Part 13
On the Golf Course...
Marco lost his bet. The precept took another four strokes to get on the vast expanse of exquisitely shorn grass... the green. Maggie's ball was three feet from the pin... Derek's about twenty-five.
"You take your shot," Derek said quietly. "I'll watch you."
"Putt, Darlin', it's called a putt," Maggie informed him. She considered missing the hole on purpose... but golf was a fickle game... even a three-footer was by no means a "gimme".... If she deliberately tried to miss, the ball would probably go in, unless she aimed it totally the wrong way, which, of course, Derek would immediately notice. She could always say she'd misread the break, but he was psychic. If she did her best, it would probably stay out. Hunkering down with Derek bending over her shoulder, she gauged the distance and tried to spot the line. "Do you see it, hon?" she asked. "Can you see the little line in the grass that goes from the ball to the cup?"
Derek shook his head no. He had no idea what she was talking about.
"Never mind," said Maggie. "Your 'Sight' will see it, if you let it." Finally, she rose, momentarily stood over the ball, then tapped it. The orange sphere followed a gently curving line, then, in the last few inches, increased the curve and dropped into the hole with a hollow tha-thunk-thunk.
Derek placed his arm round her shoulder and affectionately kissed her cheek. "'Dead-eye' Hamiltion strikes again," he whispered.
Jason and Marco watched the older man mimic his "wife's" actions. He squatted to study the putt, rose, took a deep breath and held it as he gently drew the putter back. A solid, little ping sent the ball running steadily toward the hole. At about five feet, it lagged and seemed as if it would stop short, but suddenly it began to pick up speed again. Finally, it circled the lip twice, then dropped.
"I'll be damned!" Marco said aloud, then blushed in embarrassment.
"I hope not," Derek said, smiling with self-satisfaction. Maggie gave him one of her "you-wily-old-fox-you're-up-to-something" looks, which he studiously ignored.
"This game's not so bad, once you get the hang of it," he told her with an open-faced innocence. "A little finesse goes a long way."
* * *
"This is the Devil's Triangle," Jason explained, pointing out the three holes. "Number thirteen, a short par four over water... fourteen, a par five dogleg... and fifteen, a par three."
Maggie took her place between the white markers. She chewed on her lip in concentration, then swung.
"Great shot!" Marco exclaimed. "You'll beat the Devil.... It carried the water just fine... and you've put it right where it belongs... between the bunkers. You'll have a nice little lay-up shot, then you're home free."
Jason pulled the "driver" from Derek's bag and handed it to the precept. He was thoroughly puzzled by Mr. Bernard's performance over the last few holes. Was he a "ringer", a scratch golfer looking for suckers? His swing wasn't bad, but his shots were wild.... They seemed to have a life of their own. He'd swear they were heading one way, but they'd curve round in flight. It was the damnedest thing he'd ever seen. Was this Bernard a trick shot artist, he wondered.
"OK, Mr. Bernard," he said. "Let's nail this one... stone dead."
Derek concentrated on the flag, a tiny wisp of red, flapping nearly four hundred yards distant. Imitating Marco's motion, he grasped some wisps of grass and tossed them into the breeze, which was blowing left to right. The precept gripped the club, concentrated, then blasted the ball. He watched it eagerly as it rocketed away. It carried all the way to the green, bounced like a tennis ball, and was lost to sight.
Jason shook his head. "Wow! That was a hellava drive!... but I think maybe it bounced into the trap just behind the green."
Derek basked in the praise and admiring glances of the two younger men.... OK... maybe he was helping the ball along a little, but all's fair in love and war... and golf.
Maggie smiled... let the boy play. He's enjoying himself... his ego's being massaged, but poor Jason doesn't know what to make of it.... It'll teach the youngsters never to accept their elders at face value, she thought.
* * *
After Maggie's eight iron had landed her ball on the edge of the green, they went in search of Derek's, but found nothing in the sand trap.
"Did it bury itself?" Jason called to Marco as he walked along the edge of the rough beyond. "Check up under the lip... maybe it did something weird."
"No sign of it," Marco replied as he raked his footprints from the soft, white sand. "It couldn't have bounced past you," he reasoned. "Could it have bounced backwards into the water? Surely we'd have seen the splash."
"So, what must I do, if we can't find it?" Derek asked, disappointed that he had lost control of his helpful nudge towards the flag. He'd probably pushed it all the way out into the jungle a hundred yards behind the green.
"That's a one stroke penalty and you go back to the tee and hit another ball," Maggie explained, just as a curious Jason wandered over to the pin and looked down. There, nestled next to the thin, metal pole, lay a small, white ball.
"Ahhh," he exhaled in disbelief. "I don't believe it, man. You got a hole-in-one... can't be done on a par four... freaky... one in a million shot."
They gathered round the hole. "You put it in... your honor to pull it out," said the blond caddy.
Derek stooped to pluck the ball from its hiding place. Marco took it from his hand. "It's a Titleist three.... It's yours," he confirmed. They turned to stare at Derek in wonder. "That's... shit!... it's impossible! Not at the Devil's Triangle!"
"Darlin', you got yourself in this hole... you get yourself out," Maggie hissed through a fixed smile.
+
Maggie's House, Pasadena
"Oooooowwwwhhhh!!!!" Marigold howled at each buzz of Nick's cell phone. "Oooooowwwhhhhh!!!"
Nick heard the buzz, but where was the damned thing? He scanned Maggie's den without satisfaction. He'd have to straighten up the place before anyone else saw it. It was a mess. The phone was definitely in here... somewhere around the sofa. He looked under the cushions, searched the floor beneath, felt in the cracks.... Nothing. Then he leaned over the back. "Bbbzzzzz!" That was it... it was buried in Marigold's nest of cushions, dog blankets, stuffed animals, and chew toys.
Searching the dog bed, he yelled over the next howl, "Shut up, you knocked up pack rat! Where's my phone?"
"Ooooowwwwhhhhh!!!!"
At last he found it. "Hi... Nick Boyle," he shouted as he flipped open the lid. "Shut up, dog!" He covered his other ear with his hand to block out the haunting moan. For some reason the dog seemed to detest the sound of his cell phone. What he couldn't figure out was why the strident ring of the hardwired monstrosity could be greeted with joy, while the gentle buzz of the tiny pocket model was the source of such distress.
"Sorry... hello?" the former SEAL repeated.
"Nick... it's me," said Alex.
"Hi, me! How's it going? Any problems?" A pause told Nick that all was not well in San Francisco.
"Just one big, ugly problem," Alex hissed. "Can you hear me OK? I can't talk very loud."
