Читать книгу Naughty Little Secrets - Mary Wilbon - Страница 12

Slick helped Laura onto the stair seat and walked down beside her.

Judson, head of the household staff, was standing at the bottom of the staircase holding a small tray with two Absolut martinis on it.

Typical Judson, thought Laura, when she saw him waiting there. He had an astonishing gift of anticipation; always the right thing at the right time. He always seemed to be ten steps ahead of those he served, knowing what they needed before they knew it themselves.

Judson was an anachronism, but he was the only other person in the world Laura trusted as much as Slick.

Judson came from a long tradition of English personal service. Before she’d been born, Judson had been her father’s personal valet. When Laura was a little girl, and her parents were away, it was Judson who had taken care of her scraped knees, driven her to and from school and tennis lessons. It was Judson who had convinced her that it probably wasn’t a good idea to eat a worm.

Laura remembered that when her parents were away, she had the run of the house. At least Judson had let her believe that for the few hours between finishing her homework and bedtime, she ran the house.

It was the rule that she had to finish her lessons first. There was never any backsliding on that. Laura had to earn her grades and not rely on her father’s prestigious name.

Owen was very strict about that; so, in turn, was Judson.

But once her homework was done, Judson would let her into her father’s study. It was a wondrous room to Laura, filled with her father’s papers and books. Laura would climb into her father’s big swivel chair behind his giant desk. She would sink into the cushions and look at the papers on his desk.

She was never allowed to touch anything on the desk, but she was fascinated.

Judson would stand by, silently watching in case she tumbled from the chair.

Laura never knew Judson was following her father’s instructions. From this early age, Owen wanted Laura to be comfortable in his study and in his chair.

For the longest time, Laura believed Judson was a member of the family. She was too young then to recognize that delicate line of familiarity at which the rich and their servants separated themselves.

After her father died, Laura asked Judson to become head of staff. She offered him a suite of rooms in the southern end of the mansion and was grateful when he accepted. Often she wondered what he thought of the changes that had taken place from the days when her father owned the house until now.

Laura’s father, Owen Charles, had made his fortune in the early 1950s in New Jersey’s clamming industry. He started with a few small boats working out of the Atlantic Highlands. By the time he retired, he had built one of the largest clamming concerns on the Northeast Corridor. His company employed hundreds of fishermen and he owned several plants where the clams were processed. His holdings extended from Cape May, New Jersey, to Montauk, New York.

Owen built his home, a sixty-two-room mansion, on 30,000 acres in the sprawling Ramapo Mountains of New Jersey. It was built to resemble a Tudor castle, and because of this, he was often called “Owen the First, King of Clams.” Owen loved it not only for its business connotations, but for its sexual ones as well.

Like many successful businessmen, he was always cunning and shrewd, but not always ethical, and not always faithful. Once Owen had the taste of success, he couldn’t be held back by any restrictions. He chafed at the rules of convention.

His marriage to Laura’s mother Vanessa was loveless; they stayed together only because they were totally devoted to Laura.

Laura’s mother’s family had their own money, old money that was inherited and passed down to the next generation. It was class-conscious money, not made from fishmongering the way Owen had made his. They felt that by marrying Owen she had married beneath her. Now she was a fishwife, wasn’t she? They felt that common businesspeople like Owen were contributing to the disappearance of manners and good breeding.

After a while, Laura’s mother began to believe it, too.

She went on performing her social duties as Owen’s wife, graciously, but humorlessly. Eventually, she cared less and less about Owen’s other women. She had no delusions about it. Owen liked women. He would never be satisfied with just one. So be it!

She only cared about her daughter.

Both parents doted on her. Laura was the only thing they agreed on.

They made sure Laura had the best of everything.

Owen was especially enchanted with her. Sometimes his face ached just from smiling at her. Laura was the one person Owen truly loved unconditionally. He was determined to be a better father than he was a husband. Owen knew what the rest of the world thought of him and he really didn’t give a damn, but he wanted to see something else when he saw himself reflected in Laura’s eyes. He wanted to see love in her eyes.

Growing up, Laura had been well aware of the rumors of her father’s infidelities and unscrupulous business dealings, but she adored him.

As his fortune grew, Owen cultivated many influential friends in the world of politics and commerce. His office desk and walls proudly and conspicuously displayed dozens of photographs of himself flanked by the important people of the moment. These photographs were regularly updated or replaced with others, depending on the shifting celebrity status of those pictured.

