The Crasher Page 27

  “Let him wait.” The door closed.

  It would be a long wait. Although his reputation had certainly been earned as the cool mastermind behind some brilliant jobs over the past couple of years, Alex Rossiter was showing an increasing greediness, recklessness, which Svank knew from a lifetime of dealing with both big and small crooks could lead to ruin for everyone.

  He didn’t mind that Alex had come close to disaster a few times before working for him. Those who thought nothing could touch them were the ones to avoid.

  No, it was always the same problem, whatever the sex. Greed. Despite the fact that Alex was well rewarded, very well rewarded for the big jobs that provided collateral when he’d needed it for start-up operations, in Ireland, for instance, Alex still wanted more. He’d agreed at the beginning of their arrangement that, providing there was no conflict of interest, and no involvement on his part, Alex could continue to carry out a few of his own operations, but this latest heist had definitely been one too many.

  Who needed the extra headache?

  Alex had assured him it had been a piece of cake, a totally smooth operation. But the family involved was too well known, too powerful, with friends who could interfere with his own business.

  Alex had to be curbed, taught the hard way that some things were best left alone—like the Villeneva jewels.

  As Svank remembered something from the program he’d just watched, he smiled for the second time that day. Puerto Rico. Yes, Puerto Rico was the perfect place for Alex to be taught a lesson.

  “Are you all right?” Esme had asked.

  “Is something bothering you?” Johnny had said.

  To add a final insult to outrageous injury, Ginny had picked up the phone during the terrible weeks following her discovery of the jewels to hear Ricardo’s voice with an opening line of “Va bene?”

  It was all too much. Not that Ricardo affected her anymore. It was embarrassing to remember how swept off her feet she’d been by such an obvious, aging lothario, who’d needed his ego massaged (among other things) by a naive young girl who’d believed every one of his well-worn lines (so romantic, delivered in his broken English), who’d rushed into his arms and bed after receiving bunches of the least expensive flower. It was worse remembering how much time she’d wasted, recovering from being dumped by such a corny Romeo. Va bene indeed!

  “Bene, bene, bene,“ she trilled, exiting off the line with little courtesy.

  She thought she was doing very well, acting like a normal human being while, in her bathroom, like a sinister shadow enveloping every aspect of her life, lay a stash of stolen goods that could send her away to Sing Sing or wherever they sent accomplices, willing or unwilling, to a major crime.

  She thought she was putting on the greatest act of her life, one that far exceeded her performances as a gate-crasher.

  And yet, while she and Esme were out shopping for her wedding shoes, Esme kept asking her the “Are you all right?” question.

  She longed to break down and tell her how very “un-all right” she was. She longed to break down period, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t her style and it would immediately attract suspicion, so she shrugged and pretended that her big problem was to stop falling in love with Johnny, because he was “already tied up” and had clearly shown her he regarded her as a friend and nothing more.

  She didn’t have to pretend very hard. She did have to guard against falling in love with the wrong man again. And yet, compared to extricating herself from the giant hole Alex had put her in, everything else was insignificant.

  “It’s early days yet, Ginny. Look how long it’s taken me to make an honest man out of Ted,” teased Esme.

  Comparing someone like Johnny to pompous, boring Ted was laughable, but she was far too fond of Esme to point it out.

  With Esme’s enthusiastic approval, Ginny had bought a lightweight buttery velvet for her wedding dress in a delectable silvery kind of pink. Pink was Esme’s favorite color and she’d been adamant that she wanted her three bridesmaids, Ginny, her cousin Sue Jane and Ted’s sister Carol, in pink, also—not the same shade, of course, but in complementary tones. It hadn’t been easy, but Ginny had found a special crepe, which draped like a dream in tones ranging from deep fuschia to rose to blush. She’d suggested the blush for herself, knowing of the three she had the least figure faults, “if you can call a stick a figure.”