"Go on." Nick sighed with resignation, even as all his instincts slipped into alert status. He wasn't going to like this. He felt it in his bones.
"Cross is here," she responded. "He's been asking all sorts of questions about Derek. How he is physically. What's his psychological condition? Get this... he went to see Ingrid... and he asked the same things. That's hutzpa... he knows that he's not one of her favorite people, yet he went to beard the lioness in her own cloister. He's up to something, but I can't tell what.
"I'm worried, Nick."
"You and me both, honey," the ex-SEAL muttered. Slumping into the couch, he was joined by his canine companion, who laid her enormous, St. Bernard head in his lap. "Do you think he's asking on his own account, cause he still wants Derek's chair?" he asked, thoughtfully stroking a soft ear. "Or is the Ruling Council pulling his strings?"
"I'm not sure," his friend replied hesitantly. "He was quoting some obscure Legacy ruling about Derek having to undergo physical and psychological evaluation before he can return to work." Alex paused as she remembered the rest of her conversation with Cross. "He wanted to know if Derek was seeing Rachel on a professional basis... and said that if he found it uncomfortable to discuss things with a member of his own team, then perhaps he should avail himself of Legacy facilities in England. He said that maybe it would do him good to get away for a bit. What's that about?"
"Search me," Nick replied. He then paused. "Unless.... the bastards!... Alex!... I'll bet they want to get Derek back to England so they can stick him in Wells Ward, with all Reston's other 'team mates'.
"Shit!" he angrily exclaimed, startling Marigold into a defensive growl. "What the hell's wrong with those guys?... What are they afraid of? Why would they turn on Derek when he's just barely up to par? Do they think he's gonna mount a coup... kick them out?"
"No... you must be wrong," Alex protested in disbelief. She shuddered... she hadn't been to Wells Ward, but Rachel and Nick's descriptions filled her with horror. "The Legacy wouldn't do that... put someone with a sound mind into that place?"
"How do we know?" Nick shot back. "We don't really know that much about the deep, inner workings of the Legacy.... Hell... those guys may have been 'A1' shape until they got shoved in there. God knows what's happened to 'em since... experiments... drugs they might test! All for the greater good, of course." His mouth and tone reeked of bitterness.
"I can't believe they'd do that," Alex countered. "Derek has allies on the Ruling Council who'd protect him.... Besides, he has real power of his own... major financial leverage. Plus, we know about the questions... Ingrid and Barbara know." She wished she sounded more convincing. "We're the good guys, Nick. I have to believe that the Legacy couldn't contemplate anything like that. If I accepted that scenario, then what are we? What's Derek? We've done their bidding, so where would that leave us?"
Pawns, Nick thought, but instead yielded a grudging, "Yeah... maybe." Was he being paranoid... or was everyone out to get them?... The Darkside on one hand and the Legacy on the other? Was this why Derek had always been so secretive... self-preservation? "Is Cross still there?" he asked.
"Sure is.... He's staying over so we can dine together.... He doesn't want me to be lonely. I seem to be Administrator material."
Nick could visualize Alex's grimace at the thought of an evening with Cross and his "Management-speak." "Oh, yessss," he teased, trying to lighten his friend's mood, and his own. "So... Mr. Franklin Cross has got the hots for his little Admin pet? Wonder if he's thinking of two-timing Patty Sloan. Are you planning on riding someone's coat tails up the ladder to the higher levels of bean counting Nirvana?"
"Don't even joke about it," she snapped.
"Here's a thought for you... maybe if you're sweet as cherry pie... willing to dot all his 'i's' and cross his 't's'... he'll open up a bit. Who knows, you might even find out who... or what's behind all this," Nick suggested. Then his tone switched to absolute sincerity. "Alex... I have to know what's happening. How else can I protect Derek, and his House. Whatever shit's going down... I'm damned sure we won't like it.... Play Mata Hari for me... OK?"
"Please... say you're joking," Alex begged.
"No Mata Hari? Not even for Derek?" He grinned, imagining Alex's panic stricken face. "Don't worry... just don't let the job get on top of you. I gotta know.... Bye."
"Nick!" he heard her screech as he pushed the "end" button.
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Part 14
Seaside Cottage... the next evening
"Come on, Darlin', you been at that all day.... I want to wear my 'glad rags'. I didn't drag this hot, little, designer number half way round the globe to haul it back again... unused." Maggie smiled sensuously as she sauntered around to give Derek's shoulders a rub. "And I want you... in your tux... with all them little, pearly, stud things. You've got no idea what that does to me, Darlin'!"
Derek looked up from his latest experiment... a dozen, diverse articles that he was trying to gently push and pull at will. With a mesmerizing gaze and an impish half-grin, his expression was pure seduction. "I'd rather be out of the tux," he said, "with you... wearing nothing but a smile."
He had ulterior motives for wanting to remain in the cottage... the fine-tuning of his latest "talent" was progressing well, but he wanted more practice.... It was a slippery, little devil to control... and after yesterday's golf course experience, he wanted as few witnesses and distractions as possible.
"I want to go dancin', Darlin'. I want to show you off. You're one hellava mover." Maggie continued her war of attrition. "And they're serving sushi. I know how much you like that.... So how about it?... a little sushi, a little saki, a little bossanova... and later a lotta 'number five'?"
With a deep sigh and a smile, the precept surrendered. He knew when he was beaten, and this was Maggie's holiday as much as his... more, in fact... she had sacrificed her own plans for a photo safari later in the year and had risked the wrath of her fellow judges... all to be a good friend... to try to help him take another step toward recovery... and she was working her tail off trying to make it fun for him. He chuckled at his own unintended pun.
+
Later...
Derek sat in a comfortable armchair reading the paper, catching up on the world's events. It was an enlightening moment for him... not one his ego enjoyed. "The world gets along fine without you, Rayne," he muttered to himself as he scanned the pages. "All the usual disasters, financial investigations, political mud slinging, film openings, births, marriages, and deaths... whether or not Derek Rayne is in his Legacy House, fighting his battles." This world got along fine without you for over a year, he reminded himself.
For a moment, he concentrated on brushing imaginary specs from his black, tuxedo trousers. How had Maggie gotten her hands on his tux, he wondered. Alex... he had a conspirator within his own House. It had to have been Alex. That's how she'd gotten his passport as well.
Derek gave his black, moire vest a tug and brushed another fleck from his trousers. He had been pleased to discover that they fit him reasonably well. Oh... they were still loose... more like the old "baggies" of the forties, but he was gaining weight, at last. If he didn't watch out, Nick would be putting him on a diet!
