§ § § -- May 5, 1979

They took a break for lunch, then Roarke made a few phone calls before bringing Michael Banning back to the main house. Banning had changed into the clothing Roarke had given him and looked pensive as Roarke took him out to where Sandi had been eating a bowl of fruit for her dessert; she was still engrossed in the book she was reading. Roarke gestured toward her, and Banning glanced at him a little nervously.

"What, now?" he asked.

"Now," Roarke confirmed.

Banning stared at Sandi a moment longer before mumbling, "Good-looking girl, huh?" Roarke smiled faintly and watched Banning head through some ferns, step into the clearing and pause beside Sandi's table. Roarke nodded once to himself and returned to the main house, calling back to the Larson bungalow and speaking with Linda long enough for her to agree to bring her sister's wheelchair to the house for him. By the time it arrived, Banning and Sandi had been sitting at their table for some little time, making halting conversation but at least not shunning each other's company, as Leslie noted.

"Don't tell me you've been watching those two all this time!" said Roarke in a mock-scolding tone.

"I couldn't help it. I just wanted to be sure he didn't jump up and run out on her or something," admitted Leslie, her finger stuck inside a copy of The Ransom of Red Chief to hold her place.

Roarke shook his head and laughed a little. "You're supposed to be reading, Leslie Susan. And you may as well do that now while I provide Mr. Banning and Miss Larson with the lady's wheelchair." She smiled and shrugged, but couldn't resist watching her guardian crossing the yard with the chair anyway—and thus was witness to what happened next.

"I thought the two of you might want to move around," she heard Roarke say.

Sandi's expression was crushed and offended. "Mr. Roarke, how could you?" she moaned and dropped her head so that she stared at her lap. Banning's eyes fixed on her, then widened as he made the connections.

Roarke, a bit nonplussed, turned to him. "Does it make any difference, Mr. Banning?"

Banning stared at Sandi, who refused to look up, and finally seemed to make a decision. "No."

"Well, then, why don't you help the lady?" prompted Roarke.

Sandi's head shot up. "I don't need any help," she said curtly and slammed her cloth napkin onto the table before hoisting herself out of her chair and into the wheelchair. She rolled her head back as if gauging Banning's reaction to her condition, then glared up at Roarke and announced, "I want to go back to my bungalow."

"Oh, I suggest that our lagoon is much prettier," Roarke said with a smile, and to Banning he suggested, "Why don't you take Miss Larson there?"

"It's okay, I don't want to go," Sandi repeated.

Roarke said firmly, "I think you should, Miss Larson."

Banning stepped behind the chair and Roarke moved aside; Sandi said again, "I don't need any help."

"I wasn't gonna help," Banning replied carelessly. "I was just gonna put my hands on the handles, so it'd look like I was helping." Sandi fell silent at that, but she didn't look at him; Roarke watched them move past him and along the nearest path to the lagoon, frowning a little.

When he came back in, Leslie shook her head. "Boy, Mr. Roarke, did you ever blow that one."

Roarke gave her such a look that she wished she hadn't opened her mouth. "Since you've decided not to continue reading, young lady," he said sternly, "you may as well come along with me so that I can speak to Jerry Burton." She bit her lip, found a bookmark and set the book aside, following Roarke meekly out of the house. But on the porch, he paused to let her catch up with him, then lifted her chin so that she was forced to look up at him. "If Mr. Banning and Miss Larson were to spend any length of time together, sooner or later she would have had to tell him about the wheelchair," he said. "Perhaps my method looked harsh to you, but it was better that the secret come out so that they could deal with it."

She nodded faintly and murmured, "I'm sorry I opened my big mouth."

He laughed softly. "Don't worry about it. Now, let's go."

As it turned out, they found Danny Baker first, standing amidst a gaggle of young, pretty, model-like girls who were clustered around him collecting his autograph. "And there you are, m'dear, that'll be a dollar eighty," he kidded, handing an autograph book to one woman. Then a blonde in a black bikini caught his attention and his eyes popped. "Oh, you look gorgeous, honey! That's a terrific suitless bathing strap you almost have on," he said, causing a round of loud laughter while he scribbled his name. "You better hide in the woods before the Board of Health closes your body." He made a feline purring sound that drew more laughter. "There you go. Hey, isn't this fun, playing in the woods?"

The black bikini sauntered past Roarke and Leslie as they stood watching Baker with his fan club, and just as she did they heard footsteps and a voice hailing them. "Oh, Mr. Roarke, Leslie! Glad you're here to see this. After I deliver these, I'm free." Jerry Burton slapped a stack of small papers against one hand. "It's arrivederci Danny, hello my new career!"

Roarke drew in a breath and turned to him. "Unfortunately, Mr. Burton, there's a slight problem."

"Problem," echoed Burton, as if he'd been expecting this. Leslie watched him deflate and bit her lip again.

