Groundhog Day can bring out the worst...in everyone!

LEVITTOWN LOUIE

By Kaye George

First off, Kimber's entrance to the Ground Hog Day Ball was disastrous. That damn Davis had given her a bum steer, one of the bummest she'd ever had. And she'd had some doozies.

The place was the Ritz. It was called the Hardcastle Country Club, but to Kimber it was the Ritz. She still wasn't used to the way they did things in Pennsylvania . Every once in awhile she wanted to go back to Wisconsin .

Mr. Davis McFeegle hopped out of the limo and scurried into the club. He left her standing on the sidewalk in the snow looking like a dope. At least the chauffeur had opened the door and helped her out. Good thing, too. Her skirt was so tight she could barely separate her knees. Not that she wanted to. That cold wind was whipping up some frenzied snow flakes that stung her bare legs like damn needle pricks.

And that short skirt was part of McFeegle's bum steer. She minced her way up the sidewalk and stepped into the club alone. At the end of the long hallway, lousy with huge chandeliers, music drifted out. It was fancy schmancy music, the kind you hear on public radio. She spotted the source, a little band with mostly fiddles off in the corner.

Then she noticed how all the other dames were dressed. She was the only broad there showing her legs. A lot of them were showing plenty of chest, but they all had on Cinderella ball gowns. And here she was in a short leather skirt and a really expensive, really tight cashmere sweater. Her outfit had cost Davis a bundle, but she would have thrown it back at him in a minute if she could have gotten her mitts on a ball gown right then.

So there Kimber stood, her face bright red, sweat starting to break out underneath her makeup, and Davis nowhere in sight. The bastard. Unfortunately, no hole opened up in the floor for her to drop through.

"Good evening, madam."

Kimber knew that voice. Or thought she did. She whirled around, but it wasn't Davis . And he wasn't talking to her, even though she was three feet away. He was the same height, had the same glossy black hair, but he was some other guy in a tux.

"Hi, Raymond," said the broad. "Where should I put my fur? I didn't see a cloak room on the way in."

"So glad you could make it, both of you." Raymond was a Davis look-alike. "Here, let me take it for you. We're storing them in a locked room off the foyer."

Fur Lady handed Raymond a few thousand dollars worth of dead animals and waltzed away with her escort. Not really. You couldn't waltz to that music.

Raymond whirled around to take the fur to the closet, or whatever, and practically knocked Kimber over. His grunt didn't sound a bit like 'excuse me' or 'I'm sorry, madam' or anything like that.

"Same to you, buster," she muttered after he'd disappeared.

A white-shirted waiter whizzed by with a tray, but not too fast for her to snag a

drink. She took a swig, then looked around again. It was like Kimber was an island and there was an ocean around her and everybody else was on the mainland. There were palm trees at the edges of the mainland, though, so she sashayed over next to one. There she could at least lean against the wall and wonder, what the hell was she doing here?

A couple of nearby voices drifted over to her but she didn't see anyone. The voices came from a dark hallway a few feet away. They must be in that hallway, she thought.

The lady's voice was high and thin, with a blade of hysteria slicing through. "I just can't do it anymore. I've reached the end of my rope."

The next voice was, surprise, surprise, Davis . "It'll be okay, baby. It's just until tomorrow. I promise."

"And then it'll be over?"

"Sure. No one will ever know."

"My husband can't find out. He just can't. So. Tomorrow night. You promise? I've given you so much." A little sob hiccuped on those last words.

"I have faith, my dear. You need to, too."

"But what if I can't? What then?" Her voice was rising.

"I think you know what will happen then." Kimber could tell Davis was smiling his sadistic smile. She knew that mood. When he got like that she wanted to leave him. Then he would soften up, all but his eyes, and buy her something nice.

He swept out of the hallway, into the main room, leaving the woman sobbing softly in his wake. Kimber shrank down behind the huge plant, but he wouldn't have seen her if she hadn't. He was zeroing in on a skinny old society dame across the room.