"Ready, Darlin'?"
Maggie's voice startled him. He laid the paper aside and turned towards the bedroom door. "You look... stunning," he whispered. It was true... she wore a hot pink gown of slinky, silken Alex jersey, which clung to her body. Jeweled combs had tamed her wild mane that now shone like an auburn halo about her head. Knowing that she wanted to show off her ensemble, Derek twirled his finger. "Turn round... let me see it all," he instructed.
She beamed as she did a slow revolution. The strapless dress fit her like a glove. It emphasised her sleek waistline, presented to advantage her strong, tanned shoulders, and gave her a real cleavage. A revealing slit up the back displayed her long legs to perfection.
Derek rose and took her hand. "I'm almost afraid to touch. How does it stay up?" he asked, nibbling the bare ridge of her shoulder.
"Magic, Darlin'," she murmured... no reason to tell him about the strapless, backless "Merry Widow," whose boning was constraining her, flattening what the delicious treats of the past few days had added, pushing up and shaping what gravity sought to pull down... nor did he need to know about the toupee tape that was holding everything teasingly in place.
"And you smell gorgeous," he added, "like cinnamon and vanilla."
"I choose the perfume for the man," Maggie explained, "and they say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach... so I figure if I smell like baked goods, I'll get to be the dessert."
Derek glanced at his watch. "I suppose we do have to go? I always liked my dessert first."
Maggie chuckled. "Darlin', this transformation has taken the better part of two hours... so everyone... and I mean everyone... gets to admire the dessert before you dive in," she said in the most dominant tone a superior court judge could muster.
+
Château de la Lune
"...'de la Lune'... appropriate name, don't you think?" Maggie whispered to Derek as the stiff-backed maître d' showed Mr. and Mrs. Bernard to their table. Derek remained silent, but she felt him give a soft, hidden chuckle. She knew that some private amusement about the name had flitted through his mind.
Within moments, the maître d' had properly seated his guests, and with a gentile flourish had presented gilt-edged menus and a wine list.
Derek smiled across the candle lit table at Maggie, "You made quite an impression, ma chérie. Every head turned... the men in admiration and lust, and the women in pure, green-eyed jealousy."
"Oh, hush," she whispered over her menu. Her eyes sparkled as she surreptitiously gazed round the room. A Calypso band dressed in Hawaiian shirts played in front of a parquet dance floor. Exotic flowers adorned every table and hung in tresses from the ceiling... their perfume wafted round by overhead fans.
Derek scanned the wine list. "Would you like a cocktail?... what about champagne? Only the best for the most beautiful woman on the island."
"With this clientele?... Dutch bull hockey," Maggie said with a laugh as she glanced at the menu. "Champagne it is... or, how about saki, if we start with sushi? The yellow tail or the swordfish to follow... both fresh caught today. Or lobster?"
He nodded seriously... deep in gastronomic consideration. "Swordfish, I think."
"Sounds good to me," she seconded.
Derek signaled the waiter that they were ready to order and received a discreet "un moment" nod of the head. "He'll be over in a moment," Derek told his companion. After a pause, he continued, "I've been thinking... how would you like to fly home via San Francisco? You could stay Friday night and the Luna jet, which will be back by then, can take you home Saturday evening to Burbank. I'd like to play host and it's time I had some "fun" on my own turf... we could have most of Saturday to do what you like... and it would be much easier for you to get home from the Burbank airport than from LAX. What do you think?"
Maggie hesitated. Only once before had he ever invited her to stay at Angel Island... when there had been a hotel screw up during a California Bar Association conference... and, of course, she had stayed overnight when she had visited to say "good-bye" to a man she thought was dying.
"Please?" he asked again, earnestly.
"Why not?" she replied as she saw the waiter coming their way. "I'm sure we'll think of something to do... and Burbank would be a hellava lot easier. I'll just cram all the harder on Sunday to make up for the lost time on Saturday."
* * *
The strains of a Calypso-flavored waltz floated over the hum of conversation and the discreet bustle of the dining room. Their order having been taken, Derek rose and stepped around to his companion's chair. "Mrs. Bernard, may I have the honor of this dance, s'il vous plaît?" he asked, gallantly taking her hand and kissing it.
Maggie giggled. "Mais oui, Monsieur Bernard," she replied in a lush, husky tone, allowing the precept to assist her from her seat. "How très European."
Both felt eyes upon their backs, as they wove their way between tables to the deserted dance floor. Maggie heard an elderly voice whisper, "Striking young couple... if I were still on the right side of eighty, I'd give her a run for her money." "Young couple"... bless her heart, Maggie thought, and smiled at the thought of a cat fight over Derek... wouldn't be the first time.
Derek took the judge into his arms as all thought of observing eyes was lost. They began to glide, floating with the music, swirling rhythmically in three-quarter time. Each absorbed in the other, they were lost in a world of their own, feeling every little nuance of movement and responding in kind. This was what dance was meant to be. When the music stopped, they gazed deeply into each other's eyes, in no hurry to relinquish the contact.
* * *
A few moments later, they returned to the table to find the sushi resting on square, white platters. The brightly colored parcels of fish and rice were presented with a small, black bowl of sauce and a pair of plain, wooden chopsticks. A polished, drift wood ice bucket sat between the plates. In the bucket, nestled in the ice, was a carafe made from a fat, bamboo segment, whose top was sliced at an angle.
Using both hands according to Japanese etiquette, Derek poured the saki from the pitcher into Maggie's square, wooden cup. With a gracious smile, she took the carafe from his hands and poured into his saki box."Kampai," they toasted, then sipped the strong, rice wine.
Maggie then clinched a sliver of orange fish wrapped in brilliant green seaweed between her chopsticks and presented the delicacy's proper face to the sauce. "Pass the salt, Darlin'," she asked.
Derek glanced quickly round the room. Satisfied that everyone was minding their own business, he looked at the salt cellar, a thorny oyster shell with a tiny, mother-of-pearl spoon, and willed it toward Maggie. It slid smoothly across the white tablecloth to rest beside her plate.
"Show off," she hissed. "Don't try it with the soy sauce... it won't accessorise with hot pink at all!"
* * *
The small orchestra was moving on to their faster tempo repertoire. Maggie sat tapping her foot, watching Derek finish his sushi. Truthfully she didn't care much for the stuff, so she concentrated on the champagne, which they had also ordered. It was good to see him really want to eat, and not protest too vehemently when she had offered him most of her own serving.
"Good evening, Mrs. Bernard, Mr. Bernard...."
