Fleeced

“Could you move, please?” a burly fellow holding a large piece of lighting equipment asked Thomas in a tone that barely masked his impatience.

Thomas stepped back quickly. “Of course.” What can I do? What can I do? he thought. I know! I’ll bring the sheep down. Wendy wanted them here, and it might be a nice touch for the movie.

Ten minutes later, with the help of Regan, who was on her way out, they brought the two sheep into the parlor and plopped them down on either side of the fireplace.

“Excuse me!” An efficient-looking thirtyish guy wearing a cap and carrying a clipboard rushed over to them. “What are you doing to the set?”

“These sheep are important to our club,” Thomas said. “We thought you might want them for the movie.”

“All the casting has been completed. Could you please remove them?”

Regan looked at Thomas. “Why don’t we carry the sheep into your office? We’ll bring them back out when they’re finished filming.”

“I just wanted to do the right thing by Wendy and Nat.”

“I understand,” Regan said. “But let’s move them.”

Regan had Dolly and Thomas had Bah-Bah in their arms when from behind them someone yelled, “Stop!”

They turned to see a wiry man dressed in black, sporting a black beret, and carrying an empty cigarette holder, coming toward them from the doorway. “I like the sheep. Put them back.”

Regan and Thomas both shrugged and put the sheep down.

“I’m Jacques Harlow, the director of We Must Be Dreaming.”

“And I’m the president of the club, Thomas Pilsner, and this is my friend Regan Reilly.”

“Nice.”

“I’m pleased you chose to use the club for a scene in your film.”

Jacques bit on the edge of the cigarette holder and spoke through his teeth. “I like the vibes here. I don’t work with a script. My actors all improvise their lines. I think that a setting such as this inspires our deepest hopes and our darkest fears.”

Does it ever, Regan thought.

“Would you like to be an extra?” he asked Regan with a touch of a leer.

“No,” Regan answered quickly, then added. “I’m pretty busy.” She turned to Thomas. “I’m heading out.”

“Come to my office for a moment, Regan.”

They excused themselves, stepped around the piled-up equipment, and went into Thomas’s office down the hall, shutting the door behind them.

“That guy is weird,” Thomas said.

“Thomas, what kind of movie is it?’

“The location manager told me it was a period piece.”

“What period?”

Thomas’s lip quivered. “I didn’t ask. I assumed he meant Victorian.”

The phone on the desk rang. Thomas picked it up and identified himself.

“The New York World?… Yes, there is a movie shooting here… He what?… Just got out of jail… he trashed a location in New Jersey?… I can’t talk now… Good-bye.” Thomas dropped the phone back in its cradle.

“I hate to ask,” Regan said.

“Jacques Harlow is a nut case. He trashed a bowling alley in New Jersey where they were shooting a scene last week. He thinks he’s one of the Sopranos. They just released him from jail.”

Regan grimaced. “Well, somebody’s paying for this film to be made. I wonder who?”

“I think it’s low budget,” Thomas said in a tiny voice. “We were desperate for new sources of revenue, but this isn’t so good for the club.”

Regan stood. “I’m going down to the 13th Precinct. I’ll give them your regards.” As she walked out, Regan wondered when the next flight to London was leaving.

19

Over at the crime convention, Nora Regan Reilly was very pleased with the way things were going. The only disappointment was that Regan couldn’t be there. So many people were asking for her.

“She was called on to a case,” Nora kept saying.

“Since last night?”

“Yes, but she’s still in town. She’s going to try to drop by for one of the seminars. Or maybe even the cocktail party later this afternoon.”

Nora made a quick inspection of the buffet the hotel had put out for lunch. It looked good. Steaming trays of pasta, chicken, and vegetables were ready for consumption. Nora had slipped out of the last seminar just before it ended to make sure everything was set.

It had been a most interesting seminar. An FBI agent had given a lecture and a slide show on con artists. How they manage to infiltrate people’s lives, gain their confidence, and rip them off. Some of them were small-time crooks, whereas others could remove millions from their rightful owners.

“You’ll find them everywhere,” he had said. “They’re like vultures that prey on everyone from lottery wi

The slide show displayed grainy photos of just a few of these people in action.

Yes, Regan would have loved this, Nora thought. What a shame.

“Mrs. Reilly?”

Nora turned away from the food table and smiled. “Yes?”

A rather imposing, breathless woman, with her hair swept up in a bun and a notebook in her hand, dropped her purse on the floor. “I’m Mary Ruffner, a reporter with the New York World. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the conference.”

“Of course.” Nora led her to a table.

“Everything happens at once. My editor wants me to run over to Gramercy Park to the Settlers’ Club. Some guy who just got sprung from jail is filming a movie there, and the rumor is that someone was murdered in the club last night.” Mary laughed mirthlessly. “As long as he doesn’t expect me to spend the night there. I write about arts and entertainment.”

Nora’s stomach took a dive as her smile faded.

“Anything wrong, Mrs. Reilly?”

“No,” Nora said.

“Your daughter’s here too, isn’t she?”

“She’s in town.”

“I know that. Her picture was in our paper this morning.”

Now it was Nora’s turn to laugh mirthlessly.

“Is she at the convention?” Mary Ruffner continued.

“Actually, she’s working,” Nora said.

“On a case?”

“Well, yes, she’s working in New York, but I’m not at liberty to say on what.”

“I hope I get to interview her before the weekend’s over,” Mary said as she pulled the cap off her pen with her teeth.

Something tells me you will, Nora thought. For better or worse, something tells me you will.

20

Lydia sat propped up on one of her love seats, cordless phone in hand, calling all her lovelorn pups who had been present the night before. There had been nineteen of them. Not bad, she decided. She’d been having three parties a week since Valentine’s Day, and as an introductory offer, her “clients” had only had to pay twenty-five dollars a shot if they’d bought a package of four.

She had to admit she felt like she was stealing from some of them. Like the man who wore sandals with his suit and seemed to end every sentence with the phrase “and stuff like that.” Or the fortyish woman who hung on to her Snoopy purse all night, as though it were a security blanket. Actually, Lydia thought, it’s too bad those two didn’t hook up. There should be someone for everyone out there.

By the time she had finished making her calls, talking to some and leaving messages for others, ten had said they’d be glad to come by, a couple had told her they wanted their money back, and three more said they’d prefer to meet a new batch of people.