| Subject: À la Vie! - Chapter 29 |
Author:
Diane
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Date Posted: Sunday, October 31, 09:50:23pm
In reply to:
Diane
's message, "À la Vie!" on Tuesday, October 19, 01:16:54am
Salla Vacek paid a rare visit to his grandson. The boy was sleeping peacefully, clutching some sort of ragged animal. Vacek made a mental note to have the servants throw it away. He was so proud. The child was one-hundred percent Vacek. He had Elena’s straight dark hair and dark eyes, and his skin was amber, not pasty white like that bastard father of his.
Yes, little Adam had no idea how fortunate he was. He was heir to the Vacek kingdom. The ambassador smiled. Even Estrella had no idea how wealthy he was. She was unaware of his “second job,” the one that was so lucrative. Laundering money for the Russians was almost too easy. Just press a few buttons here, write a few checks there, and the job was done. Of course, he would bring little Adam into the “secret” family business as soon as he was old enough. The boy was very bright—far ahead of his age group in both physical and mental abilities according to the doctors who had recently examined him.
His mother, well, Elena had been a disappointment to him. Her life revolved around shopping and parties. Where did she think her clothing allowance was coming from? She seldom saw Adam, and the day spent with him yesterday had been a disaster. Elena was definitely not maternal material. Finding Julie was a stroke of genius. Adam adored her, and she gave him the attention he so badly needed. Now, as to a father-figure. Adam must not grow up to be a sissy. Elena should marry again—provide Adam with a male role-model. He would talk to her mother tomorrow.
* * *
Carla felt ridiculous. Spying on people was not her gig, and she thought that the big, floppy hat Nikita forced her to wear drew more attention to her than it accomplished as a disguise. Per Nikita’s instructions, she had arrived at 11:45 and had requested a table near the kitchen. The maitre‘d looked at her quizzically. No one had ever requested a table close to the kitchen before. Carla just smiled.
Michael arrived five minutes early. He was seated at a table for two in the window of the restaurant. The waiter showed him a wine list, which he waved away. Michael looked at his watch. He looked up at the door every time someone walked in. At five after twelve, a petite Asian woman entered the establishment and glanced around furtively. Michael knew at once that she had to be Simone, and motioned to her. It looked like she wanted to move to a booth in the back, but Michael was holding her chair and insisted that she sit down.
Carla made her move. She grabbed the arm of a passing waiter and asked if she could possibly be moved away from the kitchen—the noise was giving her a headache. Was the table behind the gentleman in the window available? This was no problem at all, and Carla was in the perfect position to hear every word Michael said.
* * *
Marco O’Brien was thoroughly enjoying his “vacation.” He’d been to a Giants’ game, where he’d eaten four hot dogs and gotten pleasantly drunk on American beer. He couldn’t get enough of television broadcast in English, and even today, on his favorite holiday, he sat dressed in his shorts drinking beer and watching reruns of “Three’s Company” and “Soap.” He loved Benson. Didn’t take crap from anyone.
Eventually, he scratched his chest, ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, and picked up the files he had on Salla and Elena Vacek. Michael was paying him double his usual fee, not to mention flying him home for a week, and Marco felt guilty if he didn’t do *some* work He couldn’t do anything more about Salla until they returned to France. Now Elena. Her file was growing. The parties she was going to were getting wilder and wilder. He might be able to find evidence of drug use. He would check around with the modeling agencies in town to see if any of them had seen Elena on the party circuit while in France. Having accomplished that arduous task, he pulled on an old pair of cut-offs and went out in the back yard to fire up the grill. The Fourth of July wasn’t a holiday without a man-sized steak and a king-sized beer to wash it down with.
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