They both turned to see Marco, resplendent in a white dinner jacket, which nicely set off his mahogany tan and black, curly hair.
"Might I have this dance, Madam?" He looked appealingly at Maggie with brown eyes that reminded her very much of Marigold's. She glanced towards Derek, who raised an eyebrow and smirked.
"With your permission, Sir?" he asked.
Derek gave his consent with a slight nod... not that it would have mattered had he cried "No!" at the top of his lungs.
Maggie smiled graciously, rose, and, after flashing Derek a "rescue-me-soon" glance, walked toward the dance floor. The precept sat back to enjoy the departing rear view... saggy?... no way.
"Hello, Mr. Bernard." Jason had materialised from nowhere. "May I join you?"
"Ahh... yes... of course," Derek agreed, wondering if Jason was the next in line on Maggie's dance card?
"You dance very well," said the younger man, beaming an enchanting smile. "I thought you would... tall, but graceful men always seem to be good dancers."
Was Jason pulling his leg... or giving a soap job for the benefit of the resort and a good tip? Derek knew he must have watched at least some of his windsurfing exploits. Graceful, ha!
"You're from San Francisco, I understand," Jason continued, making what the precept figured was an attempt at small talk. "I've never been there, but I hear it's a lovely city... one I'd love to visit. I've very close friends who live in 'the Castro'. I guess I'd find it very big."
"What?" Derek was slightly confused... ahh... the city... very big. "Well, yes... it is large... and... quite beautiful," he hesitantly replied... was his "Sight" still sending garbled signals? "Compared to Saint Theodore, everything's big." He caught sight of Rosa, in a revealing, black sheath, mingling with the guests at the far end of the room... so the staff was still on duty, making sure everyone was enjoying themselves.
"Do you dive?" the younger man asked suddenly, pulling the precept from his distraction... something about Rosa reminded him of Alex... her hair, perhaps.
"Yes, but not for sometime. I am certified." Derek relaxed... Jason was trolling for customers for his classes. "But I'm getting to old for that sort of thing. Snorkeling's my speed now."
"Old? Not old," Jason corrected him, as he reached over to place his hand on Derek's arm. "Mature maybe, but I'll bet you could show me a thing or two. It's my day off tomorrow... I'm going diving on a Spanish wreck," he said with a charming smile. "How'd you like to come?"
Derek spluttered on his champagne and casually moved his arm away. "I'm not sure... Maggie isn't a diver," he responded politely.
"Yeah... I remember that from her last visit," Jason agreed, "but I was thinking about just the two of us. I'm sure she won't mind if we have a 'boys day out'."
The music stopped and was followed by courteous applause. Derek thankfully caught sight of Maggie weaving her way back through the tables. Both men rose, and the precept assisted her to her seat.
"Thank you, Darlin'," she murmured. "Marco's an energetic stepper, I'll give him that."
"Mrs. Bernard... Maggie... you look ravishing." Jason flashed his toothpaste ad smile. "I was just telling Mr. Bernard about a dive I'm arranging for tomorrow... trying to persuade him to come along."
"That sounds like a great idea," Maggie agreed, puzzled by the slight panic she saw in Derek's eyes. The band was striking up again... a tango this time.
Derek jumped to his feet. "Shall we, my dear?" he asked, grasping his companion's elbow. "If you'll excuse us, Jason.... About the dive... I think not... but thank you for the invitation."
"What's wrong?" Maggie asked in confusion, as Derek propelled her toward the dance floor.
"Jason... I think he was trying to pick me up!" Derek seemed shocked.
"Hmm," Maggie considered. "And you're from San Francisco, by way of Amsterdam?... or is it vice versa? Surely, it's not the first time."
Derek's blank look amused the judge... he obviously hadn't caught up to her train of thought. "Never mind, Sugar," she said, patting his hand. "Jason has good taste, I'll say that for him."
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Part 15
Château de la Lune
As the final notes of a rumba drifted away, Maggie searched Derek's deep-set eyes for the brownish hues of fatigue "How you holdin' up, Darlin'?" she asked. "It's getting late... you were practicing your 'hocus-pocus' all day... and we've been showin' these guys how to cut a rug for quite a while."
The precept gave her hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. "I'm fine.... What else did you have in mind?" he replied with an suggestive raise of his eyebrow. "Number five on the Hit Parade?"
"The casino?" she suggested as she led him from the dance floor. "Let's blow some mad money."
"Gambling?" Derek was interested... his "Sight" against the house's advantage always offered a challenge. He wasn't cheating, exactly... just evening the odds. "Poker... or Blackjack?" he asked as they headed towards the Gaming Room. Those were the games that allowed him to use his "Sight" most effectively... to sense his opponent, to feel the cards.
"Your choice... I wanted to come, you get to pick the game," said the judge as the doorman opened the double doors on the crowded room.
Before them lay an old world realm that was the antithesis of the tropical, Busby Berkeley, stage setting they had just left. An immense, crystal chandelier hung suspended above the center of the room. The walls were cloaked in burgundy velvet drapes and mahogany paneling. Brass fixtures abounded, as did Persian carpeting. Bejewelled women and tuxedoed gentlemen clustered around the various gaming tables. Willowy hostesses in bias-cut, white satin gowns circled the tables bearing silver trays loaded with chips, while red-jacketed dealers and croupiers conducted the games.
Derek fought a momentary wave of claustrophobia as dozens of thoughts, wishes, and dreams assailed his mind. He held tight to Maggie, for comfort and support, as he struggled to raise a mental barrier.
She watched his expression closely... saw the effort he was making to get back on an even keel. "You OK, Darlin'?" she whispered anxiously... he seemed fine now, but he had lost color for a moment. "We can skip this. It's only a bit of fun. It'll keep till tomorrow."
"No... I'm OK, now," he assured her, then kissed her forehead gently to emphasize his statement. He gazed around the room in search of an open space.
"Roulette?" Maggie offered.
"Craps," said Derek. "The table's less crowded."
"Craps it is," she cheerily agreed.
A grin lit his face, and for that moment Maggie had a glimpse of Derek as a boy... young, eager, puppyish. It was well worth the price of watching him shoot craps, she decided.
They sauntered over to the table, where two voluptuous, young women, who were nearly wearing their dresses, stood encouraging the shooter to try his luck again.
"Come on... six... come on, baby," their companion murmured. He held the dice towards the honey blonde, who blew a kiss delicately towards the ivory cubes, then exchanged a knowing glance with her six-foot-tall, platinum twin.
