“Anybody who thinks there are secret organizations up and running across this country is crazy; nothing effective or productive ever lasts without funding, and that most certainly includes the so-called Candy Shop.”

 

--Carlos M. Guiterrez, Secretary of Commerce

 

 

“I like it,” Sara murmured in throaty approval. Jelly Bean rubbed his hands together gleefully and looked over at Mr. Peppermint, who had an expression of grudging admiration mingled with skepticism. He tapped a knuckle against his teeth, and then looked up at the younger man thoughtfully as they all sat around the glass conference table at the Candy Shop.

 

“What if he won’t take the offer?” Mr. Peppermint asked.

 

“Oh he will—despite all the ads and appearances the man’s seriously strapped for cash. Too much going to bribes, ex-wives and his horse farm out in Kentucky. We’re going to look like two million in manna from heaven to Uncle Chip if we play this right.”

 

“What’s the layout going to cost?” Sara asked quietly. “The Sirocco isn’t cheap, and I assume we’re going to have to put on the dog if we want to make the right impression.”

 

“Miss Lollipop’s gotten us a respectable line of credit through Cayman Associates, so the cards stop there. We’ve got the go-ahead with Millander Theatrics, and paid for the back room of the Desert Rose for the week, so the props are good to go,” Jelly Bean chirped. “The only thing I’m waiting on is the limo rental and whether or not we can get Portia Richmond to play along. She’s been stung a few times by Uncle Chip, and I know that tragedy story about Rosalla Santilla got to her, but she might need tea with Miss Lollipop to seal the deal.”

 

“Portia would add credibility,” Mr. Peppermint approved, sipping his coffee. “So—who are we?” he asked the younger man courteously. Jelly Bean grinned and passed out folders to both of them. Sara opened hers and laughed aloud.

 

“Foxy Francisco? You have GOT to be kidding me, right?”

 

“It’s a GREAT name!” Jelly Bean protested, “Goes well with your ex-show girl trophy babe status, you know?”

 

“It’s  . . . “ Sara searched for a word to describe her skeptical, feminist response, but finally sighed. Mr. Peppermint gave her a commiserating glance.

 

“I’m not much better. I’m Pete Williamsen, AKA RePete, the Repo King of South Chicago.” He glared. “Greg, you know this is a con, not central casting for a screwball comedy, right?”

 

“Come on—where’s the fun if we don’t take a moment to laugh at ourselves, right?” Jelly Bean shot back, eyes sparkling. “Lest you think I was harsh on you, I’M Dooley Wilson, your long suffering nephew.”

 

“Dooley Wilson? The piano player from Casablanca?” Sara blurted, earning a raised eyebrow from Mr. Peppermint and a confused look from Jelly Bean. In defense, she muttered, “Hey, Berkeley had a film studies course requirement as part of their GE.”

 

“You mean there really WAS a person named Dooley Wilson?” Jelly Bean demanded in a worried tone. Both Sara and Mr. Peppermint nodded.

 

“I’m afraid so—he was instrumental to the film, since he played the theme song of “As Time Goes By,” Mr. Peppermint replied, keeping a straight face with difficulty.

 

“Annnnd, he was African-American, Greg—something you’re not, if you hadn’t noticed,” Sara added.  Jelly Bean pouted for a moment, then squared his shoulders.

 

“Ah well. Then I’ll be Dooley Williamsen then. It won’t take much to change the IDs if I talk to Mr. Marshmallow before the end of the day. The point is, you two are an item, the big money players in this drama and I’m the scheming underdog. We want Chip to think that I’m the weak link here, and that if he sells to me, he’s got a chance to keep the money AND get me to sell back to him, got it?”

 

“Got it,” Mr. Peppermint nodded, looking down at his folder again. “So based on your research, Chip is in debt and more than likely willing to sell at least one of his lots. Which one is the chop shop?”

 

“He moves it around, but lately he’s been favoring the West Sahara/Rainbow Blvd. site. That’s the one to push for, definitely.”

 

“And my part in this?” Sara asked with amusement. Jelly Bean grinned at her.

 

“Distraction and misdirection, lookout mostly. If Grissom and I are going to pull this off, we need a buffer who fits into the gestalt here, and a nice piece of eye candy works for Vegas.”

 

“That is SO sexist,” she muttered, still managing a soft grin. Jelly Bean laughed, folding his hands behind his head as he leaned back in his chair.

 

“Yeah, pret-ty tough job—designer clothes, full access to the salon, spa and sauna, a few shopping sprees, fancy dinners—it’s brutal, I know.”

