Never Too Rich (18 page)

It seemed forever before she heard the tumblers
click, and then the door opened a few inches. “Yeah?” A girl with
stringy, greasy blond hair looked at her suspiciously.

Olympia smiled automatically. “My name is Olympia
Arpel and I’ve come to see Shir—”

At that instant an unearthly scream came from
somewhere inside the house. The girl looked worriedly back over her
shoulder, and Olympia dispensed with such social amenities as
waiting to be invited inside. She pushed the door wide, shoved the
distracted girl aside, and marched into the house.

“
Hey!” the girl yelled, hurrying
after her. She grabbed Olympia’s arm. “You can’t just barge in here
like that!”

“
The hell I can’t,” Olympia
muttered tightly. She shook the girl’s arm loose. “Just try to stop
me.” At the foot of the stairs she nearly tripped over a passed-out
biker. She stopped hesitantly and looked around, her ears
alert.

Then the screams came again. They were keening wails
of unearthly terror.

Olympia virtually flew up the steep flight, and when
she barged into the communal clubroom, what she saw froze her in
her tracks. Four husky, unkempt men with shoulder-length hair had a
woman pinned down. Olympia knew it was Shirley. Another,
bare-bottomed, his Levi’s pulled down around his hairy ankles,
straddled her with his knees, thrusting purposefully in and out
like an animal in heat; yet another squatted over her face. At
least two dozen more grubby men in various stages of undress were
just standing around, swigging beer out of cans, and egging the
others on. Without exception, they were wearing identical
sleeveless denim jackets with a big embroidered patch on the back
depicting a horned skull.

Olympia’s jaw dropped open, but not for long. “Stop
this at once!” Her voice, level but edged with shining authority,
stopped the action as effectively as if she’d pushed a pause
button. Startled heads turned in slow motion. They all stared at
her in silence.

Olympia’s fingers tightened on the brass clasps of
her handbag.

“
Shit.” This from the biker nearest
her, who paused in the midst of cleaning his blue-black fingernails
with a six-inch hunting knife. He eyed her up and down from beneath
hooded lids. Turning away, he let fly a wad of spit. “Get lost,
grandma.”

The others laughed, and it was as if a play button
had suddenly been pushed. They went on about their savage business
as before.

“
Animals!” Olympia’s tightly set
jaw was trembling and the cords of her neck stood out like taut
wires. “That’s what you are.
Animals!”

“
Oh, yeah?” Something flared deep
within the eyes of the biker scraping his fingernails—like a
sleeping cat suddenly awakened. “You wanna see an animal, grandma?”
With deliberate slowness he sheathed the knife and pushed himself
away from the wall.

Olympia never took her eyes off him as he advanced,
but she snapped open her handbag and inched her fingers inside.

When he stood directly in front of her, she realized
how huge he really was; she felt like Dr. Ruth must feel looking up
at a quarterback. Only this guy wasn’t padded—his bulging biceps,
chest, and forearms were genuine muscle.

She stared steadily up at him. It was amazing, she
thought, the pride some people took in looking loathsome. A filthy
red bandanna was tied Apache-fashion around his Cro-Magnon
forehead. His nose was flat and bent sideways, presumably from
having been broken and not reset properly; his scraggly mustache
drooped morosely; and the blurry blue tattoo of a hand flicking its
middle finger showed on the side of his thick neck. He looked to be
about forty, and it wasn’t hard to guess his alma mater—Attica,
Raiford, or Folsom. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he had done
postgraduate time and attended all three.

If she was afraid, Olympia didn’t show it.

“
Whassa matter, grandma?” he
growled. His eyes were squinched. “You don’t like the animal?”
Laughing tauntingly, he reached out and pinched her crepe-skinned
cheek.

One thing Olympia didn’t like was for strangers to
touch her. “Watch where you put your paws, shithead,” she said
quietly. The hand inside her bag came out with a snub-nosed
revolver and aimed it at his groin.

“
What the fuck—” the biker started
to say. He froze, his eyes like chips of coal. Even the tiniest
bullet could do the delicate reproductive system irreparable harm
at point-blank range.

“
One move and you’re going to sing
like Michael Jackson for the rest of your life.”