Maggie watched the pantomime with interest... the young high roller was probably their meal ticket for that evening.
"Mr. and Mrs. Bernard...." Her thoughts were interrupted. She looked across the table to see Jason standing close to a tall, distinguished looking man, with marble-sized diamonds for shirt studs.
"I hope you get lucky," he said.
"You too, Jason." Maggie smiled... it looked as though he already had hit the jackpot. He obviously shared her taste in men... tall, slim, with a hint of grey around the temples. But she suspected the diamond studs and links were of more interest to Jason than anything else.
"Fickle isn't he?" Derek whispered as they watched the pair leave.
"Never mind, Punkin... plenty more fish in the sea," she teased.
"Snakes eyes, double ones," the stickman announced in a bored tone as he scooped away the dice and chips.
The loser sighed dejectedly, and slumped away after a quick, regretful glance towards the two ladies, who were now studiously avoiding eye contact.
The young man with the bamboo crook exchanged cynical glances with his compatriot, the dealer. Yet another "money bags" who had bet it all and had, of course, lost... and hadn't had the courtesy to tip the dealer even once. Classless moron, they both thought.
Derek gestured to a hostess, who sashayed over to present her offerings. The precept quickly signed the note that lay on the silver tray. "Ten thousand to start," he murmured and received several stacks of chips and a very warm smile.
He then stepped up to the railing, placed his chips on the green felt, and made eye contact with the red-jacketed dealer.
"New player?" the man asked in the same monotone.
The precept nodded and passed him a single blue chip for his first tip. "Thank you, sir," the man said with somewhat more interest... at last, someone who knew how to behave. He then announced, "Come out roll," as the stickman pushed the two white cubes towards Derek.
Maggie gave Derek's arm a squeeze as he picked up the dice, then rolled them around in his large hand... testing their weight... getting their feel. They were wrong... he "saw," or more accurately, sensed that they were loaded. "Eight," he calmly announced, laying his bet. He shook the dice vigorously, then threw them hard so they bounced against the opposite end of the table.
"Five and three... eight it is." The stickman pushed the dice and a large number of chips in the precept's direction. The two blondes became interested, and eyed Maggie appraisingly.
Derek smiled as he again took up the two small cubes. "Hard eight," he said, placing a substantial number of chips in the proper place. The dice bounced against the board with a thump, thump.
"Four and four!" said the stickman as he glanced over at the dealer and received a subtle nod in reply... string him along was the signal.
"Wow!" leggy, blonde Number One gushed as she sidled up close to Derek's left side. "You're amazing!" she gushed. "How do you do it?"
The precept gulped as he stared into the wide, knowing eyes. The room was suddenly very warm and very crowded.
"I'm Bambi.... That's my friend, Candy!" she huskily announced.
Blonde Number Two had in the meantime insinuated herself between Maggie and Derek, on his right side. "Shall I blow for you?" she asked disingenuously, ignoring Maggie's choking laugh.
Perplexed, Derek's eyes grew wide at the thought that leaped into his brain. That was not an offer he expected to receive spoken at full volume in a crowded, public room.
"On the dice," Candy responded archly. "But... if you had something else in mind?... Candy can be so sweet," she whispered seductively with her full, red lips pursed in a suggestive pout.
Derek chewed speculatively on his inner cheek. "Hmmm...." He cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, I'm on a diet," he responded.
"Oh, me too," Candy replied. "I'm always careful of what I eat! My tastes run to very expensive delicacies... like macadamia nuts covered in Dutch chocolate."
Derek grinned... he was beginning to enjoy himself. Candy wasn't anybody's fool... she had pegged his accent and probably had an MBA from Harvard. He offered the dice first to her, then to Bambi, to blow on, but then he searched round to find Maggie's reassuring presence.
"Eight," he murmured again, placing his bet. He vigorously shook the cubes, which sped from his hand like a pair of hot rods in a drag race.
* * *
Twenty minutes later Derek and his blonde glee club had attracted an audience, who had all added their bets to his. Large numbers of chips were now being paid out by the house.
"Four and four," the stickman announced with another glance toward his supervisors. A slight shake of the head told him to end it.
Squealing noisily, the buxom blonds bounced up and down in delight. Derek eyed their decolletage with interest, as did every other man around the table, while Maggie wondered what it was that so drew men to melon-sized knockers. Even a certain, self-controlled, San Francisco precept was not immune. Males of any other species, bulls, stallions, dogs, tom cats... none seemed to have a fascination for that particular department... only human males. She shook her head in absolute bewilderment... at least men didn't initiate courtship by sniffing tails.
"Eight again?... A hard eight," Bambi said with a suggestive arch of two meticulously plucked eyebrows.
"Hmmm...," the precept considered with a sly smile. "No, my dear... no... I think this time... a hard six." As he held the dice out for the ritual, anointing breath, Candy's lips left a scarlet imprint on his hand.
"Come on six!" Bambi shouted, jiggling up and down in anticipation.
Derek dragged his mind back to the game. This wasn't the time, nor the place, to lose control. He threw the cubes hard, watched them hit the side of the table, and then roll.
"Three and three." With a wink and a quick flick of a finger, the stickman told his boss that the dice he had passed to the shooter should have come up snake eyes. Now, a very large stack of chips was pushed over. To the dealer's left, the table supervisor, the "boxman", had suddenly become interested, as had the tuxedo-clad pit boss, who looked down from his perch on the landing above.
Derek stacked his chips, then casually gestured for the stickman to slide a stack of reds over as a tip to the dealer. The two men would later split the proceeds of the evening. "Thank you, sir," they both said, but behind the words they had a single thought... now lose you son-of-a-bitch.
"Double sixes," said Derek as he again bounced the dice from the side.
"Boxcars!" the stickman announced, totally disheartened... the "management" would soon be out to find out what had happened. The dice were his charge... no doubt he would get the blame for screwing up a switch, even if he hadn't.
"Again?" Bambi asked. "Or would you like to get a drink... or something? We could go for a swim... au natural."
Maggie had permitted the fun and games to go on long enough... time for the kittens to go play with someone else's mouse. She pulled herself up to her full height, which on these two "chippies" was about bust level. "No... he would not," she said firmly, stepping forward to restake her claim.... She fixed them with the judicial equivalent of the evil eye.
The precept was secretly relieved that his cavalry had arrived, but Candy and Bambi had played a good "game". He handed each stack of blues... they had been worth it for the entertainment value alone. "Sorry, my dear," he said. "I've got to go... something's come up." Allowing his lips to gently brush her hair, he whispered in Candy's delicate ear, "Maybe some other time." Then he felt Maggie's stiletto heel press into his the arch of his foot.