Kimber was curious about the woman in the hallway and thought maybe she should go see if she was okay, but she marched out just a minute later. Her eyes were a little red, but other than that she looked all right. She didn't give Kimber a glance.

Kimber peered through the leaves to see if she was right about Davis ' destination. Sure enough, he stopped in front of the skinny older woman in purple. He took her hand, picked it up, and kissed it. Just like a knight or something. Jesus. The woman backed up a little when he bent toward her, right in her face. It looked like he was talking real quiet, and he was smiling to beat the band, but it was his mean smile—the one that meant something bad was about to happen. Kimber knew all about that smile. She knew all his mean smiles and all his mean moods.

That poor old woman tried to pull her hand out of Davis ' paw, but he held on for dear life. She put her other hand on her bosom, like she needed to defend herself from him, and she was not smiling. No, not at all. When he finally dropped her hand, she headed right for Kimber. Kimber tried to shrink down again, but the woman saw her. Old Skinny looked mad, but gave Kimber a shocked look, like she was surprised to see such trash in a place like this. After just a split second of evil-eye glare, Old Skinny headed down the hallway.

This time Kimber peeked around the corner and figured out what was down there—the rest rooms. The door marked 'Ladies' was just closing on the old biddy.

So, Kimber asked herself, just what in the hell was Davis doing? He was enjoying himself, sure, but was that the reason he'd come here tonight? To humiliate these two women?

She watched him make the rounds. He went up to a lot of women, no men. But that was Davis for you. Some of the ladies talked to him civilly and a couple laughed, probably at one of his raunchy jokes. But several looked at Davis like he was the devil.

When she decided she had hidden behind the palm long enough, and needed another drink, Kimber moseyed on over to Davis who was hard at work on another haughty-looking skank. This one had goo smeared around her eyes so thick it looked like she'd learned to trowel on the makeup in some other decade, and never noticed nobody did it that way any more. Of course, Kimber was sure she had on too much herself, for this place, but at least she'd always avoided the raccoon look.

Kimber touched Davis ' sleeve to get his attention and got the worst shock of the evening. So far.

"Yes?" His cold eyes missed her face by about six inches. "Do I know you?"

Do I know you? DO I KNOW YOU?

Okay, buster, if that's how you want to play it.

"Oh, excuse me," she simpered. "I was looking for the gentleman that brought me here tonight. You're definitely not him. I won't bother you any more."

She couldn't suppress a little grin at the flash of shock that widened his lying eyes for the space of a blink. Kimber meant it when she said he was no gentleman and she hoped he got that. When she looked back he was watching her walk away.

She figured the 'Ladies' room would be as good a place as any to regroup. Was it ever posh! A separate room in the beginning just to sit around in. A nice couch and a couple of easy chairs with little tables next to them. Tiny vases with silk flowers had been strewn around, here and there, and a cut glass bowl of potpourri made it seem like it wasn't even right next to a bathroom.

* * *

For the fifth or sixth time Charlie asked himself, what's a PI doing at a charity do? The answer was, working. And drinking. The booze was free and flowed like water.

But what in the hell was she doing here? He did a double take at the dame. Kimber was the person he'd dreamed about during the long, lonely nights of high school. The thought of her had kept him warm on cold Wisconsin nights. Was it really her? She looked as out of place as he felt. The poor schmuck didn't belong here. But she had never dressed like a hooker when Charlie knew her.

Charlie's job tonight was to notice everyone and everything. It wasn't hard. As many people were ignoring him as were ignoring Kimber. The rest of them knew each other, and they were clumped up gossiping and impressing each other as hard as they could.

One thing Charlie had noticed, was Kimber. At first, she looked lost, but she hunkered down next to the wall for awhile, watching, just like him. Except he was leaning on the bar. And at least he had a tux on.

Should he say hi to her? Would she be embarrassed about her circumstances? Whatever they were, they didn't look like they could be good. She might be. He thought he'd better not.