The biker’s eyes lifted warily from the revolver to
Olympia’s face. His teeth were bared and his scowl was
half-disgust, half-confusion. This mink-coated woman with the
brutally cut gray bangs and orange lipstick was a female species
he’d never before encountered— rich, hard, and stupidly brave. But
she’d regret making a fool out of him . . . oh, yeah, but
how
she’d regret it.

Nobody fucked around with him and lived to see
another day.

Nobody.

She gestured with the revolver. “Slowly place your
hands on top of your head.”

For a moment he didn’t do anything.

She raised the revolver and fired a warning shot
into the ceiling. Small as the weapon was, the report and the jerk
it gave her arm were man-sized. It was the first time she’d ever
fired it—and it had the desired effect.

The biker’s hands flew atop his head even before
bits and pieces of dislodged plaster snowed down on his thick hair
and greasy denims.

Around the room, the others had jumped and frozen as
well. The sudden silence would have done a librarian proud.

“
That’s better.” Smiling grimly,
Olympia aimed the barrel at his crotch again. “That,” she explained
in a louder voice, “was a demonstration. Now you know it’s loaded.
And I’ve got to warn you, I’ve got a very itchy trigger
finger.”

“
Jesus, lady. Careful.” The big
biker was sweating, and his voice had climbed an octave. His eyes
seemed crossed as he stared down at the weapon. “You’ve got that
thing aimed right at my nuts!”

“
That’s the idea.” Olympia’s lips
tightened into a hard, thin line. “I don’t want to have to tell you
this twice. Have your friends line up against the wall. And any
sudden movements on anyone’s part, and it’s
ciao, cojones.
Capisce?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Olympia saw the men
who had been raping Shirley getting to their feet, pulling up their
Levi’s, and drawing back. Those standing around watching shrank
back also. Everyone stared at her in silence, but the rush of
communal hatred coming at her had its own vociferous roar. She had
never seen so many murderous faces, so many fury-crazed eyes.

She spoke quietly, but somehow her thin voice
carried to the far corners.

“
Everyone get facedown on the
floor, hands behind your heads.”

For a moment, none of them moved.

Olympia pressed the snub-nosed barrel deep into the
big biker’s groin.

His voice was a scream. “You heard her! Get
down!”

When they were all stretched out on the floor, she
cautiously made her way to where Shirley lay. Dropping down on one
knee beside her, the gun still aimed at the vicinity of the biker’s
groin, Olympia thought she was going to be sick.

This was not the picture-perfect Shirley she had
left at Alfredo Toscani’s town house just a few short hours ago.
This Shirley’s body was livid with ugly red welts and bruises. This
Shirley’s face had been beaten to a pulp.

A blinding fury exploded in Olympia.
“Why?”
she suddenly cried, but her shrill question received no reply. Her
trigger finger itched fiercely. Ordinarily tough, businesslike, and
cool, she always kept her emotions in check; the sudden
overwhelming urge to exact retribution, to repay the violence
Shirley had suffered in kind, was the demand of a stranger Olympia
hadn’t known resided deep within her. It was as if a thousand
raised voices only she could hear were urging her to kill.

Black dots swam briefly in front of her eyes. Her
trigger finger seemed to move of its own volition.

She tensed, waiting for the gunshot and the
recoil.

“
Olympia?” Beside her, Shirley
raised her head and tried to open her swollen eyes. “Is . . . is
that . . . really you?”

The chorus demanding death ebbed and stilled at the
sound of Shirley’s voice. Olympia eased up on the trigger. “Yes,
honey,” she said hoarsely but gently, “it’s me. Everything’s okay
now. You’re coming with me. Can you sit up?”

“
I . . . don’t . . .
know.”

“
Try, honey. Please try.” Without
taking her eyes off the biker, Olympia felt around on the floor
until her fingers came across Shirley’s jacket. She draped it
across the trembling, naked girl. “Cover yourself with this,” she
said softly. “Just hang on to me and I’ll help you up.” Then her
voice turned hard as nails. “And you,” she told the biker with the
bandanna, “are coming with us.”

