Never Too Rich (6 page)

Anouk sat back and smiled coolly. She enjoyed the
resulting silence and his pouting discomfiture equally. As the
acknowledged queen bee of New York society, she wielded a great
deal of influence: one word from her could make or break far more
important men and women than Wilhelm St. Guillaume, and she did not
suffer fools gladly. Nor was she an enemy to be taken lightly. If
need required, she thoroughly enjoyed dragging out every
considerable weapon in her arsenal.

Once again she idly wondered why she bothered to put
up with Wilhelm. But of course, she knew very well. What Mozart was
to music and Van Gogh was to paints, Wilhelm St. Guillaume was to
hair dye. He alone, of the legions of hairdressers she had summoned
over the years to her vast apartment, was so gifted at dye jobs
that her hair came out a pure, rich, gleaming raven black that even
in the brightest sunshine never reflected so much as the slightest
hint of telltale red or purple.

That was why she put up with him. Because in his
field he was the absolute best there was.

A malicious smile hovered at the corners of her
full, sensuous lips. Of course, that still didn’t make him
indispensable. No one knew better than she how stars rose and fell
daily in New York: Manhattan was a shooting-star gallery, with
destinies rising and falling constantly. Today’s “in” florist or
hairstylist could easily become yesterday’s news and be totally
forgotten. It happened all the time. And invariably, she was the
one who first discovered these little treasures, just as she would
be the first to discard them in favor of someone new. After all,
what was the use in having power if you never wielded it?

Deep down, hidden by all the laughter and wit,
surgery and dye, Anouk de Riscal had the heart of a street fighter
and the soul of a drug pusher.

Anouk was five feet, ten inches in her stocking feet
and her beauty was breathtaking—and timeless. Her profile was that
of a classic South American beauty, and head-on, with those
alluring eyes the color of smoky, tiger-striped topaz, and the
complexion which seemed carved from splendid honey-stained ivory,
she put many a younger beauty queen to shame. Her hair was thick,
glossy, and no matter how she wore it—in a severe chignon, or loose
and straight, or, as had become her latest rage, in a big wispy
Belle Epoque Gibson-girl style—it was invariably stuck with
scintillating antique diamond pins, one of her trademarks. And her
thin-boned, 110-pound body made her the perfect mannequin for her
husband’s extravagant creations.

She was also perpetually thirty-nine years old, had
never celebrated birthdays, and kept even her zodiac sign a secret
worthy of the KGB. Let other women blow out candles and hanker for
gifts. She, Anouk de Riscal, had wanted only one present—ever—and
that was one which she had given herself, a girl’s
real
best
friend, a passport in which her age had been doctored and which
had, so far, passed scrutiny at every major border. In fact, she
had lied so proficiently and for so long about her real age that
reality had blurred around the edges and she had honestly forgotten
how old she really was.

Anouk believed in many things—money, power, and even
the tooth fairy—but she did
not
believe in growing old
gracefully. She fought it every inch of the way, and saw nothing
wrong in doing everything conceivable to stay as young-looking as
possible, as long as she didn’t end up with a perpetual ear-to-ear
grin like
some
women she could name. Which was why, when it
came to plastic surgery, it was so important to choose the very
best surgeon available.

Last month’s visit to the famous Dr. Ivo Pitanguy
had been her sixteenth.

You name it—over the years, Anouk had had it.

Rhytidectomies, the normal face lifts which included
tightening the slackening jowl and neck muscles.

Malar implants, which helped dramatize her
cheekbones.

Blepharoplasty, in which excess skin was removed
from around her eyes.

The coronal lift, for those horizontal worry
lines.

Dermabrasion, which removed superficially wrinkled
skin.

And last, but certainly not least, blemish
correction, through which spider veins and those telling age spots
were destroyed by argon laser.

Willie was right, of course. She hadn’t been only to
Las Hadas, which was in Manzanillo, and Careyes, which was tucked
between it and Puerto Vallarta. She’d recuperated in Manzanillo and
Careyes, but first she’d spent a week in Rio at Dr. Pitanguy’s
clinic, where the world-renowned surgeon had performed not only his
usual facelift magic, but also his specialty—a forehead lift.

She smiled coolly into the mirror.
But you don’t
know that, do you, Willie?