He used to think he loved her, beautiful Kimber, his high school prom date back home in Wisconsin . She hadn't given a rat's ass about him, though. Charlie knew he was just a guy to escort her to the prom. That was their only date, though not for lack of Charlie's trying. She didn't look so high and mighty now. He watched her, trying to figure out what she was doing tonight. She went up to a guy in a red cummerbund once, but he shook her off like a dog shakes off water. Kimber left for the little girl's room.

Society swirled around Charlie for about a half an hour. The dance band arrived at the main door and got told to go around somewhere else. Servants' entrance, probably. When they showed up inside they were red-cheeked, stomping and dusting snow off their instrument cases. The storm outside must be getting worse, Charlie thought.

The string group finished their number and started to pack up and make their getaway. The new band climbed up onto a raised stage near the string group's corner. Charlie figured the dancing part of the ball must be about ready to begin.

Then he saw Red Cummerbund with his own client's wife, Big Bertha. Her name was actually Mary Ann, but he couldn't help picturing those Berthas on her chest every time he thought of her. Charlie had never met Mary Ann, just Norman, her husband, but he'd seen her picture.

Mary Ann had looked annoyed when Kimber's Red Cummerbund approached her, but she was willing to dance with him. The band started up with some old fogey music and several couples swung out onto the floor. Mary Ann and Red Cummerbund joined in, but he didn't stay with her very long. He flitted from one to another like a goddamn honey bee. Guy didn't know the meaning of the word 'subtle.'

Mary Ann headed for the john after her dance partner dumped her. Charlie hadn't seen Kimber come out of there. Maybe those two would meet in the bathroom. That, he'd like to see. Charlie changed his vantage point.

*****

Who did that old biddy think she was? She marched into the nice sitting room, aimed her boobs and her snotty nose at Kimber, and told her to get up because she needed the couch.

"What for?" Kimber asked. "I'm using it."

Old Biddy sniffed and went on into a stall in the next room. Bitch. After Battleaxe left the bathroom Kimber continued what she'd been doing. She had decided to get rid of His Highness Davis McFeegle. This was as good a place as any and tonight was as good a time as any. She finished her preparations and left the bathroom.

Kimber's position beside the palm was taken. At first she didn't recognize him. She hadn't seen him for about five years.

"Kimber," he said. "What in the hell are you doing here?"

"Oh my God! Charlie, is that you?" She grabbed another glass off a passing tray. Charlie let it go by.

"'Fraid so, Kimber."

"And what brings you to a Ground Hog Day Ball in PA?"

"Sh!" He looked around like there was a terrorist behind him. His voice got so low she could barely hear it over the noise of the crowd. The band was getting loud by now. That tinkly music had stopped.

"I'm on business," he whispered.

"Don't tell me you're still running that chicken shit private eye thing?"

He looked wounded. He'd been a cute guy in high school, but she didn't think he'd ever go anywhere. How the hell could he have ended up in the same town as her, way out here in Pennsylvania ?

"So," she said. "You're here for a job. And I thought I was here with this guy."

"What guy?" Charlie looked around like the guy should be right there. Maybe right beside the terrorist that wasn't there, too.

"Mr. Davis Fuckin' McFeegle, that's what guy."

Charlie reeled back a little. I guess I was too loud.

"McFeegle?"

"I wish I'd never met him, Charlie." She pointed to a whirling couple, one half of which was McFeegle with his red cummerbund. "He's the guy that was supposed to set me up. I hate him."

Charlie looked twice, then gave her a sideways look that scanned from top to bottom. Damn those tight clothes. "Set you up as what, exactly?"

"Exactly," Kimber said. "It's what you're thinking. He said he'd get me a nice apartment, nice clothes, and we could go out to nice places. Like this. This is a nice place. But look at my clothes, Chuck." She ran a hand down her leather skirt. "This isn't a gown. It's not what I'm supposed to wear here." She opened her bag to touch up her lipstick before her next drink.

"Well, I guess you're right." Charlie was wearing a tux, but it was a little raggedy around the edges.

That Raymond guy, the greeter, came up to Charlie and asked if he needed a drink, but Charlie didn't want one. Old Ray left before he offered a drink to Kimber.