Still aiming her gun at him, Olympia held out her
free hand and pulled Shirley to her feet. “That’s right, honey. Put
your arm around my shoulder . . . that’s it. I’ll support you.” She
wrapped her left arm tightly around Shirley’s waist and held her
upright. “Now, move it, scumbag!” she told the biker. “We’re going
downstairs and then outside. So turn around slowly. And just
because your back will be turned, don’t get the bright idea of
trying anything funny. If you or any of these clowns make a move,
I’ll put a bullet in your spine. You’ll never ride again.” There
was no mistaking the hard edge in her voice; she meant every
word.

With the biker as their hostage, they made their way
out into the hall and down the stairs. The going was slow. Shirley
kept sagging limply, and with every step they took, Olympia could
feel her suppressing cries of pain.

It was dark out as they made their way down the
stoop to the sidewalk. The streetlights glowed amber, bathing the
row of bikes and reflecting the bottle caps embedded in the
asphalt. Shirley clung to Olympia’s neck as though for dear
life.

Silently Olympia blessed the huge sleeves of her
mink coat. She was able to draw her hand, revolver and all, inside
the gaping tube of fur. No one could see what she was holding; the
cabbie wouldn’t catch sight of the revolver and panic, taking off
and leaving them stranded.

Seeing them coming, the cabbie half-climbed over the
front seat, released the rear lock, and swung the passenger door
wide from the inside.

“
You first,” Olympia told Shirley
as she deposited her gently on the edge of the gray vinyl
seat.

Her expression vacant and her fingers clutching the
field jacket she had draped over her shoulders, Shirley slid inside
and curled up in the far corner by the door.

“
I’ll get in next,” Olympia told
the biker softly. “You’re coming with us. Just remember what I told
you about any funny stuff.”

Cautiously she slid in, squeezing as close to
Shirley as she could. The biker climbed in next to her.

“
Now, let’s get the hell out of
here!” Olympia ordered curtly before the biker even slammed the
door shut.

“
Where to?” the cabbie asked. He
was still twisted halfway around.

“
Just drive!” Olympia
screamed.

“
What the hell—” the cabbie
exclaimed as he caught sight of her revolver stuck in the biker’s
midriff. “Jesus, lady, and I said you were nuts! You’re
certifiable!”
Then he caught sight of the horde of bikers
pouring out of the building. “Aw,
shit,”
he exclaimed, and
floored the gas pedal. The rear tires spun, and they screeched
off—burning the red light at Avenue D and fishtailing it uptown.
Behind them, the roar of dozens of Harleys filled the air with a
thunderous rumble.

“
Shit!” the cabbie cursed again as
the light up ahead changed from amber to red. Leaning on the horn,
he gave it more gas, shot into the only empty lane, burned that
light and the next two, and without letting up on speed swung the
steering wheel sharply to the left. The tires squealed their
protest as the cab skidded in a wild half-circle before he got it
back under control. They caromed into Seventh Street doing
sixty-five, then braked to zero in twelve seconds flat. The cabbie
pulled over at a fire hydrant and killed the lights and engine.
“Duck!” he yelled.

Behind them the Harleys roared up Avenue D, slowing
as the bikers looked up and down Seventh Street—and roared on
without seeing them; without any lights, the cab was just one of a
row of parked cars.

When the rumble receded, they all sat up again.
Olympia felt faint and shaky from the close call, but she didn’t
allow her weakness to show. There would be time for that later. She
waved the revolver. “Get out,” she told the biker quietly.

Without moving his eyes off her, he felt for the
door handle, swung the door wide, and backed out cautiously. Once
on the sidewalk, he stayed hunched over at eye level.

Gesturing with the revolver, Olympia scooted over on
the seat and reached for the door handle with her free hand. “Now,
get lost before I have second thoughts,” she said grimly.

“
You’re dead!” the biker hissed in
a half-whisper. “Both of ya cunts are dead fuckin’
bitches.”

“
Where to now, lady?” the cabbie
asked as they pulled away from the curb.

Olympia let the revolver drop in her lap. “St.
Vincent’s,” she said wearily. And then suddenly changed her
mind.

It occurred to her that Shirley would need plastic
surgery—and Duncan Cooper’s private clinic on East Sixty-ninth
Street was the best in the city. Also, if the troglodytes started
checking emergency rooms for Shirley, a regular hospital might not
be the safest place for her to be.