Fools Paradise (2 page)

“I'll do it.”

She made a noise of protest and Bobbyjay looked at her, and Daisy saw a goofy look spread across his face.

Oh, no. Not you too, Bobbyjay!

One by one her childhood playmates were growing into men and getting stupid about her. She had thought Bobbyjay was immune.

On the other hand, he was willing to reach his arm through that moon roof into a car full of cold, slimy, wiggling fish.

They locked eyes. He swallowed.

She bit her lip. “You'd do that? For me?”

“Sure,” he said huskily. He bounded up onto the hood, crawled out over the Targa's humped top, and slid a tentative hand into the fish. “Cold.”

His jeans were ripped a little across the seat. As he stretched, she could see his bare buns work.

“I bet,” she said, swallowing.

He pulled his arm out. “I'm thinking, roll the window down and let some water out. Then we can get inside.” Lying on his stomach over the top of the car, his arm and tee-shirt sleeve dripping wet, he looked at her with that goofy new face. “If I drown, you'll explain to the cops, right?”

“I won't let you drown, Bobbyjay,” she said in a small voice.

With a deep breath and a determined expression, he dove headfirst through the moon roof. Water and fish poured out around his body. Daisy squeezed her hands together. His arm and shoulder and then his face appeared at the side window of the Porsche, squishing fish against the glass. She heard his elbow bump on the window. Then the window began to leak water from the top, and water began pouring out of a growing slit as the window opened, and fish slithered past in a silvery flood, and then, just as she was worrying that she wasn't strong enough to haul his big, heavy body free, his legs thrashed, and he withdrew. A nasty squeak sounded as he slid back out of the moon roof, and then he rolled over on his back and slid, gasping, to the ground.

Daisy rushed to his side. “Are you okay?”

Bobbyjay heaved air and coughed. “Think I scratched the paint on top. Belt buckle.” He hacked some more. A fish slid out of the sleeve of his sopping tee-shirt.

Goodness. He's been hiding a lot in that teeshirt,
she thought. It clung to his shoulders, pecs, and tight, ripply stomach. She thought again of the rip in the ass of his jeans and her tongue touched her lips.

He looked up at her sorrowfully. “I think it's gonna take more than detailing, Daisy. Can you tell him some lie, go visit a friend for a couple of days, so he won't expect to see it right away?”

“He'll be here any minute,” she said. “I called him right before I saw you.”

“Whaaat!?” Bobbyjay leaped to his feet.

She wrung her hands. “Well, who else could I call?”

“I didn't see you! I mean, I was driving through the park and I noticed the car—I saw you walking up to the car—” he sputtered, and Daisy shook her head.
Mortons, all right.
“He's gonna kill me!”

“No, he won't!” She grabbed him by the arm. Big, muscly arm, she noticed. And wet. And fishy. Goomba would blame him on sight. “I won't let him.”

“Yes, he will!”

“No,” she said, gritting her teeth, “he won't. I'll think of something.”

“Oh, that'll be a help,” Bobbyjay said. She felt like slapping him. Everybody assumed she was dumb. Nice, yes, pretty, sure, but dumb. She opened her mouth to make a point about pots and kettles and she heard her grandfather's voice.

“You sonofabitch! Get your hands off her!”

Goomba grabbed her from behind and yanked her away from Bobbyjay. They squared off, Goomba panting and red-faced and Bobbyjay wary, holding his hands up.

“Take it easy, Marty. I didn't do anything.”

Now Goomba was looking at the car. His fists opened and closed convulsively. “Goo—uck—fuh—” He looked from her to Bobbyjay to the car. Then he threw himself through the now-open window, scrambling at the glove box. Fish and water slopped out. “Jesus!
Jesu Christu—”
and a lot of bad-sounding Italian.

Daisy sidled over next to Bobbyjay.

Goomba spun around with his police .38 in his hand. “Prepare to die, you stupid little fucker!”

“Goomba! No!” Daisy threw herself in front of Bobbyjay.

“Get out of the way,
angelina,”
Goomba said in a quiet, scary voice. “I found him here molesting you and fucking with my car and that's all the cops will know.”

She waved frantically. “Goomba! You can't!”

Bobbyjay tried to push her behind him. “Get back!” He thrust her off with a shove that made her stumble.

