Part 18

We caught up with them just as Shortstuff was turning to back into the room and drag the wheelchair and Pops in after him. He stopped when we skidded to a halt in front of them and smirked. “Well, hello, dolls! Gimme a minute to get Pops squared away and we can see about maybe doing a little horizontal Charleston.” Persistant? My dear, you have no idea.

Joe smiled sweetly. “You know, they say that many hands make light work.” He bent over and pinched one wrinkled cheek. “Would you like me to give you a hand, Pops?”

The old goat winked at him. “Depends on where ya want to put it, cutie.”

I looked at Shortstuff. “Is he your grandfather, or something? I think I see a family resemblence.”

“Great minds think alike, doll,” he leered as he dragged the wheelchair back into the room. He whispered to the old duffer, “Ya see? That ten spot you slipped me ain’t going to waste. I told you I’d introduce you to some hot dames.”

In the room Joe pushed the bellhop aside and took over the chair. We were in a suite, and he pushed it toward the bedroom, saying, “C’mon. I’ll show you a time I promise that you will never forget.”

“Hey!” protested the kid. “What about me?”

I grabbed his collar. “Yeah. What about you?”

He frowned. “I thought I saw you going around with one of those millionaires.”

“I was, but you have something I need.”

Now he grinned. “I get it. So, the old guy wasn’t man enough for you, huh?” I shrugged, running my hands over his shoulders. It was going to be a tight fit. “Well, doll, do you think that you’re woman enough for me?”

“Now that's an interesting question. Tell me...” I purred, “have you ever fantasized about a woman overpowering you and molesting you?” His mouth dropped open. “Mm, well, I can sort of provide half of the experience, anyway.”

I might have been wearing high heels and panties, but I still had a good right cross, and the kid wasn’t expecting it. I hit him on the button, and he went beddy-by. I’ve had a lot of experience at getting clothes off a man, though usually they're conscious (if they’re dead drunk, I don’t bother. I’ve never been interested in necrophilia.)

When he was out I quickly stripped him. Oh, not entirely. I left him his undies. I’d gotten used to the panties, so I kept them. I hated to sacrifice my stockings (real silk, you know), but I had to tie the bellhop up somehow. I used one of my falsies to gag him. If he realized, he’d probably get a kick out of it, I think.

I’d just managed to wiggle into the uniform (wishing that I had used a girdle) when Joe came out of the bedroom, pushing the wheelchair. He was dressed in the old guy’s suit, with his hat on his head. “I’ll have to whack a chunk off that racoon coat on the coat rack for a fake beard.”

“You were careful tieing up the old guy, weren’t you?”

“I didn’t bother.”

“Joe, look, I’m as tenderhearted as the next guy, but...”

“Relax, he won’t be doing anything but snoring for the next few hours.”

“You didn’t pop him on the noggin?”

“Nope.”

“Well, how can you be sure he’ll...” Joe had pulled a handkerchief and was wiping off what was left of some very smeared lipstick. “Oh.” I smiled. “You old softy.”

He shrugged. “He’s a nice old coot. Stuff yourself into that uniform and let’s blow.”

A few minutes later we emerged from the elevator into the lobby. Joe was doddering in the wheelchair, Panama hat pulled low, dark glasses on his nose, and chin covered by racoon. We moved into the lobby with grave dignity...

to find that Spats and his henchment were posted at strategic points around the lobby. There wasn't much choice--every possible exit was covered. It would have been too conspicuous to change directions, so I kept going--right past Spats.

He glanced at us casually as we started past. Then he cocked his head, frowning, as if he heard something odd. I listened, and heard an odd clacking sound. I looked down at about the same time as Spats did. You remember I told you that the uniform was a tight fit? Well, Shortstuff had teeny, tiny, itty, bitty feet. I'm not exactly Sasquatch, but I'm no Cinderella, either. I hadn't been thinking too clearly when we lammed out of the upstairs room. All I'd been thinking was that I couldn't go barefoot, so there I was... wearing high heels.

