A/N: This is actually a sequel to The Guinea Cat, which was one of my own personal favorites and a lot of fun to write. So was this one! Hope you get a few grins out of it. Thanks again to my faithful reviewer Terry L. Gardner!
§ § § -- January 5, 1995
"Come on, Roarke, I wrote you that letter three months ago. Are you really that busy, or just avoiding me?"
Roarke sighed deeply and, uncharacteristically, glanced at the grandfather clock that ticked serenely away near the foyer steps. "As a matter of fact, yes, I'm afraid I am indeed a very busy man. Need I ask what you want?"
The voice on the other end of the phone greeted this unusually curt (for Roarke) inquiry with a loud, rude snort. "I'm sure you don't by now, or else you'd have to be incredibly dense…and I don't think you are. However, I can always change my opinion."
"That would be your prerogative," said Roarke, "but say what you will—my answer remains the same. No."
"It's my fantasy, dammit. I already paid you for it once eleven years ago, in case you forgot that too. Which reminds me…you never paid me back."
"I beg to differ, my dear sir, but my records indicate that I did in fact return your money when I discovered I was unable to grant your fantasy. Perhaps you should check with your own bookkeeper."
"Damn Fielder and his accounting methods. He was the one working for me back in eighty-three, now that I think about it, and I had to fire him. Okay, okay, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. But I'm telling you, I'm going to get this fantasy one way or another. How the hell'm I gonna know what it'll be like when I come back, if you don't help me find out? I'll get a check for fifty grand in the mail tomorrow."
"This fantasy isn't worth fifty thousand dollars," Roarke said, exasperated and trying very hard to conceal it. He was tired, to his own surprise; it had been a long week, and to top things off, Leslie had managed to come down with a heavy cold that had kept her from the traditional New Year's party that he hosted each year in lieu of granting fantasies. It was now Thursday morning and she was still sick in bed; the thought of her brought certain unwelcome memories back to mind and he glanced at the ceiling, hoping she wasn't awake to hear this particular phone call.
"Well, then, is it worth a hundred thousand?" came the prompt response.
"No, it most certainly is not. I must reiterate to you that this is an extremely dangerous fantasy, particularly for someone of your…venerability." Roarke had lost count of the number of these phone calls he'd been getting since October, and had learned to dread the ringing of the telephone, which had led to some odd looks from Leslie whenever she caught his reaction to it.
"Geeeeez, Roarke," moaned the voice. "I really hate that way you have of using elegant euphemisms for everything. We both know I'm old, so you might as well just call me old. And speaking of old—at my age, danger is a relative thing. How about two-fifty?"
"No," said Roarke, rubbing the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.
A gusty sigh relayed a storm of static directly into Roarke's ear, and he pulled the receiver away with a start, giving it an annoyed glare. "You drive a hard bargain, Roarke, but I'll do it. Five hundred thousand dollars—but that's my last offer."
Roarke drew in a breath to argue, but the voice anticipated him. "Enough stalling, for cryin' out loud! I don't care what it takes—grant me the damn fantasy! I'm too old for this! I don't care what you think of me or my methods or motives. I have a right to my fantasy, same as anybody else. So help me, Roarke, if you don't do it, I promise I'll find a way to make you sorry you didn't. If I have to, I'll make a deal with the devil and come back as a rottweiler, so I can bite you on the—"
"If you don't mind…" Roarke broke in through gritted teeth, his tone arctic. "And trust me, you truly do not want to deal with the devil."
"Then give me my fantasy," shouted the voice.
Pushed beyond even his considerable limits, Roarke gave up at last. "Very well, you shall have it—but I insist upon imposing certain conditions. First and foremost, I will not assume any liability if something untoward should happen. If it does, you will bear the entire responsibility and you will be obligated to pay whatever costs may be incurred in the course of your fantasy."
"Fair enough. What else?"
"You will refrain from bringing about any lawsuits of any type whatsoever, for any reason whatsoever, no matter how justified you may think you are. I remind you that you and you alone have insisted—quite vocally, I might add—on the realization of this fantasy, in spite of the numerous and repeated warnings I have given you. Therefore, you are hereby informed that you are considered to be going into this with open eyes and full knowledge of everything that may go wrong."
"Okay, that's fine too. Anything else?"
Roarke raised his eyebrows in some surprise, but continued anyway. "Thirdly and lastly, you will never again ask me for another fantasy."