  To move the subject away from Johnny, Ginny said, “It seems so funny looking for pink shoes for a bride and not white. You know, when I found the pink velvet for your dress, I kept thinking it was for the bridesmaids, not you.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. It only made Esme more worried, if not a little angry. “Ginny, now I know there’s something really wrong with your marbles. That’s the second time you’ve said that today, yet you’ve known from the beginning my parents will only come to the wedding if it’s traditional in Chinatown. White is for funerals in China, remember? Red is for joy. How many times do I have to tell you, for goodness’ sake?”

  “Sorry, Esme,” Ginny said lamely.

  “Can I speak to Ms. Gan?”

  “Who wants her?”

  “Ginny Walker.” (With all his money, why couldn’t Svank employ a secretary who knew how to answer a phone?)

  There was a long wait, then, “Ginny, darrling…” For a second Poppy’s exuberant greeting took Ginny back to the waiters’ serenade at their Le Cirque lunch. And she’d thought she had problems then! “I know what you’re calling about, that di-vine wrap dress is ready. I can’t wait to wear it. Perhaps to the Library do.”

  Ginny felt terrible. She’d forgotten all about the georgette number. It showed how mentally deranged she’d become. She couldn’t even remember where she’d put it. “Sorry, Poppy, it’s taken so long. I’ve been swamped.” She didn’t sound very credible. She cleared her throat. “You’ll have it this week, I promise.” She hesitated, but she had to ask, “Do you have time for another fitting?”

  “Oh, no,” Poppy wailed. “Just send it over and I’ll see how it looks.”

  “Okay, okay.” She would agree to anything to move on fast to the real reason for her call. “Have you h… heard from… Svank? I guess he must be back by now?”

  “Oh, sure.” Poppy sounded so uninterested, Ginny wasn’t sure she’d understood.

  “He’s back? With Alex?”

  “He’s back all right.” Poppy was yawning.

  What was going on? A breakup? A falling out? Who cared. It was only Alex she was interested in.

  “And Alex?”

  “I don’t know about Alex, hon. I haven’t seen him, but then I’ve hardly seen Svank. I gotta message telling me to go over to the apartment, but after waiting for hours and hours and hours he never turned up.”

  So that was it. Although Poppy kept everyone waiting, she hated to wait for anyone herself. In Svank’s case she had no alternative. “But you did see him?” Ginny persevered nervously.

  “Oh, sure. He turned up in the middle of the night, just like a sweet dream, I don’t think. That’s why I’m soooo tired. Svank doesn’t care. He always does it, till he gets used to a different time zone.” Poppy yawned loudly into the phone, then repeated, “I don’t know about Alex, hon.” Obviously expecting the question, she added, “I can’t find his number, but when I do, I’ll get someone to call you, but be a doll and send over the dress.”

  When Ginny hung up, for the second time she called information for Alex’s number, but there was no Alex Rossiter listed or unlisted, no A. Rossiter or A.P. (as in Peter) Rossiter in any of New York’s five boroughs, although Ginny hardly expected to find him outside Manhattan. Without much hope she tried Angus O’Keeffe. Nothing for that name either.

  She started looking for the georgette dress. There it was, still rolled up in the bag she’d made to transport it to the post-movie party. She shook it out. It was remarkably unwrinkled. She couldn’t do anything about it today. In a few minutes, Esme and the bridesmaids were coming for fi
ttings.

  As she stared at Poppy’s dress, she remembered Alex’s excuse at the Rainbow Room for not telling her he was back in New York. “I’m under the big man’s command.” She shivered, full of premonition that something else was about to happen.

  But what else could happen? She imagined the toilet overflowing while the girls were there; they’d try to fix it, find the jewels and… She was seriously considering fishing the jewels out of the tank and hiding them under her bed, when her mother called.

  Her quavering voice was so low Ginny had to strain to hear her.

  “Mom, you sound sick? What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t talk for very long. I’ve had this migraine for days, can’t seem to shake it, but I’ve been wanting to call, had to wait for the right moment. Your father’s been here all the time, with a stomach upset or something. I thought he’d never leave the house—”

  “Oh, poor Mama. I can just imagine. But aren’t your migraine pills helping?”