Spats made a gesture to the two goons covering the front door, and they started to close in on us. I smoothly spun the chair around and started trundling it toward the rear of the lobby. The other henchment took up the chase.

I managed to get us down a corridor. Joe hopped out. As the goons started down the hall I ran that wheelchair at them like it was a twelve pound ball and they were ten pins. I don't like to brag, but I'm a pretty good bowler, and I made a good hit. I managed to knock down three of the five, but I didn't try for a spair. Joe and I ducked into an open door at our end of the hall.

We shut the door and hung on to it. There was the pounding of footsteps, and someone tried the door from the other side, but we held the door knob frozen. Someone yelled, "It's locked. They musta went that way." and they pounded off around a bend in the hall that had been just past the door.

We turned, and were confronted by the biggest damn cake I'd ever seen. I'm telling you, that baby could've done for a dozen weddings, a church social, five PTA meetings, and high tea with the royal court. It stood almost chest high. Two guys wearing convention tags were decorating it under the watchful eye of the guy who'd been doing most of the frisking in the lobby the other day. One of the guy's was just finishing an inscription that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SPATS. I was surprised. A birthday party for Spats? I'd kinda thought that he'd been hatched.

As they all looked up at us, we scooted across the room and out the other door. Once there we paused, panting and trying to get our bearings. It was some sort of banquet room. There was a huge U shaped table, covered with flowers, and having about thirty place settings. There was a half grapefruit on each plate. The cheapskates. You'd have thought that they'd have at least sprung for fruit cup. The banner on the wall behind the head table welcomed the Friends of Italian Opera. Culture lovers.

We headed for the main entrance, but it started to swing open as we approached it. I heard voices. We turned toward the second door, but that was opening, too. Well, there was nowhere else to go. We went under the banquet table.

Ya know, I've had a fantasy or two involving some guy under a draped table, and all the interesting things he could get up to. Believe me, at that moment I had no desire to indulge in any of those interesting activities. We managed to dodge under the tablecloth just as all the mugs that had been shaken down in the lobby the previous day trooped in. They were all in tuxedos or white dinner jackets, which just goes to prove that a baboon in a tux or dinner jacket is still a baboon.

They babbled... excuse me, chatted amiably as they took their places at the tables. Feet and legs started to appear all over the place. Suddenly a pair of legs appeared right in front of us, and we jerked back so quick that we almost backed out the other side of the table. The feet attached to those legs were encased in the most beautiful spats. Ick. Spats Colombo. And those two pairs of legs appearing on either side had to be his goons.

The identity was confirmed when we heard Spats say, "What happened?"

"Me and Tiny, we had them cornered, but we lost 'em in the shuffle."

"What? Well, where were you guys?"

A different voice answered, "Us? We was with you at Rigoletto's."

"Why, you stupid..." China rattled, and there was a squish--the sound of a grapefruit half being screwed into someone's face. Spats saw entirely too many movies.

The first henchmen said, "It's all right, boss. We'll get 'em after the banquet. They can't be too far away." Under the table, Joe and I exchanged panicky looks.

There was a burst of applause, and I heard calls of "Bonapart! Little Bonapart!

Eep! As if things weren't enough, we now had the head crime boss of America in the room. I remembered what Little Bonapart looked like--short, bald, vicious, and he wore a hearing aid. I don't know why they were having a banquet with him--he was enough to put anyone off their food.

I noticed that Spats and his boys were pointedly not clapping. On the other side I heard someone stage whisper, "Boney's still kinda sad about what happened to old Toothpick Charlie. Ya know, he got his last toothpick an' had it gold plated." Spats' shoes shifted angrily.

Everybody who'd stood up sat back down, except Bonapart, who remained standing. He said, "Thank you, fellow opera-lovers. It's been ten years since I elected myself president of this organization. If I say so myself, you made the right choice. Let's look at the record. We have fought off the crackpots who want to repeal Prohibition and destroy the American home by bringing the corner saloon into it by allowing cheap--I mean casual drinking. We have helped end endangerment to public health by stamping out those fly-by-night jokers who used to brew gin in their own bathtubs, a very unsanitary practice."