"What, are you on the wagon, Chuck?"

"No, just on a job tonight." He looked like he'd had a few already anyway. Smelled like it, too. He knocked Kimberly's purse out of her hand accidentally. Clumsy oaf! She was relieved her gun hadn't fallen out when half her junk spilled onto the floor.

"Sorry, Kimber," he said. It was nice he stuffed the contents back in and handed it back to her. She didn't want to bend over.

"What a hick I am," Kimber said. " Davis knows I'm fresh from Wisconsin . I guess I should have figured out that you don't wear a short skirt when the guy is wearing a tux.

"Hey Kimber, good to see you again. I gotta go. I should be working." He took off like he was embarrassed being seen with her. Maybe he was. Okay, probably he was.

*****

Holding up the bar again, Charlie couldn't get the mysterious Kimber off his mind. She'd sunk so far, there wasn't much farther to go. That was wrong, he knew. There are a lot of places lower. But Kimber! The gal voted Most Likely To Do Whatever She Wants To Do senior year of high school. There she was, moving around the edges of the crowd, tipsy. One dame gave her a dirty look and swished her hem out of the way when Kimber's drink sloshed onto her red satin gown. To think that he had panted after the beautiful Kimber like a puppy dog for most of high school.

She'd known about his PI business tonight. That surprised him. She must have kept in touch with some of his old friends. The guys back home knew he'd gotten into this racket. Had she asked about him? Dream on, Charlie. No one else ever called him Chuck. She had called him Chuck that one night they went out. The night that Charlie had thought would be the beginning of something.

It really was kind of a chicken shit business, though. His dad always talked about Charlie joining the family law firm, Smythe, Smythe, and Smythe. In fact, the third Smythe was supposed to be him. The other two were Dad and Uncle Jake. Charlie barely made it through college and had no desire to spend another three years in academia. No sir, the real world for him. Excitement, own your own business, be your own boss. Take on dreary little case after dreary little case. Learn just how sordid your fellow man could be. Pretty damn sordid, he found out.

If he could just catch a break, a really big case for a loaded client, he'd be able to go back home and parade around in a sports car and Italian shoes. Make the Smythe family proud.

Charlie's client, Norman Andersen walked by the bar and tried to casually come upon Charlie. Charlie had to tell him he didn't have any info yet. Norman looked annoyed at the news and ordered a vodka martini. It spilled onto Norman 's hand when the barkeep gave it to him. Norman pulled his jacket back to get a handkerchief out and wipe the vodka off his cuff. Charlie did a double take, then leaned into Norm, like he was off balance. He wanted to make sure of something.

It was time to make a trip to the crapper. A guy can only hold so much liquor. So he headed toward the side hallway that led to the johns, but he was only partway there when the lights dimmed once, twice, and the drummer played a riff.

He looked around. A skinny platinum blonde trophy, weighted down with enough diamonds to anchor her in a stiff breeze, was on the stage sticking one of the band's mikes up to her face.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said in her little girl voice. "In a moment we'll welcome Mr. Raymond Faulkner, the Master of Ceremonies for the Annual Groundhog Ball. It's just about time for the appearance of our own Groundhog, Levittown Louie. Not to be confused with that imposter, Punxsutawney Phil."

General tittering and a few guffaws. Most of the crowd shuffled toward the stage and all eyes were on her.

The blonde babe threw a glance over toward the dim hallway where Charlie was headed. Standing just around the corner was a galoot wearing a matted fur groundhog costume, minus the head. The Faulkner guy held the head and was trying to get it onto him. A few others were milling around in that corner, watching. Charlie spied McFeegle, Red Cummerbund, Kimber's Sugar Daddy, coming out of the Gents' at the end of the hall.

A couple of waiters had wheeled in a contraption that looked like a second grade paper mache attempt at a volcano. About eight feet high, with an opening at the top. Charlie hadn't seen it come in. Eagle-eye Charlie Smythe, that was him. He edged over to it and peeked around behind. It was only the front half of a volcano, with a ladder in the back so someone could climb up and stick his head out the top. He got it—a groundhog burrow. Old Louie was going to come out the top. Or not. Isn't that how Groundhog Day went?

