New York 1923 - Chapters 6-10

6. Harlan Stout

Private Dick Harlan Stout looked down at his reflection in the black coffee at the bottom of his cup.  The bags under his eyes were clearly visible, another sign that Stout's lifestyle was not a healthy one.  He gulped down the last of his joe and opened a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes.

It was 9:20 and Margery Van Dine was late.  The coffee shop he sat in had a polished checkered black and white floor and old wooden chairs and tables that were aged just enough to make them comfortable.  Dames, they were always late.  Like his father always said: "If a girl looks swell when she meets you, who gives a damn if she's late?  Nobody."  She was a looker, even though she was no spring chicken.  And so, Stout waited. 

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Margery Van Dine pushed the velocitator of the cab to the floor, wanting only to put distance between her and the warehouse.  The wind from the open window blew her hair around wildly, the cabbie's blood on the seat seeping through her dress and soaking her undergarments.  She had only driven a car a handful of times in her life, but somehow she was making it work.

She knew her way around New York City, but knew better than to go to the cops right away.  She needed someone she could trust, but who?  Where?  

Harlan Stout, her private dick.  She had no idea what time it was but he was her only option.  She pushed the cab to its limits, adrenaline coursing through her body.  She was close to the cafe where she was going to meet Stout.  Hopefully he'd still be there.  She turned onto 46th street and gunned it.  The cafe was at the end of the street. 

In slow motion, Margery saw a horse pulling an ice carriage emerge from an alley onto the street.  Somehow, her brain registered this and forced her hands to jerk the steering wheel left.  She jumped the curb with a crash and smashed through a cart of melons that cracked her windshield.  The sound of dragging metal screeched she pulled the wheel right and drove off the sidewalk, back onto the street.  As the melon chunks fell from the car, Margery noticed she was finally close to the cafe and slammed on the brakes.

Nothing.

She frantically pushed down with her foot again, and again and again.  Nothing.  The brakes were out.

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Harlan Stout heard the crash from down the street.  He looked up from the cigarette he was about to light when he saw the cab barreling directly toward the cafe.  Stupidly, he spent an entire second gauging whether he had time to finish lighting his smoke before diving out of the way.  Instead, he did neither as his jaw dropped to yell in terror, his cig hanging limply from his lip.  

The cab smashed through the front of the cafe, shattering the glass front and sending smashed furnture flying like broken matchsticks.  Harlan had enough time to dive out of the way, banging his head on the corner of a table in the process as the cab crashed into the bar and came to rest in a mangled heap right in the middle of the cafe.  The air was choked with dust and smoke from the engine, which hissed some kind of vapour. 

Miraculously, Stout had escaped serious injury, but he was pissed.  He violently opened the cab door:

"What the hell is the matter with..."  Stout stopped dead in his tracks.  It was Margery Van Dine, bleeding from her mouth and nose and looking right into his eyes.

"Help... me..." she moaned as she clutched her arm to her chest.

"Mrs. Van Dine!  What?  How!?"  Harlan was at a loss for words.  

"Please, get me out of... here.  Somewhere... safe."  Margery coughed and expectorated flecks of blood from her mouth.     

"God dammit!  Sweet Jesus Mary and Joseph!"  Harlan looked around.  The dust was still thick in the air when he saw silhouettes against the morning light approaching the car.  Stout pulled Margery from the wreck.  Moans of other injured patrons began to fill the air.

As people began to flood in through the front of the cafe to help the injured, Harlan and Margery limped through a back door and escaped.

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Back in Stout's apartment on Lexington, Margery and Harlan cleaned up.  Margery held a towel to her mouth and nose and had her arm in a sling.  Harlan was looking in his dirty mirror finishing stitching up the gash over his eye from hitting that table.     

He snipped the thread and dabbed at his soutures, then looked at the mangled remains of his formerly fresh pack of Lucky Strikes.  Harlan sighed and pulled out two crooked smokes, offering one to Margery.  He lit hers first, then his own and took a long reassuring drag. 

Smoke trailing from his nostrils, Harlan asked: "Now that we're all settled, mind telling me what the hell that was all about?"

Margery told him about her ordeal.  Stout visibly tensed as he listened carfully, asking for more details here and there, especially when he heard the name of that jack off Ron Crispin.

"What does that son of a bitch want with you?"  It had to something serious if he was willing to drive out all the way to the middle of nowehere and threaten her with a gun, not to mention killing the damn cabbie.