Oh, I don't know. A little Bon Ami, a good rinse...

"We have made a real contribution to national prosperity. We help the auto industry by buying all those trucks, the glass industry by using all those bottles, and the steel industry by using all those... all those... uh. Hey, corkscrews are made out of steel, right?" There was a murmur of assent. "All those corkscrews." His voice boomed out with self satisfied confidence. "What's good for the country is good for us. In the last fiscal year our income was a hundred and twelve million dollars, before taxes..." I scooped my jaw up off the floor. "...only we ain't paying no taxes." Applause. Hell, I was tempted to clap myself.

"Of course, like in every business, we've had our little misunderstandings. Let us now rise and observe one minute of silence in memory of seven of our members from Chicago-North Side Chapter-who are unable to be with us tonight on account of being croaked in a most heinous manner."

All the delegates shuffled to their feet--except Spats and his boys. I heard Bonapart say sharply, "You too, Spats. Up!" They stood up, but you could tell by the way they moved that they were about as enthusiastic as someone volunteering for unaenesthetized root canal surgery.

After a minute, everyone sat back down except Bonapart. Boy, that old coot must've had iron feet. He said, "Now, fellow delegates, there comes a time in the life of every business executive when he starts to think about retirement." There were protesting cries, but Bonapart continued. "In looking around for somebody to fill my shoes, I've been considering several candidates. For instance, there is a certain party from Chicago--South Side chapter." Spats shuffled. "Now some people say he's gotten a little too big for his spats, but I say he's a man who'll go far. Some people say he's already gone too far, but I say you can't keep a good man down. Of course, he still has a lot to learn. That big noise he made on St. Valentine's Day--that wasn't very good for public relations." The voice got ominous. "And letting those two witnesses get away, that was careless." I swallowed hard, and tried to curl up in a ball, as tiny as possible.

Spats said, "Don't worry about those two guys, they're as good as dead. I almost caught up with them today."

I heard a squeal of feedback. Bonapart had turned up his hearing aid. "You mean you let them get away twice? Tsk tsk. Some people would say that was real sloppy, but I say to err is human, to forgive, divine. And you, Spats... The boys told me you was having a birthday." His voice was jovial. Reminded me kinda of a jolly rattlesnake. "So we baked you a little cake?"

Spats sounded irritated and puzzled. "My birthday? It ain't for another four months."

"So we're a little early. So what's a few months between friends? All right, boys, all together." They started singing.

"For he's a jolly good fellow..." What? No 'Happy Birthday'? "For he's a jolly good fellow! For he's a jolly good fellow, that nobody can deny!"

The lights went out. I heard the door we'd come in swing open, and there was a soft glow from that direction. Candles, I thought. They were starting on the second chorus. "For he's a jolly good fellow. For he's a jolly good fellow..."

I was thinking. Huge cake, convention, miss-timed birthday celebration, pissed off mobsters, sub-machine guns... I clutched Joe's arm.

"For he's a jolly good fellow! That nobody can deny..."

I'd never heard the top of a hollow cake flip off, but somehow it was impossible to mistake. Then there was the unmistakable chatter of a tommygun, and the legs of Spats and his boys started jerking and jumping like someone trying to do the Charleston to music that was strictly percussion.

I heard Spats gasp, "Big joke!" Then he came sliding out of his chair, under the table.

Joe gasped, "Let's get out of here!" I didn't make any objection when he grabbed my arm and hauled me out from under the table. The goons were all watching the guy with the tommy gun climb the rest of the way out of the cake, and were just distracted enough for us to make it to the pantry door. Only Bonapart, the rat, was paying attention, and he yelled, "Get those two guys!"

As we lammed it out the pantry door, with delegates starting to follow us, the big Irish cop came in the other side and spotted what was left of Spats and his boys. "What happened to them?"

Little Bonapart said mildly. "There was something in that cake that didn't agree with them."

As I ran, I heard Mulligan grunt, "My compliments to the chef, and no one leaves this room till I get the recipe."

