Kasey Michaels - High Heels and Holidays

She brushed past Saint Just, turning only in time for him to see that her mascaraed eyes were not only wide with fright but also wise in the ways of the denizens of the street. "I didn't see nothin'," she whispered to him as she went. Ah, yes, Tony and Gino had been a masterstroke of inspiration, at least now that Maggie had impressed upon him the need for him to avoid violence whenever possible. Violence nosed out most everything else in many cases, but a bit of carefully constructed deviousness ran a close second.

"What's going on here?" Goodfellow asked, his gaze also concentrated on the inestimable Tony and Gino as he slowly backed toward the door to his office. "I don't want any trouble here."

"Trouble? Indeed, no, who would, Mr. Goodfellow? Although I will say that you are in a bit of a pickle," Saint Just said blandly as he advanced on the man, watching Goodfellow's hands that, happily, remained at his sides. "A word or two, that is all I require. Shall we retire to your inner sanctum?"

"Huh? I remember you now. I'm not going anywhere with you. Nowhere I can't see them, anyway. What do you want?"

"Saint Just?"

"Not now, Sterling, if you please," Saint Just said, stepping closer to Goodfellow and keeping his voice low. He would have enjoyed playing with the fellow, but Sterling appeared to be getting restless. "Let's endeavor to do this as quickly and as painlessly as possible, Mr. Goodfellow. It has come to my attention, sadly, that you are not a nice man, sir. Nor are you honest, or concerned about the plight of widows, orphans, and the like. My friend Sterling Balder, however, is concerned. A good heart, that's what Mr. Sterling Balder possesses. A good and a pure heart."

Goodfellow sneered, at least until he remembered who else was in the room. "Yeah? So?"

Saint Just smiled. "Ah, you're listening. Good. But do lower your voice, we're having an intimate conversation here, remember? As to your question, I will say—so, my good man, in order not to disillusion my friend, rob him of his enjoyment of the generous, giving spirit of the season, I have decided two things. Would you like to know what those two things might be, Mr. Goodfellow? Or should I say Mr. Dill?"

"Yeah, yeah, I figured that one out. You know who I am. You're here to rob me, aren't you? You don't just want protection money—you want it all."

"Protection money? I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the term. I was just saying something on this head to my companions, as a matter of fact. You Americans certainly do put your own delightful spins on the King's English, don't you? None of which really matters, my good sir, as you were correct with your second assumption. Yes, Mr. Dill, I want all of your money. After some consideration, I've decided that felons of your ilk would disdain banks, wishing to keep your ill-gotten gains close to you. I want you to go into your office now, gather it all up, every last bent penny you've accumulated in your nefarious and dishonorable scheme, and I want you to hand it all over to Mr. Balder and his four friends here, who will then donate it all to the charity of Mr. Balder's choice. I believe he holds a particular affection to something called Toys for Tots. And then, Mr. Dill, I want one more thing. I would appreciate it very much if both you and Santas for Silver were to disappear."

"Or?" Dill asked, looking very much as if he might soon become quite sick to his stomach. "Those are Campiano's guys standing over there, aren't they?"

"In point of fact, at the moment, sir, they are mine, on loan from their employer, you might say, so I suggest you give a valiant attempt to tear your pitifully terrified gaze away from them and lend me all of your attention."

"I heard you. You want me to believe that you want the money for that nimrod over there."

"Another word with which I am not familiar, but I do believe you've just insulted my good friend. You do this, I imagine, Mr. Dill, as you believe I possess no limits to my patience. I feel it only fair to inform you that you'd be incorrect in that assumption."

"Okay, okay, I've got it. I know when I'm screwed. A ... a lot of it is still in coin ... everything comes here every night, and I've just been sorting it and keeping it all piled up back there. But there's a lot, and it's pretty heavy."

"Really? Never fear, Mr. Dill, although your concern is gratifying. I have it on good authority that one of my associates, Anthony by name, is quite capable of carrying bulky, ungainly weights."

Donny Dill took one last peek over Saint Just's shoulder, then seemed to attempt to hide himself behind Saint Just. "I was right. Tony Three Cases. Christ. Look, how about I cut you guys in. Fifty-fifty. No—sixty-forty. I'm not a greedy man. Come on, what do you say? Seventy-thirty?"

"I suggest you sit down, Mr. Dill. Use Miss McDermont's chair, why don't you. I don't believe that astute lady will be returning any time soon."

"Sit ... sit down?"

Saint Just sighed. "You are a rather tedious fellow, aren't you? Yes, sit down. Smile. And then inform Mr. Balder that you have been called to the national headquarters of Santas for Silver—shall we say in Seattle?—and therefore you sadly must of necessity immediately cease operations here in New York."

"That's where you're sending me? Seattle?"

"No, Mr. Dill. Where you go when you leave here is of extreme unimportance to me. I simply desire you gone, although I do dare to suggest that a warmer climate may put some color back in your cheeks. Now, to continue if I might? As you must by necessity depart in an hour, you are turning all responsibility for the collected funds over to the eminently trustworthy Mr. Balder, with the impassioned hope that he deliver those funds to his favorite charity, as Santas for Silver may be disbanding. Are we clear, Mr. Dill?"

Dill, who was now sitting behind the desk—Saint Just could not help but smile as he heard the man's shaking knees making repeated contact with the wood—merely nodded before saying out of the corner of his mouth, "You really won't kill me?"

"And ruin such a lovely day? Certainly not. It is, after all, the Christmas season. Now, are we agreed?"

Donny Dill, at last seeming to believe that he had made a lucky escape, nodded furiously.

"I had so hoped you'd understand. And I also hope you will take some time, Mr. Dill, to consider what has transpired here and perhaps mend your ways, redirect your feet onto the straight and narrow."

"Uh-huh, yeah. Sure. Can we hurry this up? I ... I gotta go to the bathroom ..."

It was with a smile on his face and a spring to his step that Saint Just returned to the condo an hour later, lightly tipping his hat to Socks as he approached the door the man held open for him. "Ah, Socks, what a splendid day. Maggie's upstairs?"

"Yup, and all by herself, too, now that the delivery guys left."

"You're going to explain that statement, correct?"

"Sure. Ms. Simmons had a treadmill sent over, and one of those bottled-water dispensers. Maggie tried to tell the guys no, but the stuff's up there now. Money sure gets you service faster than no money does, huh? Maggie's not too happy, so I wouldn't go up there now, if I were you. Oh, and Ms. Simmons is still out, Ms. Toland-James has taken a cab to her offices because Ms. Simmons has the limo, and the damn dog is right inside here, tied to my stool. Sterling told me not to take him back to Maggie until he'd done his business, which he did about ten minutes ago, on my shoe. You'll take him back upstairs for me?"

Saint Just considered this for the space of two seconds. "No." He then handed Socks a twenty-dollar bill, promised him another if Brock was still in one piece when Miss Simmons returned to collect him, and headed upstairs to Maggie's condo ... to come face-to-face with an agitated Maggie.