Welcome to David Copperfield’s New York, where nothing is quite what is seems. Smoke and mirrors, distractions and diversions, and sometimes out and out lies. I am at the point now where I trust no one, because, quite simply, I haven’t met a soul who has told me the truth since this whole debacle began. OK, that’s not true. I think the concierge was fairly honest. A little sycophantic, but honest.
I’m Paris, by the way. Paris Mulhare. And I’m in no mood for jokes about fictional cousins so we’ll have to forgo that this time around.
Once again I am haunting the corridors of a hospital, waiting for news from the emergency room. At least this place has better coffee than Beth Is. (How frightening is it that I have picked up on ambulance driver lingo?) And once again, I anticipate being up all night. Currently I am splitting my time between badgering doctors and trying to get through to any airline that can put me on a flight to San Diego. Of course, the closing of the airports following a major explosion at the Four Seasons Hotel might have something to do with the busy signals over at Delta. And of course the Team might have something to do with the explosion, so I guess in a way it’s my own damn fault.
I should have known the clock was ticking – not the one on the bomb, but the big, cosmic countdown to doom.
Following the news of the break-in at the Chicago University where we were supposed to be going, the team assembled and decided we would try and push ahead to L.A. (an easy three hour drive to San Diego, mind you). (Up)Chuck, Rossi and Karin toddled off to bed while I ordered breakfast and greeted the morning guard shift (Annalee - thoughtless enough to look well-rested). I figured, hey, I can sleep on the plane, right?
(Up)Chuck arose around nine and I amended my plan to allow for a cat-nap until it was time to head out to the airport. But long about 11:30 he was sitting on the edge of my bed trying to wake me up. Seems Miss Van Buren has had instructions from Switzerland to hold tight in New York. I tell (Up)Chuck to order more coffee and let me dress. The Incredible Hulk does not remove himself from my bedside, so I call down to room service and crawl out of bed to get dressed.
Fancy that, the Brute Squad blushes!
As I pull on some sweat pants that might be Karin’s cause they’re kinda’ tight, (Up)Chuck insists that Miss Van Buren insists we remain in NY. What about L.A.?? Well, (Up)Chuck had no one to consult with on that matter since we were all sleeping. Needless to say, that’s the last time I stay up all night to pack his luggage while he’s out doing the book-a-bow-bow.
He has set up a meeting with Miss Van Buren and her staff at four p.m. to review the amended itinerary and I vainly hope we can still talk her into taking a trip out to the Coast. Just in case, though, I call down to the front desk to inquire about extending our stay at the Four Seasons, only to learn that Jean Trembly has already done so. Damn! I guess we really are staying.
As this also means I won’t get to sleep on the plane – since there will be no plane – I crawl back into bed, but keep the sweats on in case anyone else should come wandering in. Of course, at this point it’s likely that only Annalee hasn’t seen me in my skivvies, so I don’t quite know why I bothered.
I arise in time to shower and dress for the meet with Miss Van Buren et al., and (Up)Chuck informs me that ISIS cannot store the superconductor on their property. Time for a new plan. Thing of it is, with all this disrupted sleep, I can’t remember the whole of my back-up plan. All I really remember at this point is that it involved another hotel room, so once again I dial the front desk and take a room as Carmen Sanchez. I figure it’ll come to me.
The Swiss Set arrives and in quite short order Karin and Elise are at one another’s throats. Elise insists on hiring someone "like Jack" to take care of "the problem" – that being the two- and three-bit thugs who have been trying to kill her. Never mind that we don’t know who’s behind the attempted hits and that we maintain we can’t contact Jack, Miss Van Buren wants an assassin.
I get NunChuck on the phone and explain to him that I have a woman who could use his services. The Orientally Confused Killer (is that right, Sheila?) is unsure to what services I am referring. I tell him the $25,000 kind and would it be alright if I put the lady on the line? I warn her about his accent and she asks what language he speaks. I told her he speaks Koretnamese, but she tried Japanese anyway. Somehow, they manage to muddle their way through and NunChuck, back on the line with me, assures me he will take the next flight out and phone in when her arrives.