We hot footed it into the back corridor and up the back stairs. Don't ask me how we managed to lose them in the upstairs hallways. All I know is that I get sick just thinking about hedge mazes and funhouses. We must've stopped back by the old coot's room at some point, because the next thing I knew we were coming out of the elevator into the lobby, wearing our wigs and clutching girls' coats around us.

We minced daintily toward the front door, then veered off when a couple of delegates came toward us. Another couple came down the stairs, and they conferred. "They slipped right through our hands."

"Don't worry. We got our guys watching the railroad station, the airport, the roads... They can't get away."

We were hiding behind a potted palm. I whispered to Joe, "Did you hear that?"

He countered, "Yeah, but they're not watching yachts. Come on. You're going to call Osgood."

He was steering me toward a row of telephone booths near the entrance to the ballroom. I was protesting. "But Joe! I don't want to get Osgood mixed up in this. He's such a sweet, decent guy."

"So? We're sweet, decent guys." I stared at him. "Okay, so you're a sweet, decent guy. He wouldn't want you to get rubbed out, would he?"

"Well, no, I suppose not. Even if he knew who I was, he's so nice that..." A goon walked past, and we held our breaths till he was gone. I sighed. "I hate to deceive him, but okay. What do I tell him?"

"Tell him you're going to elope with him."

"Elope? But there are laws--conventions."

Joe jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the mobster teeming lobby. "I got your convention right here. There's also a ladies' morgue."

He shoved me into the booth, and I groped in my bellhop uniform pants for a nickle. It would be just my luck if the little lecher didn't have one, but he did. As I plucked it out, Joe heard singing coming from the ballroom. I recognized it. It was Sugar, singing 'Am I Blue?'. She sounded both definitely blue, and not a little drunk. Joe drifted over and stared into the room at her.

I didn't pay too much attention, because right about then I got Osgood on the line. He said cheerily, "Hello, this is Osgood Fielding the third, also known as the luckiest man in the world."

I felt like I was going to cry. I managed to make my voice chipper. "Hello, is this the naughty boy?"

"Daphne!" Oh, I can't tell you the emotion he put into that one word. One little tear did escape from my eye, but I ruthlessly chased it down and wiped it away. "Darling, thank you for calling me. I was just thinking of you." His voice lowered suggestively. "Naughty thoughts, I'm afraid."

"You're incorrigible, bless you. Osgood, you know how we were talking abou a June wedding?"

"Yes. Mother is thrilled. She's always wanted to hold a ceremony in our rose garden. She's talking about importing some swans for the ornamental pond."

"I've changed my mind. I want to elope."

"What? Elope? But Daphne, you said you had your heart set on at least six attendants in seafoam green chiffon. They'd make such a lovely backdrop for you."

"Well, you know what a madcap, free spirited thing I am, Osgood. I want to run away with you to a justice of the peace. Your mother can throw us a big party later if she wants."

"Well... You're sure you...?"

I lowered my voice to a growl. "Osgood, I do not want to wait four months to be with you! I want you now!"

There was a moment of silence, then a soft, reverential, "Zowie! Daphne, you're a tigress."

"Roar. Meet me on the pier as soon as you can, Tarzan." I made a juicy kissing sound, and was about to hang up, then paused. I said, quietly, "I love you, Osgood." Then I hung up.

As I stepped out of the booth, I saw Joe start down the little flight of steps into the ballroom, an intent look on his face. I followed, and witnessed him walk up to Sugar, who was singing her little Polish heart out, grab her, and kiss her.

Sugar gasped, "Josephine!"

Sweet Sue dropped her baton and screamed, "Bienstock!" as all the muscicians in the band stopped playing on various screeching notes.

From my position I could see Bienstock at the registration desk, peering toward us myoptically. Two of the delegates came up behind us and peered past me into the ballroom. One of them pointed and said loudly, "Hey! That's no dame!" They started to rush over. Things began to happen very, very... Have you ever watched one of the Keystone Kops comedies? That fast.

On the bandstand I watched in amazement as Joe tenderly brushed a tear off Sugar's cheek. Well, I'll be... Did he actually care for her? In his normal voice he said, "None of that, Sugar. No man is worth it." Joe saw the approaching goons. He kissed Sugar again, jumped off the bandstand, and began pushing through the crowd back to me.