"I don't know" Margery responded with hesitation.  Stout looked deep into her eyes, willing her to spit it out.  "He did call me by my maiden name, though."

"And that is?"  Harlan coaxed

"Soong."  

"Soong?  As in Jim Soong?"

"Yes.  He's my brother,"  Margery answered, clinging to the idea that somehow Harlan Stout could save her.  "Why are you smiling detective?"

"Baby, you just gave me the one thing I was looking for.  A lead."

7. Ronald Crispin

“Well ain’t that the cat’s pajamas,” said Ronald Crispin, admiring the contents of the safe he had just blown open.

“It sure is,” agreed Harlan Stout. “Looks like we cracked another case wide open, partner.”

“How much do you figure that thing is worth?”

Harlan’s eyes narrowed as he turned his head toward his companion.

“It’s worth the $80 Mrs. Van Dermear agreed to pay us for retrieving it,” he answered carefully, his tone conveying an unmistakable warning.

“$80? Harlan, quit being such a wet blanket. Look at the diamonds on it! That thing’ll fetch us twice as much in Brooklyn!”

“You’re talking about stealing from our client, Ronald! What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? We’re stealing from a thief! A dead thief at that!”

Harlan turned his back on his partner and angrily strode across the room.

“You shouldn’t have shot him. Damn kid was still wet behind the ears!”

Ronald threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

“He was a no-good, lowlife! He got what was coming to him!”

Harlan spun around on his heel and pointed a finger accusingly in Ronald’s face.

“Yeah? And what are you then, huh? You think you’re better than that dead kid? You’re ready to steal the same thing from the same dame as he did!”

Ronald waved a hand dismissively and approached the safe.

“Tell you what, Harlan,” he called over his shoulder. “Why don’t you scram and protect your honor. I’ll do what needs to be done to keep our heads above water, just like I always do.”

“Don’t give me an earful of your bull! I’ve just about had it with you!”

“Yeah?” said Ronald turning to face the other private detective. “Fine! You’re holding me back anyway!”

“Ronald!” Harlan shouted back at him. “Ronald! Ronald!”

“What?” he answered in confusion.

May 7th, 1923 - 10:30am

“Ronald! Are you alive?”

“What?” he repeated, gradually becoming aware of the cold cement on his cheek.

“I asked if you were alive, but don’t worry, I figured it out.” Ronald recognized Rex Dickson Carr’s voice. “I wish I could say the same for Terry.”

Ronald blearily opened his eyes and saw what looked like an endless ocean of dry, coagulated blood.

“I’m fine,” he said, not even able to convince himself.

“I didn’t ask,” said Rex drily. “What the hell happened here?”

Ronald tried to lift himself off the floor, but felt a sharp, stabbing pain radiating out from his upper back. He sank back down, struggling to breathe.

“Whisky,” he croaked.

“What? You were drunk?”

“No, I need whisky for the pain. Lots of it.”

Ronald heard Rex sigh and a moment later, he was painfully hoisted to a sitting position and a metal flask was pressed to his lips. The liquid burned reassuringly down his throat. Ronald grabbed at the flask and forced its bottom straight up, draining it in a hurry.

“Hey!” complained Rex. “That stuff was expensive!”

“Gimme a break, Rex. I’ve been shot. Twice.”

“All I’m hearing is ‘I screwed up, Rex, and I don’t deserve the money you’re paying me.’”

Rex angrily shoved the empty flask back into his jacket.

“Now tell me what the hell happened here.”

Ronald related the story in detail, only omitting the part about his gun being taken by a woman.

“Brilliant plan. Abducting a woman in broad daylight.”

“Keep your socks on, Rex. The only witness is the Irish corpse over there.”

“That’s funny,” returned Rex, “because I got a call from Cyril Van Dine a little while ago, telling me he saw a man jump into a cab with his wife.”

Ronald looked up sheepishly into his employer’s eyes. Mercifully, he felt the whisky starting to take effect.

“Butt me,” croaked the detective, after a long silence.

Rex glared at his torpedo for a moment, before finally pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He handed one to Crispin and stuck another in his mouth. He lit his own before leaning down to light Ronald’s. The detective took a slow, deep drag off the cigarette and erupted into a painful coughing fit.

“Damn it, Ronald,” Rex’s tone betrayed a faint undertone of sympathy. “Let’s get you patched up.”

He leaned down and pulled Ronald to his feet. Crispin cried out in pain as he got up.

“I parked across the street,” Rex grunted as he helped Ronald limp out of the garage. “I’ll take you to my old sawbones in the Bronx.”

