don’t come back because you got no proof.” He jammed the cigar straight into his mustached mouth and raised his hands in a massive shrug. “You thinking like a woman. You see too much TV. You think about police. You’re not important enough for them to help. Forget them and”—his eyes burned into Trish’s— “sell out. Save yourself grief.”
“You’re saying you did try to hurt my business.”
“Saying nothing. I’m not a stupid man. You got a witness; I’m asking you to sell out, that’s all. Whadaya say?” His inquisitive ¿anee held her eyes and locked in like a missile* She was dismayed to find she couldn’t read him. To begin with, she couldn’t tell if he was cunning or dull. Nor could she guess whether or not he was using her assumptions against her. Hearing her tale of trouble, maybe he had, by simply refusing to deny responsibility, characterized him. self as a ruthless adversary who threatened to raise the stakes until she consented to sell. She was beginning to feel she had very much gone off half-cocked.
That feeling didn’t leave her, even after a postmortem; with Samantha during the ride home. Her saleswoman took the positive approach: “Trish, you served notice on him! That’s the important thing. He’ll think twice before he tries any other cute stuff. He knows if he does, you’ll call the cops.”
“What if it wasn’t him?”
Samantha snorted. “Who else could it be? Who else would sabotage our business?”
“Nobody I can think of,” Trish said.
5
OH, GLORIOUS MARSEILLAISE! ALLONS, ENFANTS... An anthem worthy of the name, whether blasted out by a Parisian brass choir, sung at Casablanca’s Rick’s, or whistled as it was now by perfectly pitched Melody, eternal sweetheart of Carson’s rodeo. The sound reached Champ’s ears with the presence and fidelity that only state-of-the-art Japanese bugs and speakers allowed. How long had it been obvious who really won World War II? He pressed a plate on the compact control panel. That minute adjustment further sharpened Melody’s whistle to you-are-there presence. He conducted, waving broad hands. He was Pierre Boulez on Bastille Day! His anticipation rose. Would Melody hearken to the tune’s dynamics, this wonder child who had never beheld the score? Yes, yes, forte, as the anthem soared to... Marchons! Her whistle grew in amplitude. Champ the music director kept pace. He grunted with delight, hands fanning the air like paddles. Too soon she warbled the last tote. “Encore, encore!” he shouted, words echoing from the walls of the two small rooms he called Resurrection Headquarters. “Vive la France!”
Carson would be so pleased to hear that the girl had only grown in talent. Vive Melody!
He cocked his head, his hunger for even one more sweet note strong as an addict’s craving. Maybe she would pick up one of her instruments! No, he heard only uninteresting thumpings. She was fooling with clothes, cleaning her room, or carrying on with some other nonsense. Her gift to the world was sound. She needed to be heard—not seen. So he had hidden the two minicams where they would do the most good, one peering into the living room and the other, of course, into Queen of My Heart’s bedroom.
It had taken two months to complete the move from the coast. Carson had been so particular about which equipment, components, and tools should be carried and which could safely be purchased in the new city. He issued instructions about where Champ should set up his headquarters. Charged and gleeful with the unexpected opportunity to recover Queen of My Heart and his child, he had phoned Champ daily to check on progress and issue the next measure of directions, as though his servant’s capabilities were unequal to too many tasks at once.
Champ knew his talents were equal to anyone’s—save Carson’s.
He had slipped in swiftly to Queen of My Heart’s home to install the bugs in the rooms and phones on a sunny Sunday
“You’re saying you did try to hurt my business.”
“Saying nothing. I’m not a stupid man. You got a witness; I’m asking you to sell out, that’s all. Whadaya say?” His inquisitive ¿anee held her eyes and locked in like a missile* She was dismayed to find she couldn’t read him. To begin with, she couldn’t tell if he was cunning or dull. Nor could she guess whether or not he was using her assumptions against her. Hearing her tale of trouble, maybe he had, by simply refusing to deny responsibility, characterized him. self as a ruthless adversary who threatened to raise the stakes until she consented to sell. She was beginning to feel she had very much gone off half-cocked.
That feeling didn’t leave her, even after a postmortem; with Samantha during the ride home. Her saleswoman took the positive approach: “Trish, you served notice on him! That’s the important thing. He’ll think twice before he tries any other cute stuff. He knows if he does, you’ll call the cops.”
“What if it wasn’t him?”
Samantha snorted. “Who else could it be? Who else would sabotage our business?”
“Nobody I can think of,” Trish said.
5
OH, GLORIOUS MARSEILLAISE! ALLONS, ENFANTS... An anthem worthy of the name, whether blasted out by a Parisian brass choir, sung at Casablanca’s Rick’s, or whistled as it was now by perfectly pitched Melody, eternal sweetheart of Carson’s rodeo. The sound reached Champ’s ears with the presence and fidelity that only state-of-the-art Japanese bugs and speakers allowed. How long had it been obvious who really won World War II? He pressed a plate on the compact control panel. That minute adjustment further sharpened Melody’s whistle to you-are-there presence. He conducted, waving broad hands. He was Pierre Boulez on Bastille Day! His anticipation rose. Would Melody hearken to the tune’s dynamics, this wonder child who had never beheld the score? Yes, yes, forte, as the anthem soared to... Marchons! Her whistle grew in amplitude. Champ the music director kept pace. He grunted with delight, hands fanning the air like paddles. Too soon she warbled the last tote. “Encore, encore!” he shouted, words echoing from the walls of the two small rooms he called Resurrection Headquarters. “Vive la France!”
Carson would be so pleased to hear that the girl had only grown in talent. Vive Melody!
He cocked his head, his hunger for even one more sweet note strong as an addict’s craving. Maybe she would pick up one of her instruments! No, he heard only uninteresting thumpings. She was fooling with clothes, cleaning her room, or carrying on with some other nonsense. Her gift to the world was sound. She needed to be heard—not seen. So he had hidden the two minicams where they would do the most good, one peering into the living room and the other, of course, into Queen of My Heart’s bedroom.
It had taken two months to complete the move from the coast. Carson had been so particular about which equipment, components, and tools should be carried and which could safely be purchased in the new city. He issued instructions about where Champ should set up his headquarters. Charged and gleeful with the unexpected opportunity to recover Queen of My Heart and his child, he had phoned Champ daily to check on progress and issue the next measure of directions, as though his servant’s capabilities were unequal to too many tasks at once.
Champ knew his talents were equal to anyone’s—save Carson’s.
He had slipped in swiftly to Queen of My Heart’s home to install the bugs in the rooms and phones on a sunny Sunday
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