Not quite ready, folks," trilled the baby doll with the mike." Louie's head was on. "Bear with us just a—ah, here we are. Drum roll and lights, please."

The room went black and the snare started rattling. Just before the lights were doused, Charlie had caught a glimpse of Louie moving toward the burrow and Faulkner tailing after to help him climb up. The drum roll got louder. Louder. Pow. That noise wasn't a drum. It was a gunshot.

Screams. Scuffling. Shouts. The lights came on.

Raymond Faulkner lay in a pool of blood beside the burrow. Baby Doll, the dame with the microphone, screeched. Damn, was that loud! The guy in the ridiculous groundhog costume popped out the top of the burrow, saw Faulkner below, then toppled in a dead faint and slid down the side of the thing to land on top of the body. Louie's big fur head rolled off, through the widening puddle. Charlie was riveted to his spot beside the palm.

"Someone call Nine One One," several people shouted.

Norman Andersen, Charlie's client, stepped forward. "Everyone stay where you are. No one move. The cops will be here in a minute."

But they weren't. The Country Club usually got good service from local law enforcement, but tonight the storm had closed most of the roads. Some yahoo got in touch with the Police Chief, who said someone would be out as soon as they could, but couldn't promise a time.

*****

They waited an hour.

After the 911 call Charlie strolled out to the front, thinking maybe it was time for him to leave. Damn. The snow was half way up the glass doors. No way anyone was going to leave here soon. He could just imagine how long it would take to get a cop car up here, too.

The natives were getting restless and they were all sick of seeing Faulkner on the floor. He'd stopped bleeding, but the pool of blood was huge. Nobody had tried to revive him. One look had told them he was past help. The side of his face was gone and some of his brains had fallen into the blood.

The groundhog guy had come around and shed his costume, but he still looked a little green.

Charlie didn't see what he'd done with the head. Sugar Daddy McFeegle had gotten some brain goo on his cummerbund and ran back to the john to clean himself up. Maybe to heave, too. Charlie knew he would have.

Five men across the room stood talking for twenty minutes or so, then Andersen, Charlie's client, broke away from them and came over to him.

"Charlie," he said. "We've got to do something."

"Like what, Mr. Andersen?" He didn't like to be called Norman, or even Norm. Not by Charlie anyway.

"Let's see if we can question the suspects."

"I'm not sure they'd go for that, Mr. Andersen. Exactly who do you think the suspects are?"

"Well, well…" Norman blustered, but didn't have any answers.

Charlie did, though. Norm was a prime candidate. He'd hired Charlie to find out who was blackmailing his wife, Mary Ann a.k.a. Big Berthas. He hadn't found out anything for sure yet, but maybe someone else had. Maybe someone had told Norm the blackmailer was Raymond.

Was Norm where he could have shot Raymond when the lights went out? Charlie couldn't remember. Charlie had caught a glimpse of a revolver, tucked into Norman 's cummerbund, when he got that hanky out at the bar earlier. And now, being considerate and not wanting to get his client into trouble, Charlie bumped against Norm and lifted the piece. Charlie made it down to the Gents when people started moving around.

When Norm had worked up enough steam to blow his gasket, there was a commotion up front. Somehow a pair of cops had gotten a car through to the club.

Charlie knew the older one. Didn't much care for him, but he knew him. They had a cautious mutual respect for each other. The young guy, though, the short one that looked like his voice hadn't changed yet, was new to Charlie.

"I'm Detective Helme," the guy Charlie knew announced to the room. "And this is Officer Prince." He pointed to the baby cop. The cops could see what the problem was right away. It still lay there in its puddle, which was starting to get sticky. The brains looked fresh, though.

"Has anyone touched anything?" Sure enough, the baby cop's voice hadn't quite finished changing. He squeaked when he talked.

"Well, harumph, under the circumstances…" Norman blustered, but Helme cut him off and spun around to Charlie. "What happened here?"