The television industry had its infancy in New York, and Owen Charles accurately recognized the potential of this new medium early on. His company sponsored one of the first television game shows: The Charles Clams Casino Hour. Contestants would select to play blackjack, 5-card stud, or deuces wild. All games required spinning a big wheel with playing cards painted on it. Fortunes were made and lost, and audiences tuned in each week to watch the drama of winning or losing. Winners got as much as $10,000 and losers were sent to the Clam Dip Pit. But, win or lose, every contestant walked away with a three-month supply of Charles Minced Clams.

Owen was a marketing genius.

The television show and his company were becoming big successes.

Soon he had politicians, CEOs, and television and Broadway actors, directors, and producers welcoming his phone calls; they all would gladly stop what they were doing to talk to Owen Charles.

He threw lavish parties in his home, and worked his way into the better social circles.

And, of course, since he made his living from the ocean, he bought an enormous yacht and entertained there as well. He named it The Prince Caviar. It was a floating paradise with a thoroughly stocked bar and a perpetual party buffet, specializing in seafood.

The food kept coming and the bar never ran dry on The Prince Caviar.

There was continuous music, perfect for dancing and swimming and drinking, and of course, for extramarital affairs. If Owen was going to be one slippery son of a bitch, he was going to be one slippery son of a bitch in style.

He was driven.

Laura was his only child; he never wanted any others. He worked hard to amass his fortune for her.

To some, it seemed that Owen Charles wanted to leave his daughter so much money, that she would never have to depend on a man like himself to care for her.

Ironically, he needn’t have worried. Laura had never shown even the slightest romantic interest in men. She often joked, “Some of my best friends are men, but I wouldn’t want my daughter to marry one.”

When Laura’s time came to run the company, she renamed it and restructured it to make it her own. Where Owen was only concerned with how much he could take from the waters off New Jersey and New York, Laura started to harvest shellfish. She set quantity restrictions on fishing and made sure the company adhered to the set limits.

Her dedication, hard work, and talent had reinvented every aspect of her father’s company. Now Laura was the company.

She knew that if she spent her money extravagantly for three lifetimes, she would never spend all that he left her, so she set up charities and foundations in her father’s name. Laura wanted history to treat her father more kindly than he deserved.

Now that her parents were dead, there was only Judson.

In this huge castle she had inherited, only he had known Laura as a little girl. Only Judson had been there to witness her maturation into a young woman and now president of the company her father had started.

Laura still entertained the rich and powerful in her home, but her relationship with Slick had introduced a more flamboyant, colorful element that hadn’t existed before. If Judson disapproved of her life now, he didn’t show it. He maintained the house in his usual devoted, polished, genteel but firm manner. He made sure he and the staff was always available when they were needed, and invisible when they were not.

After Slick moved in, he carefully and deliberately weeded out any staff members who had even whispered about the gay union of the white socialite and the black ex-detective.

Laura hoped he did have some genuine feeling for her as she did for him. She hoped that his loyalty to her came from something more than his sense of duty. She would have welcomed a more casual interaction with him but knew his code of conduct would not permit it.

So, her affection for him went unspoken. But she truly loved this faithful old gentleman who seemed to have removed all traces of the needs of his own life and dedicated himself to the needs of others.

And now Judson watched from below as the white lesbian socialite mermaid and her black ex-cop Sherlock Holmes lover descended the stairs.

He watched as they approached with the same everyday blasé expression one would watch the Weather Channel.

Slick helped Laura off the seat, then she looked up at the ceiling as if she were outside and pretended to study the atmospheric conditions.

“My senses are tingling. Yes…yes…It feels like it’s going to martini.”

Then turning to Judson and feigning surprise, she said, “Look I was right!” She took the martinis from the tray.

“Wonderful, Judson,” she said. “Thank you.” She took a long sip from one of the martinis, and handed the other to Laura.

“You’re quite welcome, Miss Slick. I thought you might enjoy a quick one to catch up to your guests.”

Slick never tired of hearing Judson’s proper and efficient British accent.

Slick had a soft spot in her heart for Judson.

From the first day she met him, he had made her feel comfortable and welcome, like she belonged here.

He had worked for Laura’s family for almost all her life, and when it was clear that Laura had chosen Slick for her life companion, Judson treated her as Laura’s equal in the house, and in doing so, the rest of the staff did as well.

“How are the revelers doing?” asked Laura.