"Don't take any wooden nickels, girls," she said, putting a definite restraining order on their hoped for prospects.
@@@@@@@@@@@
Part 16
the Casino...
As Maggie dragged Derek through the crowd, he stopped abruptly and pulled her back towards him. "They were fixed," he whispered.
"What... the silicone mountains back yonder?" she drawled. "Damned right they were fixed... store bought right from 'Tits-R-Us'. I've known a cow or two that would envy those...."
"No! The dice!" he interrupted with a lop-sided grin. "They were loaded... and I do mean the dice! The game was rigged. Let's try blackjack," he suddenly announced, dragging her off to the table on his left. Before she could dissuade him, he had taken a vacant seat at the padded leather railing and had placed his chips on the table.
Standing behind his chair, Maggie leaned lightly on Derek's shoulder. Inwardly, she was bursting with joy. This was the Derek she knew... as full of devilry and love of the game as she herself could be. It really was too bad, she thought, that they each had their own paths to follow. They'd have made a good match, but they, themselves, and destiny had other ideas. At least they had shared times like these. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek for old time's sake.
Derek twisted round with that quizzical raise of the eyebrow and the unruly curl drooping above it, which Maggie could confess to herself that she absolutely adored. Quickly she brushed the stray lock back into place. "For luck, Darlin'," she murmured.
Feeling the cluster of warm bodies behind her, she glanced over her shoulder and realised the precept's fan club had accompanied him to the table. She groaned... it was going to be a crowded evening.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Derek had, through the judicious use of his "Sight", increased his winnings, and those of his entourage, considerably. "Time to move on," he murmured, rising from the table. "Whom shall we clean out next?"
"I guess those cards were marked?" Maggie hissed, but she need not have worried about being overheard. The crowd was babbling with happy enthusiasm as they clinked their newly acquired chips.
Now gazing at the roulette table across the aisle, Derek nodded and said distractedly, "Marked... but I don't know how."
"Sugar," she whispered again. "Cheating the cheaters won't resolve the situation... and surely they know we're doin' the same. They'll have to do something? I can't risk a scandal," she said pointedly, "not with my name on the short list for the next vacancy on the US Court of Appeals."
"Don't worry, my dear," said Derek, entwining her arm around his. "Trust me."
"Bull hockey!"
Derek chuckled in reply. "Trust me." Arm in arm, they walked across the plush, Persian carpeting to the roulette table. Derek's groupies followed at a distance. The crowd had grown as diners had heard of the winning streak and had decided to come take a look and to get in on some of the action themselves.
The precept guided Maggie to a spot at the corner of the roulette table.
"House Rules," the croupier said in a monotone. "Table chips only."
There was a gentle tap on Derek's shoulder. He turned to face a chip hostess in red satin. "Table chips?" she offered, presenting her large silver tray loaded with stacks of red, rectangular chips, each of which bore a different symbol.
Derek selected the stack that bore the emblem of a sword, then replaced them with an equal number of his blue chips.
"Thank you, sir," said the young woman, who then turned to mingle with the crowd that had followed the precept. A commotion rose as she ran out of chips and another silver tray was sent for.
Derek ignored the hubbub and concentrated upon the game... like a batter gauging the wind before stepping up to the plate. The players had already laid their bets and the wheel was spinning. The little ball bounced and clattered frantically from one number to the next.
"No more bets," the croupier called as the ball slowed. Finally, as it settled into a slot, he announced, "Black... ten." One of the players left the table, disgusted with his run of bad luck.
Placing his stack of chips down beside Maggie's beaded bag, Derek held the chair for his companion to take the man's seat. He then took a position behind her and rested his hands on her bare shoulders. Looking down, he was treated to a fine expanse of freckled cleavage. "Quite a view from up here," he quipped. "The Silicone Mountains can't compare."
"Shush!" she muttered as she placed a chip on "Lucky Thirteen."
The croupier gave the wheel a strong spin. Smiling as he felt his companion's excitement surge through his fingertips, Derek glanced towards the red and black optical illusion to watch the ball settle. Behind him, the crowd waited in expectant silence.
"Sixteen red! I win!" cried a happy voice. The accent was very New York... very Brooklyn. "It's my son's birthday... the sixteenth," a plump lady with startling blue hair explained to the table. Despite fingers dripping in diamonds, she smiled and bobbed with absolute delight at her win.
Derek nodded. "Lucky for you both," he commented.
She picked up the chips, then placed most of her winnings, a considerable stack, on twenty-four. "My daughter's birthday," she confided to one and all. "Rhoda's such a lucky girl, she married a podiatrist. I have three grandchildren... my Issac would have been so proud... I'll play their birthdays next," she rattled on nervously.
Derek eyed her voluminous handbag with trepidation.... Was it soon to disgorge photographs of Rhoda, the podiatrist, and the grandchildren? Still, he smiled his encouragement. "Well... it's as good a system as any."
Maggie was determined to stick with thirteen... she also placed a chip on the 13 - 24 column. Once again all eyes focused upon the wheel and the bouncing, ivory ball.
Derek studied the spinning device intently. He felt rather than saw something subtly influence the fall of the ball, which stopped short of twenty-four by one number. He watched the croupier rake the table clear of chips... no winners... then exchanged a sympathetic smile with the New York matron. "The wheel's rigged too," he whispered to Maggie.
"You sure?" she asked. "Why are they doing this... the odds always favour the house. I don't get it... they've got a golden goose.... Why risk coddling its eggs?"
"It would appear that they don't like paying out at all.... Whoever heard of House Rules with roulette, and they've swung the odds way in their favor with the wheel's design," he replied, noting a slot with a gilded "ST", upon which no one could bet. If the ball landed there, it was House takes all. "Perhaps they figure the clientele is rich enough to afford losing and won't make a fuss.... What's a few thousand lost in the name of fun when there's millions more where that came from?" Suddenly a sly smile lightened his face. "Well, we'll see about that."
"Darlin', what are you gonna do?" Maggie looked up to see the twinkle in his hazel eyes and worried that she was now dealing with a headstrong Legacy precept determined to right all wrongs. Her tummy grumbled a warning.
Derek leaned over to the Brooklyn grandmother. "Why don't you try twenty-four again?" he urged. "All of it.... I'm psychic... and I have a feeling this time."
"Really?" She hesitated. "Joseph... that's my son... he's a cantor... wonderful voice... and a whiz with the market... I promised him I wouldn't exceed my limit." She glanced down at the small stack of chips, then looked at Derek's confident face, and felt reassured.