"Yes," said Roarke apologetically. "Apparently the reputation of the Bucket of Suds wasn't as unjust as the proprietor claimed. It seems they had a brawl there a few hours ago. Now, the proprietor apologized profoundly, and requested a thirty-day delay for your opening; apparently that's the sentence he'll receive for assault with intent to commit great bodily harm. Naturally, I told him to forget the whole thing." There's another story for Michiko to tell on Monday at lunch, Leslie thought with a sigh.

Burton stared at Roarke in disbelief. "But Mr. Roarke, what'm I gonna do now? I mean…you promised me my fantasy!"

"And you shall have it, Mr. Burton!" Roarke assured him, beaming. "You shall have it! I have booked you a spot on the Amateur Show tomorrow night. You will be seen not only by the audience, but by several booking agents who have promised to attend."

"That's terrible," Burton said instantly, to Leslie's astonishment.

Roarke looked taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"Mr. Roarke, Danny is the emcee of that thing!" Burton protested. "When he sees me up there, he'll slice me to ribbons! Believe me, he is a master at that—I've seen him just tear comics apart." He cast a mournful look to their left, where Danny Baker was still holding court, and lamented, "I wouldn't stand a chance against him. He's just…too good at putting people down."

"Does that mean you are refusing?" Roarke wanted to know.

Burton stood for a moment glancing skittishly back and forth between Roarke and Leslie, then seemed to shrink in on himself, becoming the same nervous, trodden-upon lackey they'd first met in the supper club. "If you'll excuse me, I'd better get these jokes to him," he muttered and stepped between them, heading for Baker.

"Mr. Roarke, what's wrong with him?" Leslie asked, staring after Burton. "I thought his fantasy was to become a comic like Danny Baker!"

"It takes more than desire to fulfill any fantasy, my child," Roarke said, watching Burton with an inscrutable look on his handsome features. "The element of courage is indispensable to the realization of any dream." Leslie took in his words and wondered, considering what they'd seen so far of Jerry Burton, if there was the slightest bit of courage in a man who seemed so used to being herded into corrals by the forceful Danny Baker.

"Folks, folks, if I could have your attention, please, everybody. Please, attention, everybody," Baker's voice rang out just then. "As you know, tomorrow night is our big Amateur Talent Show, and I want you all to be there—because I'm gonna be there, and I hate to work alone." He got the expected laughter with this quip, grinned and went on: "And just to give you a sample of the fun we're gonna have tomorrow night, I'd like to read you some of my latest ad-libs." He chuckled and shuffled papers; and as Roarke and Leslie watched, Jerry Burton shoved his hands into his pockets, face a mask of misery. Baker just went right on talking as if he weren't there, spotting Roarke and Leslie standing nearby. "Oh, but first, let's have a big hand for our Mr. Roarke, huh?" Roarke smiled graciously at the applause that followed and raised an amused eyebrow at Leslie when she joined in, grinning. "And how about a biggie for Tattoo." Baker smirked; even though Tattoo wasn't there, he had no problem going through Burton's jokes about the absent Frenchman. "Oh, that Tattoo—he really is something else, lemme tell ya. Y'know, Mr. Roarke wanted to give him his fantasy, but it was a little hard to shrink down Raquel Welch." Roarke joined in the laughter this time, and Leslie giggled, but was unable to really get into the jokes, because her eye was on Jerry Burton as he slunk away, unnoticed and looking beaten. Still Baker carried on: "Then he tried dehydrating Dolly Parton, but that was a bust too! Get it, a bust?" He smirked, but neither Roarke nor Leslie was paying attention anymore.

Leslie thought about the whole mess all the way back to the main house, wondering to herself if somehow Roarke was going to fail for the first time. She dared not voice it aloud; she'd seen him pull several fantasies right off the brink of complete disaster, and supposed he must have some sort of plan, but had no idea what could possibly rescue this fantasy. She went a little reluctantly back to her book while Roarke settled into a chair and started in on some paperwork.

Then the inner-foyer door exploded open and in marched Victor Grennan, the federal marshal assigned to Mike Banning, his face red and his thick gray-white eyebrows meeting over his nose. "I got a bone to pick with you, Roarke," he announced.

Roarke, having seen him come in, made a show of being engrossed in a letter. "And what is the meaning of this, Marshal?" he inquired, voice cool and slightly absent-minded. Leslie realized he was making it clear to Grennan that the marshal was an unimportant cog in the machinery, at least from Roarke's point of view.

But it seemed to go right over Grennan's head. "Everything's under control, huh?" he bit out sardonically. "Nothin' to worry about, right?" Getting no response from Roarke, he tried to goad him. "Well, that's what you said, wadn't it, Mister Big Shot?"

Leslie blinked in amazement when Roarke let it sail right past him. "Hm?" Roarke glanced up for a split second. "Um, approximately, yes, uh-huh…"

Grennan stepped up to the desk, ignoring Leslie as if she didn't exist, his gaze becoming a taunting glare. "Well, then, suppose you tell me where my prisoner is. I saw him with that crippled girl, and now he's disappeared!"

