Try This One for Size

one

Claude Kendrick, owner of the Kendrick Gallery, back from his August vacation, sat at his desk making plans for another prosperous season.

The heat and the humidity that turned Paradise City, the billionaires’ playground, into a dead city was now in the past. September had arrived, and the city was coming alive with the rich, the jet-set and the tourists.

Recognized as a character in the city, Kendrick was a tall, enormously fat queer who resembled a dolphin without, it had been said, the amiable expression of a dolphin. There were times when he resembled a man-eating shark.

Although immaculately dressed at all times, Kendrick, bald as an egg, wore an ill-fitting orange-coloured wig and pale pink lipstick. When he met a lady client on the street, he would raise his wig as if it were a hat. In spite of his enormous bulk and his eccentricities, he was considered in the art world as an expert in antiques, jewellery and modern paintings. His Gallery was known and patronised by the world’s collectors. What was not known was that Kendrick was one of the most important and active fences in the United States, and was in constant touch with all the expert art thieves where art treasures were to be found.

Many of Kendrick’s clients had their own private museums for their eyes only. It was with these clients that Kendrick did most of his lucrative business. A client would see some art treasure in some museum or in some friend’s house and would covet it with that lust only fanatical collectors have. Eventually, unable to control the gnawing urge to possess this particular treasure, he would come to Kendrick and drop a hint: if the so-and-so museum or Mr so-and-so would sell this particular treasure, money would be no object. Knowing the treasure was not for sale at any price, Kendrick would discuss a price, then say he would see what he could arrange. The collector, knowing from past dealings with Kendrick that the affair would work out to his satisfaction, would return to his secret museum and wait. Kendrick would alert one of his many art thieves, discuss terms and also wait. Eventually the art treasure would mysteriously disappear from the so-and-so museum or from Mr So-and-so’s collection and arrive at the collector’s secret museum. A large sum of money would arrive in Kendrick’s Swiss bank in Zurich.

Having spent the month of August on his yacht, sailing the Caribbean sea, in the amusing company of male ballet dancers, Kendrick, refreshed, heavily suntanned, took pleasure to be, once again, seated at his desk, turning his expertise and his crooked mind to making money.

Louis de Marney, Kendrick’s head salesman, slid into the vast room with its picture window and its antiques in which Kendrick worked.

Louis was thin and could be any age from twenty-five to forty. His long thick hair was the colour of sable. His lean face, close-set eyes and pinched mouth gave him the appearance of a suspicious rat.

“Surprise!” he exclaimed in his high-pitched voice. “You’ll never guess! Ed Haddon!”

Kendrick stiffened.

“Here?”

“Waiting!”

Kendrick laid down his gold pencil. His fat face moved into his shark-like smile.

Ed Haddon was the King of art thieves: a brilliant operator who appeared to live the immaculate life of a retired business man, paying his taxes, moving to his various apartments in Fort Lauderdale, the South of France, Paris and London.

Although he had been operating for some twenty years, organising some of the biggest art steals, he had so covered his tracks that the police of the world had no suspicions of his nefarious deals. He was the master-mind who planned, organised and directed a group of experts who did his bidding. It was seldom that he worked with Kendrick, but when he did, the profit for Kendrick was always substantial.

“Hurry, stupid,” Kendrick said, lumbering to his feet. “Send him in.”

Louis fluttered away, and Kendrick was at the door to greet Haddon, his smile oily, his hand thrust out.

“Ed, darling! What a lovely surprise! Come in, come in! You are looking splendid, but then when don’t you?”

Ed Haddon stood in the doorway and regarded Kendrick, then he took and shook the offered hand.

“You don’t look so lousy yourself except for that god-awful wig,” he said, moving into the room.

“It’s my trade-mark, Ed, dear boy,” Kendrick tittered. “No one would recognise me without it.” Still holding Haddon’s hand, he led him to a big comfortable chair. “Sit down. Perhaps a glass of champagne?”