“They’re eating heartily and the drink is flowing. Most are mingling in the Grand Assembly Hall. Those preferring a less raucous evening have gathered in the north sitting room, enjoying the stringed quartet and the Dickensian Carolers. A few are in the Billiard room. All are quite comfortable.

“I’ve instructed a few of the staff to remain on hand to answer the door for late arrivals, and to keep the food and beverages replenished.”

“Thank you, Judson, for overseeing things until we arrived. I think we can manage from here,” said Laura.

“Very well, Miss.”

“Merry Christmas, Judson,” said Laura and Slick together.

“Merry Christmas,” he replied with a bow. He turned and was gone.

Slick and Laura were about to enter the assembly hall when they heard voices calling their names.

“Slick!” “Laura!” “Hi!” “Merry Christmas!”

They looked around and saw the “Three Little Pigs” rapidly approaching them. Slick and Laura looked at each other and smiled.

The three guests removed their masks.

It was Sam Billingsley, Cathy Simpson, and Paula Rafferty, three cops from Slick’s old precinct.

Sam and Slick had attended the academy together. They liked each other instantly because they shared the same belief that police officers should be model citizens, good and true.

After the academy, they were assigned to different precincts but they stayed in touch.

The night they came out to one another, they knew they’d be friends for life.

They started a chapter of the Fraternal Order of Police for black and gay police officers in Newark. They called themselves “The Homey-sexuals.”

They both applied for and entered plainclothes school at the same time and ended up as partners in the same precinct.

When Slick left the force to start her own detective agency, Sam had given her whatever support she needed; access to police leads, crime photos, witness statements.

The Department would have prohibited the sharing of such information, but in the end it benefited everyone. Many cases that had remained open or had been considered unsolvable were closed as a result.

The precinct’s conviction rate had risen substantially with Sam working inside the law and Slick now free to chase down every lead and get into areas forbidden in the regulations.

Word quickly spread about Slick’s success rate, and soon cops from other precincts were unofficially cooperating with her and she with them.

Cathy and Paula were partners on the job who had taken over the helm of “The Homey-Sexuals” after Slick left.

Cathy and Paula had instituted a big campy award ceremony every year in tribute to the best and bravest of the gay and lesbian police officers. The recipients of these awards were simultaneously honored and roasted at these events.

In recognition of Slick’s outstanding contribution to the force and the community, there was an award presented every year in her name. Over the years this award came to be known as the “Dyke” Tracy or “Dickless” Tracy award.

Laura and Slick exchanged hugs and kisses with all of them.

“Are you crazy, dressing up as pigs?” laughed Slick.

“Hey, it’s Christmas time. Everyone has a sense of humor at Christmas,” said Sam. Paula put her arm around Laura and asked, “When are you going to stop living off this woman’s money and get back to some real work, Slick, detective work?”

“Managing Laura’s company is real work,” she replied. “Do you have any idea how many crooks are out there disguised as businessmen?”

“Sounds pretty cushy to me,” said Cathy. “You get paid to do nothing. I never thought I’d see the day that you’d become a ‘kept woman,’ Slick. If you moved to Vermont, you could just marry Laura for her money.”

“I keep proposing,” Laura smiled. “She keeps turning me down.” They all laughed.

“Seriously, Slick, we miss you out there. We all sit around sometimes and talk about those cases you solved that no one else could. Remember that one about the nearsighted, suicidal twin? She killed her sister by mistake. That was a thing of beauty, Slick.”

Sam took a long pause to make sure he had everyone’s attention. Then he continued.

“But the best, the all-time best…was the earlobe.”

Sam’s demeanor changed from jovial to reverential.

He raised his glass in tribute to his former partner and started to tell for the umpteenth time how Slick had reconstructed a crime scene where the only thing left of the murder victim was his right earlobe.

An anonymous untraceable phone call was made to the police station saying a murder had been committed. The caller gave the address where the murder was done.

By the time the police arrived at the scene, there were no witnesses, no fingerprints, no suspects, and more important, there was no body.

The blood evidence and DNA was inconclusive because so many police officers hadn’t spotted the earlobe. It was stepped on repeatedly by everyone investigating the scene.

The newspapers were crawling all over this story, calling it a real-life whodunit. It was a reporter’s wet dream. The press was giving the story all the attention of an international manhunt.

They thronged the police station every day asking hard questions of whatever spokesperson du jour was sent out to them as a sacrifice at press conferences.