 

“Hey, this means high heels, and you don’t KNOW torture until you’ve put in six or seven hours in those—“ Sara replied tartly.

 

“I think we’re getting away from the point here,” Mr. Peppermint broke in gently. “If we want to get this job rolling by tomorrow night we need to pull together our wardrobes, props and credentials.”

 

“Right,” Jelly Bean agreed cheerfully. “So we need to stop in and get our photos taken, and then after that, a cruise through Millander’s and tonight we check in at the Sirocco, around seven I guess.”

 

“Can we make it nine?” Sara interrupted softly. “I’ve got a pretty big delivery coming, in case you forgot.”

 

Jelly Bean nodded, his grin wider. “Of course! Meet up here for the limo and we’ll take off around nine then.”

 

***

Elderly, elegant Portia Richmond glanced at her personal secretary, who was busy with her Palm Pilot. Out of the corner of her eye, she also saw her bodyguard who was trying not to be caught watching the secretary as well. She gave a faint smirk—ah, young love, even if Regina was utterly clueless and Samuel hopelessly tongue-tied.

 

She turned back to her hostess and sighed, turning her thoughts to more serious matters. “Very well, Heather, but I do expect a favor in return—agreed?”

 

“Agreed, Portia. I’d be delighted to assist you on any matter quid pro quo,” Miss Lollipop murmured, pouring more tea. This time the service was sterling silver, with ornate Georgian engraving over the gleaming surfaces.

 

 The two women sat on the penthouse balcony of the Truman Tower, a large office building on Charleston Boulevard. The three of them: Portia Richmond, Heather Marazek and Regina Owens, sat around the linen-covered table while Vartann stood on watch, dutifully scanning the street below and occasionally looking towards the tea party.

 

“Good. To be completely honest, Harrington HAS been a bit of a thorn in my side for a long time, and then that terrible incident with the Santilla girl . . .” Shaking her head, Portia let her words trail off; Miss Lollipop nodded sympathetically.

 

“Dreadful scandal; selling a used vehicle knowing full well the brakes were damaged,” she agreed. “That poor girl and her toddler . . .”

 

Portia nodded, sipping slowly. She caught Heather’s eye and a cunning gleam flashed between them as the two women smiled briefly; a little ‘beep’ sounded, interrupting the moment and Regina Owens waved the Palm Pilot sheepishly as she blushed.

 

“All right, Miss Richmond; you have a dinner booking for six at the Seraglio in the Tangiers tomorrow night. Should I contact Mr. Bennett?”

 

“No, no—I don’t intend to stay around Chip Harrington any longer than I must,” Portia announced loftily. She glanced at her diamond wristwatch and began to rise from the table, adding, “I intend to catch the ten o’clock show at the Atlantis after that dinner obligation, and I’d like you to come with me, Regina, so we need to get you an appropriate evening dress. Heather, it has been lovely. Samuel, call the car for us, please and I’ll need you to come with us shopping,”

 

“Ma’am?” came Vartann’s slightly startled reply. Portia smiled up at him as she picked up her purse. She gave Miss Lollipop soft little air kisses to each cheek then turned back to her bodyguard, who already had taken out his walkie-talkie.

 

“Don’t be dense, Samuel darling—we’ll need those big muscles of yours to carry the packages and bags. Come a-long, children--“ she sang. So saying, Portia swept out, leaving her hostess to smile with satisfaction over the late afternoon panorama of the Las Vegas skyline. Miss Lollipop sipped her tea, feeling a rare content for the moment: Sugar Daddy and Baby were on their way home; young Jelly Bean had matters well in hand for his latest venture, and both Jaw Breaker and Licorice were officially qualified now to play with high explosives.

 

Things were looking wonderful at the Candy Shop.

 

***

 

Grissom smiled. Miss Chocolate’s obvious delight was infectious, and now that the moment of launching was at hand he himself felt a little of her mood reflected in himself. They stood in the last light of the late afternoon at the launch ramp for Grace Marina, waiting to give the lift operator the go ahead to release the boat. Grissom held out the bottle of Baroni to her, feeling an odd flush of shyness.

 

“I know it’s already been christened, but launching to a lake should be commemorated,” he told Miss Chocolate, in a low voice. She looked at the bottle, then at him, and her hesitation made them both laugh.

 

“Such wasted potential . . . “ came her mock-mournful comment as she took the heavy bottle. Grissom shrugged.