So now her facial skin was taut and smooth again.
The signs of age had been kept at bay for a little bit longer,
though no matter how hard she tried, it
was
a losing,
downhill battle. Lifts, contours, tightening, the clever use of
cosmetics—there was only so much that could be done. Still, she
wouldn’t have it any other way. She would never,
ever
let
aging get the better of her. Not if she could help it.

And she could.

The telephone gurgled softly, interrupting her
reverie. Two rings. Three. Four.

She felt the rise of irritation. Why didn’t someone
answer it?

The telephone quieted. Wilhelm, still chastised,
continued to snip in silence. A moment later, the butler knocked
discreetly and cleared his throat. “Madam,” he intoned in
sepulchral tones, “it’s Monsieur.”

Anouk looked at him and sighed. “See if I can call
him back, Banstead, would you?”

“
Very well, madam.” The redoubtable
Banstead disappeared soundlessly, and then returned again. “I’m
sorry, madam. Monsieur says it is extremely urgent.”

“
Oh, all right.” Imperiously Anouk
extended her hand, and before the butler could reach for the
extension, Wilhelm, trying to ingratiate himself, snatched it up
with the eagerness of a puppy and handed it to her. She gave him
one of her “looks” and gestured him away. Then, flicking a length
of hair behind her right ear, she held the receiver close.
“Darling, Banstead tells me it’s important?” She used her
brightest, cheeriest manner, which immediately told Antonio that
she was not alone.

Antonio’s voice, despite traveling for a mere
thirty-some blocks, sounded like a distorted squawk. “Anouk, thank
God you’re in!” He breathed shakily. “You’ve got to help me!”

She was fully alert now, her brows knit together, a
headache tightening in her temples. She placed a hand over the
receiver, eyed Wilhelm sternly, and said, “Abracadabra for five.”
Then, when the door shut behind him, she removed her hand from the
mouthpiece. “Antonio! Darling, what is it?”

“
I need your help,” her husband
said miserably.

“
Well?”

“
I . . . I can’t talk about it! I’m
so ashamed!”

“
Darling, I can’t help you if you
don’t pull yourself together and tell me exactly what
happened.”

“
I know. I know.”

“
Well, out with it, then,” Anouk
ordered. “And you needn’t sound that dejected. It can’t be that
bad. . . . Antonio? Can it?”

“
It is.”

She sighed. “I’m listening.”

“
It’s Doris Bucklin. She had a
fitting this morning ...”

“
And?”

“
Well . . . we didn’t have
it.”

“
Oh-oh. There was trouble? . . .
Antonio! Will you speak up!”

“
She . . . she walked right past
Liz and barged in when she was supposed to wait.”

“
So? Oh, I see. Don’t tell me,
darling. You were doing something naughty. Is that it?”

“
Yes.” His voice was a bare
whisper.

“
Well, what were you
doing?”

“
I got . . . horny this
morning.”

“
And you picked someone up.
Merde!
Will you never learn?”

“
How was I supposed to know she’d
barge in like that?”

“
And you, I suppose, were bent over
the desk?” Anouk could be uncannily psychic.

“
S-something like that,” he
said.

“
And she caught you in the midst of
it?
In flagrante delicto?”

“
Liz saw it too.”

Anouk suddenly burst into peals of glissant
laughter. “Shame on you.”

“
This isn’t funny! You know how
thick Doris Bucklin is with Rosamund Moss! They’re old school
friends or something. I’ve practically been promised that I’ll
dress the new First Lady. But after this . . . well, Roz Moss might
go to Bill Blass or Adolfo!”

“
That’s only if Doris
talks.”

“
She will. She’s got a mouth
like—”

“
Darling, she’ll keep quiet. I can
almost guarantee it. Now, don’t worry your little head about it.
Get back to work and do your design magic. I’ll take care of
everything.”

“
How?”

“
Just leave it all to me. I’ll fix
it.”

“
But I don’t know how I’ll be able
to face Doris . . . or even Liz . . .”

“
Like I said, I’ll take care of it.
So don’t you worry, all right? Just tell me one thing. Was Doris
drunk? She so often is.”

“
I . . . I don’t know.”