Haddon could have been mistaken for a Congressman or even a Secretary of State. His appearance was impressive: tall, heavily built, with thick iron-grey hair, a florid, handsome face, steel-grey eyes and a benign smile which would have earned him a mass of votes had he considered running for Congress. Behind this facade was a razor-sharp brain and a ruthless and cunning mind.

“Scotch on the rocks,” he said, taking out a cigar case and selecting a cigar. “Want one of these? Havana.”

“Not this early,” Claude said, pouring the drink. “I am really delighted to see you after all this time. It’s been too long, Ed.”

Haddon was looking around the vast room. His eyes examined the various pictures on the silk-covered walls.

“That’s nice,” he said, pointing to a picture above Kendrick’s desk. “Nice brush work. Monet, huh? A fake, of course.”

Claude brought the drink and set it on a small antique table by Haddon’s side.

“Only you and I know that, Ed,” he said. “I have an old trout, with too much money, nibbling.”

Haddon laughed.

“After Monet, huh? Just to cover yourself.”

“Of course, dear boy.” Claude made himself a dry martini, then went behind his desk and sat down. “It’s not often you come to our fair city, Ed.”

“Not staying long.” Haddon crossed one leg over the other. “How’s business, Claude?”

“A little slow. It’s the beginning of the season. The antiques will be moving soon. The rich will be back next week.”

“I mean... business,” Haddon said, his steel-grey eyes probing.

“Ah!” Claude shook his head. “Nothing right now. As a matter of fact I could handle something if it came my way.”

Haddon lit his cigar and puffed smoke for a long moment.

“I’ve been trying to decide: whether you or Abe Salisman.”

Claude flinched. The name Abe Salisman was always like a drop of acid on his tongue for Salisman was without doubt the biggest fence operating in New York. Many a time he had beaten Kendrick to a big deal. The two men hated each other as a mongoose hates a snake.

“Come now chéri,” he said. “You don’t want to deal with a cheap shyster like Abe. You know you can get a better price from me. Have I ever cheated you?”

“You’ve never had the chance, nor has Abe. This is a matter of big, fast cash. It’ll run to six million.” Haddon puffed smoke. “I want three.”

“Six million isn’t impossible,” Claude said slowly, his shark-like mind active. “Depends on the goods, of course. There is a lot of money around for something special, Ed.”

“There’s not all that money right now in New York. That’s why I’m giving you the first offer.”

Claude put on his dolphin smile.

“Appreciated, dear boy. Tell me.”

“The Hermitage exhibition.”

“Ah!” The look of greed faded from Kendrick’s eyes. “Very nice. I have the catalogue.” He opened a desk drawer and produced a thick, glossy brochure. “Yes, very nice. Beautiful items. A gesture of detente. The Russian government lending some of its finest exhibits for the citizens of the United States of America to admire.” He flicked through the pages of coloured illustrations. “Magnificent. Thousands taking advantage of this splendid co-operation between two of the most powerful countries.” He looked up and eyed Haddon who was smiling. “Yes, but strictly not for you and strictly not for Abe and strictly not for me.” He sighed and laid down the catalogue.

“Have you finished shooting off with your mouth?” Haddon asked.

Claude took off his wig, stared at it, then slapped it crookedly back on his head.

“Just thoughts, dear Ed. I often think aloud.”

“Look at page fifty-four,” Haddon said.

Claude licked his fat thumb and turned the pages of the catalogue.

“Yes. Very nice. What does it say? Icon, date unknown, thought to be the earliest icon in existence. Known to be Catherine the Great’s most treasured possession.” He regarded the illustration. “Made of wood, painted, showing some unknown Russian saint. Excellent state of preservation. Size 8 by 10 inches. Not everyone’s choice. The mob would pass it by. Very interesting as a collector’s piece.”

“In the open market, it would be worth twenty million dollars,” Haddon said quietly.

“I’ll accept that, but obviously the Russians wouldn’t sell, dear boy.”

Haddon leaned forward, his steel-grey eyes like the points of ice picks.

“Could you sell it, Claude?”