  “A bit, not much.” Ginny heard her mother take a deep breath. Here came the purpose of the call. “I’m very concerned about you, Ginny.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  Silence, another deep breath. “Alex was here—”

  “What!” To Ginny’s dismay the intercom buzzed. “Hang on, Mother. I’ve got to talk to you.” She raced to pick up the internal phone. It was Esme with her cousin, Sue Jane. “Just a second, Esme, I’m on the phone.” She buzzed them into the hall, out of the chilly day. It would take a few minutes for them to climb the stairs.

  “Mother, where on earth is he?” Ginny cried urgently. “I still haven’t heard a word and it’s really vital, vital, I speak to him.”

  To Ginny’s horror she heard her mother crying. “What on earth’s wrong?” Suddenly everything came clear. Alex was ill, that was the reason she hadn’t heard, perhaps very ill. She had visions of him covered from head to foot in bandages. “Is Alex sick? Has… has he been in an accident?”

  Her question seemed enough to dry her mother’s tears. “Sick,” she snorted angrily. “Yes, sick in the head, but as far as I’m concerned not, alas, sick enough. Ginny, I told you about the story in the British press? Are you involved in any way with that?”

  Ginny could hear Esme and her cousin laughing as they climbed the last flight of stairs. What was her mother getting at? “Involved? I don’t know what you mean.”

  In a rush of words Virginia Walker told her about Alex’s Sunday morning visit. “I was very angry. I told him we all knew he was on the run—”

  “You told him I knew?”

  “Yes, I did. I also told him I wish he would stop bothering you, that I wanted him out of your life…” Her mother was sobbing again, but Ginny was too furious to care.

  “Go on,” she said coldly. The doorbell rang, but she ignored it.

  “He said we didn’t know anything about your life anymore. He implied that somehow you were involved with him… in these… jewel robberies. Are you, Ginny? I haven’t slept a wink since. Ginny, if you are in any way—”

  Strong color flooded across Ginny’s face. She said fiercely, “I don’t know what you’re trying to say. I can’t believe what I’m hearing, what you’re trying to insinuate. I don’t believe Alex could or would ever—”

  The doorbell rang again and Esme called out, “We’re here, Ginny. Let us in. It’s freezing.”

  “Mother, I’ve got to go. Esme’s here for the wedding fittings. In any case I’m so upset I don’t think I’ll make any sense. I’m horrified you would ever suggest Alex would involve me that way, but I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back.” As she spoke she realized that Alex had involved her, and that her mother hadn’t answered the all-important question, “Do you know where Alex is?” She sounded desperate, but she didn’t care. “After what you’ve just said, it’s more important than ever I speak to him. I’ve got to clear this up.”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. The sooner the police find him the better.”

  “You don’t mean that.” Ginny’s voice shook with emotion. “I refuse to believe you could really mean that.” Esme started knocking on the door. “This is terrible, but I have to go. I’ll call you back as soon as Esme leaves—”

  “No, no, no. Your father doesn’t know anything about this. He doesn’t even know Alex was here. I’ll call you back. Just stay away from him, I beg you. He’s not who you think he is. He’s a… a monster.” Click. Her mother hung up.

  The afternoon passed in a blur. She was on automatic pilot, snipping, pinning, tucking, first Esme in the toile, a muslin pattern, identical in every detail to what the final wedding dress would be, right down to the tiny hand-stitched flowers that, in organza, would surround the neck and wrists of the sumptuous, flowing gown.

  She joined in the giggles about the future bride going to the altar in a see-through paper bathrobe (which was what the toile looked like); she marked every alteration with a tiny red thread, telling Esme (who wanted every detail explained), “This helps keep the design in perspective, in the same way a site line does on a construction job.”

  When bridesmaid number three—Carol—arrived, Ginny had to explain the reason for the paper dress all over again. “All couture dresses start first with a paper toile like this, to avoid handling the expensive material more than necessary.”

  She worked fast, answered all questions, laughed and joked, but her mother’s words banged in her brain like a hammer. Her mother wasn’t a fool, by any means. She didn’t exaggerate either, so somehow Alex had given her the impression that she was involved in his ill-gotten gains. Every so often, thinking about Alex’s inexplicable behavior, Ginny had to excuse herself and go to the bathroom, afraid she was going to be sick. She felt sicker still when she looked at the toilet.