"The guy's on a roll, lady," a harsh voice from the pack encouraged. "You go with him."
"Twenty-four it is," she said firmly as she deposited her remaining chips on the board. "My name's Gloria, by the way.... Gloria Templeman."
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Templeman," Derek responded with all of his European charm. "May I introduce Margaret Bernard... and I'm Derek Ray...." The sentence was cut off with a grunt as he received a thump in the ribs.
"This charmin' fella's my hubby," said Maggie. "Derek Ray Bernard."
"Hmmm," the precept cleared his throat. "Yes... Derek 'Ray' Bernard," he said, placing a disdainful emphasis upon the "Ray." "Do you mind if we play twenty-four as well, Mrs. Templeman?" he asked, treating her to one of his most appealing expressions. He nudged Maggie, who was about to put another chip on thirteen. "Twenty-four, Darlin'," the precept instructed, mimicking her Texas accent.
"Go right ahead... and it's Gloria," she said emphatically. "He has the cutest, mixed-up accent, doesn't he?" she said to Maggie in a confidential tone for the entire table to hear.
A slight pink tinged the precept's cheeks as he seemed to ignore the comment. "All of them," he stated, sliding their chips into place. As house rules permitted, the perimeter crowd, his "fan club," all made their contributions. Derek smiled inscrutably to see a mountain of chips grow on twenty-four.
"Darlin', you sure about this?" Maggie asked. "We haven't got Nick's muscle for back-up, y'know. It's just you and me, and Gloria, here." She glanced over her shoulder. "This bunch'll head for the hills at the first sign of trouble, and we ain't on US territory... or Dutch, for that matter... so no cavalry to the rescue."
"What are they going to do?" Derek reasoned. "Accuse us of cheating, because they knew we should have lost? They won't want to make a fuss.... Besides, I have a feeling that Gloria's purse should be classed as a 'deadly weapon'."
"Hmm...," Maggie murmured, far from convinced.
The precept's eyebrow rose once more, even as his shoulders straightened in determination and his lips curled with self-satisfaction. "Trust me," he repeated.
The wheel spun... the ball bounced, more frantically than usual this time. The crowd behind Derek buzzed with excitement. The ball hit twenty-four at full speed and should have flown out, but it didn't. Instead, it stuck like glue until the wheel came to rest.
The croupier's eyes grew wide and in nervousness he gave his red jacket a tug. He had not even had the chance to close the betting. "Twenty-ffffour," he stammered, wondering what the hell had gone wrong. A cheer went up, and more chips were dispensed. The guys in the office would have been watching on closed circuit and would be out in an instant.
"Oy!" Gloria clapped her bejewelled hands in forgetful glee. "Gott vants that I should plotz," she said in a much thickened accent, then suddenly remembered where she was. "Oh, dear!... I'll be able to pay for my whole vacation without touching one penny of my trust fund." She beamed and bounced as a huge pile of chips was pushed in her direction.
Maggie, too, collected her winnings. "I'll bet they can't believe it either," she muttered as she noticed two "suits" heading in their direction with sham nonchalance.
"Show time, my dear," Derek whispered into his companion's ear. The lilt in his voice betrayed pure, enthusiastic pleasure.
@@@@@@@@@@@@
Part 17
At the Roulette Wheel...
Maggie anxiously eyed the two approaching men, both in navy blazers with embroidered crests on the breast pockets.... They had to be casino security... and strong-arm boys. "What do we do now?" she whispered.
"We continue playing," Derek replied without looking at them or her. His Dutch lilt tingled with excitement merely at the thought of the contest.
Gloria appraised her considerable stack of chips and in nervousness primped her stiff, blue hair. "Should I put it all on my grandson's birthday, the fifth.... Do you think?" she turned expectantly the precept.
"Not all of it," Derek cautioned. "If I were you, I'd only risk a few chips for the rest of the evening. Lady Luck visits us for moments at a time, but she rarely stays for long. But," he added with a smile, "I think five would be an excellent choice.... Margaret... on five... if you please?"
The "suits" had stationed themselves behind the croupier and were watching every move made at the table. Their focus was primarily on Derek and Maggie, but the casino employee was also obviously nervous. He released the ball in a bad toss and it bounded out. "Pardon," he said as he stopped the wheel and retrieved the orb which had rolled to the center of the table.
"They look like Laurel and Hardy... Stan and Ollie." Derek grinned. "I hear their music playing now... dum-de-dum... de-dum-de-dum...."
"They look more like the Terminator and Rambo to me... thank you very much," Maggie muttered. "And they're packin'... look at the bulges under the jackets."
Derek smiled and shrugged in response. Large numbers of chips were deposited on five... straight up... or on the five block for the more timid of the group. An excited murmur rose from the crowd behind the players.
"I'll get us drinks," Derek suddenly volunteered. "Champagne? Gloria what can I get for you? I feel I owe you... or at least Rhoda for our little windfall." He looked around for a waiter, but none seemed to be immediately available.
"I'll have a Manhattan," the elderly lady informed him. "I've really passed my limit, but what the hell!"
"What the hell, indeed," Derek agreed with a chuckle. "I'll be back in a moment, ladies. Guard the pot, your honor," he told Maggie.
"Watching him stride away, Gloria squeezed the judge's arm. "That's a very nice gentleman you have," she commented. "...and he looks like he was born to wear a tuxedo... or nothing at all," she added in a whisper filled with undisguised lust.
Maggie laughed at the thoughts she read in the mind of the cantor's elderly mother. What would the rabbi say, she wondered. "He's nice all right," she agreed with a chuckle, "...and more."
Watching the lightness of his step and his sly grin, she realized that Derek was enjoying this... blast him! As Gloria had said, "What the hell," she was enjoying it too... Court of Appeals, or not. If you can't right a wrong on the personal level every now and again, what's the sense in being a judge?
* * *
A couple of minutes later, the croupier called, "Again... make your bets... faites vos jeux."
"Where are the drinks?" Maggie asked as Derek pushed his way to her side.
"The waiter's bringing them," he told the ladies. "Plus a few noshes," he added, then grinned to see Gloria smile in surprise at his use of Yiddish. "I told him to deliver them to that table." He gestured with his head to an empty table on the mezzanine that overlooked the gaming room.
"You can't be hungry!" Maggie exclaimed in shock, suspicious that his response was a broadening of the grin and an eyebrow that climbed ever higher.