Over the crowd I saw Sugar touch her mouth and say, "Josephine?" Then sudden understanding dawned in her eyes. After all, she'd taught someone to kiss just like that. I saw her stare at the bracelet on her wrist.

As Joe raced up to me I said, "It's all fixed. Osgood is meeting us on the pier."

"We're not on the pier yet." He grabbed my hand and we took off, goons in hot pursuit, back toward the back corridore. We made it into the banquet room, only to find a couple of ambulance attendants draping a sheet over a figure lying on a wheeled stretcher. They turned away to begin packing up various instruments, and Joe and I looked at each other, then sneaked toward the stretcher.

Ugh. The feet sticking out from under the sheet wore spats. Well, since Spats was responsible for us being in this jam, we saw no reason why he shouldn't get us out of it. It was a tight fit, but we both managed to squeeze under the sheet.

When they started to wheel it out, we duck walked along, hidden by the hanging sheet. Out in the lobby, we passed by a group of shoes that were too shiny and too pointy to belong to anyone except gangsters, and we heard someone mumble, "Take your hats off! Show some respect." Well, I didn't respect him, and I wasn't about to tip my wig.

The shoes continued back, and we waddled forward. When we got near the entrance we slipped out and hared it. I didn't think anyone saw us, but neither of us were about to dwaddle and look.

We ran all the way to the pier--not an easy feat in high heels, but I was motivated. When we scrambled down the stairs to the dock, Osgood was waiting for us. Waiting for me. That sweet basset hound face lit up like he'd just been given all his birthday and Christmas presents for his entire life at once. Boy, did I feel like a heel.

As we panted up to him I pointed at Joe. "This is my friend, Josephine. She's going to be my bridesmaid."

Osgood tipped his cap, like the gentleman he was. "Pleased to meet you."

"Don't be. She's a slut." I grabbed his arm. "Come on." I dragged him down the stairs to the motor boat.

Osgood grinned and winked at Joe. "She's such an eager little thing!"

As we climbed into the front seat, I heard honking. I looked up. "Osgood, do geese migrate down here for the winter?"

"I don't think that's geese, lambchop. It sounds like a horn to me."

Just as he said that a bicycle came flying down the boardwalk, bumped down the stairs, and whooshed along the pier. Three guesses as to the rider. I'll give you three hints--blonde hair, not too much occupying the space under it, and she bounced like nobody's business when she came down those stairs.

Joe had climbed into the back seat. He froze as we all heard the shout, "Wait! Wait for Sugar!"

As she hurried toward us, Osgood looked at me and said, "Another bridesmaid?"

"Uh... flower girl."

Osgood started the motor as Sugar flew down the steps and started to climb into the back seat. Joe squawked, "Sugar, what do you think you're doing?"

She replied cheerily, "I told you--I'm not too bright."

Agreeing completely, I shrugged and slapped Osgood on the shoulder. "Let's go." He roared off.

On the backseat Joe removed his coat and wig. "You don't want me, Sugar. I'm a liar..." I nodded. "and a phony." I nodded again.

When he paused I contributed, "And a saxophone player. One of those no-goodniks you've been running away from, Sugar." I could see how things were going, but I didn't want the kid to say she hadn't been adequitely warned.

She shrugged. "I know." She smacked her forehead. "Every time!"

I half turned. "Sugar, listen to him. Do yourself a favor. Go back to where the millionaires are. Get the sweet end of the lollipop, not the cole slaw in the face and the old socks and the squeezed out tube of toothpaste."

Joe glared at me, but sighed and looked back at Sugar. "Yeah, what Jer said."

"That's it, pour it on!" Sugar wrapped her arms around his neck. "Talk me out of it." As she said this, she threw him back on the seat, falling on top of him.

I went eyes front. I had no desire to witness heterosexual congress. A person has to have some boundaries.