“What did you tell Van Dine?” asked Crispin, still trying to puff on the cigarette dangling out of his mouth.

“What do you think? I told him I’d look into it.”

“If you rat on me…” warned Ronald.

“Not that you’re in any position to make threats, moron, but if I rat you out, I’ll be circling the drain with you. No, I have a better idea. I think I know just how to turn this situation in my… er, our favour.”

8. Rex Dickson Carr

Rex Dickson Carr stood just inside the doorway to the warehouse and waited patiently in the dim lighting. He took a long, slow drag off his Marlboro to keep himself occupied and scanned out the windows for signs that he might have been followed. 

Soon enough he heard familiar footsteps walk in the rear entrance and Rex moved himself into the light. No sooner had he revealed himself than the footsteps started coming towards him faster until the small figure was right in front of him and before he could react her hand slapped him right across the face.

"Do you know what your damn PI did? He killed a poor cabbie, he almost killed me!"

Margery Van Dine stood before him looking furious. Rex wondering how much planning she'd put into this little entrance.

"Ya, he told me. You can't blame me for that one. You were the one that chose the Dicks remember? Besides, it sounds like you got him better than he got you."

That did nothing to help Margery regain her usual composure. She stared him straight in the eye like she was trying to drill a hole straight into his brain with her gaze.

"Did you or did you not try to have me killed?"

"Sweet Mary and Joseph no! Why would I do that? Why would I do that then show up here? I need you for this just as much as you need me." Rex met her gaze head on, it was crucial that he didn't lose her trust or their whole plan, everything they'd worked towards for years went out the window.

Margery stared him down for a solid 10 seconds before she finally seemed satisfied. 

"Fine, but this NEVER happens again, you hear me!"

"Darling, I can't even tell you that this will never happen to me again. We both knew the risks we were taking. I need to know if you're still in."

Again an eerie silence fell over the warehouse again until finally Margery responded,

"Of course I am."

Rex breathed a sigh of relief. Margery was the one that continued,

"Have you been able to find out anything from my brother?"

"Barely, but I have been planting a few seeds, what about your guy in Silveri's crew?"

"The same, I told him about the money my brother was moving tomorrow night. I'm sure Silveri's guys will make a move on it."

That was excellent news. Every scumbag mobster that ate a bullet from another scumbug mobster was a win in Rex's book.

"Good, that's good, Margery. One more thing, the mayor's son. I assume you had something to do with that?"

She never skip a beat. "Did it work?"

"If by that you mean he's got a pierced lung and he may or may not walk again but he's alive, then yah it worked. Do me a solid and fill me in the next time you make me an accesory to the attempted murder of a political figure's children."

"I had no way to contact you and there was an opportunity. Is he saying you did it?"

"No, in fact I dragged his sorry mug to a hospital when I figured out who he was. Kid was right grateful although your brother won't be too happy. I missed a meeting with your husband though. 

You still sure keeping him out of this is the right move? Seems to me he's just as motivated as you for what they did to his brother and his nephew."

She wasn't too happy he mentioned Crispin and her son. 

"Cyril's too much of a pill to dress himself. It's gotten so bad he can't get outta bed without a drink. Things are too hot right now to have him muck it all up. If we wanna keep the mob and the Triads focused on each other and not us then we need sober heads. I am not gonna let anyone stop us until they ALL get what's coming to them. Silveri, my brother, Judge O'Mally, every single one of 'em!" 

Margery had that look in her eyes. Sometimes the dame scared Rex more than he would ever admit. Still, she was his only friend in the world right now and he couldn't help but respect her. This dame had a bigger pair than anyone Rex had ever known.

"I'm in this with you 'til the end darling. You watch your back out there."

"You too Rex." Margery turned around and slipped out through the back door.

Rex took a moment to light up a new Marlboro before stepping out onto the docks. He took a deep drag then tossed the butt into the water. 

Things were about to go to the next level and he could only hope that he was ready for it.

9. Cyril Van Dine

May 7, 1923 - 1pm

Cyril Van Dine woke for the second time in the same day, this time with a giant standing at his feet. He screamed and dove for the other side of the bed only to find he wasn't in his bed at all, he was on a sofa, the back of which utterly foiled his attempt at escape. On his stomach now, he scampered as far toward the other end of the sofa as he could, trying to escape the giant's reach.

It didn't matter. When he turned, the massive man was already leaving the room. His heart pounding, Cyril watched as he turned the corner into the hallway and disappeared from sight. His heavy steps seemed to shake the building with every footfall.

