Bowled Over

Chapter Fifteen

Socks ran out into the street to assist Maggie from the rental car, helping her hop to the curb and then stepping away from her, bowing to her three times, his arms stretched out in front of him. "All hail, all hail!"

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Socks?" Maggie asked as Sterling brought her the walker from the backseat.

"I'm bowing to brilliance, of course. Maggie Kelly won the big jackpot. Three-point-something mill –ion dollars. Quick, rub my arm. Give me some of your luck."

"You're an idiot," Maggie said, pushing past him. "You have no idea how much trouble that jackpot has caused me." But he took hold of her arm, holding her back.

"I think I do, Maggie. You don't want to go in there. Not until I clean out the place."

"Clean it out of what?" Maggie asked him, eyeing the doorway to the condo building with some trepidation. "And don't tell me someone else mailed me a rat. That joke isn't funny anymore."

Socks looked to his left and right, as if expecting attack from some unknown quarter. "No. Not rats. Leeches."

Maggie grimaced, feeling sick. "That's not funny, Socks. Rats aren't funny. Roaches aren't funny, either, but at least most of them are native New Yorkers and will outlive us all. But leeches aren't funny. Not even a little bit."

"I know. And these are human leeches. They started showing up here the minute the newspapers identified you as the big winner in A.C. I've been keeping them out, keeping them away. But it's cold, you know, and I felt sorry for a couple of them. Such sad stories, Maggie. Every one of them had a sad story, and every one of them thought I needed to hear it. I think they were practicing on me."

Maggie hopped backward, planning a hasty retreat. "You've got people in the lobby now, Socks? That isn't allowed. Damn it, Socks, it's not allowed." That last was, unfortunately, even to her own ears, a bit of a whine.

"Okay, okay, so give me a minute to get rid of them, all right? It's just the guy with the warts all over his chin and Mrs. O'Reilly. She wants a bus ticket to Las Vegas, to visit her grandson—plane fare, if you can see it in your heart to keep an old woman off the bus. Except I don't really think her name is O'Reilly, and I don't think she has a grandson. And I guess I don't have to tell you what the wart guy wants, huh? Money for wart removal. Hey I told you anyway! Sorry."

"Warts all over his—? Never mind, just get rid of him. And the grandma, too. Wait. I'm going to regret asking this—but why don't you think her name is O'Reilly?"

"Because she keeps saying begorra, and blessin's o' the Irish on ye, mate. With a Brooklyn accent you could slice salami with. You stay here, you and Sterling—hi ya, Sterlman—and I'll boost them out of there."

"Your first thought, and still a good one," Maggie said, balancing on the walker and longing to be upstairs, in her own condo, maybe with a hot cup of tea, begorra.

"I'll stand in front of you, Maggie," Sterling offered valiantly. "Block you from sight, and all of that."

"Thank you, Sterling. People are crazy. You know that, Sterling? People are just plain nuts. Do they really believe they can make up some sad story out here, on the street, and I'll reach in my pocket and throw money at them?"

"Saint Just said you're going to pay the man in the go-cart."

"Maybe. Maybe I'm going to pay the guy in the go-cart. But that's different, Sterling. At least he offered to work for the money. It's what people do, you know. They work. Most of them."

"I don't," Sterling said quietly, "and you and Saint Just are going to give me all of the money. That doesn't seem fair. I don't think I'll take it."

"Oh, jeez." Stupid, stupid! She should have seen that one coming. Maggie lowered her head, wishing she felt less harassed, wishing she felt more human, wishing herself out of the cast and her father out of trouble. Maybe then she could speak without putting her remaining good foot in her mouth. "No, Sterling, sweetheart, it isn't the same."

"How isn't it the same, Maggie?" Sterling asked, shielding her as a red-haired woman (clearly a recent, and unfortunate, dye job) and a tall, thin man with what looked to be bits of macaroni glued to his cheeks and chin exited the lobby, Socks prodding from the back.