Osgood was steering us toward the yacht, staring straight ahead. sigh He was so cute in his skipper's hat. He said, "I called Mama, and you don't have to worry about her being upset. She was so happy she cried. She wants you to have her own honeymoon negligee. It's white lace. You'll be beautiful in it--but you're always beautiful."

I steeled myself. "Osgood--I can't wear your mother's negligee. She and I--we're not built the same."

"We can have it altered."

I tried to be firm. "Oh, no you don't! Look, Osgood--you're a great guy, and I'm going to level with you. We can't get married at all."

He didn't sound upset. "Why not?"

Actually, I was a little hurt that he didn't sound sad or angry. "Well, to begin with, I'm not a natural blonde."

Osgood shrugged tolerantly. "It doesn't matter. How many times these days do the drapes match the rug?"

I gaped at him. "Did they teach you that at prep school?" He chuckled. All right--I smoke. I smoke all the time."

"I don't care."

Uh oh. Time to break out the big guns. "I have a terrible past. For three years now I've been living with a saxophone player." I wiggled my eyebrows. "Cohabiting."

He gave me a warm look that made my insides melt. "I forgive you."

And he did. I could tell. He believed what I told him, and it really didn't matter. And I was trying to get rid of this man? I made my voice tragic. "I can never have children."

"We'll adopt some."

I was at the end of my rope. Wasn't there anything that would make this sweet man reject me? Well, when all else fails, try honesty. "But you don't understand why I can never have children." I ripped off my wig and said in my normal voice, "I'm a man." I waited. I wasn't sure what to expect--screams, curses, possibly a collision with the yacht, followed by my being forced to walk the plank.

What happened was that Osgood looked over at me. He smiled, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and there was not a speck of surprise or confusion in is eyes as he said softly, "Well, nobody's perfect."

You remember how earlier in the story I told you that my name now is different from what it was then, and declined to explain? Well, now you know why. I'm Mrs. Osgood Fielding the third, affectionately known to our social set as Daffy (short for Daphney, natch). I have a reputation for being a bit madcap, given my tendency to play the bullfiddle at our soirees.

We waited a month to get married (thought there was a bit of honeymooning on that yacht while we sailed back to Long Island. Osgood's mother (a dear, dear woman, but big boned, so I eventually did wear her wedding dress) threw us the lovliest wedding and reception in their rose garden. The society pages wrote me up as a Chicago heiress. Don't ask me how Osgood managed that.

Joe was best man, and Sugar was my maid of honor. Sugar was already two weeks pregnant, though we didn't know it at the time. She and Joe had done a civil ceremony as soon as we arrived in New York, turning down Osgood's offer of a double wedding. I was just as happy. I loved Sugar and Joe, but every girl wants to be the star of her own wedding.

Sweet Sue and her Society Syncopaters did a very creditable Wedding March, and hotted up the reception. Mama Fielding did a mean Turkey Trot with Fievel, who had arrived in style--flown in on a plane that Osgood chartered. When he learned that Fievel had given me my first dress, Osgood said he had to meet the man and give him a big thank you.

Sugar and Joe moved back to Chicago, and Osgood and I see them twice a year--once when we travel out to visit them, and every summer when they come stay with us in Florida. Joe went to work on the railroad with Sugar's father--and all her large Polish male relations. All this happened three years ago. They have five kids. Excuse me? Two sets of twins, that's how. Sugar put on about five pounds a kid. She's as sweet as ever--there's just more jello on the springs. The last time I saw Joe he had kind of a trapped look in his eyes, but I doubt he'll do anything about it. Sugar is happy, and she has lots of big, protective relatives who want her to stay that way.

As for me--what can I say? I found the pot of gold, rolled a strike, batted a thousand, struck the jackpot, landed in the jam pot, hit bingo. My ship came in, and Osgood was standing on the deck. sigh

We have an interview next week to see about starting adoption proceedings. I don't care what we get, as long as it's healthy, but Osgood says he wants a little girl, just like me, that he can spoil. He's such a sweetie. Yes, it looks like I finally got the sweet end of the lollipop.

And all this talk about lollipops has given me ideas. I think I'll go find Osgood.