Climbing down from the sofa Cyril crept to the hall and poked his head around the frame in time to see the giant duck into the kitchen where he again disappeared from sight.

Glancing to his left Cyril saw the front door was intact and the deadbolt locked, as he thought he had left it. Ignoring the question of how the giant had got in, Cyril made a dash across the hall to the door. He was already opening the deadbolt when his eyes fell upon the umbrella in the stand in the corner.

Its handle was long, straight and red as blood. It had a triangular cross section and on all three sides an identical pattern of Chinese characters had been engraved. Cyril Van Dine couldn't speak or read a word of Chinese but he knew what they said nonetheless. Standing handle upward they read from bottom to top, simply, one, two, three. And where the threes met, a glass pyramid encased the last symbol. Not four, but sounding just like it to the ear.

Cyril turned the deadbolt back to the locked position as he turned toward the kitchen at the far end of the hall. A puff of smoke emerged from the right side of the doorway and slowly dispersed into the kitchen.

Quickly smoothing his sleep trodden clothes and hair Cyril forced himself to walk the length of the hallway as casually as he could.

Jim Soong sat at the table in the chair nearest the door. A wide brimmed hat rested on his head, tilted forward so that it hid his eyes. As always he wore a suit of charcoal grey trimmed with red. His cufflinks were the sillouettes of golden dragons. His fingers were intertwined and both hands sat on the table. The wrinkled scrap of newspaper from the morning lay in the center of the table, the article on the Wallacks premiere facing up.

Before Cyril could even think of anything to say, Soong spoke.

"Deepest apologies for waking you, brother." His voice was as smooth as silk, unaccented and without a hint of encumberment from the cigarette perched in the far corner of his mouth. "I trust June Bug didn't give you too much of a fright." As he said it he waved a hand toward the far end of the room where the giant stood, head almost scraping the light fixture. He had a thin mustache and had an appearance Cyril could only liken to Genghis Khan.

"Of course not," Cyril said hastily. "If you had only told me you were coming I...we could have been more prepared," he sputtered. "Not that you're not welcome, even unannouned," he added. His mouth suddenly felt dry and he longed for a drink but his kitchen stockpile lay in a cupboard fully concealed by June Bug's breadth. Instead he licked his lips and strode into the kitchen so he could face his guest more directly. He forced a smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Cyril Van Dine had laid eyes on Jim Soong no more than a dozen times since he had been married to Margery and not a single one of those experiences had been a pleasure. Cyril had no doubt that his sudden appearance had something to do Margery's actions earlier in the day. Never should have trusted that Rex Dickson Carr, he chastised himself. Though he had agreed to meet with Cyril, something in his voice had made Cyril uneasy. Cyril knew Carr was unhappy with Soong, and he thought their past would have counted for something, but some loyalties were tough to crack. Particularly ones that were intended to be kept until death, one way or the other.

The end of Soong's cigarette flared red as he pursed his lips and inhaled deeply. A moment later smoke billowed from his nostrils and the tip faded back to a smolder again as he seemed to ponder the question. He delaying to make him nervous. And it was working.

"My heart hurts, my brother," he started, once again referring to Cyril as he had since his marriage to Margery.

Cyril tensed. He remembered what Jim Soong had said to him that day. Our brother is dead. His body lies with crabs and whale bones. I am your brother now, until death breaks our bond as well. Though he had said it with a smile and a hand on his shoulder, Cyril had taken it for the threat it was. Be a good husband, he was saying, or be nothing at all.

Soong paused once again to inhale and when he did the ash at the tip of his cigarette grew perilously long. Cyril was about to push the ash tray toward him when June Bug grabbed a tea cup from the counter and crossed the kitchen in two thunderous strides. Positioning the tea cup beneath the tip of the cigarette Soong made an almost imperceptible thrust of his bottom lip and the ash fell silently into the cup.

Margery had once told him that her brother lived by a simple rule. No matter what might pass his lips, his hands shall always be clean. The code seemed to extend to cigarettes as well. Though Soong smoked rarely, when he did, his fingers never touched the cigarette.

Dreading the next words out of Soong's mouth, Cyril felt sweat begin to bead on his brow.

"I feel betrayed by my own blood," he finally continued.

I'm the one who has been betrayed, Cyril thought to himself. He knew better than to interrupt Jim Soong, particularly with a statement that would likely get him killed in his own kitchen.

"You are a smart man," Soong said, "and I have done much for you."