Initially, Miss Van Buren seems almost pleased that we have found someone who can take care of her problem for such a bargain price after she was prepared to pay Jack one million dollars. But this quickly disintegrates somehow into another battle between Elise and Karin. Perhaps some scones would soothe…
I meander over to the room service cart to pick up some pastries when Rossi starts running his mouth off about something or other that (Up)Chuck clearly didn’t want mentioned and he stomped on Rossi’s foot "none too gently".
All manner of profanity spews forth from Rossi’s near-virgin lips and before you can say "hey" Karin is removing him from the room to drive him to the hospital.
Thoroughly disgusted with our "antics", Elise and her staff depart our suite with the announcement that they have elected to "stay in" today and will be dining in the hotel restaurant.
Thank God for that.
When they’ve departed, (Up)Chuck informs me that he spent his afternoon doing a bit of sleuthing and has discovered that the woman who posted bail for Kenneth Cole is named Angie Wagner, a resident of Harlem. That’s all very well and good if you know where Harlem is, but I don’t, which is probably a good thing. (Up)Chuck has further learned that phone calls were placed from that address to such well-knowns as Lenny and the Terrible Trio from Webster Hall in close proximity to the team’s arrival at various locations throughout the city. Even my addled brain can follow that this means someone has been tipping off the bad guys via this telephone in Harlem.
As (Up)Chuck has dispatched Bush to sit surveillance on the address, Karin is hamburgly occupied in the emergency room with Rossi and the Swiss Set is staying in for the evening, I excuse myself to do a little shopping.
My back-up plan is still not fully recalled, but I know that part of it included disguising the superconductor by setting it inside a rock-band-worthy speaker. So off I go the appropriate Manhattan rock-band-worthy music store.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear… Why look! It’s Jean Giscard! Quelle suprise.
After advising him on what sort of guitar he was after, I invite him to dinner since going to dinner together would eradicate the need for him to follow me. He feigns offense and I feign amusement. Since this is clearly not my city, I defer to his judgement on restaurants and he suggests Bertani’s. Oh, yes, well, that will be some fun, won’t it? What if…?? Never mind, at least I know I’m safe there. We agree to meet at the restaurant and I head back to the hotel to freshen up.
So I’m right in the middle of the Maybelline thing when my cell phone rings. It’s Sheila pretending to be a threatening voice and saying ‘you won’t leave New York if you know what’s good for you and your friends’. Well, duh. I’m not leaving New York. I ask Sheila to run that by me one more time using full sentences and prepositions – cause I know she likes them. In short, it went something like this:
Jack and I are in the car (1 preposition). We are on our way to the airport to catch the next flight home (a record-setting 3 prepositions) I got a phone call from a man (1). He said we should not leave New York… at this time (1 very hard-earned prepositional phrase).
I assured her that she and Jack were ok to go and that we, her friends, could take care of ourselves. I mean, really, I’m surrounded by guards! What could possibly…
I sure hope when Jack’s gone I stop thinking like him.
Karin returns with Rossi-on-a-stick – or, rather, two sticks as he is now on crutches owing to the multitude of broken bones in his foot. (Up)Chuck attempts to apologize by gifting Rossi with a brand new Porsche. Or, rather, Porsche keys that I assume fit an honestly-obtained car. Rossi, unable to drive due to his injuries is none too keen on accepting the apology and Karin is searching for a beer.
I set out one vicodin each for Rossi and (Up)Chuck and excuse myself for dinner, promising to be back shortly.
Well, I intended to be back shortly. But frankly, (or hamburgly) I quite enjoy Giscard’s company. We have a lovely dinner uninterrupted by any of the Diamond contingent – thank God! – and begin walking the town stopping here and there for drinks, coffee, what-have-you.
Long about midnight we’re back at his alleged apartment when I learn some deeper meaning behind the hand. No, no, not his hands, but the hand on the business card. All to do with the fingers operating mostly independent of one another, while the palm controls each and the brain controls the palm. I learn that "the brain" is whoever has hired Acquisitions Anonymous to… acquire… and Giscard confesses to being the thumb.