All the major journalists were vying for an exclusive.

Words like Mysterious and Puzzling were used on the front page headlines everywhere. “Baffled!” read the New York Post.

It had been a particularly gruesome crime. After the initial discovery of the earlobe, the murderer left various body parts in various locations. And always, the locations were wiped clean.

Privately the police referred to the crime as the “Immaculate Dissection.” Many were skeptical about ever catching the killer.

But Slick solved the crime in three days without causing embarrassment to the force, the coroner’s office, or the DA.

When the press finally got hold of the break in the case, Slick shared the credit with everyone. She faulted no one and insisted that solving the case had been a joint and coordinated team effort.

She never told anyone that she alone was responsible for finding the rest of the victim’s remains and capturing the murderer.

Years later the case was still being taught at the academy in the crime scene analysis course.

The cops never got tired of hearing these stories or telling them.

Cathy and Paula respectfully raised their glasses to toast Slick and then they all took a drink.

Slick tried to look modest but failed.

“Until I met Laura, my life was filled with daily run-ins with winos, freaks, degenerates, and other assorted lowlifes,” Slick said, trying to change the subject.

“You miss it, don’t you?” asked Sam

“Every day,” said Slick. “But Laura wanted me off the street and managing her company. Laura has a way of being irresistible. We talked about it and we agreed it was time for me to quit.”

“You are so whipped,” laughed Paula.

“Every night,” winked Slick.

“Okay,” sighed Sam. “Since we can’t change your mind, we’re gonna go eat some more of your gourmet food and drink some more of your expensive liquor.”

“Wait, before you go, we have to do it one more time. All together now…which is easier, being born black, or being born gay?” asked Slick.

“Black!” they shouted in unison.

“Why?” asked Slick.

“Because you don’t have to come out to your parents,” they all said.

Laura and Slick watched as their friends headed toward another part of the mansion.

When they were sure no one else was watching, Slick and Sam looked back at each other, conspiratorially, and Slick gave him a “thumbs up” sign.

That meant she’d call him soon to see what cases he was working on. She wanted to get back to doing some kind of law enforcement work, and she wanted to see what was happening.

Slick’s job at Laura’s company, Clam-de-Monium, paid her well, but it wasn’t very challenging.

She didn’t like keeping things from Laura and was going to tell her as soon as possible, but not tonight. Tonight was the eve of their tenth Christmas together and not the time for such serious matters.

It could wait.

Slick and Laura finished their martinis and set the glasses down.

“Who did you get to be the house band this year? Did you get that kid? What’s her name? Broccoli Spears?” asked Slick facetiously.

Slick really didn’t care who was playing. She was looking forward to dancing to a few slow tunes when Laura would close her eyes, put her head on Slick’s shoulder, and they would melt into one another.

“No,” said Laura, laughing. “Bruce called and said he was going to be spending the holidays at his home here in New Jersey. He said he and the guys would love to play tonight. Plus, Melissa and kd are here, somewhere. They both told me they’d gladly do a few numbers when Bruce wanted to take a break. kd and Melissa are thinking of getting together and doing a remake of that Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson song, ‘To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before.’ They may sing it here tonight.”

Slick and Laura walked to the Grand Assembly Hall and looked inside.

The entire hall was decorated from floor to ceiling with lights, garlands, and wreaths. Swags of rich red and green velvet were draped about. Overhead, the candelabra was entwined with holly, berries, and ivy, making it the mother of all mistletoe.

A colossal twenty-foot Christmas tree loomed above the guests. Decorated with hundreds of candy canes, presents, strings of popcorn, tinsel, and bows, it was the centerpiece of the room.

The air was filled with the sounds of laughter, happy conversation, and great music.

Bruce was wailing, and the place was rocking.

“Santa Claus is comin’ to town…

Santa Claus is comin’ to town…

Santa Claus is com-min’ to-o town!”

Through it all was the sound of corks popping and ice tinkling in the cut-crystal glasses.

Jugglers and magicians strolled throughout the room, performing and entertaining. Above, acrobats did stunts in midair.

The serving staff, dressed up as Santa’s helper elves and pixies, moved deftly and unobtrusively through the crowd with trays of canapés and cocktails.

A wildly diverse mix of people had been invited into their home to celebrate Christmas Eve. Most of those invited gladly accepted.