Kendrick found that in spite of the air-conditioning, he was sweating slightly. He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face.

“It is possible to sell anything, but this icon could cause trouble.”

“Never mind the trouble. It’s yours for three million,” Haddon said.

Kendrick finished his martini. He felt in need of another.

“Let me refresh your drink, Ed. This needs a little thought.”

He plodded over to the liquor cabinet and made two more drinks, his mind very active.

“I haven’t much time,” Haddon said, accepting the drink. “The exhibition closes in two weeks. It’s either to be you or Abe.”

Claude returned to his desk and sat down.

“Let’s look closely at this, Ed,” he said. “I visited the Fine Arts Museum when I was in Washington a year ago. It seemed to me then that their security precautions were impressive. I understand from what I’ve read that the security precautions for this exhibition have been tightened and the chances of a steal there are nil.”

Haddon nodded.

“Oh, sure. I’ve gone into all that. Not only have the museum guards been increased, but the Feds and the CIA and plainclothes cops are swarming all over. Not only that but the Russians have supplied five of their own cops to add to the merry crowd. All visitors are checked. No man nor woman is allowed to take in a bag or a handbag. All visitors go through the electronic screen. Yeah, I admit they have done an impressive job.”

Claude lifted his fat shoulders.

“So...”

“Yeah. I like handling impossible steals, Claude. I have never failed to get what I want, and I’m telling you if you can sell the icon and pay me three million bucks into my Swiss account, the icon is yours.”

Claude thought back on the various big steals Haddon had organised. He remembered the five-foot-high Ming vase that disappeared from the British Museum. That had been a masterpiece of organisation, but he hesitated. This was something different: the political angle would be dangerous.

“Let us suppose you get the icon, Ed,” he said cautiously. “I don’t have to tell you this will cause an international incident or let us say an explosion. The heat will be very fierce.”

“That’s your funeral, Claude. Once I give you the icon, you cope with the heat, but if you don’t want to handle it, say so and I’ll talk to Abe.”

Kendrick hesitated, then the thought of a three-million-dollar profit overcame his caution.

“Give me three days, Ed. I must talk to a client or two.”

“Fair enough. I’m at the Spanish Bay hotel. Let me know not later than Friday night. If you can find the right client, you’ll get the icon the following Tuesday.”

Kendrick wiped the sweat off his face.

“Just to reassure me, dear Ed, tell me how you are going to get it.”

Haddon got to his feet.

“Later. You get the client first, then we’ll have a talk about ways and means.” He stared long at Kendrick. “I’ll get it. You don’t have to worry about that. See you,” and he left.

Kendrick sat thinking, then he opened one of the desk drawers and took out a leather-bound book in which he kept the names and addresses of his richest clients, all of them with secret museums.

Louis de Marney came fluttering in.

“What did he want, darling?” he asked. “Business?”

Kendrick waved him away.

“Don’t bother me,” he said. “Don’t let anyone bother me. I have to think.”

Knowing the signs, Louis left silently, closing the door. Big money was in the pipe-line, and as Louis had a fifteen per cent share in Kendrick’s illegal operations, he was content to wait until his assistance was required.

It took Kendrick well over an hour to decide which of his clients he should approach. He needed someone interested in Russian art and who could raise six million dollars at short notice. Discarding name after name for one reason or another, principally because of their lack of interest in Russian art, he finally turned to the R’s.

Herman Radnitz!

Of course! He should have thought of him at once.

Herman Radnitz had once been described by a journalist working for Le Figaro as follows:

“Radnitz is Mr Big Business. Suppose you want a dam built in Hong Kong. Suppose you want to launch a car-ferry service between England and Denmark. Suppose you want to install electrical equipment in China. Before you even begin to make plans, you consult Radnitz who would fix the financial end. Radnitz is in practically everything: ships, oil, building construction, aircraft, and he has strong connections with the Soviet government, and he is on first name terms with the President of the United States of America. He’s probably the richest man, outside Saudi Arabia, in the world.”

Yes, Radnitz, Kendrick thought, but this would have to be handled very carefully.