 

“We’ll have lots of opportunities to indulge later tonight,” he reminded her, going a little pink as he added, “--In champagne that is. For the job.”

 

Miss Chocolate took the bottle, fingering the fluffy collar of ribbons on it and nodded. “Oh definitely. I don’t know about you, but I bet Jelly Bean’s going to run up the expenses to insure authenticity for us.”

 

Grissom gave moue of agreement, and then gestured to the patient lift operator. “Very probably. Shall we?”

 

Miss Chocolate cleared her throat. “Okay . . . um, for the honor of this occasion—“ She swung the bottle and it smashed with a satisfying spray of foam and glass, raining down across the ramp as the lift operator gave a slow round of sardonic applause.

 

Within half an hour, the Boston Bohemian was securely tied up at slip seven, near the end of the wharf. Grissom followed behind Miss Chocolate as she gave him a tour of her home, the pride and affection in her voice evident, even as she tried to play down how much the yacht meant to her.

 

“This is the deck, obviously, and I’ve got a Tohatsu outboard motor under wraps there . . . “ Miss Chocolate pointed to a bright blue tarp secured with bungee cords. Grissom nodded, glancing at the thick bundled sails, also secured with cords along the heavy nine-foot boom.

 

“Do you ever sail?”

 

“Oh yeah, every now and then. Some friends and I brought the Bohemian through the Canal and around to the West Coast all on canvas . . . mostly. That was the last big sail for this bad boy.” She patted the boom affectionately. “I might take him out on the lake once I get my things settled in. Want to see the rest of him?”

 

Nodding, he followed her up a short angled ladder to a cozy white-walled pilothouse that made up the bridge, the big windows wrapping around to provide a 180-degree view. All the equipment, from the wheel to the GPS and radio were top of the line; Grissom noted there was enough room to hold a table and a few chairs as well.

 

“Roomy—for a yacht,” he observed.

 

“For one or two people, yeah,” Miss Chocolate agreed. “Follow me—“ she led the way back to the ladder, and moved down this time, bringing Grissom to an unexpectedly spacious wood-paneled central living room down below. It held a galley near the stern end, and a pair of long comfortable-looking sofas covered in corded corduroy built into the walls. The portholes on either side were as big as manhole covers and framed with curtains; Grissom was amused to see they were white eyelet.

 

Miss Chocolate gestured forward, towards the bow end, murmuring, “The head and shower are behind the door to the left, and straight ahead are the two staterooms.”

 

“It’s . . . “ Grissom tried to find the right word and settled for, “cozy.”

 

Apparently, that was the right word; Miss Chocolate smiled again and moved to the galley, plugging in various appliances in efficient fashion across the counter. “Thanks. The hatch bolts three different ways from the inside, and I have a motion detector and camera wired into the mast, so I’m pretty secure at night.”

 

Her words sent a little relief through Grissom and he nodded, moving to stand in the middle of the living room and feel the gentle sway of the hull on the water. The subtle rocking motion reminded him of--

 

Oh.

 

--Of things he needed not to think about. Clearing his throat, he looked over at Miss Chocolate and sighed. “I need to talk to you about our roles tonight.”

 

Miss Chocolate turned around and braced her hands behind her hips against the counter, giving him an encouraging smile. For a moment, they both listened to the soft lapping of the waves against the yacht.

 

“If we’re going to pretend to be . . . involved . . . “ Grissom fumbled a bit, trying to express himself, “Then our charade is going to require some . . . physicality.”

 

“Of course,” Miss Chocolate murmured, not quite meeting his eye. “But we’re both mature enough to handle that. I mean—it’s all part of the job . . . and everything.”

 

“Precisely,” Grissom agreed with a nod. “It has to look natural—we’re trying to fool a man skilled in reading body language and nonverbal cues. Therefore, I suppose the point that I’m trying to make is that I may, in the course of this charade, be required to . . . occupy your personal space, to a certain degree.”

 

He felt the heat rising from his collar, the dampness in his palms and wondered why this wasn’t as easy to actually say as it had been to practice in front of his bathroom mirror. Grissom risked a glance at Miss Chocolate and saw with fascination that she was biting her lower lip. Out of embarrassment? He wondered.

 

Then he heard her soft little choked chuckle. She reached out one of her hands, long and cool, laying it on his wrist. Her touch was soothing, and Grissom looked down at her fingers. “Well it means I have to move into yours too, so I guess we’re both going to have to work on it together. Look at it this way—once I’m Foxy and you’re Pete, we’re officially different people, right? And anything those two do is just part of a situation that’s not . . . real.”