So why did you let your wife get into a taxi with another man? Cyril imagined him asking next. Ignorance would be his only answer and Cyril knew it would be insufficient. He was a bad husband. Wives don't run around on good ones. This would all be blamed on him no matter what he said or did.

Soong's fingers untangled from each other and his right hand reached out slowly across the table. His index finger, the nail long and white, came down and tapped the small article in the bottom corner. From where he sat Cyril was only able to see the last sentence.

...Escorting the Hollywood couple to the premiere will be Mayor Hylan and his wife Agnes, both devoted aficionados of the silver screen.

Cyril felt both sudden relief and new trepidation. He had no desire to discuss Margery, but the only topic that would be of comparable uncomfortability was the Tuscania.

"So how is it that I did not receive and invitation to this illustrious event?" Soong said as he raised his head so that Cyril could see his eyes for the first time. In them Cyril saw no anger and a hint of a smile even seemed to creep out from between his cigarette laden lips. "Am I not a prominent business person of this great city?" he added, sweeping his hand across the table as if the entire city were laid out before him.

"I... I...," Cyril stumbled taken aback by the sudden change in mood in the room. Even June bug seemed to have lost interest and was now inspecting the contents of the ice box. "I wasn't invited myself," he finally managed. "I only learned of it, as you did, in the paper. I was going to head down there this afternoon to straighten it all out. I'm sure they would be happy to add you to the guest list."

Soong waved a hand casually in dismissal. "These motion pictures," he said and leaned forward slightly, "Is there money to be made in them?"

Not by me, Cyril wanted to say but he didn't want Soong to know how poorly his investments were turning out. Margery had told him that the Van Dine's had money was one of the reasons her brother had agreed to her marriage to Crispin.

"Talkies, that's where the money is," Cyril said instead, with confidence. "Rivoli's started showing 'em three weeks ago. They're pulling in cash hand over fist, night after night, no doubt about it."

Jim Soong nodded knowingly and smiled broadly enough that his golden tooth showed. A single ruby graced the center of it. "I see," he said. "So the era of silence is at an end."

"Yes," Cyril said smiling back and nodding. "I believe it is."

"Then so it should be with us, as well," Soong replied as his smile disappeared and his head lowered to shield his eyes again, "and the time for secrets is over."

Across the kitchen June Bug closed the icebox door and stood tall again. Outside the rain had started again and Cyril could hear it pattering on the window behind him. He suddenly felt cold and craved the burn in his throat more than ever.

"Secrets? I have no..." Cyril started, feigning confusion as originally planned. Soong silenced him with a single raised finger.

"Nothing happens in this city without me knowing," he started, a hint of anger and accent creeping into the words. "If a horse shits on Broadway, I know what it smells like before the stink catches the wind. When it rains I know before the drops hit the ground. I can tell you the colour of autumn leaves at the first bloom of spring." Jim Soong was well known for his rants and Cyril normally found them mildly entertaining. But now that he was at the receiving end, Cyril wanted nothing more than to crawl under the table and into the furnace duct in the floor at his feet.

"How do I know these things?" Soong paused and spit the butt of his cigarette into the tea cup still lying on the table. A thin wisp of smoke slowly drifted up over the rim, rising and twisting like the stem of the rose emblazoned on its side. "Because I have ears in every speak and blind pig. I've got legs in every whorehouse. I have eyes on every street corner." His head tilted slightly to one side so that Cyril could see Soong's left eye just below the brim of his hat. "And, most importantly, I have eyes on my family," he added. "Eyes that saw strange things this morning. Things that I was hoping you could explain," his head straightened again, "brother," he finished. The last word he almost hissed through gritted teeth.

"I don't know who the man was!" Cyril said as quickly as his tongue would allow. "I ain't never seen him before, I swear it."

"I know who the man was!" Soong spat. "What was my sister's business with him?"

"She only said she had errands," Cyril replied hoping the terror he was feeling was coming through in his voice. Pretending to be cool might get him killed at this point. Soong seemed angrier than Cyril had ever seen him. "She was dressed up, wouldn't tell me why."

Soong inhaled deeply through his nose and, by some sign Cyril did not catch, informed June Bug that the time had come to strangle him. The next thing Cyril knew his feet were no longer on the ground, his face was pressed up against the ceiling and June Bug's massive fingers were threatening to meet his gargantuan thumb somewhere between Cyril's spine and his esophagus.

"She crashed a taxi cab filled with blood into a coffee shop an hour later," Soong continued, looking up at Cyril from below.