Here in the subdued lighting, behind the camouflage of their masks and costumes, politicians and CEOs danced and chatted with ex-hustlers and pimps.

Kings of industry sang Christmas carols with queens of drag.

Republicans toasted Democrats.

Reporters and celebrities peacefully suspended their usual hunter-versus-the-hunted maneuvering.

There were even a few members of some royal families on hand.

That had been the only requirement to get on the guest list of a Laura Charles and Cassandra Slick party; they had insisted that guests in their home treat each other with respect and courtesy.

With that came discretion.

Whatever happened at parties here remained known only to the partygoers.

Even those with nothing to lose, those who may have been tempted with large, fast, easy money into talking to the press, remained silent.

Slick still had powerful contacts and considerable influence at a lot of PDs. Everyone understood the greater value of keeping her as a friend, so they kept their mouths shut.

Slick and Laura gained the reputation of providing an atmosphere of fun and privacy.

Over the years the famous and infamous, the privileged and the less-than-privileged had socialized together in their home, confident that they wouldn’t read about their adventures in the tabloids. Consequently, their guest list grew longer after every party.

Slick and Laura lingered at the entryway for a moment to see if they could recognize some of the masqueraders.

“Is that who I think it is?” asked Laura, looking in the direction of a handsome young man in a Zorro costume.

Slick looked. “I think it is. Yes, it’s definitely him.”

“Who’s that cute cowboy he’s playing kissy-face with?”

“That’s Tony ‘Ten Inches’ Gillardo, former male prostitute.”

They were about to continue with their name game, when they were spotted.

“Merry Christmas, Laura. Great Party. Slick, I need to talk to you. Now.” Slick turned to the man in the jester costume who was grabbing her arm and pulling her aside.

Laura stumbled momentarily when Slick let go of her arm, but soon felt someone else holding her up.

“This is wonderful, Laura. A lovely party. I love your mermaid costume. Your home is just beautiful. Thanks for inviting me.”

Laura immediately recognized the voice behind the Abe Lincoln makeup.

She thought the Honest Abe costume was a brilliant idea.

“Senator, I’m so glad you could be here. Abe Lincoln looks good on you. There are some things I’d like to…”

“Excuse me, Miss Laura,” interrupted Evelyn. Judson had assigned Evelyn to answer the door for the evening.

“There’s a gentleman at the door who insists on speaking with Miss Slick.”

Laura could see that the jester was still bending Slick’s ear.

“I’ll see to it, Evelyn. Thank you.”

“Senator,” she said, turning back to “Abe.” “Please excuse me for one moment.”

“Certainly.” The senator walked away and struck up a conversation with “Lucky Numbers” Nussbaum.

As Laura took little baby steps out of the room, she saw Henry, who worked in the kitchen, pushing an empty food cart.

“Henry,” she said. “How about a lift?”

“Of course, Miss,” Henry obliged.

He helped Laura onto the food cart and wheeled her down the long hallway toward the front door.

Evelyn followed them, quietly amused at the sight. She couldn’t help being reminded of a mermaid float she had once seen in a parade. She imagined Laura on the float, doing the queenly hand wave and nodding regally to the crowd.

“Thank you, Henry,” said Laura when they reached the entryway. “Please continue to do whatever you were doing before I cart-jacked you.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Laura hopped off the cart and looked around. There was no one there.

“A man was here a moment ago, Miss. I let him in myself,” said Evelyn nervously.

Judson had emphatically directed the staff to exhibit their most professional service for this party. He would not abide any mistakes. Evelyn did not want any bad reports about her work getting back to him

“Oh, I believe you, Evelyn,” Laura reassured her.

Laura opened the door and peered outside into the snowy night. Eventually there was a rustling in the shrubbery.

“Hello. May I help you?” she called out.

Gradually a little man stepped into view.

“I’m here to see Slick,” he called back eventually.

“She’s a little busy right now. I’m Laura Charles. I’m sure Slick wouldn’t mind if you talked to me. You must be cold out there and I’m tired of shouting. Please come in.”

He looked around to make sure no one was watching. He climbed the steps, wiped his feet and stepped inside.

Evelyn stood by and watched him closely. He was short and sturdy and he looked confused and uncomfortable. He removed his hat.

Laura smiled and tried to put him at ease.

“How may I help you, Mr…?”

“McDonough,” said the little man. “Snatch McDonough.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. McDonough,” said Laura, extending her hand.