 

Grissom nodded again, feeling both reluctant and relieved. He checked his watch and spoke up softly. “Right—and it’s about time to get started.”

 

***

 

The limo pulled up to the front of the Sirocco Hotel and Casino in one smooth glide; the doorman and two bellboys scurried to it under the glittering lights of the canopy. A few people passing through the doors into the casino stopped to gawk, and several others shot admiring or envious looks as the occupants of the sleek ride climbed out.

 

First came a spiky-haired young man sloppily dressed in a sharkskin suit of dark green silk. He sported a diamond stud in one earlobe and a Rolex too heavy for his thin wrist. His expression was slightly sullen, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, ruining the line of his suit. “Great, we’re here—finally.” He whined, turning to speak to the next person climbing out of the car. “About time.”

 

“Oh it’s niiiiiiice,” came the throaty purr of the woman moving next to him. She was tall, her excellent figure accentuated by her clingy mini-sweater dress of honey colored wool. Her hair was a riot of rich brown Shirley Temple curls bouncing as she tossed her head and blew an enormous bubble gum bubble through glossy pink lips. She held a fluffy Pekinese in her arms; the dog licked her wrist in long happy strokes. “Me and Grenadine like it already—right my sweetie fluffy boy?” she asked the dog affectionately.

 

“Foxy! Fine as your ass is, honey, you gotta move it and let me get out—“ called a voice with strong Midwest inflection. Obligingly the woman shifted over, blowing another bubble as the speaker rose out of the car and meticulously straightened his cuffs.

 

The man wore a pinstriped Hugo Boss suit of charcoal gray matching his hair and goatee. He gave a sharp glance around and caught the eye of the bell captain, waving him over. “Johnny-on-the-spot—good timing! Take our bags to the Golden Harem penthouse suite and tell the kitchen to have a nice picnic platter laid on for midnight.” To underscore this order, he shoved six fifty-dollar bills in the man’s hand. “Dooley, Foxy, let’s go get something to drink, whadda ya say?”

 

“Whatever,” Greg shrugged, working hard on looking bored. He trailed behind Miss Chocolate and Mr. Peppermint, maintaining a sulk and looking around carefully, studying the layout and feeling the surge of excitement through his shoulders.

 

As they passed through the main doors and into the general chaos of the casino, the harmonious cacophony of slot machines, voices and Muzak filled the spacious gaming floor. Slinky cocktail waitresses sailed by, clad in filmy harem girl costumes, and the décor leaned heavily towards potted palms and Saharan motifs. Without breaking stride, Mr. Peppermint led the way in towards the Moroccan arch doorway with the sign over it that read ‘The Oasis.’ Miss Chocolate followed, clutching the Pekinese protectively, and Greg was delighted to see her add an extra saucy sway to her ass with every step.

 

Yeah, some things about this con were damned good, he thought with a quick grin.

 

All too soon, the three of them were ensconced in a booth at the Oasis, talking quietly over their drinks. Both Greg and Mr. Peppermint had opted for whisky, neat, while Miss Chocolate sipped a margarita. Grenadine curled up on the seat near her hip, content for the moment.

 

“Okay, so here’s what we do. I’m going to cruise the gaming floor, making a rep for myself tonight. Big tips, a few snide comments about you two, the works. I won’t get plastered but I may be a little mellow by the time I make it up to the suite,” Greg assured them, checking his watch.

 

Mr. Peppermint tossed back his drink and sighed. “And us?”

 

“Chip’s usually on one of two places here—either at the blackjack tables, or in one of the private games. You both know what he looks like, so keep an eye out, but don’t make contact unless it’s positive. Blow some money tonight—not a ton, but have fun with it. You’re big wheels from out of town looking for some good times and maybe an investment or two. Play it up, and head on to the suite around midnight—we can debrief and get some sleep. Questions?”

 

“Yeah, um, what do I do about the dog?” Miss Chocolate asked in an amused tone. “I know he’s on loan from Gum Drop’s mother, but we don’t even have any FOOD for him.”

 

Greg smiled. “Don’t worry—this place will fall all over themselves to make you and poochie happy. Hodges told me Grenadine’s a retired show dog; he’s used to travel and noise so that makes him a perfect prop for us. I know for a fact that Chip likes dogs—it’s an easy in if it comes to that, right?”

 

She nodded, shooting a glance at Mr. Peppermint, who looked from Greg to her. He squared his shoulders and reached over, chucking her lightly under her chin. “What say you and me go win you some new Astrabellas, Baby Doll?”