Goomba whipped his arm up, took aim at Bobbyjay's face, and squeezed.

The gun went
click.

Goomba swore in Italian.

Daisy threw herself on Bobbyjay again. “Don't you dare! You can't kill him!” In desperation she shrieked, “We're engaged!”

Her grandfather stopped cursing his weapon. “You're what?”

She took a deep breath. “He's my fiancé.”

Bobbyjay stared into the mouth of Marty Dit's revolver, frozen with fear.

“You're what?” Marty Dit said again. He made a fish face, just like the smelts dying on the hood of his car. The gun fell to the asphalt. “Yck—yock—” He put his hands to his throat. His face darkened.

Bobbyjay considered thumping him on the back. Just his luck Marty Ditorelli would have that long-overdue coronary right now.

“Hold me, Bobbyjay,” Daisy whispered. She trembled, warm against his wet tee shirt. He threw his arm around her.

While Marty Dit struggled for breath, Daisy said, “It's true, Goomba. I didn't tell you because I knew you would react like this. Please,” she said, her voice breaking, “don't hate me. I've wanted something for myself for so long.”

If Bobbyjay hadn't known she was lying like a Catholic girl, he would have choked at the quaver in her voice.

The purple faded out of Marty Dit's face. He eyed them shrewdly.

Oh shit. This was one joke that wouldn't last long. Bobbyjay looked down at her, trying to read her thoughts, and forgot himself in her big brown eyes, full of babyish guile and pleading and sorrow.

“Promise me you won't fight with Goomba, Bobbyjay,” she begged softly.

Bobbyjay felt his body swell up. “Okay.” He sent a guilty look at Marty Dit.

The old man was white.

Daisy twisted against Bobbyjay and threw her arms around him, burying her face against his neck.

“What are you doing?” Bobbyjay whispered to her hair.

“Saving your life, you big lug,” she murmured back.

“You didn't,” Marty Dit said, sounding shaken. He snatched up his fallen .38, pulled his cell phone off his belt, pushed a button, and held the phone to his ear, all without taking his eyes off Bobbyjay. Of course nothing happened. Dead zone. Marty Dit glared. “Wait here, you two.” He walked away, bent over the phone, scowling back over his shoulder every two steps.

“Is he gone?” Daisy whispered into Bobbyjay's neck.

“Uh, wait a sec—he's going behind those trees—he's gone.” Bobbyjay realized again that he had Marty Dit's actual granddaughter in his arms. He let go, fast.

Daisy looked pale. “Okay, here's what we do. We lie like crazy until he calms down—”

“He's never gonna calm down!” Bobbyjay moaned, remembering past horror stories. “He'll kill me. He'll wait 'til you're gone or he'll ambush me behind a truck on a load-in somewhere and bang!”
Or drop a counterweight on my head from the rail. Or roll a box into me from behind and break my legs. Or blow up my Jeep.
Bobbyjay flinched as each thought splashed across the technicolor wide screen of his imagination.

“No! No.” Daisy sounded surer with every word, which made him even twitchier. “Not if we're engaged. He can't kill you. He knows I would never, ever forgive him.”

This was probably true. Marty Ditorelli was a slave to his granddaughter.

And why not? She'd been a beauty since babyhood. Her creamy Italian skin and sad brown eyes had been off limits to every stagehand's son ever since high school. Plus, she'd filled out a lot.

“Daisy,” he said and swallowed a lump. “He'll know you're not in love with me.”

She wafted industrial-grade eyelashes. “I'm a good liar.”

“Well, I'm not.” She just kept watching him. “What?” he said testily.

“We can't ever let him think it was you, Bobbyjay.”

“I keep telling you, it wasn't me!”

“Or any of the Mortons.” She watched him steadily and he felt himself go red. “If we do, it'll all start up again. It'll be awful. You may not know everything that happened, but I do.”

Bobbyjay doubted that. “It would be bad.” The fistfights, the kneecappings-with-baseball-bats, cars up in flames and only a miracle that none of them was occupied. If Marty Dit disbelieved Daisy's lie and shot him, it wouldn't stop there.

She clutched him with both hands. “My mom can't hold him back over the Targa. But she'll put her foot down if we're engaged.”

“That's how it stopped last time. Our moms.”

Daisy stuck her chin out. “And me. All us womenfolk.”