After more thought, he put through a call to the Belvedere hotel where he knew Radnitz was staying.

After talking to Gustav Holtz, Radnitz’s secretary, Kendrick was granted an interview at 10.00 the following morning.

During the month of August, crime in Paradise City had been practically non-est. Apart from a few stolen cars and old ladies reporting the loss of their dogs, the police in this humid, sweaty city had little to do.

Chief of Police Fred Terrell was on vacation. Sergeant Joe Beigler, left in charge of the Cop house, spent his time in Terrell’s office, drinking coffee and chain-smoking. Being an active man, he would have liked nothing better than a big jewel robbery or some such thing, but the thieves and the con-men didn’t arrive until the rich and the jet set returned towards the middle of September.

In the Detectives’ room, Detective 1st Grade Tom Lepski, tall dark and lean, had his feet on his desk while reading the comics. At another desk, Detective 2nd Grade Max Jacoby, four years younger than Lepski, dark and powerfully built, hammered out a stolen car report on his ancient typewriter.

The activity in the Detectives’ room, compared to six weeks ago, was as animated as the city’s morgue.

Jacoby yanked the paper and carbons from his typewriter and sat back.

“That’s that,” he said. “What else is there to do?”

“Nothing.” Lepski yawned. “Why don’t you go home? No point in both of us sitting around.”

“I’m doing the shift until 22.00, worse luck. You go home.”

Lepski gave a sly grin.

“Oh, no. I’m not that crazy in the head. If I go home now, Carroll will insist I cut the lawn, and who wants to cut a goddamn lawn in this heat?”

Jacoby nodded agreement.

“You have a point. Phew! This heat kills me. We should have air-conditioning here.”

“Talk to the Chief. You could persuade him. Anyway, it’ll be cooler in another few days.”

“How about your vacation, Tom? You’re off next week, aren’t you? Where are you going?”

Lepski released a laugh that would have frightened a hyena.

“Me? I’m going nowhere. I’m staying home. I’m going to sit in the garden and read a book.”

“A book?” Jacoby gaped. “I didn’t know you read books.”

“I don’t, but what the hell? It’ll make a change. I want to find out if I’m missing anything. From the look of the pictures on some of the books, I just could.”

Jacoby thought for a long moment, frowning.

“How about Carroll?” he asked finally.

Lepski looked shifty.

“There’ll be a little trouble, but I will handle it,” he said, unease in his voice. “You know something? Carroll has crazy ideas. Right now, she is reading travel brochures. She wants us to tour California in a coach. Imagine! You know what these travel thieves want to take you all over California? Three weeks for three thousand dollars! Crazy! Anyway who wants to travel with a load of finks in a lousy coach? Not me!”

Jacoby considered this.

“Well, it’s a way of seeing the country. I wouldn’t mind it. Carroll would have a ball. She likes chatting up people.”

Lepski released a snort that fluttered the newspaper on his desk.

“Listen, Max, no can do. I’m up to my eyes in back payments. Every time I walk into my bank the teller stares at me as if I were a heist man. Tonight, I’m going to explain the situation to Carroll. I’ve got out a balance sheet. Okay, she’ll scream the house down, but figures are facts. She’ll have to sit on the lawn and read a book like I’m going to do.”

Jacoby, who was a close friend both of Lepski and his bossy wife, Carroll, hid a grin.

“Can’t see Carroll agreeing to that,” he said.

Lepski glared at him.

“If there’s no money, there’s no vacation. I’ve still to pay for that hairdryer she bought. I’m late on the car payments.” He drew in a long breath. “Then I’m late on that goddamn TV set she wanted. So... no money... no vacation.”

“I’m sorry, Tom. You and Carroll need a vacation.”

“So what? We’ll have to do what thousands of finks are doing... stay at home.” Lepski got to his feet and wandered into the Chiefs office where he found Sergeant Beigler dozing behind Terrell’s desk.

Beigler, freckled with sandy hair, yawned, rubbed a powerful fleshy hand over his face and grinned at Lepski.