He wiped his hand on his faded brown coat, then shook hers. He let out a low whistle.

“This is some house,” he said, looking around at the tapestries, the Greek vases, and the hand-carved ceiling.

Snatch was not an educated man, but he knew money when he smelled it. This place was marinating in it.

“Thank you.” Laura smiled and patiently waited for him to continue.

“I got this invitation. There was a note inside from Slick.” He pulled an invitation from his pocket. “I just wanted to stop by and say hello and thanks.”

“Did you work with Slick?” asked Laura

“Oh, no ma’am,” he answered. “She arrested me. I just got out three weeks ago. Twelve years, grand larceny. Slick was the only one to ever catch me. She promised me that if I cleaned up my act, she’d help me get a job. She kept her word. For that I am grateful every day. I just wanted to let her know that I’m workin’ at Wal-Mart now and I’m doin’ alright. She’s a real nice woman, Slick is.”

“Yes she is.”

Snatch didn’t know what to say next. He rocked back and forth on his heels and fiddled with his hat.

“Well, okay, then. Just tell her I stopped by. I’ll be on my way now. Good night. Merry Christmas.”

He put his hat on and turned to leave.

“Please stay, Mr. McDonough,” Laura said. “You were invited, so you’re welcome here.”

“I don’t think I’m dressed for it,” he said, looking her up and down in her mermaid costume.

He’d been in jail a long time, he thought. The civilians sure were dressing funny these days.

“I didn’t know this was such a fancy place. I haven’t been around nice people in a long time. Well, to be honest, I ain’t really ever been around nice people, unless I was robbin’ ’em. I used to be a thief, ya know. I done my time, but the cops still pick me up now and again for questionin’ when somethin’ goes stolen.

“I know Slick hears stuff about me, but I wanted her to know I’m clean. I ain’t lifted nothin’ since I got out. I ain’t even gotten a parkin’ ticket, I swear.”

Then Snatch raised his hand as if he were taking a solemn oath. It was a promise, strong and sincere.

“Well, I better go now, I wouldn’t want to embarrass Slick or you by being here.”

“Please stay,” Laura said. Snatch had stolen her heart. “I know Slick would want to see you.”

“Well…okay, Miss Charles, if you say so.”

“Laura. Call me Laura, please.”

“Call me ‘Snatch,’ or ‘Snatch Mc D,’ or ‘Snatchmo.’ You know, short for Snatch McDonough.”

“Please forgive my bluntness, but if you’re trying to distance yourself from your former life as a thief, maybe you should consider dropping your nickname,” suggested Laura. “That might make your life a little easier. What’s your first name, Mr. McDonough?”

“Adolf,” he replied quietly, thoroughly embarrassed.

“Snatch’ it is,” said Laura quickly.

She tried to turn to lead Snatch back to the Assembly Hall, but her tail made it difficult to rotate.

“Snatch, I know you don’t know me. We’ve just met, but would you please give me a hand? I could use all the help I can get.” Laura didn’t want to fall ungracefully on her backside in front of a friend of Slick’s she was meeting for the first time.

Snatch handed his hat and coat to Evelyn, then grabbed hold of Laura’s waist and started steering her back to the party.

He glanced again at all the tapestries and oil paintings that adorned the hall. He marveled at the exquisite taste of everything, the arrangement, the perfect matching of forms and colors. He knew that the artworks were originals, and momentarily wondered what he could get for them on the street.

Snatch took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and repeated to himself, “I am not a crook. I am not a crook.”

As they were about to enter the party, Snatch suddenly stopped.

“I’m sorry, Miss Charles. I don’t think I can do this. I’d be wonderin’ all night if you and Slick felt like you could trust me here with all your fine things.”

“Let me show you something, Snatch,” said Laura. “Look over there. See Abe Lincoln over there? Do you know who that is?”

Snatch looked closely. Slowly he made recognition. His eyes widened. “Oh my God!” he gasped. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Yes, it is,” said Laura. “The junior senator from New York, the former First Lady. She and her husband were accused of all kinds of mischief. If I can be comfortable with them here, I can certainly be comfortable with you.”

Snatch straightened his tie, smoothed down his hair, and felt more relaxed. “I ain’t got a costume,” he said shyly.

“No one will notice.”

“You got a lot of nice stuff here, Miss Char…Laura. I’ll make sure no one cops any of it and then says it was a gift. Know what I mean?” he said protectively.

“Thank you, Snatch.”