Short Straw

Forty-eight

ON THE FLIGHT TO SAN DIEGO, VlTTORIO WAS LEAFING through a copy of Vanity Fair, when he came across an article about West Coast spas, which included a long description of La Reserve, in La Jolla. There was a good deal written about the spa's reputation for privacy and seclusion, and it occurred to him that he was not going to be able to just walk into the place and take a look around for Barbara.

He picked up the airphone at his seat and called La Reserve.

"Good afternoon, La Reserve," a British-accented woman's voice said.

Vittorio made an effort to sound charming. "Good afternoon," he said. "I'm on an airplane to San Diego right now, and I read the Vanity Fair piece that included your spa. It sounds just wonderful."

"I assure you it is, Mr…"

"Breckinridge, Victor Breckinridge," Vittorio replied. It was an alias he sometimes used when traveling, and he had documents and a credit cart to support it. "I wonder if you might have a room available tonight?"

"For how long, Mr. Breckinridge?"

"Let's say two nights, but if I can get my business done in an expeditious fashion, I might be able to extend my stay."

"Let's see, the only thing we have available right now is Willow Cottage, one of our smaller units. The rate is eight hundred dollars a night, not including meals or services, of course."

Vittorio gulped, but he was, after all, paying with Barbara's money. "That sounds perfect," he said.

"And what time may we expect you, Mr. Breckinridge?"

"I should think in the late afternoon."

"May I schedule a massage for your arrival? Say, six o'clock in your cottage?"

"Thank you, yes."

"We'll look forward to greeting you in the late afternoon," the woman said.

"Good-bye."

Vittorio called a rental car company and asked what luxury cars were available. He booked a Jaguar.

AFTER LANDING AND GETTING the Jaguar, Vittorio drove into La Jolla, a place he had never visited, and looked for an upscale men's shop. He could hardly walk into La Reserve dressed in his usual black outfit, looking as though he was about to scalp somebody. He found a Polo/Ralph Lauren shop and bought a lightweight jacket and some colorful polo shirts as well as a dress shirt and tie. He asked directions to La Reserve, then, dressed in his new clothes, he arrived there at half past five.

A bellman whisked his luggage away and directed him to the desk in the sitting room, where a handsome, middle-aged woman sat. "Good afternoon," he said, "I'm Victor Breckinridge. We spoke on the phone earlier today."

"Of course, Mr. Breckinridge. Please have a seat, and let's get you registered. My name is Mrs. Creighton."

"How do you do?"

Shortly a slender young man appeared at the desk and was introduced as Mr. Wilson. He conducted Vittorio to Willow Cottage, where his luggage awaited him. The cottage, although small, was lavishly decorated and very comfortable.

"And, Mr. Breckinridge, your masseuse, Birgit, will be with you shortly. You'll find a robe in your closet."

Vittorio gave the young man fifty dollars, then got undressed and waited for Birgit to appear. When she did, she was breathtaking: tall, blond and with a fetching Nordic accent. She immediately put him at his ease, and soon he was facedown on her folding table, being kneaded into total relaxation.

But it was when she turned him over on his back that her work rose to a new level, as did he. By the time she was done, it was eight o'clock, and Vittorio couldn't make a fist.

She helped him sit up, and he reached for his money, taking his time riffling through the bills. "Birgit, I used to know a woman who came here named Barbara Eagle. Do you know her?"

"Of course," Birgit said. "She's here now, but under the name of Barbara Woodfield. She gave strict instructions to Mrs. Creighton that she was no longer to be called Mrs. Eagle; something about a divorce, I think."

Vittorio peeled off a hundred and pressed it into her palm, holding her hand. "And which room is she in?"

"She's in Pine Cottage, I believe. Thank you so much, Mr. Breckinridge. Have you booked a dinner table for this evening?" Birgit asked. "Shall I do it for you?"

"Thank you, Birgit, yes. Will you ask for a table with some privacy but where I may see the other diners? I'd like to know who my fellow guests are, and I want to surprise Barbara, so please don't tell her I'm here."

"Ah, yes, there is a little terrace with a small table from where you can see everything." She called the desk and booked it. "Will there be anything else?" she asked.

"Perhaps tomorrow morning at nine o'clock?"

"Certainly, whatever you wish." She gave him a smile and left, her table under an arm.

Vittorio showered and dressed in his new clothes, then following a map on his desk, made his way through the gardens to the dining room, keeping an eagle eye out for Barbara. He was seated on the little terrace, and he moved his chair to give him a better view of the room. Soon the room was full, but still no Barbara. She had to be here somewhere.

EARLIER THAT AFTERNOON, Barbara appeared at the photography shop on Venice Beach and was immediately shown into Dan's office.

"Have a seat," he said. "All your papers are ready, except that I have to affix your photograph to each of the documents."

She handed him the two sheets of larger and smaller photos. "I'd like to watch," she said.

"Come into the back room," he replied. He went to a bookcase, pressed a button and the bookcase swung open, revealing what appeared to be a commercial art studio in an adjoining room. Dan closed the bookcase, motioned Barbara to a chair and went to work.

Barbara was impressed with how quickly he worked and yet how careful he was. As he finished each document he handed it to her for inspection, showing her where to sign, and when he was done with his work, he laminated those documents that required it and wiped them free of fingerprints. Then he motioned her to a computer.

"This is how you can take a look at your credit report from any computer," he said. As she took notes, he went to the website, entered her user name and password and displayed a long record of perfect credit, going back seven years. Her credit score was 801, very high. "There," Dan said, "now you're a new person, and no one knows but you."

And you, Danny, she thought. She had thought of killing him, but he was too valuable; she might need him again in the future. She paid him the remaining cash owed, returned to her chauffeured car and was driven back to La Jolla and La Reserve, where she ordered dinner sent to her room.

Then she went into her bathroom, switched on all the lights and gazed once more upon her newly altered countenance. The swelling was gone, and only a little redness remained, which was easily covered with makeup. She brushed her newly blond hair and went to answer her door, admitting the room service waiter.

Tomorrow she would be off again, and soon she would be a wealthy woman.