London broil, p.16
London Broil, page 16
A striped cat crossed in front of me, stopped and grinned. A full set of human teeth. I closed my eyes and shook my head. When I opened them, he was gone.
I heard the low idle of a car driving slowly behind me and looked over my shoulder. A dark limo with a tinted windshield was following me. Instinct kicked in and I broke into a trot. The limo moved forward. I had reason for concern. Two women had been murdered in separate incidents in that very parking lot the past year.
Halfway to Macy’s and still not sure if I was being followed; I zipped through the line of cars, stepped over the grass median, into the next lane, and ran.
The limo looped around. I fumbled in the side pocket of my bag and freed my cell phone, punching in 9 and 1. The phone slipped from my sweaty hand, hit my shoe and slid under an SUV. Screw it. Leaping over the bushy islands that stood between me and safety, I fell flat on my face, hitting my cheek against the turf. I pulled a clump of my red-blond hair away from my eyes.
“Ms. Harte.”
I looked up at a man’s face in the window of the limo. He had a droopy, walrus-like mustache.
“Ms. Harte, we'd like to talk to you.”
“Call my office.” I threw him a pissy look as I scrambled to stand.
“It's about Leslie Archer.”
“Who?” I played dumb.
Before I could run again, two men stepped out of the car and grabbed me. Twins, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee dressed in dark clothes; both had noses that twisted to the right beneath scarred brows. They lifted me into the car by my elbows.
So this is how it ends. I flashed on the headlines – Alice Harte,Miami Real Estate Broker, 42 and Three-Quarters, Found Murdered at Biscayne Mall.
A stocky guy sat shotgun. He had slicked back hair, a hard-set jaw, bull-neck and sunglasses perched on large ears. One Tweedle took the driver’s seat and the other sat directly across from me in the rear-facing back seat. Next to me was the man with the walrus mustache, a portly guy with prominent front teeth, a derby and pince-nez glasses. He said, “Ms. Harte, I’m an attorney. My name is Walter Lewis. I represent Marc Hare.”
My heart rolled over. I knew the Hare name.
“We’re going after your employer, Leslie Archer, for fraud and racketeering, civil RICO. You’ll be testifying against him.”
“Look, whoever you are, I know nothing about Leslie Archer’s business. I just work for him. I've been trying to quit. He won't let me go. I'm no good to you.”
“Exactly why you are good to us – you're part of his inner circle. We want everything you can dig up on him. You will take the stand against Archer.” He poked his fat finger in my face.
I reached up and smacked his hand, hard. The backseat Tweedle grabbed my wrist and bent it. I yelped in pain.
The thick-necked man in the front passenger seat looked at me through his sunglasses. “Enough bullshit. You know the name Jug Hare?”
Jug Hare had been a small time contractor with a wife and five kids. He was found beheaded days after he filed suit against Leslie Archer.
“Jug was my baby brother. I’m Marc Hare. I’m sure you’re afraid of Archer, but he’s the least of your worries.”
Leslie Archer scared me in many ways. But who was Sunglasses? Why should I be afraid of him? He talked lawsuit, but he looked and acted like a thug. I’d met his kind before. I narrowed my eyes and said, “I’m not going into court again, not for you, not for anyone.”
I felt like I had stepped into a gangster film. All I wanted was face cream, now I'm some sort of witness against Leslie for a guy who acts like he might be even more dangerous.
My gut churned. “Leslie has won every lawsuit thrown at him. What happens when you run out of money and can’t keep your suit? Where does that leave me? He’ll kill me.”
Sunglasses answered not trying to conceal his venom, “I’m taking the bastard down, one way or the other. And if you had a hand in my brother's death, you’re going with him.”
My gut churned harder. For months I'd feared being accused of participating in Leslie's slimy and possibly illegal shenanigans. I looked at Marc Hare. Leslie was dead meat and I might be the side dish.
“You’re testifying,” Sunglasses said in a bone-chilling hiss.
