Snagged (17 page)

“Richie!” Regan wailed. She jumped out of bed and grabbed a pair of jeans. She stuffed her feet into her sneakers and pulled a light windbreaker off the hanger. Within seconds she was out the door, hailing a cab, on her way to Miami General Hospital.

Richie lay stretched out on a bed in the emergency room of Miami General. Barney Freize was at his side.

“I feel much better now, Doctor,” Richie was saying, “I really think you should let me go home.”

Suddenly the doors swung open as a nurse tried to stop someone from charging in.

“Regan!” Richie called out happily. “I’m over here. It’s all right,” he said to the doctor, “she’s my niece.”

The doctor gave the nurse the signal to let her in.

“Richie, are you okay?” Regan said as she hurried over and bent down to kiss him.

“Good as new. Good as new. If this doctor would release me, I’d be even better.”

“You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” the serious, young-looking doctor warned.

“I’ll stay with him,” Regan said.

“Isn’t she a good niece?” Richie joked.

“He should be fine, but he needs to get some rest.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Regan promised.

As Richie got out of bed he said, “By the way, Regan, meet Barney Freize. He saved my life tonight.”

Regan and Richie had their taxi stop at Barney’s house to drop him off.

“When I went out for a jog tonight,” Barney joked, “I didn’t know I was in for such an adventure.”

“Thank God you like to exercise,” Regan said. “Thank you so much.”

“Yeah, thanks, Barn. I owe you one.” Richie patted him on the back. “I’ve got a big weekend, but I’ll call you and we’ll have dinner next week.” Barney started to get out of the cab. “Barn,” Richie said.

Barney turned back. “Yeah, Rich.”

Awkwardly Richie hugged him. “Thanks.”

“You’d have done the same for me.”

“That’s true.”

When they pulled away, Richie offered to stop at Regan’s hotel to pick up a few things for her to spend the night.

“No way,” Regan said. “I’m not letting you out of my sight tonight, not even to leave you waiting in the cab. I just want to get you home.”

“Okay,” Richie agreed. It was nice to be taken care of.

Barney Freize checked his answering machine. No messages. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. Sitting down at his kitchen table, the full effect of what had happened this evening began to dawn on him. Someone had tried to kill Richie. No two ways about it. But why? Did it have something to do with that panty hose? Am I responsible? he thought.

It was well after midnight, but he decided to call Danny. He needed to talk to him. As usual, he got his machine. But when the beep went off, Danny’s tape must have started rewinding at high speed. It sounded like chipmunks on amphetamines.

Nothing could have prepared Barney for what he heard when Danny’s messages started to play back. He knew he should have hung up, but it was as if the phone were Krazy-Glued to his ear.

“How’s my Danny Wanny?” the familiar voice started to say in a juvenile tone. “Oh, Danny Boy, my scootchie-ootchie, we’ll be together soon.” Barney’s face whitened. The last line of the message confirmed his worst fears. “Call back your wuving Ruthy Wu-thy.”

His nephew was involved with the Calla-Lily woman. How deeply involved . . . ?

Back at the Fourth Quarter, Richie leaned on Regan as they walked up the steps to the second floor. It was late and everyone else had obviously gone to bed.

Inside the apartment, Regan asked, “Do you think a cup of tea would be good before you went to sleep?”

“Great idea. I guess nobody knows what happened yet, huh, Regan. There are no messages on the answering machine.”

“I caught it on the Late News. I think everybody must have already been in bed.”

“Boy, are they going to be surprised.”

“To say the least,” Regan said as she filled the kettle and turned on the gas.

“Someone’s out to get me, do you think, Regan?”

“Unless that Dumpster moved itself in front of the door.”

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Richie asked happily. “Somebody must like my panty hose! They think it’s good enough to kill me for.”

“Don’t even joke about it, Richie,” Regan said as she brought the teacups, milk and sugar out to the coffee table in front of the couch, where Richie was sitting. The kettle started whistling angrily, a piercing, shrill sound that instantly set Regan’s teeth on edge.

“That kettle would wake the dead,” Richie remarked.

“Kettle? What kettle?” Regan asked as she hurried into the kitchen and yanked it off the stove.

“I like your sense of humor, Regan. It’s important to have one.”

“I agree, Richie,” Regan said as she poured the hot water into the cups. “Life would be pretty tough without it.”

