“He raped me!”
“Yeah,” Neal said. “Listen, you should have taken the three mil. What did you think, that the TV performance was going to up the ante? Now they’ll get on the phone and offer you five? What Joey Beans is going to offer you is a mouthful of concrete somewhere. But I’m not going with you, Polly, and neither is Karen.”
“He raped me!” Polly screamed.
“And that wasn’t part of the deal, was it?”
“No!”
Neal sat down on the bed.
“Bummer, huh?” he said to Karen.
Karen said, “Polly, how could you let us put ourselves on the line like that and not-”
Polly pushed past and ran out of the room.
“Let her go,” Neal said.
“We can’t just-”
They heard the door slam behind her.
Walter Withers saw Polly come out the door.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he thought. Walter, this is your big moment. One moment to do it all right and redeem yourself, a fresh start.
He tightened the knot on his tie, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway.
Miss Paget was weeping.
Perhaps the gallant approach.
“Excuse me, my dear,” Withers said. “I could not help but notice that you seem to be in some distress. May I be of assistance?”
“I don’t have no one,” Polly wept.
“Ah, loneliness, perhaps my greatest area of expertise,” Withers said. That treacherous young weasel Carey will be out here any second. Must move with dispatch. “Didn’t I just see you on television?”
“No.”
“Yes, you’re Polly Paget, aren’t you?” he asked. “No wonder you’re weeping. You’ve been through a great ordeal. Please allow me to help.”
“How can you help?”
Here it is, Withers thought. My make-or-break moment.
“I can offer you half a million dollars.”
Polly wiped her eyes and looked at him. She’d need money to hide from Joey Beans now.
“What do I have to do?” she asked.
“Simply pose for a few photographs,” Withers answered. He tried to think of a delicate way of putting it, then added apologetically, “En dishabille, as the French would say.”
“Huh?” ‘
“Nude,” Withers said, cutting to the point. “For Top Drawer magazine.”
Alone, Polly thought. No friends, no home, nowhere to go, a kid on the way.
“Get away from me,” she said.
“I have twenty-five thousand dollars in cash for you right now,” he said. “As a down payment.”
But I do need money, Polly thought.
“These would be like, tasteful, right?” she asked.
“Your sweet mother would show them to her friends,” Withers assured her.
He gallantly led her into the room.
Carmine Bascaglia watched the interview from his home in Chalmette Oaks. When Candy Landis gushed her revelation about the attempted murder and Polly Paget brushed it off as the act of a lunatic, he placed a call to San Antonio, brooking no nonsense about Joey Foglio’s phone phobia.
“Joseph,” he said when his hotheaded associate came on the line, “I hope you haven’t done anything hasty.”
“Of course not, Carmine,” Joey answered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this Paget woman has just bought herself some protection,” Carmine said.
“She’s playing with us, Carmine. This is flat-out extortion,” Joey answered. “I don’t think we should stand for it.”
Carmine sighed. “You don’t think at all, Joseph. I think, and then you do what I think. I think we should proceed slowly and with great caution. Don’t do anything. Do you understand?”
“Sure.”
There was a long silence before Carmine said, “Joseph, tell me you haven’t done anything stupid. Because if anything should happen to Miss Paget now, we would be subject to considerable unwanted attention.”
Joey felt as if he was kneeling in the street munching on garbage.
He said, “She’s as safe as in her mother’s arms.”
“See that she stays that way,” Carmine said. “At least for the time being.”
“We got any way of contacting Overtime?” Joey asked Harold when Carmine had finished.
“No. You know Overtime. Paranoid.”
“Yeah,” Joey said, praying that numbnuts Overtime didn’t get it right this time.
“So who are you,” Polly asked Overtime, “the photographer?”
Because he just couldn’t resist it, Overtime said, “That’s right. They’ve hired me to shoot you.”
Finally, he thought.
Polly looked around the room. “This is it? No studio? No lights?”
“You’re the photographer?” Withers asked. “Why didn’t you-”
Overtime’s pistol snaked out and clubbed Withers once and then twice against the side of the head. Withers dropped heavily to the floor.
Overtime put the pistol against Polly’s head.
It’s odd, Overtime thought, hearing her on the TV and seeing her live in front of me at the same time. Live, he thought. For a moment anyway.
“That smart son of a bitch,” Ed Levine said. “He beat Jack to death with Polly’s performance, showed us he had Candy on his side, threatened to squeal about the attempted hit, and then made a peace offer by not going through with it.”
“He’s still fired,” Kitteredge said. “How do you think Mr. Bascaglia will react?”
“The Banker will want to go back to the table,” Ed thought out loud, “but he’ll want to deal with Mrs. Landis instead of Jack, because Jack is dead meat now. He’ll also want to roast Neal over a bed of coals.”
You smart little SOB, Ed thought. You might just pull this off. Now, what can I do to help?
“You want me to get Bascaglia’s people on the phone?” Ed asked. “Tell them three million, plus Jack’s confession.”
“Possibly-”
Connie was wrapping it up with, “Now you said you had one announcement you wanted to make.”
Great, Ed thought. Now what?
Jack Landis was trying to get enough breath to get up from the sofa.
All that money, he thought, waiting in the Caymans… warm beach… skin like cocoa butter… and I can’t get up off my ass to go.
He looked at the blurry images of his wife and mistress on television. Hard to hear-what was Polly saying?
“And I’m going to have a baby,” Polly said. “Jack Landis’s baby.”
A baby, Jack thought. Jack Landis-
Then something cracked in his chest, he pitched forward, and landed face-first in the guacamole.
“You’re pregnant?” Overtime said.
He held the gun on Polly, who sat on the bed, her back against the headboard. She was too scared to talk, so she nodded.
“This is a complication,” Overtime said. He held the gun on her while he dialed the phone with the other hand.