"I could have made better warts with Silly Putty," Maggie grumbled as Socks herded the people all the way to the corner, and then looked at Sterling once more. "It isn't the same, Sterling, because ... because ... I'm freezing, Sterling, let's go inside while the coast is clear."

They made it to the elevator before Socks trotted back into the lobby. "Maggie? I read in the paper that you don't get the whole three million right away, that they divvy it up over a bunch of years. Maybe twenty? Is that true?"

"I think that's right, Socks," Maggie told him, the look on the doorman's face warning her that another shoe was ready to drop. As it stood now, she had enough footwear falling on her head to open her own shoe store. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing. So, after the Feds take their share, and the rest is split up over that many years—you didn't really win much, did you?"

Maggie grinned at him. "Why, Socks, I didn't know you were from the glass-half-empty school of thought. I think I still get pretty much. I mean, it's better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, right?"

"She's giving it to me," Sterling told him, his expression pained. "For doing nothing."

"Not for doing nothing, Sterling. I already have money. Alex has his own money now that he's modeling for Fragrances by Pierre, not to mention the money he gets from his Streetcorner Orators and Players—not that I ever like mentioning that because I still can't believe the profit he's pulling in with that deal. Anyway, it's only fair, since you're here, that you have some money of your own, too."

"Since I'm here?"

Maggie looked at Socks, and then rolled her eyes at Sterling warningly. "Later, okay?"

"Since I just happened to come along, Maggie? I didn't ask to come along, you know. I only thought Saint Just might need me. I didn't know I was such a burden to you both."

Socks looked from Maggie to Sterling. "Guess I'll ... I'll go see if anyone wants a taxi, huh?"

"Yeah. Why don't you do that, Socks. We'll talk later." Maggie hopped onto the elevator when the doors mercifully opened. "Sterling? Come on, honey. Come upstairs with me."

"If I'm wanted," he said, showing Maggie a heretofore unknown dramatic bent.

The doors closed on them and she turned on him. "What's going on, Sterling? You don't pout. You don't sulk. You're the happiest man I know. And you were happy when Alex and I said we wanted to give our share of the jackpot to you. You already had one third of it, remember?"

"I don't know what's wrong with me, Maggie," Sterling said as he held open the elevator doors when the car reached their floor. "I'm being ungrateful, aren't I? Yes, that's what I'm feeling. Put out. Ungrateful. Snarky? What an uncomfortable feeling. My goodness, how do you people stand it?"

Maggie extracted her keys from her pocket and opened the door to her condo. "Let's go inside, Sterling. Talk about this some more," she said, looking over her shoulder at him, as he was about to open the door to the condo he shared with Alex, and leave her. "Please?"

"I should check on Henry."

"Henry will be fine for another five minutes. Oh, cripes, and here comes the thundering herd," she said as Wellington and Napoleon charged out of the kitchen, to tangle themselves around the legs of the walker. "I'd think you loved me, you fuzzy little rug rats, but I'm guessing this just means you're sick of the self-feeder dry stuff and want a can of the smelly stuff, right?"

The Persians, tails lifted straight in the air, turned as one and padded back toward the kitchen, just as though Maggie would naturally follow, eager to please them. Which she would do. But not until she and Sterling had a small talk.

"Your mail, Maggie," Sterling said, picking up a fairly thick stack of mail that included the familiar red stripe-edged white envelope from Toland Books.

"Probably Christmas cards from people I forgot to send to," she said, sighing. "And that big one? That's fan mail forwarded from Toland Books. It can all wait, Sterling. Come on, sit down. Let's talk about this."

"Must we? I'm feeling quite the ape now, thank you. I'd much rather take myself off to be by myself for a while, attempt to understand what's happening to me that I'm so upset with you and Saint Just for—well, for being you and Saint Just. I only want to apologize for looking a gift horse in the face."