“How I hate this month,” he said. “Nothing doing. You’re off next week on vacation... right?”

“Yeah.” Lepski prowled around the office. “As soon as I go, I bet action starts. Listen, Joe, I’m not going away. I’m staying home, so if you want me, for God’s sake, call me.”

“Not going away? What’s Carroll going to say?” Beigler, like Jacoby, knew Carroll.

“No money: no vacation,” Lepski said firmly, although he experienced a qualm. Carroll and he often fought although they wouldn’t have been parted for the world. Unfortunately for him, Carroll always seemed to win their fights, and of this he was acutely aware. But this time, he kept telling himself, she must accept facts and be reasonable.

“You’re a betting man, Tom,” Beigler said with a cunning smile. “I’ll bet you ten to one you do take a vacation.”

Lepski became alert.

“Make that in hundreds and you’re on,” he said.

Beigler shook his head.

“To win a hundred off me, you’d break a leg, you Shylock.”

The telephone bell rang. Charley Tanner, the desk sergeant, was having trouble with a rich old lady who had mislaid her cat.

“Go and help him, Tom,” Beigler said wearily. “It’ll help pass the time.”

At 18.30, Lepski signed off. The air was cooler, and he decided this was the right time to talk to Carroll, and even cut the goddamn lawn. First, he decided, he would do the lawn, then have supper, then explain carefully to Carroll just why a vacation this year was not on.

He arrived at his cosy bungalow with his usual screeching of brakes. If nothing else, Lepski was a show-off, and he liked to impress his neighbours when he returned home. The finks, as he called them, were, as usual, in their gardens. They all gaped as Lepski got out of his car. This was something he liked, and he gave them a condescending wave of his hand, then he paused, and it was his turn to gape.

His lawn looked immaculate. When he had left home in the morning, the grass had been two inches high. Now, it looked like a billiard table: even the edges of the lawn had been trimmed: something he never did.

Carroll?

He pushed his hat to the back of his head. That wasn’t possible. Carroll was a dim-wit when handling the power mower. Only once had he persuaded her to have a try, and the result had been a damaged front gate and the loss of one of the rose beds.

Puzzled he walked up the path, opened the front door, and immediately his nose twitched. The smell of cooking that wafted out of the kitchen brought his gastric juices to attention.

Usually, the smell coming from the kitchen to greet him made him wonder if the bungalow was on fire. Although Carroll was an ambitious cook, her efforts invariably ended in disaster. The smell that was now greeting him came as a shock.

Cautiously he entered the small lobby and peered into the living room. Here again, he experienced a shock. On one of the small tables in the centre of the room was a vase filled with long-stemmed roses. Usually, Carroll cut the rather tired-looking roses from the garden, but these, in the vase, were the kind of roses some sucker would give a movie star in the hope of dragging her into his bed.

A sudden chill ran through Lepski. Was this day an anniversary he had forgotten? Lepski was hopeless about anniversaries. Had it not been for Max Jacoby who kept a birthday book and reminded Lepski, — Carroll’s birthday would have been forgotten.

What anniversary? Lepski stood gaping at the roses, trying to remember the date of his wedding anniversary. He knew it couldn’t be Carroll’s birthday. Only five months ago, Jacoby had saved him from disaster. But what anniversary?

Carroll was very touchy about any missed anniversary. Lepski thought she was a nut about such dreary affairs. She considered it of vital importance that he should remember her birthday, his birthday, their wedding anniversary, the day he got promoted to First grade, the day they moved into their bungalow. If forgotten, she would make Lepski’s life miserable for at least a week.

Lepski braced himself. He would have to play this off the cuff. He wished to God he could remember the date of their wedding anniversary: that was the important one. If he had slipped up on this one, he knew he would be in the dog-house for a month.

Then he heard Carroll, clattering pots and pans in the kitchen, burst into song. Her rendering of You, Me and Love set his teeth on edge. Carroll was no singer, but she had lots of lung power.