Companionably they sat and sipped their tea. Regan noticed Richie’s eyes grow heavy.

“We’d better get some rest. It’s late. I’ll just stretch out on the couch here.”

“It pulls out,” Richie enthused.

“It does?”

“It’s a Castro Convertible. Birdie and I used to get such a kick watching that little Bernadette Castro pull apart those couches on the TV commercials. Come to think of it, we could have used her help tonight getting that Dumpster to budge.”

“She’s running the company now,” Regan informed him. “And she does her own radio commercials on ’Imus in the Morning’ in New York. Last time I was home I heard Imus yelling at her for dragging him to some boring luncheon.”

Richie shook his head. “It’s still hard to think of her as all grown up. Boy, time does fly, huh, Regan?” he asked as he got up and yawned.

“It sure does,” Regan agreed. ctAnd before you know it, it’s going to be morning and that phone’s going to start ringing, with everyone calling to make sure you’re okay.”

’That’s nice,” Richie said as he started for the bedroom.

Regan pulled the cushions off the couch. C4Yes, it is,” she said quietly.

A
T DAYBREAK, A sliver of orange sun peeked over the horizon in the mountains of Colorado. The campsite of the Wild West Tour group was peaceful. All eight members of the posse, as they liked to call themselves, snuggled in their sleeping bags around the embers from last night’s campfire. Preston Landers pulled his special-issue sleeping bag around his slight frame as he dreamed about the storytelling session that had taken place around the campfire just hours before.

As was their ritual each evening, one person led the group with stories about his boyhood. Last night had been Preston’s turn.

He’d told them about his privileged life in New York City where his family’s Fifth Avenue apartment overlooked Central Park. He’d hated it. All he wanted to be was a cowboy, out branding cattle, sleeping under the stars. A trip to a dude ranch when he was seven years old reinforced that ardent desire.

His family had tried to placate him by sending him out every Saturday, cowboy hat in place, into the wilds of Central Park with his nanny, who watched him go round and round riding a purple horse on the carousel, firing at her with his pop gun every 360 degrees. But somehow it just wasn’t enough.

He had wanted to go to high school out in Wyoming on a special exchange program. Instead he was sent to a prep school in New Jersey. They didn’t ride herd there, they rode to hounds. It had been a bitter disappointment.

Time slipped away, Preston recounted, and before he knew it he was caught up in the rat race, making money in business, his childhood dream buried but not forgotten. Until now.

He hoped he hadn’t bored the group too much. He’d gone on a little longer than usual and a couple of the guys had lain back in their sleeping bags during his soliloquy, never regaining consciousness for the singing of “Taps,” a ceremony that capped off each evening.

The air at this hour of the morning was fresh and crisp, with a slight nip to it. The occasional sounds of nature gently cut through the stillness, making it a perfect spot to film, say, a cornflakes commercial.

But in one brief moment it all ended. The mules started to bray wildly. Dust started to blow over the campsite. Preston Landers’s peaceful slumber communing with nature in the great outdoors was rudely interrupted by the roar of a helicopter as it settled down in a nearby clearing. With a sinking heart he looked up and saw the Calla-Lily logo on its side and knew that, for whatever reason, his vacation was over.

With much grumbling, Preston pulled on his Levi’s 501 jeans bought especially for the trip and packed up his vagabond stove, buddy burner, multipurpose pocket knife and video camera. He planned to put together a tape of the journey, set it to country music, and sell it to the other campers.

“Did everyone fill out their order forms for
High Noon Two!
” he asked his fellow ramblers as he rolled up his sleeping bag and tied it with a knot.

Most of them grunted, “Yeah, partner” as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes.

“You can send me your checks and self-addressed stamped envelopes when I’ve got it ready.”

His gear in tow, Preston walked over and patted the heads of the mules. The one he had christened Ruth stared blankly at him and blinked.

“I wish I could take you with me,” Preston whispered. “But where I’m going there’s only room for one Ruth. And you wouldn’t want to be there.”

Preston boarded
Calla-Lily I,
strapped himself in, and waved good-bye to the Wild West Tour as the helicopter lifted him toward the heavens on his way back to the boardrooms of America.