  “How many more fittings, Gin?” Esme asked.

  The wedding was about six weeks away. Apart from the wedding dress, and the empire-style bridesmaids’ dresses, there was also the red and gold brocade Esme would change into after the ceremony for the sixteen-course celebration banquet in Chinatown’s Silver Palace.

  “Two, three, not more,” Ginny promised.

  As she fitted Sue Jane in the fuschia, perfect for her Asian coloring, and ash-blonde Carol in the rose, she tried to recapture the excitement she’d felt on discovering the crepe and planning who should wear which pink, but it was like working with sackcloth and ashes.

  By the time she finished fitting Esme in the banquet dress (“as important as the wedding dress, because the banquet is a vital part of the joyous day”), it was getting dark.

  “You’re a genius, Gin.” Esme hugged her, ecstatic.

  Ginny smiled wanly. She felt she must look worn out; but, despite her presentiment and misery over her mother’s call, she knew all the dresses were going to work.

  “I’m happy, Esme,” was all she could think of to say.

  The intercom buzzed as she spoke. She tensed up. Alex. It had to be Alex. How could she get rid of the girls, pronto?

  But it wasn’t Alex. It was a delivery from Asia-Pacific Pearl, a nearby Chinese restaurant. As a surprise Esme had ordered up a feast for them all. “A fitting celebration,” she wisecracked, opening up her huge Prada carryall and taking out a magnum of pink champagne.

  “You must bring Johnny to the wedding,” Esme cried, as the last crispy noodle was consumed with the last drop of wine.

  Ginny knew she was blushing again. It was so typically sweet of Esme to ask. “I’d love to, but let’s see what happens.”

  When the girls finally left, the clouds descended. If oaly her life were really as it had appeared to be during the afternoon and early evening, full of innocent jokes, teasing, girl talk, preparing for the happiest day in a girl’s life, her best friend’s life. If only—but instead she was swamped in this sinister fog with nothing to be optimistic about, with her own mother believing she could be a fence, if not a thief.

  Tears welled up. Esme had this rosy picture of Johnny an
d herself at the wedding; she would throw her bouquet to Ginny and Johnny would suddenly realize she was the one for him.

  But it wasn’t going to happen. Johnny had made it abundantly clear that he had no personal interest in her, that there was “no reason” for her to meet his father, just as there was “no reason” for him to meet hers. She was his “partner,” his “observer,” and a good one, as he’d been at pains to tell her following the ghastly Cocteau evening.

  How she’d hated every moment of it, a stupid grin pasted on her face, putting up with a lambasting from the press agent at the theater, who’d blamed her for Johnny’s nonappearance. Then barred from entering the Crystal Room, noting down every insult and every incident, on agonizing tenterhooks until Mr. Next! magazine Peet deigned to arrive, when, one, two, three in sickeningly speedy fashion, she’d become so very persona grata, waltzing in on his arm.

  She hated herself, but she was aching for that arm right now. So much so that when the phone rang, she had no thought of her poor mother who’d promised to call back, and picked it up expecting to hear Johnny’s voice. It wasn’t Johnny or her mother. It was Lee Baker Davies.

  “How are you, m’dear? I know it’s late, but I just saw a seductive little picture of you in the latest Vogue. At least, I think it was you—a back view, but I’d recognize that behind of yours anywhere, draped if I’m not mistaken in that Indian material I gave you last year?”

  Ginny had cut down on her magazine subscriptions and, except when she remembered to ask Esmé, rarely saw Vogue nowadays. “What was the occasion?”

  “I can’t remember exactly. Some fashionable gathering. D’you want to have dinner tomorrow night? I’ll bring the book with me. It’s ages since I saw you, birdy.”

  Ginny was about to say no. These days every time she left the loft—day or night, whether for a few minutes or a few hours—she returned panic-stricken that somebody would be waiting for her there, either the police or Svank’s Hugo or Svank himself or… she didn’t know who, but some threatening presence.