"Mouth. But I know what you mean, Sterling. We love you, you know that. You're most certainly not anything like those two people downstairs, or even Henry Novack. You never ask for anything. That's why it's so terrific to be able to give you everything. Okay? We're okay now?"

"We're fine now, thank you," Sterling told her, but his smile was strained, and Maggie watched him leave, his steps slow and dragging, and fought the urge to call him back.

Because something was really strange here.

Sterling wasn't being Sterling. Well, who else could he be, for crying out loud? She made him as Sterling, hadn't she? He'd popped into her mind all those years ago, and then popped out of it, and into her living room a few months ago, as Sterling Balder. Sweet, lovable, naive, trusting, never angry, never petty, always kind Sterling Balder.

Maggie plopped herself down on the couch beside her stack of mail and sat back, chewed on the side of her thumb as she looked at the closed door.

"So if I know who and what and how Sterling Balder is—who the hell just walked out of my condo?"

She was still sitting there five minutes later, still gnawing on the side of her thumb, when there was a knock on the door. Oh, thank God! He'd come back, and they could talk some more. "Come in, Sterling."

"It's Socks, Maggie."

"Oh," she said, and did her best to push her unproductive thoughts about Sterling out of her mind for a moment. "It's open, Socks."

He entered slowly, bent forward a little, and if he'd been holding a hat, the brim would probably have been clutched in both hands in front of him. He looked like a supplicant timidly approaching the throne.

"Oh, cripes, Socks, not you. Please, not you."

He stopped a good ten feet away, lowered his head. "You're right, I'm sorry. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking, was I? I'll go now."

"No, no, don't go. Come on, come sit down," Maggie said, waving to the facing couch. "Now tell me what's on your mind. And how much."

Socks rubbed at his wonderfully sculpted chin, which hadn't lent him much help landing a part on Broadway. Nor had his singing skills, or his dancing skills. But what Socks lacked in talent, he made up for in desire. At least to Maggie. "You're giving the money to Sterling."

"We're giving the money to Sterling," Maggie corrected. "It was Alex's hundred bucks, Sterling's finger on the button, and my butt in the seat. That jackpot was a community effort, but Sterling gets the money, because Sterling is a wonderful guy who couldn't get a job in New York if everyone else left town, and the one time he did try to do something good he got mixed up in a terrible scam and could have been hurt. And why am I explaining any of this to you?"

"So that I won't leave here and go straight across the hall to put my proposition to Sterling?"

"Good point," Maggie said, shifting on the cushions. "Would you please do me a favor and feed the cats for me before they mutiny? The cans are in the long cabinet beside the stove. Oh, and I'd love a drink of water. From the refrigerator door—but no ice. Thanks."

Socks hopped to do her bidding with a bit more alacrity than she found comfortable, and Maggie passed the time by picking up the large envelope from Toland Books and ripping it open.

Fan mail was fun. It didn't used to be. It used to be like a grab bag that could have goodies inside, or a chainsaw waiting to shred her always threadbare confidence in herself as a writer.

But then someone at the publishing house started vetting the mail first, and sending along only the good stuff. The bad stuff got tossed in the circular file, Maggie knew now, and the really bad stuff got filed away in Toland Books' Losers and Loonies file. In fact, if it hadn't been for that file, the rat thing a couple of weeks ago could have been a lot worse ...

She frowned when she realized that none of the six envelopes had been slit open, which meant that nobody had screened the letters. The way employees came and went at publishing houses, it was no big surprise that a probable new hire hadn't gotten the word yet, and just sent out whatever had been addressed to Maggie in care of Toland Books.

Well, how bad could they be? She had real fans, not just nuts.

Maggie opened the first envelope.

I never wrote to an author before, but I just had to tell you how much I love Saint Just ...

Okay, that one was good. She'd put it aside to read the rest of it later, when she could enjoy it.