R
EGAN WOKE UP to the delicious smell of fresh-brewed coffee. Surprisingly she’d fallen into a heavy sleep and had slept for a solid six hours. She heard Richie puttering around in the kitchen.

“Richie,” she called out.

“Good morning, honey. I’ll be right there.”

Regan sat up in bed and watched as Richie carried in a tray with coffee, juice and bagels.

“What service!” Regan said as she gratefully accepted a cup of coffee. “I’m supposed to be looking after you.”

“Eh,” Richie muttered. “I heated up the bagels because they’re from yesterday. You have to eat them quick before they get hard again.”

Regan laughed. “Thanks. How do you feel this morning?”

“I have a little case of opening-night jitters, but other than that, I’m grateful to be alive.”

The phone rang.

Regan raised an eyebrow. “Here we go.” She sipped her coffee as Richie settled himself in the chair next to the phone.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said to the caller. “Regan, it’s Bridget and Ed . . . huh . . . Regan heard it on the news last night and came to get me at the hospital . . . she stayed over . . . We don’t know who tried to kill me . . . Don’t worry about it . . . I’ll see you later.”

Richie hung up and smiled. “Everybody’s a wreck.”

The phone rang again. “Richie Blossom here,” he answered. “Nora, love. I feel fine. Your daughter is here making sure I don’t get into any more trouble . . . I’ll put you on the speakerphone . . .”

“Regan?” Nora asked.

“Hi, Mom.” Regan leaned back against her propped-up pillow.

“You both are okay?”

“Fine,” they said in unison.

“Well, I’ve got some exciting news.”

Richie leaned into the phone. “What’s that, love?”

“Not only have we gotten a lot more responses from people who want to come to the party, but someone very important and influential and rich called to see if he would be welcome.”

’
WHO
?” Richie yelled and spilled a few drops of coffee on his bathrobe. “Don’t keep us in suspense!”

“She can’t help it. That’s her business,” Regan remarked.

Nora paused and pronounced his name with emphasis. “Dayton Rotter.”

“Dayton Rotter?” Richie repeated. “Dayton Rotter!”

“Wow!” Regan said. “He’s really coming?”

“Yes,” Nora said with satisfaction. “He heard about it from the models. Your father and I are doing our best to make sure the word spreads that he’ll be there. I have to call the manager, Nick, and let him know.”

“You better hurry up,” Regan advised. “He’s going out this morning on a hunt for a stereo.”

“Dayton Rotter?” Richie said almost to himself. “I guess I’m in the big time now!”

There was a knock at the door.

“Excuse me, Nora, I have to answer the door.”

“Sure, Richie. Regan,” Nora asked, “do you want to come to the hotel this morning and we’ll go over to the luncheon together?”

“Yes, but we can’t stay too long,” Regan said.

“We won’t. Why don’t you come by around ten forty-five?”

“Okay, Mom. I’ll see you later.”

Richie, followed by Lucille, hurried to turn off the speakerphone. “Lucille, sit down.”

“Richie, I got so worried when I heard the news this morning. Hi, Regan. Sorry to barge in like this.”

“Not at all. I’ve got to get going, anyway.” Richie had lent her Birdie’s old bathrobe. She went into the other room to get dressed. When she came back out, she folded up the Bernadette Castro Special and picked the cushions off the floor.

“Now, Richie, you do promise to stay here this morning and not go out alone.”

“I promise, Regan.”

“We’re all going to bus up to the Watergreen together for the fashion show early this afternoon. Richie, you’re going to come with us, aren’t you?” Lucille asked.

“The Fourth Quarter contingent will proceed together,” Richie said excitedly.

Regan looked at him. “There’s not going to be a lot of time for me to come back and get you. If you go with them, Richie, please stay with them. I want to get you through today safely.”

“No problem,” Richie smiled.

“I’ll keep my eye on him,” Lucille assured her. “I’m very good at that.”

I
RVING FRANKLIN STIRRED at his work station. He lifted his head off the Formica countertop where he had been wrestling with the panty hose the night before. The big clock on the wall with the second hand he needed to time certain experiments precisely read eight-seventeen.

Fern should be coming down in a few minutes to check on me, he thought groggily. I can’t believe I fell asleep. I just put my head down to rest my eyes an hour ago. Just before he fell asleep, as a final test he’d added dollops of the ridiculously expensive new cream that his daughter had insisted on buying just yesterday.