This time the Chef recoiled in his seat, as if I were crazy for even asking such a thing. I had expected that; after all, my question was highly inappropriate, wasn't it? Apparently not, because the Chef then said, “Of course you can! How's next week for you?”

“Next week is perfect,” I replied.

Without further prompting, the Chef immediately plunged into the various ways I could filter my cash back to the United States once we had it safely tucked away in numbered accounts in Switzerland and the Orient. In fact, he seemed to relish the opportunity to explain this to me, as if the whole thing were a giant game of cat and mouse, with no serious consequences if the cat won.

Afterward, when I met OCD in yet another random parking lot, I handed him the tape and said, “You have to listen to it yourself, Greg, to believe it.” I shook my head slowly, still in disbelief over the Chef's recklessness. “It's totally off the charts.”

“Why—what's on it?”

“Everything,” I replied, “including Brennan's head on a platter.” I shrugged, not feeling so pleased with myself suddenly. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. All men betray! Dave Beall! Elliot Lavigne! My own wife!“Anyway, I gotta roll. It's my weekend with the kids and I wanna beat the traffic out to the Hamptons.”

“All right, I'll call you Monday and we'll see what's what.”

“Sounds good,” I said, although I had a sneaking suspicion we'd be speaking before that. In point of fact, he called me later that night, while I was lying awake in bed with the kids sleeping next to me.

His first three words were: “Jesus fucking Christ!” Then he said, “Has Gaito lost his mind?”

“I told you,” I said softly. “It's like he has a death wish or something. I don't know, it's fucking mind-boggling. Anyway, what comes next? Do I set a meeting with James Loo?”

“Of course you do! In fact, we need to memorialize it on videotape! But we'll talk on Monday. I know you have your kids, so I don't want to keep you. Have a good weekend; you've earned it.”

Yeah, I thought, another worthless weekend of model-mongering and one-night stands. I've earned it.It was all so sad and so very lonely. What I reallyneeded was to find a nice girl and fall in love again.

Alas, only half my wish was about to come true.

CHAPTER 21

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

“Did ya check out by the tennis court?”

“Yeah,” I replied quickly. “I checked everywhere, and she's nowhere to be found.”

It was Sunday afternoon, and the party was in full swing. Outside, on the other side of the plate-glass wall, a merry band of fifty or sixty people—few of whom I knew and none of whom I cared about—were scattered on my rear deck, partying like rock stars and devouring the last vestiges of my crumbling empire. Most of them were young females—tall, lean, and gorgeous—and not one of them seemed to have a care in the world.

Just then something caught my eye: breasts—two pair, very young, perfect in every way. One pair belonged to a lithe blonde with a dazzling head of curls; the other belonged to a curvy brunette with a luxurious mane of waves that went down to the crack of her ass. They were dancing away their afternoon—shaking their little booties, with their palms up to the sky, raising the roof, so to speak.

I shook my head gravely. “You see that, Gwynne?” I pointed to the two young girls with their gravity-defying boobs. “They shouldn't have their tops off while my kids are around. It's not fucking right.”

Gwynne nodded sadly. “I think thair druhnk.”

“They're not drunk, Gwynne; they're stoned,probably on Ecstasy. See how they're rubbing against each other? It's the first sign.”

Gwynne nodded without speaking.

I kept scanning my deck, astonished. Christ-who were all these people? They were eating my food and drinking my wine and swimming in my pool and lounging in Carter's Hacuddi and— another wave of panic! Carter!

I ran into the TV room, and there he was, safe and sound. He was lying on the couch watching a video. He was dressed like me, in blue nylon swimming trunks and no shirt. He looked rather content right now, with his head resting on a young girl's lap. She was a blonde, no older than twenty. And she was gorgeous. She had on a sky-blue bikini the size of kite string. Her cleavage was terrific. Someone had dimmed the lights, probably the girl, and she was tickling Carter's back, as he relished a Power Rangers episode from a side angle.

“Carter James!” I said urgently. “Have you seen your sister?”

He ignored me and kept watching. The girl, however, looked up, and she flashed me a thousand-watt model smile. “Ohhhh,” she said, twirling her finger through Carter's loose blond curls, “he's soooocute, your son! I could eat him up alive!”

I smiled warmly at the young blonde. “I know. He's really beautiful,” I agreed, “but right now I can't find my daughter. You haven't seen her around by any chance, have you?”

The blonde shook her head nervously. “No, I'm sorry.” Then she suddenly perked up. “But I could help you look if you want!” She pursed her lips like a goldfish.

I stared at her for a moment, thinking dark thoughts. “No, it's fine,” I said. “But could you keep an eye on my son, please? I'd hate to lose them both at once.”

Another thousand-watt smile: “Oh, I'd love to! But he better be verrrrycareful or I might try to steal his eyelashes!” She looked down at Carter. “Right, Carter? You gonna let me steal your eyelashes?”

He ignored her.

“Carter!” I snapped. “Have you seen your sister anywhere?”

He ignored me too.

Carter's new babysitter began rubbing his cheek softly. “Carrrrrrrter,”she nearly sung. “You have to answeryour daddy when he asks you a question!”

Without averting his gaze even one millimeter from the TV screen, Carter whined: “ IIIIIIIIIIIIII'mwatching!”

Carter's babysitter looked at me and shrugged. “He said he's watching.”

I shook my head in disbelief and walked back into the living room. I looked around—nothing but unfamiliar faces, those thousand-watt model grins. I found them wholly depressing. It was like the Roman Empire before the fall. All this would be gone soon, save the mansion, which would be the ruins and…

There! Justbefore the plate-glass wall, one of the towering floor-to-ceiling curtains had a suspiciously large bump at the bottom. I stared at the bump for a moment, watching, with relief, as it resolved into the shape of a mischievous six-year-old girl. I walked over and peeked behind the curtain, and there she was: my daughter. She was down on both knees, in a white bikini, staring out at the deck. I followed her line of sight… right to the topless girls!

“Chandler!” I snapped. “What are you doing down there?”

She looked up, her face a mask of bewilderment and embarrassment. Those fabulous blue eyes she'd inherited from her mother were as wide as saucers. She opened her mouth for a moment—as if getting ready to say something—but then she compressed her lips and looked back outside at the topless girls.

“What are you doing down there, silly? Gwynne and I were looking all over for you!” I reached down and picked her up gently and gave her a warm kiss on the cheek.

“I lost my dolly,” she said innocently. “I thought it fell behind the curtain.” She looked down at the curtain, searching her mind for a way to support her white lie. “But it wasn't there.”

I nodded suspiciously. “You lost your dolly, huh?”