Dazed, Lepski moved to the kitchen door and stared at his dark, pretty wife, wearing an apron and dancing around the kitchen, beating time to her singing with a wooden spoon.

Jesus! he thought. She’s been at my Cutty Sark!

“Hi, baby,” he said huskily. “I’m back.”

Carroll threw the spoon in the air and descended on him, wrapping her arms around him and giving him the sexiest kiss since their honeymoon.

“Tom, darling! Hmm! Lovely! Again!”

Cutty Sark or not, Lepski reacted. His hands roved down her long slim back and over her buttocks, pulling her hard against him.

Carroll pushed him firmly away.

“Not now: later Here, make yourself useful,” and leaving him, standing dazed, she waltzed to the refrigerator and produced a bottle of champagne. “Open this. Dinner in a moment.”

Lepski gaped at the bottle and nearly dropped it.

“But, baby...”

“Open it.” She returned to the stove and turned two enormous steaks, shifting a mass of frying onions, then stirring the crisping potatoes.

“Sure... sure.” Lepski wrestled with the wire, then with brute strength, wrenched out the cork which flew across the kitchen. The wine began to bubble out, and Carroll thrust two glasses at him. He filled the glasses, still in a daze.

“To us!” Carroll cried dramatically, taking a glass from him. “The loveliest people on earth!”

“Yeah,” Lepski said, and began to wonder if any of his Cutty Sark Scotch was left.

“Come on, let’s eat!” Carroll exclaimed and emptied her glass. “Open the wine. It’s on the table.”

“Sure.” Lepski walked flat-footed into their little dining room.

The table had been set, there was a bowl of roses as a centre piece and a bottle of the best Californian red wine waiting his attention.

He began doing sums in his head. The champagne... the wine... the roses! Jesus! She must have spent all the housekeeping money!

Carroll came in carrying two plates, loaded with the steaks, fried onions and potato chips.

“Enjoy it!” she said, sitting down. “I’ll pour the wine.”

Hunger overcame Lepski’s fears. He hadn’t eaten a better steak within memory. He began to wolf.

“Marvellous!” he exclaimed, his mouth full. Then a thought struck him. “A steak like this must have cost a fortune.”

“It did,” Carroll said, looking smug. “It came from Eddies.”

Lepski paused in his eating, feeling a chill run through him. Eddies was the most expensive steakhouse in the city. He had often peered through their windows at the tempting, juicy looking meat, then seeing the prices, had hurried away in horror.

“Eddies, huh?”

“The best.”

“Yeah.” He began to eat more slowly. “I see you cut the lawn, honey. Looks nice. I could have done it.”

“I got Jack to do it. I didn’t want you to have to do it in this heat.”

“Jack? The little fink next door? He did it?”

“For five dollars he would shoot his father.”

“Five dollars? You gave that little bastard five dollars?”

“He wanted ten but I talked him around.”

Lepski closed his eyes.

“Eat up, darling. Don’t sit there looking like a street accident.” Carroll giggled. “It’s all right. I’ll let you into a secret.”

Lepski eyed her.

“Look, baby, is this some goddamn anniversary I’ve forgotten? You’ve been spending money like crazy. You know we haven’t any money.”

“I know you haven’t any money, but I have.”

Lepski’s eyes narrowed.

“Since when?”

“Since this morning. You remember Mr Ben Isaacs, my special client when I worked at the American Express?”

“Sure. The old fink who had his hand up your skirt every time he came into the office.”

“Lepski! Don’t be coarse! Mr Isaacs never did such a thing!”

Lepski leered.

“Maybe, but it was in his mind... the same thing.”

“Let me tell you, Lepski, Mr Isaacs was a nice, decent old gentleman with a heart of gold.”

Lepski pointed like a gun dog.

“You mean he’s croaked?”

“He died, and he remembered me in his will. What do you think of that?”

Lepski laid down his knife and fork.

“How much?”

“Never mind how much. Wasn’t he kind? After all, I was only doing my job and...”

“How much?” Lepski bawled in his cop voice.