"Can't...drive," Cyril managed to squeeek through June Bug's grasp.

"This is not useful information," Soong said calmly. "I want to know whose blood it was and where she disappeared to after the crash. Have you seen her since?"

"Sleeping...all...day..." Cyril choked out. He was starting to feel light headed. In his oxygen deprived mind he was being pressed against the floor and Soong sat on the ceiling. June Bug released his grip suddenly and any errant notion of which way was up was instantly corrected as he crashed to the floor gasping for breath.

"You see your wife get into a car with a strange man and you simply go back to sleep," Soong exclaimed now feigning confusion of his own. "Are you sure?"

Carr, Cyril thought to himself. He knows.

"No," Cyril whispered and tried to rise from the floor but June Bug's foot suddenly materialized on top of his spine and forced him back down driving his last breath from his heaving lungs. "Made...call," he croaked.

"Ahhh," Soong cooed as he sat back down at the table and looked away from him and toward the back window. Cyril could see triumph in his eyes. "Tell me, brother. Whom did you phone?"

"You already know who," Cyril said from the floor more defiantly than he had intended. "Rex Carr."

As soon as the name left his lips Cyril could see that he had made a mistake. Soong's eyes widened ever so slightly and the look of triumph on Soong's face was momentarily replaced by anger. But it was not the anger he had shown Cyril only a moment before. This was an anger that was not for show and not meant to inspire fear. It was true rage that burned deep inside and shone through his eyes. Soong had not known about Rex at all. Cyril had sold him out.

The look on Soong's face disappeared as quickly as it had arisen. A smile crept slowly across his face but his gaze was still far away, out the window. Cyril felt sick.

"Deepest apologies, brother," he said as he grabbed the newspaper from the table and went to one knee in front of Cyril, "but you're going to miss your premiere." Soong stuffed the newspaper page into Cyril's mouth. June Bug took care of the rest.

10. Margery Van Dine

Margery Van Dine was pissed. One of her molars had broken in to a few pieces when that fuck-ugly detective had pistol whipped her across the jaw, and left a terrible gash inside her cheek. She didn’t know if she’d swallowed the pieces or had been spat in to his face with a glob of her blood, but regardless of that, she felt the tooth was a lost cause. The remainders protruded sharply from her gums, and she poked at it idly. What the hell had that ugly shit Ronald Crispin been playing at? Killing a cabbie? Trying to kill her? What had Rex been thinking hiring a drunk?

She sat on the corner of a comfortable bed, in a dim little room at a fairly priced but well maintained hotel not far from Harlan Stout’s office. He’d put her up there on his dime (which she felt was incredibly generous, since she was supposed to be his client and all) and told her to stay there until he came to get her. As soon as he’d left, she’d called Rex and set-up their meeting. She’d been out and back inside of an hour. Despite the earlier setbacks, everything was perfectly on track.

The telephone next to the bed; one of those western electric models, rang suddenly. Margery smiled to herself, shimmied backwards, and stretched her arm to pick the two-piece device off of the nightstand. She picked the speaker up from the side of the receiver and held it up to her ear.

“Call from a Mister Argent,” said the operator on the other end of the line.

Margery’s smile deepened in to something intense and pretty, and she raised the receiver to her mouth. She lay back on the bed.

“Thank you operator. You can tell ‘Mister Argent’ that I am ready to receive him.”

“Stand by,” She said.

The line clicked and there was silence for a second before a deep, rich, and accented voice spilled out of the speaker.

“Hello Miss Soong. How are things.”

“Wonderful now I’m talking to you,” She replied, and tittered gently, her voice intentionally taking on a smoky quality. “And how are things on your side?”

“Everything is good sweetheart. I just need to know that you’ve moved all of the pieces in to the right places, and we can get this ball rolling,” said the man.

“Of course I have. I got that detective you suggested in on it too, and Rex doesn’t suspect a thing. He’s on a collision course with my brother, and when it all comes together…”

He completed her thought “All the lying will be done, and they’ll pay for what they did to us.”

“Oh yes they will,” Margery said. “When can I see you.”

“Soon, sweetheart. Real soon. As soon as all of this is over.”

 “You mean it? As soon as?”

“The very hour,” he said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night then,” she smiled. “Warts and all.”

“You talk like I haven’t seen you naked,” his voice had taken on a playful property. “I know you don’t have warts. See you tomorrow night, Miss Soong.”

“See you then, Mister Silveri.”