Roarke did pause this time, ice filling his dark eyes; he put down the pages of the letter, sat up and speared Grennan with a voice as frigid as his gaze. "But like I told you," he reminded the man as if speaking to an especially thickheaded four-year-old, "he can't get off the island."

Nothing daunted, Grennan shot back, "Well, now I'm tellin' you. He's attemptin' escape—and that's gonna get him killed!" He didn't wait longer than it took him to attempt to drill a hole in Roarke's head with his eyes before spinning on one foot and stalking out the door.

"Do you think he…" Leslie began timidly.

Roarke looked at her, looking less ruffled than she thought he should, and actually quirked a hint of a smile. "Yes," he said, as if surprised by the idea, "I think he really means to kill Mr. Banning."

"Then you better do something," Leslie said urgently. "I mean…even if Mike Banning isn't exactly a pinnacle of virtue, it's still illegal to kill him."

Roarke laughed. "Indeed, my child. Yes, I do plan to drive the point home to Marshal…uh, what's his name again?"

Leslie giggled. "Grennan." She waited a beat as Roarke started to rise, then kidded, "I think."

He laughed again and patted her shoulder as he moved around her chair. "If you'll do me the favor of taking any telephone messages for me, I'd be grateful. I'll try to be back as soon as I can." She nodded, and he left the house, leaving her to pick up The Ransom of Red Chief and try to get through another chapter.

After not quite ten minutes, there was a knock and she looked up. "Come in."

A very pretty blonde woman came inside, looking a little uncertain; she was tall, and while not really slim, was certainly not overweight. Her shoulder-length hair was curled up at the ends and caught back by a headband, and she had a very wide, appealing grin. "Oh, hi, Leslie," she said. "Is Mr. Roarke here?"

"No, he had to go out for a bit," Leslie said. "I'll try to help if I can."

The young woman shrugged and grinned at her. "I'm Mary Margaret Doyle," she explained. "I'm…well, I went to high school with Jerome Burtinnowsky…"

"Who?" Leslie said blankly.

Mary Margaret grinned again, a little sheepishly, and hunched her shoulders. "Sorry, you know him as Jerry Burton. Anyway, I saw him yesterday and he mentioned he was breaking away from Danny Baker, going out on his own as a stand-up comic."

"Oh, yeah," said Leslie. "Are you looking for him?"

"Not right now, I'm sure he's busy," Mary Margaret said. "I figure he's getting ready for his big debut, you know?"

"I'm not too sure about that," said Leslie doubtfully, remembering the scene near the bay when Roarke had told Burton about the problem at the Bucket of Suds. "He might not be doing anything except running more errands for Mr. Baker."

Mary Margaret stared at her in surprise. "What makes you say that?"

Leslie peered up at her and hedged belatedly, "I don't know if I should be telling you all this…"

"I went to school with Jerry," Mary Margaret repeated. "Remember? We know each other. In fact, I—" She caught herself and cleared her throat. "Well, never mind about that. Anyway, I told Jerry I'd come to his debut and give him moral support, and he was really enthusiastic about it. Said I was welcome to come. You can ask him if you want."

"Oh, well, I guess I don't have to do that," Leslie said. Mary Margaret was too guileless to be lying, she thought. Not that I'm such a good judge of character, but I can always double-check with Mr. Burton in case I start second-guessing myself! And in any case, it was just an appearance on the stage; it wasn't as if Mary Margaret were asking how much Burton was being paid or something like that. "Well, see, there was a problem at the bar where Mr. Burton was going to make his first appearance, and the date had to be canceled…so Mr. Roarke wangled him a spot in the Amateur Talent Show tomorrow night. Except he didn't want to do it, because he said since Danny Baker's the emcee, he'll rip him to pieces. I guess Mr. Baker has a way of cutting down other comics just to keep up his own popularity."

Mary Margaret frowned and looked down at her hands, which she held in front of her while chipping away at the pale-pink polish on one fingernail. "Oh, darn," she mumbled. "Then…how's Jerry ever going to get his career started?"

"Someplace far away from Danny Baker, probably," Leslie remarked.

Mary Margaret let out a small huff of amusement and nodded. "Yeah, I guess so." Her voice trailed off and she gazed into space for a moment, then shook her head. "I don't get it. That's not like Jerry at all. He might've been shy and everything back in school, but he never hesitated to stick up for himself. Maybe he's changed." She ruminated for another few seconds, then shrugged, sighed and focused on Leslie with another of her huge, sunny grins. "Well, okay, thanks, Leslie. I originally came in just to see if Mr. Roarke needs me for any room service tonight, but I can check with him later. Thanks for the information."

"Sure," said Leslie and watched Mary Margaret depart. She cast a glance at the grandfather clock, checked her progress in the book and snorted to herself, determinedly resuming her reading. At some point this evening they were supposed to hear from Cornelius Kelly, and she was still trying to figure out why Roarke seemed less than terrified about Tattoo's predicament. Something told her it was going to be a very long afternoon.