They'd made the Local safe for Mortons and Ditorellis alike, all the women who had married into their families, so that Bobbyjay and Daisy and Mikey Ray Ditorelli and all their cousins could grow up together without fear.

But women don't stay married to stagehands forever.

“Your mom's the only one left,” he said. A chill ran up his back as he thought of the other half of the problem. “Who's gonna stop my Pop from declaring war over us being engaged?”

“You are.”

Marty Dit's sinister voice said, “So you're still here.” He seemed to have calmed down, but Bobbyjay didn't like the thoughtful look in his eye.

Marty Dit announced, “I talked to Mikey Ray. He says you walked off the job.”

Bobbyjay couldn't think of a thing to say.

“You're here, you're all wet, and you stink like fish. Now, I figure a stunt like this would take an hour or two. And a lot of guys. You only been gone from the Opera House what, half an hour, and I been here half of that. So,” old man Ditorelli said, his voice rising dangerously, “I figure you're covering for those scumbags again.”

Bobbyjay took a deep breath. He shook Daisy off. “No, sir, I'm not.”

“You're lying.”

“No, sir. I found Daisy alone by the car, crying her eyes out.”

“So who called you off the job to come here?”

Bobbyjay's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“I called him,” Daisy said. “He's my fiancé.”

“You called this douchebag for help?”

“I called you, too, Goomba.” She laid her hand on his arm. “It's all my fault, Goomba. I left the moon roof open. I'm sorry. I'm really, really—” Her voice broke again. Bobbyjay's heart melted. The kid wasn't faking. “—really sorry.”

Old man Ditorelli melted, too. “My poor lamb.” He pulled her close and patted her, eyeing Bobbyjay craftily. “You're really engaged?”

Bobbyjay licked his lips and put his hands in his wet back pockets.

Daisy sniffled. “Yes.”

“Well. So,” Marty Dit said slowly. His tone turned smooth. “We can't have you losing your job because you came to the aid of a damsel in distress, can we? I ain't on the Executive Board like your grandfather, but I have a few friends. Why don't you two lovebirds just run along home with the Porsche. I'll do what I can to keep Bobbyjay out of trouble.”

Bobbyjay said, “Uh, I can call for a tow. And I'll drive Daisy home in the Jeep.”

“No, no, no,” Marty Dit said with the irony that got him so disliked around the Local. “This is a happy day! God is sending me a grandson-in-law! And a miracle of fishes! I'm keeping 'em. Damn, these fish are fresh! Some of 'em are still swimming! Don't let any more get away. You two take 'em home and wash 'em and freeze 'em, and in a week or so I'll throw a big engagement party. Daisy can beerbatter 'em. We'll invite the Mortons over for a fishfry to celebrate the union of our two families.” He spread his arms and beamed. “The end of an era! Peace on earth, good will toward man!”

Daisy looked at Bobbyjay.

He shrugged. What could they do? At least Marty Dit wasn't swearing a blood feud.

“We'll fix it up again, sir,” Bobbyjay said.

“I know you will. So hop in! Take my fish home.”

“What about my Jeep?” Bobbyjay croaked.

“Why, I'll have Mikey Ray move it for you,” Marty Dit said. “After he's done running the show, of course.”

Daisy scowled. “Don't you dare do anything to his car!”

Marty Ditorelli smiled evilly. “I'll treat it like it was my own.”

Daisy would have loved to talk to Bobbyjay alone, but Goomba wouldn't go away. He stood there, arms folded, with his phone in one hand and his gun in the other, and watched while Bobbyjay got up on top of the Targa again and leaned through the moon roof to roll open the driver's side window. Bobbyjay's belt buckle squeaked on the roof and he looked at Goomba.

“Uh, I'll have that scratch fixed, sir.”

“That's right,” Goomba said, nodding. To Daisy, his calm was scary.

Bobbyjay slid to the ground. “Uh, if we can't open doors, how can we drive it to your place?”

“Just climb in the windows. Agile kids like you can do that. I'm sure you'll be a gentleman and help Daisy in.”

Daisy looked at the car, appalled. With the windows open, it was very clear that the whole car was full of water. And skillions of little silver smelt. They leaped up and squirmed and flipped drops of water against the inside of windshield.

“You're not going to leave young Mister Morton to handle this all by himself, are you? He is your fiancé.”