I wanted out of that car. “When is this going to happen? I need to get away from him before it does.”
“You don't get it,” Walrus Mustache said. “You're going to continue working for Archer and keep your eyes open until your deposition.”
My stomach was like a washer on spin cycle. “Deposition?”
“It’s a proceeding where my partner and I and Archer’s attorneys question you about your testimony.”
I wanted to barf on his shoes. Suddenly wrinkle-poofer was the least important thing on my list of things to do.
Sunglasses said, “You won't be hearing from us but we’ll be hearing from you. And find out everything you can about a company called Red Queen, Ltd.”
A thorn lodged in my throat. “You want me to spy for you?”
Sunglasses’ mouth curled up in the corners, but it was far from a smile. “It would be to your advantage to play ball with us. If you don't...” he slid his finger across his throat. “Get out.”
I stepped from the black car onto the surface of a marshmallow. My legs buckled. I leaned on the nearest vehicle and set off its alarm.
“You’ll need this.” One of the Tweedles handed me my cell phone. I took it with shaky hands.
***
Going to the office was out of the question. No one would miss me on New Year’s Eve day. I drove back to my house in Westminster Lakes, a gated community just outside Miami.
My garage door came down with a reassuring thud. It would be easier to think clearly within my own walls. And I had a lot to think about - Sunglasses, Leslie… and what the hell was RICO?
I walked into the kitchen, threw my bag on the counter and grabbed a bottled water from the fridge. My cat Gem and I share a large contemporary Florida house on a tiny pristine lake. It’s an island of security in a crazy world.
What did I know about RICO? In the back of my mind sat the slippery eel of a thought I had heard that word attached to Leslie before today. I work for Leslie Archer, the worst human being on the face of the earth. He develops upscale resorts; I brokered the luxury apartment buildings that sit on the land he owns, mostly to pension funds and investment groups. In his fifty-three years, Leslie has managed to insinuate himself into the top slot on some impressive enemy lists.
At my computer, I typed RICO in the search bar and like a slot machine, the tumblers spun. Up came a definition that fit Leslie like his spray-on tan: Racketeering. If Hare won under civil RICO, he would be able to get all Leslie's money, homes, and jets. Leslie was all about possessions. This was going to get ugly.
I was mouse-trapped. Leslie wouldn't let me out of my employment agreement with Archer Resorts. And now I was supposed to be an undercover snoop for some thug.
Chapter Two
For many years I had promised myself I would find a way to live in England. It was the perfect time to split. I called my best friend Ron, a good-looking guy with two great shoulders for my slender body to lean on. “I need to talk.”
A multi-talented guy with polished street smarts, Ron Watson came close to getting his law degree from Tulane, but dropped out and traveled the world. Professionally single with a taste for Rubenesque women, Ron brokered and built apartment communities. After teaming up for the sale of the Dormouse Arms Apartments we became close friends and confidants. Though we talked every day by phone or in person, neither of us was willing to give up our friendship to try for a romance.
As I drove to Ron’s office, the road appeared to change and drift. My hands grew tiny and I couldn't control the steering wheel. When I pulled into a parking space, I misjudged the length of my car and bounced against the curb. I hate when that happens and it was happening more often.
Since my divorce court days my personal growth was non-existent and my life was out of control with daydreams and nightmares colliding. The stress generated by Leslie was pushing me over the edge.
Ron had a one-man, one-secretary office due to a recent downturn in his finances. The furniture was rich and bulky with original oil paintings on the walls and oriental carpets on the hardwood floors. He was alone when I got there.
“Gimme a hug. I need it,” I said.
He gave me a buddy-hug with three pats on the back. I returned the thumps.
We shared a seat on his leather sofa. He opened a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and poured us each a double shot in crystal cocktail glasses. I shook my head to clear the little stabby pains that threatened to poke my brains out.
He stretched his long legs, his wing-tips touching the end of the coffee table. Head back, he studied the ceiling. “Do you think Archer did it… had Jug Hare beheaded?”