 

“Oh yeah, like I said—niiiiiiiice,” Miss Chocolate purred back as the waitress came over, eager to refill their glasses.

 

***

 

At the blackjack table, Sara leaned over Mr. Peppermint’s shoulder, close enough to breathe in the scent of Old Spice. It was an interesting choice of cologne; masculine and traditional compared to so many others on the market. She shifted a little, and instantly his arm slid around her waist, tugging her to him in a gentle hug.

 

“Hey Baby Doll, keep that good luck flowing my way,” he told her with a grin around the unlit cigar clenched in his teeth. “Poppa’s up by a cool two thou, so let’s see if we can keep this streak rolling, huh?”

 

Sara grinned, wanting to laugh at how easily the man slipped into his roles. Despite the seriousness of the job they were concentrating on, there were moments like this that were simply . . . fun.  She leaned down, breathing into his ear.

 

“That’s two pairs of Astrabellas right there—are we going for a full closet?”

 

“I like to keep you in nice things,” he replied in a low voice, shooting her a sidelong glance. “Shoes, furs, lingerie . . . “

 

“Mmm, I bet. So are you going to take another hit?”

 

“It’s a fourteen, so yes, I should,” he replied, gesturing to the dealer, who snapped down a seven of clubs. The arm around her waist tightened; in a loud voice, Mr. Peppermint called out, “That’s my Baby Doll, yeah!”

 

The rest of the players gave polite acknowledgement of Mr. Peppermint’s win, and he scooped up the chips after leaving the dealer a generous tip. Sara linked her free arm through his and they sauntered through the casino, smiling, and speaking in undertones as they did so.

 

“See him?”

 

“Couldn’t miss him; not in that Stetson and plaid suit,” Mr. Peppermint replied with a hint of amusement. “If Harrington ever visited Scotland he’d be run out of the country.”

 

“Hey, those are the suits that made him famous,” Sara pointed out. “Established him as an icon of Vegas.”

 

“Proving that not all the clowns work at Circus Circus, I guess,” Mr. Peppermint shot back. “So it’s nearly eleven-thirty and I’ve got two grand at our disposal—may I buy you some fancy footwear?”

 

Sara looked at the man, and caught a glimpse of something shy and almost wistful in his expression. She lifted her chin and let her grip on his arm tighten a tiny bit a she shifted the weight of Grenadine in the other. “A man willing to buy me shoes—this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

 

“Consider it putting my best foot forward—but keep in mind we only have about twenty minutes.”

 

“Pffft! I can make your two thousand disappear in ten . . . Poppa,” she replied with a smirk. “Tell me, do you like leopard print?”

 

“Rawr,” came Mr. Peppermint’s cheerful reply as they strolled towards the shopping Bazaar.

 

***

 

The big man in the brown leather suit sat in the dainty French Provençal chair, filling it and making it creak. The woman opposite him gritted her large teeth and tried not to let her irritation show; she forced a smile.

 

“So. Are you willing to take the job?”

 

The big man gave a slow nod, and the light gleamed off his bald head. His complete stillness was unnerving, and Lois O’Neill blinked a little, pressing her arthritic red-nailed hands on the Louis XIV table between them. “Good. She’ll be at the Seraglio for dinner tomorrow night, so you can set it up any way you want. You’ll be handsomely compensated for the short notice and my name is to be kept out of it completely, understand?”

 

Another slow nod; impatient, Lois glared at the man, her smile suddenly cold. “It’s polite to answer a lady when she asks a question, buster.”

 

“I understand that you want me to kill Portia Richmond.”  The man rumbled as he rose up, higher and higher, unfolding to his majestic stance of six and a half feet. “And you are no lady, Miss O’Neill. “

 

She leaned back in her chair, her cold smile widening; casually Lois held out her hand and inspected her nail polish in a feminine gesture both practiced and deliberate. Diamonds glittered on her rings, and she gave a low contented sigh.

 

“Well, we have a consensus on THAT, anyway. Half the money tonight, the other half afterwards, when this town is in mourning, got it?”

 

“The Seraglio—what if she’s got company?” he asked thoughtfully, moving to the door of the penthouse apartment.

 

Lois gave a contemptuous sigh, and rolled her eyes, looking towards the window, where the glorious lights of the Strip glittered like jewels in the dark. She chuckled coldly. “Then it’s going to be a very bad night for champagne, isn’t it?”