Derek saw his waiter approaching with the loaded tray balanced on his shoulder. As the precept had anticipated, he took the least congested route to the mezzanine... behind the croupier, and behind Laurel and Hardy. When the man was directly behind him, the "Ollie" of the pair appeared to step backwards, as if he'd been pushed... a sudden, puzzled look crossed his round face.
The puzzled look was soon replaced by shock as the tray full of drinks sloshed over him and Stanley. They both slipped and landed hard in prat falls that the Keystone Cops would have admired. A shower of nuts and crackers followed. Stan appeared to have donned a toupee, which on second inspection revealed itself to be caviar that dripped with agonizing slowness down his face. The "pièce de résistance" however, was the whole salmon, which now lay glassy-eyed in Ollie's lap.
Glaring at his companion, Stan struggled to his feet and slipped again to be caught by the posse of waiters which had swooped in on the disaster. Ollie shoved the salmon from his lap, grasped the edge of the table, and hoisted himself to his feet. "Jesus Christ! Benjy! That was weird!" he exclaimed as he stalked off after his crony. Laughter rang round the room to accompany their departure. The gamblers and Derek's fan club had been happily making money hand over fist... they had not expected a floor show to boot.
Barely containing his amusement, Derek hissed, "That's another fine mess," and mimicked Oliver Hardy's waggle of an imaginary tie.
Maggie smiled... the classic comedians, Harold Lloyd, Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and Laurel and Hardy, had been her contributions to the education of a certain precept.... He had been an apt student, though one would usually never guess.
* * *
The disaster having been cleared, the hapless croupier had changed his jacket and stepped back to the table. "Faites vos jeux," he called one last time, and, with a silent prayer, spun the wheel. For more than a minute, the ball rattled and bounced, then as it slowed the croupier announced, "No more bets," before the ball finally settled in number five, as everyone knew it would.
There was an instant reaction from the crowd... hoots and yells of delight as each person calculated his winnings. "Man! You got the luck of the Devil," one voice announced excitedly.
"Holy Shit!" another murmured with pleasure as he counted his chips.
Derek considered both comments, and smiled inwardly, unsure that he wanted to be classed in either category. He wondered what their expletives would be if they only knew the truth.
"So, Gloria? What about your next grandchild?" he asked, noting the approach of a man, immaculately attired in a white dinner jacket, sporting a red rose in the lapel, and a diamond ring the size of a bowling ball on his chubby finger. His black hair was heavily greased and a pencil thin moustache accented bulldog jowls that seemed at odds with his youth.
"Look! It's Don Corleone, Jr.," Maggie whispered jokingly to Derek, as the Marlon Brando look-alike stepped up to the table's corner beside the croupier. They clearly saw him give his employee a discreet nod, inviting him to continue. "He's smelled something fishy!" Maggie said sarcastically.
"It's the Codfather," Derek punned.
Maggie looked at the precept in surprise. She had never expected him to catch the meaning of Don Corleone, Jr.... Had he actually seen the Godfather, she wondered. In return, she chortled, "Another fin mess! Hope we don't find a horse's head in our bed... might be a little crowded for what I've got in mind for later." She leaned into Derek's side as she suddenly felt his hand where he would normally never place it in public, at least she hoped it was Derek's hand... in this crowd, who could tell?
"JJ's birthday's the thirtieth," Gloria announced, watching Derek for guidance. In her eyes, the precept could now do no wrong.
"I think we'll go for broke... or break the bank. All of them on thirty, Mrs. Bernard." Derek's voice expressed absolute confidence.
Maggie sensed a change in her companion. "What're you going to do?" she asked, watching every member of the pack follow Derek's lead and bet thirty. His silent response was an angelic upturn to his lips. Her tummy grumbled another warning at the bright green twinkle in his enigmatic eyes.
* * *
The wheel began its mesmeric whirl... alternating red and black spokes became the optical illusion of red and black concentric circles. The croupier released the small, white ball in the opposite direction, expecting to hear the normal rattling as it bounced and clattered round. Instead, it plopped into the no-man's land of the "ST" slot and sat there. Despite the considerable centrifugal force, the damned thing did not move.
The croupier looked in panic towards his boss, who was staring open mouthed at the wheel. This was the last time he trusted "Uncle Mario" to provide the merchandise. The wheel came to a halt with the ball firmly lodged in the "house takes all" slot.
"What the hell?" "Cheat!" "Fix!" The crowd around the table let their feelings be known, in no uncertain terms.
"That's not right!" Gloria was adamant. "It's fixed. Where's the manager?" she demanded. An irate Gloria Templeman was, indeed, a fearsome sight. Her large handbag swung in the direction of the croupier, who ducked and escaped by fractions of an inch.
"I'm the manager... Oscar J. Simpson." The man tried to maintain a convincing tone, which was not an easy feat when faced with a minor riot by his extremely wealthy and influential clientele. "I assure you everything is entirely above board," he insisted. He saw dozens of angry faces, all shouting at once, and one mad, old lady was swinging a handbag with the finesse of Wrestlemania.
"Oh, God! Not another O. J. Simpson!" a female voice cried incredulously.
Derek and Maggie had long since stepped aside to allow the melee to run its course.
"OK... let's check this wheel." A small, rotund man pressed forward at the head of a crowd that was not going to accept assurances from anyone... no matter what they called themselves. Together, several of the elegantly clad gamblers, male and female, upended the table.
"Look here! Cables!... The damned thing's rigged!" shouted a young woman in a beaded gown.
"Where's O.J.?" the round, little man bellowed. "What're you going to do about this? We've been cheated!" His face and bald head had grown so red that Derek feared that apoplexy was setting in.
The crowd was now furious and edging toward rage. They were all wealthy people... one didn't get rich, nor stay rich, by being cheated!
Oscar looked round at the sea of hostile faces.... Should he make a break for it... barricade himself in the office till things cooled down?
Suddenly an accented voice was heard above the crowd. Derek's tone was quiet and calm, but effectively carried over the hullabaloo. The commotion ceased and all eyes turned toward the precept. Maggie marveled at the force his personality could exert... only the tone of his voice and his absolute confidence in the sense of his own presence had won the day. He should have been a trial lawyer, she thought, or a politician. "Perhaps," he said, "if you'll all agree... Mrs. Bernard and I could speak with Mr. Simpson privately, in his office, to see if we can reach some sort of an accommodation."
Gloria nodded vigorously. "Good idea! You two lost the most... you oughta get first crack at da schmuck! Everybody agree?" Her tone indicated she did not expect opposition.
Derek grinned... the veneer of the sweet, little grandmother slipped occasionally... and when it did, he was glad Gloria Templeman was on his side.