Then we moved on to his hands. Or would have if (Up)Chuck hadn’t elected that moment to ring my cell phone and whisper those immortal words: "we have a problem".
Oh, bloody hell.
He thinks I should return to the hotel. But I really don’t want to leave the faux apartment! (Up)Chuck informs me that Karin quit and there’s something that needs my attention. Damn damn damn.
Does he truly need me immediately? Is this not something that could wait just a little while?
The operator interrupts our call. Seems (Up)Chuck has some emergency waiting on the line and we disconnect.
Hurrah, a reprieve!
Now, where were we?
Oh, yes, the hands…
The phone goes… again. It’s (Up)Chuck… again, informing me that things have just gotten worse and I must return to the hotel. There’s been an explosion.
I gather my wits and the Frenchman and head back to the hotel. Giscard wants to know what has gone wrong. All I can tell him is that there has been an explosion. He turns a whiter shade of pale and asks if it was the device, then tries to pretend indifference.
Oh, please. Does he really think we don’t know it was him and the rest of his fingers trying to palm the superconductor the night before?? He feigns offense and I feign amusement. I inquire what would happen if the device went up and he informs me he would have to seek out new employment. Please. If (Up)Chuck is to be believed, I have bigger problems than Giscard’s unemployment insurance.
I enter the suite with a shout out to (Up)Chuck. The Brute Squad leaps out of nowhere and runs his massive arm around Giscard’s neck none-too-gently. I begin beating (Up)Chuck with my purse (gun within) but I don’t even dent him before Giscard flips him.
Not to be dissuaded, (Up)Chuck draws his gun and commands Giscard to sit down. Apparently, Giscard prefers to stand. And the bulls are at it.
I implore Sal – our "on duty" guard – to do something about this macho display and he rises from the couch and approaches.
(Up)Chuck yells at Sal to return to his post and yells at Giscard to sit down.
I try to override (Up)Chuck’s command and tell Sal to keep coming, but as my eyes are on him, I notice movement on the monitor screens behind him.
I rush in for a closer look and spot Jean Trembly carrying a large box into Elise Van Buren’s bedroom. What the hell is he doing there at this hour?!
I shout to Sal that there is a problem and he has to get upstairs. The principal is in trouble.
Sal bolts for the door and (Up)Chuck wavers just long enough for Giscard to engage him in possession combat for the gun.
The two of them are struggling when I hear the superconductor power down.
Uh-oh.
But it’s okay. We’ve got two and a half hours to restore power before it blows. I check the time on the monitor, then give a quick glance toward the once happily-humming superconductor.
Smoke and mirrors….
The bloody thing is counting down!
I yell at the boys to run, then drag a drugged and confused Rossi from his chair. Gloria! I didn’t even see him there before!
By the time I reach the Battling Boys I have enough presence of mind to shout "Bomb!" and we all hustle out of the room and toward the relative safety of the elevator banks before the suite explodes like the turret of a certain Scottish castle I recall.
As you might expect, there was a deafening boom followed by the sound of shattering glass and rushing flames. I think it’s safe to say… we’re here!
Huddled in the corridor, we take a moment to assess our injuries. Rossi seems to have taken the worst of the damage and as (Up)Chuck and Giscard – their differences forgotten for the moment – head up to check on the principal, I assist Rossi downstairs in hopes of attracting medical attention.
Luckily, New York City has really got its act together in the emergency services area and I hustle Rossi into the first arriving ambulance and speed away from the scene of the crime.
So here at the emergency room, I have since watched the stretchered arrivals of (Up)Chuck and Sal, accompanied by the semi-mobile Stefan and Giscard (?). Evidently, Jean Trembly is being picked up by the coroner’s office. But no one, no one, has seen Elise Van Buren.
Distractions and diversions…
At least Jack and Sheila are safely on their way to France. Meanwhile, I still don’t know why (Up)Chuck thought it was so important for me to return to the hotel and I don’t know why Karin quit or where she is at the moment. For the now, I guess the only important thing is that we are all in one piece. So I’ll just sit here and sip my coffee and stand watch over my team until one of them is conscious enough to explain to me just what the hell is going on.