serving food?"

"Food?" Her amber eyes slid him a pitying
glance. "Since when," she demanded, "have inflight meals been
considered edibles? Food indeed! I fasted in anticipation of my
eggplant pizza, thank you very much!"

He approached her in a bowlegged, Howdy
ma'am, cowpoke kind of walk.

"This mean," he drawled, hooking a thumb in
his belt, "you're really hungry?"

Kenzie squinted narrowly up at him. "Didn't I
say I was?"

"Yeah, but I just wanted to get things
straight. You know. Make sure it's pizza you're really after."

"Why? Would you rather I be hungering for
something else?"

He thrust out his pelvis and grinned.
"Thought you might like to take a bite out of life."

"Same old Charley," she sighed, feigning
boredom. "Same juvenile, one-track mind." She pretended a mighty
yawn and tapped her mouth with her hand. "Which are you today?
Beavis? or Butt-head?"

He assumed a hurt expression. "You rather I
didn't miss your bod?"

The corners of her mouth twitched with a tiny
smile. "Why? Did you? Miss it?"

"Do bears—"

"Puh-leeze!"

"Well, seeing as how I'm a man of few words,
I'll have to let my deeds speak for themselves."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," he said.

And three fly buttons later, he did.

Ah, would wonders never cease? And how could
she have so completely forgotten the velvety softness of his mouth,
the strength behind the muscle-corded arms which tightened around
her, the good, fresh masculine fragrance of his skin?

At his entry, she gasped and felt as though
she was floating sumptuously. Wondrous, this melting desire, the
delicious weight of him as their two bodies fused into one!

"Oh, Charley," she moaned, "Charley ..."

Then he began to thrust, and she loosened his
belt, pulled his trousers farther down, gripped his small firm
buttocks in order to press him closer.

"It's been so long!" she gasped. "Oh, God!
It's so good! So damned good—"

And in her mounting passion, she kissed him
deliriously: lips, cheeks, chin, neck, shoulders, chest.

"All the way, Charley!" she pleaded. "All the
fuckin' way!"

Harder and harder he drove into her, faster
and faster, and she squirmed and arched beneath him, tightening
herself around him, matching his rhythm, thrust by thrust.

Then the first wave crashed over her, caught
her in its vortex, and swooped her down into its trough before
lifting her higher and higher. Great spasms of ecstasy bucked
uncontrollably through her body. She cried out, and a fierce growl
rose from Charley's throat as he could no longer hold back, and
together they let themselves be lashed by the orgasmic storms.

Slowly, the raging fires and tempests abated.
He was atop her, his weight heavy but not crushing, and they were
both gasping for breath.

"Welcome home, babe," Charley said, after
their shudders subsided and they lay there panting, face-to-face
and eye-to-eye.

"Did you?" asked Kenzie. Her pupils were
dilated, and she was still clutching his moist,
perspiration-sheened buttocks. "Did you really?"

"Did I really what?"

"Miss me that much?"

He kissed the tip of her nose. "That much,
babe," he said, "and a whole lot more."

Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "Then I take
it there's second helpings where that came from?"

"Seconds," he assured her, with a lopsided
grin. "Thirds."

"Wow!"

"But the pizza—"

"Charley?"

"Huh?"

Her voice was husky. "Fuck the pizza."

It was the following day. A glorious, snappy
October afternoon. Kenzie and Zandra were in a rowboat in the
Central Park lake.

"The seventh month?" Kenzie was exclaiming in
astonishment. "You're going into the seventh month! It can't be!
It's just not possible!"

The sky overhead was silvery blue, the leaves
on the trees just beginning to turn, and everyone was out taking
advantage of the weather. Tourists in horse-drawn carriages,
children with Mylar balloons bouncing happily in the aii; marathon
hopefuls doing some serious jogging, dogs catching Frisbees. Like
superior beings, the exclusive apartment buildings lining Fifth
Avenue showed their dignified facades from above the tree line.

Zandra swallowed the last of her giant
pretzel and washed it down with a mouthful of chocolate milkshake
from a giant paper cup.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Kenzie," she said. "
'Course it's possible. Do arithmetic, darling. You'll see. I was
married last March. Right?"

"Right," Kenzie said, dipping the oars
slowly.

"And, this is the beginning of October.
Right, darling?"

"I know it's October. I just want to know
where all the time has gone!"

"Darling, you tell me. I was already pregnant
in April. And, poor lovely sweetie, unfortunate dear Becky. She
died in May. That's only five months ago. Is it any wonder that
Lord Rosenkrantz is still inconsolable? Thank God for Dina. He'd be
lost without her."

"Is it true she's adopted him?"

"Not adopted, darling. He's her walker."
Zandra eyed the remainders of Kenzie's deli lunch on the seat. "Are
you going to eat your pickle, by any chance?"

"No. Be my guest."

"Oh, good." Zandra sat forward, swooped it
up, and bit off a crunchy end. She chewed with ecstatic enjoyment.
"Lovely." Leaning back in the transom, she let her other hand trail
lazily in the water.

Kenzie made a face and shuddered. "Chili,
pretzel, milkshake, and pickles? Oy vey. And that doesn't include
the lox and bagel you ate on the way here, or that cheese
Danish."

"Well, I am eating for two."

Kenzie locked the oars and took another bite
of her own lunch. A BLT—actually, a triple-decker BLT without the
B, but with sliced hard- boiled eggs and dressing.

"Yum, yum," she said, talking with her mouth
full. "Oh, but isn't this splendid? Do you realize, after all the
years I've spent living in New York, this is the very first time I
ever did this?"

"Rowing, you mean?" Zandra looked appalled.
"Darling, you can't be serious! Whatever else are parks for?"

"Your common urban ills?" Kenzie suggested.
"Muggers? Rapists? Robbers? Addicts?"

"Goodness, you are jaded. I mean, look how
marvelous this is!"

"Yes, but that's only because you're here."
Kenzie unlocked the oars and resumed rowing.

"Still, with two boyfriends, surely you could
get one of them to take you rowing?" Zandra withdrew her hand from
the lake, flicked water from her fingertips. "You still have the
both, don't you? Charley and Hannes?"

Kenzie sighed. "I've given myself until after
the auction." She dipped the oars, pulled, lifted, and dipped.
"Then I'll have to decide upon one or the other."

"Do either of them know that?"

"I told Charley last night."

"Oh?" Zandra popped the last of the pickle
into her mouth. "And how did he take it?"

"Remarkably well, all things considered."

"And Hannes?"

"I'm telling him tonight."

Zandra shook her head in disbelief. "You
really are Kurt Weill's Jenny. You know—poor Jenny? The one who
couldn't make up her mind?"

"Oh, let's change the subject," Kenzie
pleaded, "please?"

"If you like. Anyway, I was wanting to ask
you something. Now, honestly. What would you say to being a
godmother?"

Kenzie stared, her jaw dropping. "Can you fly
that by me again?"

"I'm asking you to be godmother to my very
own little serene bundle of joy."

"Why, I ... I'd be delighted! And
honored!"