“
Well, don’t worry. Now, I’d better
start making calls. I’ll see you later, at the memorial service. So
cheer up,
cheri,
and hold your head high. It’s not the end
of the world, you know. Ciao-meow!”

_Chapter
6

Twelve hundred CC’s of Made-in-the-USA engine
growled malevolently. The Harley-Davidson was caught in the
slow-moving downtown traffic. Then, when a tiny opening appeared
between the cars on the left, the growl burst to a snarling
roar.

Lazing back on the leather-fringed seat of the
customized, chrome-laden chopper, his arms extended to accommodate
the elongated front fork and his long hair flying back from his
Nazi-style coal-scuttle helmet, Snake flashed a birdie at the
motorists and, without warning, cut into the left lane.

A businessman in a Cadillac Seville had to swerve
and hit the brakes to avoid him, and with a thunderclap bang and
the crunch of writhing metal, the Checker cab in back crashed into
the rear of the Seville.

Curses and yells flung at Snake were lost in the
crescendo of noise and the cloud of blue exhaust as he disappeared
unperturbed down Second Avenue. He threw back his head and roared
laughter. It wasn’t the first time he had left bent fenders in his
wake, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Snake invited fear and loathing on sight. His
good-looking twenty-eight-year-old face was obscured by greasy
black shoulder-length hair, and his grizzly mustache and foot-long
beard would have done a Hasid proud. He wore a huge gold ring
through one ear, a gold stud through one nostril, and there was a
perpetual squint to his jumpy, tawny yellow eyes. His tattoos
started below his chin and went all the way down to his toes.
People tended to avoid him as much for his fierce “outlaw-biker”
image as for fear of flea infestation.

On Fifth Street he made a left turn and cruised
slowly along the East Village blocks, checking out the action on
both sides of the street. Most of what he saw made him scowl.
Sometimes he didn’t know what the world was coming to anymore.
Punks and art galleries were everywhere. It hadn’t used to be like
that. These had been meaner streets at one time, and more to his
liking. Still, Satan’s Warriors ruled their own block, and that was
something that hadn’t changed. Nor would it, if he and his bros
could help it.

He pulled his lips back across his teeth and grinned
to himself. Another two minutes or so, and he’d be back at the
clubhouse. First, he’d grab a Bud and a joint, and then he’d have
another go at Shirl, his ole lady. They’d been together for almost
three years now, and she still turned him on. He’d taught her well.
There wasn’t anyplace she wouldn’t put her tongue.

His grin widened. Just thinking about Shirl was
enough to give him a hard-on. She was a great-looking piece of ass,
all legs and curves. She had silky ass-length hair just like
Crystal Gayle’s, although he had to admit she could have been
better stacked in the tits department. Sure, but he wasn’t
complaining. She just had to walk down the street and men would
start salivating.

He put-putted into that part of the East Village
called Alphabet City, past Avenue A and then on to Avenue B. And
there was the clubhouse, on the south side and in the middle of the
block, a six-story tenement with some twenty shiny Harleys parked
out front. The bikes never needed locking. Nobody dared steal a
Satan’s Warrior’s scoot. That was like begging for death.

“
Hey, bro!” a deep voice
shouted.

Snake nodded as he walked his bike against the curb
and flipped out the kickstand with his boot. He slapped hands with
a heavily built six-foot-five giant who was dressed almost
identically to him, except that the dude’s head was covered with a
black kerchief, completely hiding his hair. They clasped hands
roughly in their ritual greeting, fingers gripping each other’s
wrists. “Hey, Trog,” Snake murmured. “How’s it go-innn?”

“
Heyyyy . . . not bad.” Trog nodded
at Snake’s bike, which was ticking as the engine began to cool. “Ya
got it runnin’ again. Carb needs adjustin’, though.”

“
Yeah, I know.” Snake sniffled,
leaned sideways, blocked one nostril with his thumb, and let snot
fly; cold-weather riding always clogged his sinuses. Then he swung
off the bike like a cowboy swinging off his horse and stood there
slightly bow-leggedly, eyeing the machine as critically as a madam
eyeing a whore. “Spent half the night tinkerin’ on her so she’d
run. I’m gonna tune her up later, but first I’m goin’ up n’ gettin’
me a righteous fuck.”