“There’s more. This Sunglasses dude wants me to dig up dirt on an Archer company – Red Queen, Ltd. I think I might be the registered agent for Red Queen. When I first started working for Leslie he had me sign to be director of an off-the-shelf company he formed in the Bahamas. He did a lot of that back then.”
Ron focused his dark eyes on me.
I looked away. “I tried to forget. I was embarrassed. It was dumb. I believed him when he told me it was routine. I have no idea what Leslie has done with that company. If he used it to destroy Jug Hare, then I’m as good as dead. Marc Hare is not going to be satisfied with Leslie’s assets. After he takes the toys, he’s gonna kill Leslie and maybe me too. That's why I’m going to leave Archer Resorts... ASAP. I firmly believe in running when the time is right.”
“It might be your imagination that’s running… amok.”
“You had to see these guys. The lawyer looked like the Walrus in Alice in Wonderland. And the two thugs looked just like Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee.”
“The stress is getting to you. It’s not normal to meet fairytale characters, not at your age. Lay off the pills.”
“No. They were the Tweedles. He’s the Walrus. And I keep seeing the Cheshire Cat.”
He shook his head. “So you’re going to run away.”
I wished I smoked. I reached in my purse and popped a Xanax. “The first time I ran away from home I was only three years old. I had enough of my mother. I packed up my doll's suitcase and marched down four flights of apartment stairs, dragging the suitcase behind me and hitting every stair with a thump-bump. I knew my mother was following, I could hear her creak. When I stepped into the gutter to cross the city street, I was lifted airborne by my hair and carried home.
“After my mother beat the punk out of me, I curled up in the hall closet with my White Rabbit doll. I shut my eyes real tight and wished and wished with all my might that my White Rabbit would take me to Wonderland for keeps. My mother yanked the closet door open and pulled my bunny from me. She put him on the highest shelf. The next day I tried to get him. I stacked boxes on a chair and climbed up to that shelf, but... he was gone.” I closed my eyes to hold my tears back. “He’ll come back to me someday.”
“And what’ll you do when he returns?”
I was starting to feel the scotch. “He’ll be from England if he’s a real white rabbit. I cling to the dream of starring in my own British romance, sharing scones and clotted cream with someone who says outrageous Oscar Wilde things. He’ll be like John Cleese and make me laugh until my sides ache. I’ll go to bed giggling and wake up with Cleese, naked, at my pillow serving me coffee.”
“Now I understand why you give those White Rabbit dolls to the Children’s Shelter.”
“I feel like the Rabbits are a tiny piece of hope for those abused kids. Let’s not talk about it.”
Ron put his arm around my shoulders. “So until your personal White Rabbit returns…”
“I feel like I’m in the wrong kind of Wonderland – the Blunderland version. I need to start documenting all this insanity, maybe start keeping a journal or a diary to protect myself.”
“There is no such place as Wonderland.”
Irritated, I deflected his remark. “How’s your bankruptcy doing?”
“I’m working it out with my creditors according to Chapter 11. I can’t help but be mad at myself for getting involved with that Crete-It product. My building looks like a giant piece of Swiss cheese on the 17th green. Every golf ball that goes astray leaves a round pock mark in the yellow fake stucco.”
“Logic says the Crete-It Company would have settled with you. They sold you defective construction materials.”
“Instead they folded the company and reincorporated under a new name. There’s no one to sue. I’m left with sixty condos I can’t sell because they look like they’ve been under mortar fire. The things that seem like slam-dunks are the things that most often do you in.”
He put down his glass, took my elbow and nudged me out off the sofa. “New Year’s Eve is amateur night. Get your butt home before the drunks hit the road. And forget about the diary. It’s a stupid idea. What you write down can only come back to haunt you in the end.”
“You got a date?” I asked, feeling a teeny bit jealous.
A cloudy look crossed his face. “Nothing special.”