I guess you hear this all the time, Ms. Dooley, but I have written a book and I think you'd like to publish it if you'd only read it. I've had the most interesting life, and I think the world would be better for hearing my story. And if you like it and think it needs work, I'd gladly share the profits if you rewrote it for me. If you would send me your address, I'd send you—

"God, some people's kids," Maggie yelled to Socks, tossing the second letter back into the large envelope. "They think I actually publish the books. They think I do the artwork. They think I write the back cover copy. And they think I should write their books for them while I'm at it. When the hell do they think I find time to write my own books?"

She looked toward the kitchen, but Socks was still out there, talking to the cats—who were talking back to him, one of the reasons she so loved Persians—so she picked up another letter, hoping for two good ones out of three.

She read. She read again. And then she threw her head back and laughed out loud, causing Socks to run back into the room to ask what was so funny.

"Read ... read this," she said, waving the letter above her head. "Out loud. I want to hear it out loud."

Socks took the letter and frowned at it, and then grinned. "It's short and to the point, isn't it, Maggie? You really want me to read it out loud?"

"Yes, please," she told him, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. "God, how I needed that laugh. I should have the thing framed. Talk about keeping me humble."

" 'Dear Ms. Dooley,' " Socks began, and then looked at her. "Do you ever get used to it, Maggie? Being called Ms. Dooley? Cleo Dooley?"

"No, not really. I was being a little crazy when I made up the name, but now that I've got it, I'm sort of stuck with it. And I still do like the Os."

Socks nodded. "Sort of the way my pal Jay got stuck with Jayne when he started doing the drag queen thing. He said he did it off the top of his head, but now he's stuck with it, now that he's so popular in the clubs. He really wanted to be Raquel. I don't know, I think Jayne's okay, don't you?"

"Raquel might be a little over the top," Maggie agreed, doing her best to keep a straight face. She'd never been lumped in with a drag queen before. It was kind of neat, seeing how Socks's thought processes worked.

"Yeah, it probably is. Anyway, I'll read the letter now: 'I am a new reader and just love your Saint Just Mysteries series books. I do not like regular historical romances and understand you started out writing them, and so I'm wondering if there is a way I can get a list of the regular historical ones you wrote to make sure I don't buy them when I shop at the used bookstore?' "

It was just as good the third time, and Maggie clutched her stomach as she rolled with laughter. "I'm supposed to send her a list of my historicals. To be sure she doesn't buy them! A kiss and a slap, Socks. Two slaps—considering she buys used, and I don't get a bent penny out of the deal. I love it!"

"Maggie? Are you all right? It's funny, sure. But it isn't that funny," Socks said carefully.

"I know, I know. Okay," she said, wiping her eyes once more. "I'm under control again, I promise. You know I have a car picking me up out front in an hour, to take me to the doctor's office? Good. Now, tell me about your idea. Because you have one, right?"

Socks sat down once more, perching on the edge of the couch cushion, his back ramrod straight, his hands folded in his lap. "It's Jay and me, both. Who got the idea, I mean. We've been thinking about it for a long time. I mean, Jay's pushing forty, and belting out Over the Rainbow every night is getting a little old, you know? And I'll never make it on Broadway, I know that. I've known that for a while."

"I'm sorry it hasn't worked out for you, Socks. So you two are looking to switch careers."

"Yeah, that's what we're looking for. Do you remember my mama's pies, Maggie?"

Maggie had to shift mental gears, but she managed it. "Sure, I do. She makes great pies. Why?"

"Well, I've got all her recipes. Her grandmama's recipes, that is. And her fried chicken recipe. And her—well, lots of recipes. You know when I go to auditions? I usually take some of Mama's pecan brownies or her fig bars with me. Everybody loves them. I almost got a part in the chorus of Wicked, the producer liked her pralines so much. She makes the best pralines."

"Is this going anywhere, Socks?" Maggie asked, as she had pulled a few more pieces of mail out of the pile, and saw that they were all personal letters from people she didn't know, four of them addressed to the "The Jackpot Winner." And there'd been only one mailing day since she won, what with the Christmas holiday. If this was today's mail, what would tomorrow bring?