“Don’t shout at me, Lepski.” Carroll began to eat again. “Don’t let your dinner get cold.”

“HOW MUCH?” Lepski bawled.

Carroll sighed, but there was laughter in her eyes.

“If you must know: thirty thousand dollars.”

“THIRTY THOUSAND DOLLARS?” Lepski screamed, starting to his feet.

Carroll smiled at him.

“Isn’t it wonderful? Do sit down and eat. Try to act civilized.”

Lepski sat down, but he had lost his appetite.

Thirty thousand dollars! A goddamn fortune! He thought of all his debts. To think an old fink like Ben Isaacs would leave them all that money!

“You really mean we are worth thirty thousand dollars?” he asked huskily.

“I didn’t say that.”

Lepski stared.

“Now, hold it. You’ve just said...”

“I know what I said. I told you I was now worth thirty thousand dollars. I didn’t say anything about us being worth thirty thousand dollars,” Carroll said firmly.

Lepski gave her his sexy smile.

“The same thing, baby. We’re partners... remember? We are married. We share and share alike.”

“We do nothing of the kind.” Carroll finished her steak, then sat back. “Now listen to me,” she went on in her bossy voice. “We have been married for five years. Every year we have gone off on some crummy vacation and you’ve grumbled about the expense. You spent most of our vacation time writing figures and telling me we can’t afford lobster or even a coke! I am now going on a real vacation, Lepski! I am arranging it all myself. I am going to spend my money. If I want champagne for breakfast, I am going to have champagne for breakfast! I am going to Europe. I am going to Paris. I am going to Monte Carlo. I am going to Switzerland to see the mountains. I am staying at the best hotels. I am eating at the best restaurants. I intend to have a vacation of a life time: all paid by dear Mr Ben Isaacs, bless his kind, thoughtful heart!”

Lepski gaped at her.

“Now, wait a minute...”

“Quiet! You are invited. You will be my guest. You can either accept or you can stay at home, but I am going!”

“But, honey, let’s be sensible. We owe money. This will cost a fortune.”

“Lepski! You owe money! I don’t! Are you coming with me or aren’t you? If you come with me, we fly to Paris next Thursday. If you don’t accept my invitation, I fly alone. What’s it to be?”

Lepski accepted the inevitable.

“Try and stop me, baby,” he said and jumping up, he ran around the table to kiss her.

She hugged him.

“Isn’t it wonderful! Oh, Tom, it’s going to be something we’ll talk about all the rest of our days! I’m going to buy a camera. Imagine how the neighbours will gape when I show them the photos!”

Lepski brightened. There was nothing he liked better than to impress his neighbours.

“Yeah. Paris, huh? Monte Carlo, huh? Switzerland? Jesus, won’t I bend Max’s ears back tomorrow!”

“I am going to be busy,” Carroll said dreamily. “First, I’m going to talk to Miranda. I want her to lay on the trip. She and I worked at the American Express and she knows her stuff. Then I’m going to buy clothes! Imagine! I haven’t a decent rag to my back!”

Lepski flinched.

“Now, look, baby, don’t get too extravagant. We don’t want to over-spend.”

“Quiet! And I’ll tell you something, Lepski. I am going to buy you some clothes. I’m not travelling with you looking like a bum.”

Lepski stiffened.

“Are you calling me a bum? What’s the matter with the way I look? I don’t need a thing! Bum? What do you mean?”

Carroll sighed.

“Just be quiet. You are going away looking like a well-to-do handsome husband, and not like a cop.”

Lepski cocked an eyebrow.

“Handsome, huh?”

“Terribly handsome and sexy, Tom.”

Lepski puffed out his chest.

“Yeah. I guess I should dress the part. Handsome and sexy, huh? Okay, baby, let’s spend a little money.” He paused, then sniffed. “Is something burning?”

Carroll gave a stifled scream.

“My apple pie!”

She sprang up and rushed to the kitchen. Her wail of despair, which Lepski had heard so often, made him grab his napkin to stifle a raucous laugh.