Sidney Sheldon - If Tomorrow Comes

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Romano. As of this morning, your checking account balance is three hundred ten thousand nine hundred five dollars and thirty-five cents.”

Romano could feel the blood draining from his face. “It's what?”

“Three hundred ten thousand nine hundred five —”

“You stupid bitch!” he yelled. “I don't have that kind of money in my account. You made a mistake. Let me talk to the —”

He felt the telephone being taken out of his hand, as Anthony Orsatti replaced the receiver. “Where'd that money come from, Joe?”

Joe Romano's face was pale. “I swear to God, Tony, I don't know anything about that money.”

“No?”

“Hey, you've got to believe me! You know what's happening? Someone is setting me up.”

“It must be someone who likes you a lot. He gave you a going-away present of three hundred ten thousand dollars.” Orsatti sat down heavily on the Scalamander silk-covered armchair and looked at Joe Romano for a long moment, then spoke very quietly. “Everything was all set, huh? A one-way ticket to Rio, new luggage… Like you was planning a whole new life.”

“No!” There was panic in Joe Romano's voice. “Jesus, you know me better than that, Tony. I've always been on the level with you. You're like a father to me.”

He was sweating now. There was a knock at the door, and Madge poked her head in. She held an envelope.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. Romano. There's a cable for you, but you have to sign for it yourself.”

With the instincts of a trapped animal, Joe Romano said, “Not now. I'm busy.”

“I'll take it,” Anthony Orsatti said, and he was out of the chair before the woman could close the door. He took his time reading the cable, then he focused his eyes on Joe Romano.

In a voice so low that Romano could barely hear him, Anthony Orsatti said, “I'll read it to you, Joe. 'Pleased to confirm your reservation for our Princess Suite for two months this Friday, September first.' It's signed, 'S. Montalband, manager, Rio Othon Palace, Copacabana Beach, Rio de Janeiro.' It's your reservation, Joe. You won't be needin' it, will you?”

Andre Gillian was in the kitchen making preparations for spaghetti alla carbonara, a large Italian salad, and a pear torte when he heard a loud, ominous popping sound, and a moment later the comfortable hum of the central air conditioner trailed off into silence.

Andre stamped his foot and said, “Merde! Not the night of the game.”

He hurried to the utility closet where the breaker box was located and flicked the electrical switches, one by one. Nothing happened.

Oh, Mr. Pope was going to be furious. Simply furious! Andre knew how much his employer looked forward to his weekly Friday-night poker game. It was a tradition that had been going on for years, and it was always with the same elite group of players. Without air-conditioning, the house would be unbearable. Simply unbearable! New Orleans in September was only for the uncivilized. Even after the sun went down, there was no relief from the heat and humidity.

Andre returned to the kitchen and consulted the kitchen clock. Four o'clock. The guests would be arriving at 8:00. Andre thought about telephoning Mr. Pope and telling him the problem, but then he remembered that the lawyer had said he was going to be tied up in court all day. The dear man was so busy. He needed his relaxation. And now this!

Andre took a small black telephone book from a kitchen drawer, looked up a number, and dialed.

After three rings, a metallic voice intoned, “You have reached the Eskimo Air-Conditioning Service. Our technicians are not available at this time. If you will leave your name and number and a brief message, we will get back to you as soon as possible. Please wait for the beep.”

Foutre! Only in America were you forced to hold a conversation with a machine.

A shrill, annoying beep sounded in Andre's ear. He spoke into the mouthpiece: “This is the residence of Monsieur Perry Pope, Forty-two Charles Street. Our air-conditioning has ceased to function. You must send someone here as quickly as possible. Vite!”

He slammed down the receiver. Of course no one was available. Air-conditioning was probably going off all over this dreadful city. It was impossible for air conditioners to cope with the damnable heat and humidity. Well, someone had better come soon. Mr. Pope had a temper. A nasty temper.

In the three years Andre Gillian had worked as a cook for the attorney, he had learned how influential his employer was. It was amazing. All that brilliance in one so young. Perry Pope knew simply everybody. When he snapped his fingers, people jumped.

It seemed to Andre Gillian that the house was already feeling warmer. Зa va chier dur. If something is not done quickly, the shit's going to hit the fan.

As Andre went back to cutting paper-thin slices of salami and provolone cheese for the salad, he could not shake the terrible feeling that the evening was fated to be a disaster.

When the doorbell rang thirty minutes later, Andre's clothes were soaked with perspiration, and the kitchen was like an oven. Gillian hurried to open the back door.

Two workmen in overalls stood in the doorway, carrying toolboxes. One of them was a tall black man. His companion was white, several inches shorter, with a sleepy, bored look on his face. In the rear driveway stood their service truck.

“Gotta problem with your air-conditioning?” the black man asked.

“Oui! Thank heaven you're here. You've just got to get it working right away. There'll be guests arriving soon.”

The black man walked over to the oven, sniffed the baking torte, and said, “Smells good.”

“Please!” Gillian urged. “Do something!”

“Let's take a look in the furnace room,” the short man said. “Where is it?”

“This way.”

Andre hurried them down a corridor to a utility room, where the air-conditioning unit stood.

“This is a good unit, Ralph,” the black man said to his companion.

“Yeah, Al. They don't make 'em like this anymore.”

“Then for heaven's sake why isn't it working?” Gillian demanded.

They both turned to stare at him.

“We just got here,” Ralph said reprovingly. He knelt down and opened a small door at the bottom of the unit, took out a flashlight, got down on his stomach, and peered inside. After a moment, he rose to his feet. “The problem's not here.”

“Where is it, then?” Andre asked.

“Must be a short in one of the outlets. Probably shorted out the whole system. How many air-conditioning vents do you have?”

“Each room has one. Let's see. That must be at least nine.”

“That's probably the problem. Transduction overload. Let's go take a look.”

The three of them trooped back down the hall. As they passed the living room, Al said, “This is sure a beautiful place Mr. Pope has got here.”

The living room was exquisitely furnished, filled with signed antiques worth a fortune. The floors were covered with muted-colored Persian rugs. To the left of the living room was a large, formal dining room, and to the right a den, with a large green baize-covered gaming table in the center. In one corner of the room was a round table, already set up for supper. The two servicemen walked into the den, and Al shone his flashlight into the air-conditioning vent high on the wall.

“Hmm,” he muttered. He looked up at the ceiling over the card table. “What's above this room?”

“The attic.”

“Let's take a look.”

The workmen followed Andre up to the attic, a long, low-ceilinged room, dusty and spattered with cobwebs.

Al walked over to an electrical box set in the wall. He inspected the tangle of wires. “Ha!”