"Jay? Well, Jay cooks. I don't cook, but Jay does," Socks went on hurriedly, obviously aware he was in danger of losing his audience. "We'd need a place, of course, and some start-up money for inventory, things like that. We already went to the Small Business administration for a loan, but they give most of them to single moms and like that. Not a lot of loans out there for a gay tap-dancing doorman and a cross-dressing Judy Garland impersonator. Jay says it's discrimination, but I don't know. Anyway, we were thinking—"

"You were thinking about asking me for a loan," Maggie finished for him, hating to see him so nervous.

"We'd pay you back, you know that, right?"

Maggie smiled. "I know that. Do you and Jay know that about seventy percent of all small businesses fail in their first year? And restaurants most especially? It's like Yogi Berra said about a restaurant one time, 'Nobody goes there anymore, it's too crowded.' One minute a Manhattan restaurant is hot, and the next minute it's the new parking garage."

Socks nodded as if he understood, and then blew it. "Who's Yogi Berra?"

"Okay, so we've ruled out the Bronx near the stadium as a spot for your restaurant," Maggie said, grinning. "Where do you want to put it?"

Socks coughed into his hand. Choked, actually. "Well ... you know that house you bought?" Then he looked at her, blinking like the innocent she knew he wasn't. "I should have waited, shouldn't I? But, no, I had to go and open my big mouth. He said he'd talk to you while you were in Jersey. Didn't Alex talk to you about that yet?"

"We've been a little busy. Didn't Alex talk to me about what yet?"

"About the bottom floor," Socks said, getting to his feet. "Well, I've already been gone too long. Can't leave the lobby unguarded, right? I'll go watch for that car for you, buzz you when it shows up, okay?"

"Sit ... down."

Socks danced in place as he short of shuffled his arms toward the door. "I'd really rather ..."

"Sit!"

"But I really need to ..." Socks looked at Maggie, whose eyes were most probably popping out of her head. "Oh ... okay ... sure thing," he said, plopping back down on the edge of the couch.

"Now talk."

Socks cleared his throat. "Okay. But Alex is going to be pis—er, he probably wanted to talk to you himself. The house? That big building? It's mixed zoning, or something like that. He asked that Realtor lady, and she said it would be okay. Even the way the place is built is really terrific—with the squared off first floor, and the rounded ones sort of climbing on top? And four whole floors? Alex says nobody needs to live on all four floors, not even the three of you. You, Sterling—"

Maggie rubbed at her aching forehead. "I know who I'm going to be living with, Socks. Unless I kill Alex, that is. But then there will be even more room, won't there? For what?"

"Well ... on the one side, our S&J Pies and Soul Food shop. It was a dream, you know? Having the place maybe, but not the money. Not until you won the—well, we won't talk about that anymore. Except for one thing. Not a restaurant, a shop. Takeout, you know?"

"Charming. So, as your landlord and your banker, I guess I wouldn't starve, huh?"

Socks spread his arms wide, his smile even wider and said fervently: "All the free food you'd ever want, definitely!"

"Uh-huh," Maggie said, mentally collecting rent, which she knew was prudent of her, but which she knew Alex would call just being herself—cheap. "I hadn't thought of the house as income property. It makes it all seem less an indulgence, doesn't it? But you said one side. What would go on the other side?"

"I can't, Maggie. I really can't. Alex will tell you."

"Oh, Alex is going to be telling me a lot of things when I get back to Jersey, trust me."

"Right, you have to go back there," Socks said, looking at her sympathetically. "How's your dad doing, Maggie? A killer? Somebody's got to be totally off their wheels, thinking that. But Alex is there, hunting for clues, right? He'll take care of this. Doesn't he always?"

Maggie attempted a confident smile. "Yes, that's our Alex. Always riding to the rescue ..."