He only wished he had the power to prevent it.

Whenever Junior and Eddie Badgett held an event in their mansion, Junior had an attack of nerves. Here we go, Charlie Santoli thought as he followed the baseball bat and the bowling ball brothers. Junior, the baseball bat, had small, cold eyes. Eddie, the bowling ball, was always in tears when he talked about Mama, hard as nails about everything else.

The usual flurry of activity before a party was going on. The florists were scurrying around, placing holiday arrangements throughout the house. The caterer’s team was setting up the buffet. Jewel, Junior’s airheaded twenty-two-year-old girlfriend, was tripping back and forth in stiletto heels, getting in everyone’s way. Junior and Eddie’s special confidential assistants, uneasy in jackets and ties, were standing together, looking like the thugs they were.

Before he left home, Charlie had been forced to listen to yet another sermon from his wife about the Badgett brothers.

“Charlie, those two are crooks,” she told him. Everybody knows it. You should tell them you don’t want to be their lawyer anymore. So what if they put a wing on the senior citizens home? It wasn’t their money that did it. Listen, I told you not to get involved with them fifteen years ago. Did you listen? No. You’ll be lucky if you don’t end up in the trunk of a car, and I don’t mean a rumble seat. Quit. You’ve got enough money. You’re sixty-two years old, and you’re so nervous you twitch in your sleep. I want the grandchildren to know you in the flesh and not have to kiss your picture good night.”

It was no use trying to explain to Marge that he couldn’t get out. He had intended to handle only the various legitimate businesses of the Badgett brothers. To his regret, however, he had learned that when you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas, and a number of times he’d been coerced into suggesting to potential government witnesses that it would be worth their while financially-and physically-to forget about certain events. In that way he had managed to prevent the brothers from being indicted for a number of criminal activities, including loan-sharking, fixing basketball games, and illegal bookmaking. So to refuse to do anything they requested of him, or to try to quit working for them, was tantamount to committing suicide.

Today, because of the magnitude of their donation to the senior citizens center, a two million dollar wing given in honor of their mother, they’d managed to get an A-list of guests to come to celebrate their absent mother’s eighty-fifth birthday. Both U.S. Senators from New York, the Commissioner of Health and Human Services, various mayors and dignitaries, and the entire board of governors of the senior citizens center would be there. The board alone included some of the most prominent names on Long Island.

In all, a total of about seventy-five people would be present, the kind of people who would give the brothers the aura of respectability they craved.

It was essential that the party go well.

The main event would be held in the grand salon, a room that combined various aspects of a French royal palace. Bright gold walls, spindly gilt chairs, ornate rosewood tables, satin draperies, tapestries, and hovering over all, the reproduction of a two-story-high fifteenth-century marble fireplace, replete with sculpted cherubs, unicorns, and pineapples. Junior had explained that pineapples “symbolized lots of good luck,” and he’d instructed the decorator to make sure there were lots of pineapples on the reproduction and to forget about some of those other doohickeys.

The result was a room that was a monument to bad taste, Charlie thought, and he could only imagine the reaction of the social set.

The party was scheduled to begin at five and last until eight. Cocktails, hors d’oeuvres, and a sumptuous buffet would be served. The entertainment would be provided by Billy Campbell, the up-and-coming rock singer, and his mother, Nor Kelly, the former cabaret singer. They were very popular throughout the North Shore. The highlight of the evening would occur at 7:30 P.M. when, via satellite hookup from Wallonia, the mother of the Badgett brothers would be present to hear the assemblage sing “Happy Birthday Heddy-Anna.”

“You sure you got enough food?” Junior was asking the caterer.

“Relax, Mr. Badgett, you’ve ordered enough food to feed an army.” Conrad Vogel, the caterer, smiled dismissively.

“I didn’t ask you to feed an army. I wanna know if you’ve got enough fancy food so that if somebody likes one thing and eats a ton of it, you won’t be telling him there’s none left.”

Charlie Santoli watched as the caterer withered under Junior’s icy glare. You don’t dis Junior, pal, he thought.

The caterer got the message. “Mr. Badgett, I assure you that the food is extraordinary and your guests will be very pleased.”

“They better be.”

“How about Mama’s cake?” Eddie asked. “It better be perfect.”

A tiny bead of perspiration was forming over Conrad Vogel’s upper lip. “It was specially made by the finest bakery in New York. Their cakes are so good that one of our most demanding clients used them for all four of her weddings. The pastry chef himself is here, just in case the cake requires any slight touch-up after it’s unboxed.”

Junior brushed past the caterer and went to study Mama Heddy-Anna’s portrait, which would be formally presented to the senior center’s trustees to be hung in the reception area of the center’s new wing. It had been painted by a Wallonian artist and ornately framed by a New York gallery. Junior’s phoned instructions to the artist had been precise: “Show Mama to be the beautiful lady she is.”

Charlie had seen snapshots of Mama. The portrait of a handsome matriarch in black velvet and pearls bore not the slightest resemblance to any of them, thank God. The artist had been handsomely rewarded for his services.

“She looks real nice,” Junior conceded. Immediately his moment of satisfaction evaporated. “Where are those people I’m paying to sing? They’re supposed to be here by now.”

Jewel had come up behind him. Slipping an arm through his, she said, “I just saw them turn in to the driveway, sweetie pie. Don’t worry about them. They’re good, really good.”

“They better be. You recommended them.”

“You heard them sing, lovey. Remember I took you to Nor’s Place for dinner?”

“Yeah, I forgot. They’re okay. Good restaurant, good food. Good location. Wouldn’t mind owning it myself. Let’s take a look at the cake.”

With Jewel still on his arm, her flaming red hair dancing around her shoulders, her microminiskirt barely reaching her thighs, Junior led the inspection tour into the kitchen. The pastry chef, his towering white hat regally settled on his head, was standing beside the five-layered birthday cake.

As he saw them approach, he beamed with pride. “Is it not magnificent?” he asked, kissing his fingertips. “A spun-sugar masterpiece. My finest, finest effort. A worthy tribute to your beloved mother. And the taste. The divine taste. Your guests will cherish every bite.”

Junior and Eddie walked reverently to view the masterpiece. Then, as one, they began shouting.

“Stupid!”

“Jerk!”

“Dope!”

“It’s HEDDY-ANNA, not BETTY-ANNA,” Eddie snarled. “My mama’s name is Heddy-Anna!”

The pastry chef looked incredulous as he wrinkled his nose and frowned. “Heddy-Anna???”

“Don’t you dare make fun of my mama’s name!” Eddie shouted as his eyes welled with tears.

Don’t let anything else go wrong, Charlie Santoli prayed. They’ll both lose it if anything else goes wrong.

It was a supreme effort for Hans Kramer even to begin the fifteen-minute drive from his home in Syosset to the Badgett brothers’ mansion on Long Island Sound. Why did I ever borrow from them? he asked himself for the thousandth time as he turned onto the Long Island Expressway. Why didn’t I just declare bankruptcy and have done with it?