style="font-size:15px;"> “Your diamond gal’s up a tree. You heard ’em. Don’t you think she’d pay twenty grand to find the perfect Alexander?”
“She probably would,” Devin agreed.
“Well, then,” said Jerry, as if he’d just resolved some mathematical theorem.
“But she didn’t hire me. I’m crashing the party, remember? That’s how we know it’s a con and not gainful employment.”
“For cryin’ out loud, Devie-boy. Where’s the harm? I mean, we’ve already decided she’d pay it, right? And it sure ain’t no worse than the con she’s got going.”
That lost Devin. “What con?”
Jerry spread open his arms. “Everything. The whole shebang. Letting the world think this Alexander dude exists. That he’s smoking cigars and driving fast cars and sidling up to the ladies, when really he’s a chick, fussin’ over her hair, painting her toenails and taking bubble baths.”
A pounding at the front door jerked Devin’s mind away from images of Paris lounging in a tub full of bubbles.
“Expecting someone?”
Devin shook his head, frowning. His Manhattan apartment might not be in a high security building, but nobody was supposed to be able to enter without first being buzzed in. “Probably a neighbor.” Still, he had a bad feeling…
He looked out the peephole. Nobody. The mailman had probably left Devin’s mail in Mrs. Miller’s box again. He’d given her his phone number three times, but the poor old thing just kept on risking a coronary by trotting up three flights of stairs and leaving his mail under the welcome mat.
When he opened the door, instead of his mail he found a small package, neatly wrapped in white paper and tied with string. A very bad sign.
Jerry looked over his shoulder. “They got your number, man.”
With some trepidation, Devin picked up the package and dropped it on his kitchen table. Using a steak knife, he cut the twine and loosened the paper. A wave of nausea swept over him.
A cow’s tongue. Fresh from any butcher shop in the city.
“It’s a warning, my friend.” Jerry’s voice was lower and more serious than Devin had ever heard. “If you don’t pay up on time, it’ll be your tongue. Or your dad’s.”
Devin nodded, fighting back the urge to fly down the stairs and comb the streets for the punk who’d left that little gift. But that wouldn’t help. It would only up the stakes.
Pop had always been small-time. Little cons. Just enough to pay rent and put food on the table. But his damn gambling habit had mushroomed. First the track, then Atlantic City.
His dad’s biggest mistake had been placing a bet with Carmen’s boys, then letting it ride, double or nothing, when the pony lost. Carmen and his cronies had sucked the old man in like quicksand. And mob-backed bookies weren’t quick to forgive. Forget interest rates, it was the penalties that really got you.
“It’s your choice, man. Either call Derek or…” Jerry’s voice trailed off as he glanced toward the books on the sofa.
Trapped, Devin shut his eyes. Jerry was right. There was no way in hell he was going to call his brother. He’d run out of choices. He’d do this.
For his father, he would pull one last con.
PARIS TOOK A DEEP BREATH, then another. It didn’t help. Panic inched another step closer.
The first hour of the party had been painless. She had circulated among the crowd, making small talk, evading questions about Alexander, and having a better time than she’d expected. But now people were beginning to wonder why Alexander hadn’t arrived. And that meant it was almost curtain time.
She pressed her back against the wall, hoping no one would notice her and decide to chat. Right now, Paris wasn’t sure she could form a coherent sentence. But despite her frazzled nerves, she had to concede the party was a hit. Cobalt Blue Publishing had rented the back two dining areas of a funky restaurant tucked away on the first floor of a renovated older hotel where Paris frequently stayed.
As she had wandered through the party earlier, she’d overheard various snippets of lively conversations. Everything from speculation about whether Alexander would really show, to intellectual ruminations about the deeper meaning behind some of Alexander’s plots. A few people even asked if she was involved with Alexander that way. She’d said “no,” of course, although for a fleeting moment she’d been tempted to reveal to the public the steamy affair she had going on in her fantasies. That was an urge she’d quelled right away.
But while Alexander might be the man of the hour, his absence wasn’t keeping the guests from taking full advantage of the music, the food and the drink. A band Paris recalled seeing on late night television jammed in one corner under a wall of neon beer signs. A few energetic souls were dancing on a raised platform, but for the most part people clustered near the food or the alcohol. Two open bars bracketed a buffet laden with typical cocktail party appetizers. Nothing particularly original, but all tasty. Mounted behind the buffet, a six-foot-tall reproduction of the cover of Montgomery Alexander’s latest book, Dearest Enemy, Deadly Friend, loomed over the crowd, a not-so-subtle reminder that this party had a purpose.
Paris had to hand it to Ellis Chapman. Once again he’d outdone himself. The owner of Cobalt Blue, Ellis had grown his small press into a legitimate publisher. Now he was on the brink of being a real industry player, primarily because of his guerilla marketing stunts. At a minimum, Ellis insisted his authors do local television talk shows, and it had originally irritated him when Paris explained that Alexander refused to make public appearances. Ellis being Ellis, he’d quickly turned the situation to his advantage by focusing on Alexander’s mystique. If Paris were a betting woman, she’d lay odds that Ellis had planted the persistent rumors that Montgomery Alexander was a former spy.
She’d hoped Ellis would stay happy with the mysterious recluse angle indefinitely. But with the release of Dearest Enemy, he’d become antsy. Sales were doing just fine, but he wanted them to do even better. So when the book made one of the bestseller lists, he’d sent out invitations to a supposedly low-key cocktail party honoring the book’s success. Then he’d hinted to the right people that Alexander himself might drop by.
When Paris had protested, he’d started throwing around words like “hardback,” and “higher royalties,” and “multi-book deals.” At the same time, he’d casually asked Paris to let Alexander know he’d be seeing none of those things if he didn’t get himself to New York for the cocktail party.
Now the restaurant overflowed with a variety of people who’d been drawn by the allure of seeing the reclusive Mr. Alexander. Reporters danced with editors. Fans chatted with other Cobalt Blue authors. A few soap opera stars mugged for the photographers.
Paris caught sight of Ellis chatting in the corner with a reporter she recognized from that morning’s news. She swallowed the lump in her throat and wondered what he would do when she made her announcement that Alexander wasn’t coming. Her gaze swept over the relatively well-mannered crowd. Surely this group wouldn’t transform into a modern-day lynch mob.
Would it?
Swaying to the rhythm of the music, Rachel approached with two glasses of champagne