We clinked glasses and did the pal hug thing. Then I hit the road, making a quick stop at Barnes & Noble against Ron’s advice. In an effort to avoid any more thugs in parking lots, I parked at the curb with my emergency flashers blinking.
In the dim glow at the back of the stationery section I found a solitary diary just waiting for me. It was a thick daily journal with quotes from Alice in Wonderland on each page. It was perfect.
~
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Bonus excerpt from
Wendy and the Lost Boys
Pirates
Chapter One
Sometimes the journey you set out on is not the one you return from.
I lay on my stomach on Belgian cream-colored sheets in my suite on the 370-foot yacht rocking in the waters somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. I had finished a pitcher of screwdrivers before the sun came up and was feeling woozy. As I dozed in my bikini, something jumped on my back. I tried to fight it off, rolled over, and found myself looking at a giant tongue and two beady eyes. It was like being married again.
All six feet of Hook’s bony body retreated when I brought my knee up catching him in his man-berries. He turned, rolling off the bed and abruptly slamming his johnson into the teak nightstand. His penis was huge, dark, and engorged. I was right about the blue pills in his master suite. They were erectile dysfunction drugs. Of course, with the name UpUGo, it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out.
“I knew you were taking that junk. Don’t waste your time,” I said to the naked old man with the flabby butt as he held himself with a panicked look on his face. “And get out of my suite. The door was locked for a reason! How’d you get in here?”
“It’s been more than four hours, Wendy,” he whimpered. “I’m still hard and it hurts like hell. Help me!” His once chiseled features hung like melted wax from his cheekbones.
“My promise to Marni to care for you did not include sex… no way… under no circumstances. That’s what you get for messing with that stuff. Just get out of my way!”
I snatched the ten-pound white hairball called Tinkerbelle from the foot of the bed and made my way to the sun deck. Hook’s Predator was a yacht on steroids. It took ten minutes to get from my suite to the upper floor. Hook had spent over $200 million of Ponzied money on this floating erection. He recited the Predator’s talents daily, like a mantra he hoped would keep away the feds, investors, and victims who wanted nothing more than to see him keelhauled.
Once on the sun deck, I reclined on a cushioned lounge chair. Tink licked my face, her Maltese dog fur tickling my nose. I wrapped her leash around my left hand and whispered into her ear, “You poor little puppy. You don’t understand we buried your mama yesterday.” The tears came. There was no holding them back.
How did I let myself get into this situation? I regretted the day I first heard Hook’s name and regretted even more the day I introduced him to Marni.
***
It started almost two years ago as what had become a normal poison-ivy-like night for me. Standing at the window of our suite at The Plaza, I gazed out over the pink and white blossoms of June in Central Park wondering when I would learn to say “no.” It was a hellacious sacrifice to drop what I was doing, leave my clients in Miami and haul up to New York to be at my husband Croc’s side as he pursued investors for his hedge fund Privateer, LLC.
I thought I’d finally found a good man when I first met James Crocowski at a fundraiser for hurricane victims. We continued to bump into each other at a series of charity events over the next few weeks. After a few months of frantic dating, I woke up in the bridal suite at the Luxor Hotel in Vegas. I was Mrs. Crocowski, the thirty-nine year-old wife of a hedge fund manager. I was ready to admit I’d made a mistake.
“How do I look?” Croc did a spin in his tux.
I turned from the window to study him. The man was an optical illusion. He looked intelligent, hardly the picture of a guy who’d just lost triple-digit millions. And obviously to him he looked primo. I bit off a really nasty comment and settled for, “Stop panting. You sound like a dog.”
“Yeah, but how great do I look? We’re going to a Charlie Hook party. It’s important.”
The name meant nothing to me. This was not a charity event, despite the embossed wording on the invitations. Croc, aka the Crocodile, was set to snare a new pool of investors with his welcoming grin and promises of extraordinary returns. I was sick to my stomach with what I suspected were his less than honest guarantees. I regretted my last minute decision to join him, torn between wifely loyalty and rat-sniffing instincts.