Charlie gave him everything he'd seen happen before the lights went out, except Norman 's peacemaker. He made sure Helme knew that Levittown Louie had fallen smack in the middle of the crime scene as soon as the lights came back on. The Little Prince told everyone to move to the other side of the room and Helme went over to what used to be Raymond Faulkner, bent down, and studied the evidence without touching anything.

"Prince," Helme barked, still squatting, "Get Crime Scene up here."

"If they can get here," muttered the little guy. "Yes, sir," he said, loud enough to reach over to Helme.

The two set up shop in the corner where the fiddles had played, grabbing a couple of the folding chairs the orchestra had left. Helme pushed one open for himself and used one for a hot seat. Prince herded the party goers over to him, one at a time, so Helme could hear all their stories, one at a time. Charlie was one of the last ones called over.

When Charlie's turn came, he and Helme sat and looked at each other without speaking for a good half minute. Helme's bored expression during Charlie's recital told Charlie that everyone else had seen more or less the same events. Except for the butt of a pistol, jammed down into the dirt of the potted palm, the plant where he'd talked to Kimber.

Helme perked up when Charlie told him that part.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

Charlie shrugged.

"Is it yours?" he snapped.

Charlie did his best to return Helme's stony look. He wouldn't even dignify that with an answer.

"Did you handle it, Charlie?"

"Course not. I'm not an idiot." Not idiot enough to tell you if I did.

He gave Charlie a look that said his jury was still out on that. "Who did you tell about it?"

"No one, Helme." Charlie was getting tired of his attitude.

"That's Detective Helme." He got up and went over to the palm, stared down at it, then came back and paced around in the corner, thinking what to do next, Charlie guessed, and giving Charlie dirty looks every third or fourth pass.

"Are we through here?" he said finally.

"Wait just a minute, Charlie." Helme paced some more, then settled back onto the metal chair, clanging his belt equipment on it. "You got any ideas? None of these bozos are gonna confess tonight, that's for sure. What are you doing here anyway? This doesn't look like your kind of gig."

"I have a client here tonight."

He leaned in toward Charlie. "Who is it?"

"Aw, Helme. I can't tell you that."

Helme's frown could scare the pants off a felon. But it couldn't get his client's name out of Charlie.

"Okay. Go on."

"I was supposed to figure out who was blackmailing my client's wife. He'd intercepted a message that the guy was going to be here tonight, wanting a payment."

"What's the blackmail for?"

"Nothing criminal. It's for sleeping with the wife. The little lady must have seen her nice life style, married to moneybags, going down the toilet if Romeo blabbed, and was trying to buy her way out of a mess she'd made."

"And Faulkner was the blackmailer?"

"You got me."

"Huh? Then why was he shot? Who shot him?"

"I don't know that either." And he didn't for sure. Yet. "But I think I know whose gun it is."

After Charlie told him, Helme shook his head and flapped a hand at Charlie for dismissal. But before he got out of the chair, Helme's cell phone rang. He fished it out of his shirt pocket and waved Charlie away again. He got up as slowly as he could and managed to hear enough to know that CSI wasn't going to make it up here tonight. Ran off the road and got stuck in snow bank. Looked like they all might have to spend the night.

Someone had turned on outdoor spots and the huge windows that looked out on the golf course showed a Christmas card, snow globe scene.

Charlie returned to the other side of the room, joining the rest of the jostling, muttering crowd. For all their high dollar eau de toilet, the place was beginning to stink of sweat.

He had been half-way serious before, thinking Raymond was the blackmailer. And it was good he got the cops thinking in that direction. But another scenario made a lot more sense.

McFeegle. He'd heard a lot about McFeegle but hadn't personally run into him before. McFeegle had gotten around tonight. If the guy was blackmailing every dame he pestered, then he was blackmailing every other woman in the joint. McFeegle could be building up a pretty nice Swiss account. Every dame he'd come up to tonight looked like she'd seen a snake. If he was right, Charlie thought he could use this to his advantage.

*****

The two cops whispered in the corner for five, ten minutes. Then the shrimp came to the middle of the room.