"Are you saying I'm barred from ever again having a fantasy? Now wait just a minute here, Roarke! You can't—"
"I can and I am," Roarke cut him off. "That's one of my conditions. Either you accept them all, or none of them—in which case I'll again deny you your fantasy, and you're right back where you began. That is my last offer."
A couple of muttered curses floated across the phone line and Roarke waited, stony-faced and implacable. Finally the answer came. "All right, all right. I'll agree to that one too. But I don't have to like it."
"That isn't necessary," Roarke said dryly. "You need only accept it."
"Then consider it accepted. Now, when can I come over there and do it?"
Convinced he would regret this sooner or later, Roarke opened his date book and, to his dismay, discovered an unexpected empty slot for January 21. Perhaps it's better simply to get it over with, once and for all. "Very well…how about the twenty-first of this month?"
"Sold! You'll get five hundred grand by overnight courier, and I want the best of everything, got me? I hear that Japanese chef of yours is gifted as hell. Tell him to have plenty of sushi ready." The voice let out a hearty laugh that sounded like a castrated moose with bronchitis. "See ya then, Roarke, and thanks." A loud click snapped down the line.
Roarke put the receiver back on the hook, made a reluctant notation in the date book, and rested his head in his hands. "Más vale saber que haber," he murmured, feeling drained.
"Did you say something, Mr. Roarke?" asked a voice, and he looked up to see Mariki standing just at the top of the foyer steps, having come from the kitchen with a tray.
Roarke shrugged. "I was merely making an observation," he said. "Do you need something, or is that tray for Leslie?"
"I was just about to take it up to her," Mariki said. "Poor girl, she's simply miserable. I've never seen anyone so ill before. Wonder if she'll be in any shape to go back to work this weekend? She was so upset about missing the party last weekend, she's been medicating herself into oblivion. Every time I try to take her some chicken soup, she's asleep from some cold medicine or another."
"Perhaps that's as well," Roarke said. "If it's no trouble, you might set some of that soup aside for me as well."
"Of course, sir," Mariki agreed and headed up the stairs, leaving Roarke to contemplate the sure disaster he was facing in just over two weeks' time. Almost more than the granting of the fantasy, he dreaded telling Leslie about it.
§ § § -- January 21, 1995
Roarke very carefully controlled his expression as the old man stumped down the plane dock, leaning on a cane and stopping to scold a native girl who tried to hand him a drink, shaking his finger at her. Leslie, fully recovered from her cold, joked, "Who've we got here, Methuselah?"
"Not quite," Roarke said, "but there are those who have wondered whether he is trying to reach Methuselah's great age." He looked at her in surprise. "Are you saying that you don't recognize him?"
"Am I supposed to?" Leslie asked blankly.
"Well, perhaps not; he has been out of the public eye for nearly a decade," Roarke conceded. "You are looking at Mr. J. Anderson Rollins, the Aspen ski tycoon."
He braced himself when he saw her expression change; she turned to him and asked ominously, "Do I dare ask what his fantasy is, or do I already know?"
Roarke sighed. "Unfortunately, my child, you do indeed. As you undoubtedly suspect, his fantasy is to become a cat for one weekend."
She shook her head in disbelief and stared at Rollins, trying to stuff a raft of unpleasant recollections back in the dark recesses of her mind where she'd originally buried them. "I thought you told him that was too risky," she protested.
"I did, a great many times," Roarke said, scowling. "As a matter of fact, I received his request for this fantasy as far back as last October; and when I turned him down, he somehow obtained the telephone number at the main house and began repeatedly calling me, badgering me endlessly to grant his fantasy. He was so persistent that I am afraid he wore down my defenses."
"Oh, Father!" she groaned, as if very disappointed in him. "You let that crazy old coot talk you into it?" She eyed him sternly. "How much did he pay you?"
Roarke retaliated with a disapproving stare. "How unusually crass of you, Leslie Susan." She wouldn't relent, so he gave in and said, "Five hundred thousand dollars."
Leslie sighed heavily and returned her gaze to the old man, shaking her head slowly before suddenly letting out a resigned laugh. "All I can say is, he deserves whatever he gets, if he doesn't know enough to listen to reason."
Again Roarke murmured, "Más vale saber que haber." This time, when Leslie stared at him without comprehension, he translated wryly: "It's better to be wise than to be rich."
"You can say that again," she agreed, rolling her eyes.
Roarke accepted his drink from the native girl who brought it and raised it. "My dear guests, I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!" He willingly toasted the grizzled old sea captain from Maine, but his entire expression seemed to curdle when he lifted his glass to J. Anderson Rollins. Rollins smirked back unrepentantly.