"Okay, listen up, folks," shouted Prince.

Kimber laughed at his scratchy voice, but clapped her hand over her mouth when both cops glared at her.

Prince jumped up onto the stage and used the microphone. "Everyone stay on that side of the room." He could be heard now and the ball attendees gave him their attention. "There's going to be a search."

The crowd buzzed.

"Quiet!" The pipsqueak yelled.

Kimber plugged her ears. Jesus! He was using a mike. Didn't have to bust their eardrums.

They split up the men and women. Kimber felt herself shunned by the perfectly dressed and coifed country club members.

A fat guy was called over first and the old cop patted him down.

"Excuse me," one of the younger bitches shouted. "I require a woman. I can't be searched by a male."

Helme stabbed her with his steely glare. "Look, lady. Me and Officer Prince are the only ones here." He called Prince over and, after they discussed it for a minute, Prince got that damn mike again and screamed, "We'll search all the men first. If we haven't found anything, we'll have to start on the women."

You would've thought those dames were going to be stripped naked in front of the whole room the way they whined. The cops ignored them and started in on the men. It was kind of interesting to watch. Helme did the pat downs. They didn't take more than five seconds, and he looked like he touched every place on every body. He was a whiz. Kimber watched Charlie get searched when his turn came. The cop's phone rang and Charlie left.

Then the big cop waved the last guy over, one of the old geezers. They took him to the palm plant and pointed down. The geezer went white as the snowdrifts outside.

The room went silent.

"Can you explain this?" Helme's voice was soft. Lethal. But Kimber could hear it from across the room.

"The geezer's voice was louder. "No…I mean…I never saw it before."

"Are we gonna find out this gun is registered to you, Andersen?" Helme snarled.

All the geezer could do was stare at the pot and shake his head.

When Prince whipped out a pair of plastic cuffs and snapped them around his fat wrists he came to life.

"You can't do this. I didn't shoot anyone." He shook his head and the combination of spit and sweat that flew off him was visible from where Kimber was. This was the most interesting thing that had happened all night.

Prince piped up. "We think you did."

Helme snarled at him and he backed away. He turned back to Andersen and read him his rights. "We'll have to take you into custody tonight," Helme said, "as soon as we can get out of here. You'll be held until the scene is processed. If we don't find incriminating evidence, we'll let you go without charges."

"But I didn't shoot anyone! You can't do that!"

*****

Charlie looked out the huge window wall, where a couple of the men were pointing. The snow had stopped. No one had noticed when, but the night was clear and cold now. A backup car arrived about a half hour after Andersen was cuffed. He hadn't stopped blubbering and ranting.

Helme and Prince told the crowd they could all go. As everyone left the ballroom, Prince pulled yellow tape across the entryway. That confirmed it, CSI was going to wait for morning.

Charlie breathed a sigh of relief and allowed himself a tiny grin. It was going to work. Charlie would have plenty of time. The lab would eventually find out Norm's gun hadn't killed the guy, but they'd probably let Norm go when they didn't find any gunshot residue on his hands at the station.

That would give Charlie a chance to convince Norm he'd better head out of the country before they changed their minds. He thought he could pull the wool to the extent that Norm would think his freedom depended on Charlie's silence about the blackmail. Hell, Charlie could most likely convince Norm that Ray was the blackmailer. Which would be another nail in Norm's coffin.

Norm would have just enough time to write Charlie a nice fat check before he expatriated. Not that Norm couldn't write fat checks from whatever island he ended up on.

A good night's work. Charlie had protected his client, in his own way, and ensured his own future. Life was good. Even if Levittown was getting six more weeks of winter.

*****

Kimber watched the pitiful, blubbering old guy being led away. Charlie had a smug look on his face. The way he'd been conferring with the cops, he must have put them onto the poor slob. She'd have to thank him for that somehow.

She gave Charlie a wink and blew him a kiss as she left. She'd make sure the gun that shot the guy, Raymond, was deep in some icy water tonight.

And next time she wouldn't miss McFeegle.