Do You Promise Not to Tell? (10 page)

“Peter, do you think you could get Olga to let us shoot some videotape of the Moon Egg?”

Peter’s eyes widened and Farrell saw the Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed.

“Are you kidding? In a million years, Olga’s not going to allow anyone to see the Moon Egg, much less a television crew.”

“Look, Peter, it won’t be a big production. Just me and my cameraman, B. J. He’s a great guy. It will be very calm and we’ll be as unobtrusive as possible. We can do the whole thing in a half an hour.”

“She won’t go for it.”

“I’ll need this, Peter,” Farrell urged. “I’ll need some proof that another,
real
Moon Egg exists. Unless, of course, you could get Olga to turn the egg over to us.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

Farrell grinned sheepishly. “All right, all right. But if anyone can talk her into letting us have a glimpse of the Moon Egg, it’s you, Peter.”

Peter looked troubled.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to put Olga in any kind of danger.”

Farrell’s expression turned serious. “I know you don’t. But the truth has a way of coming out eventually. And Olga won’t be in any trouble, she hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“What about her taking the egg from the Fabergé studio in St. Petersburg?”

“Her father took the egg. And it was over eighty years ago. Ever hear of the statute of limitations? Who do you think is going to prosecute her anyway?”

“How ’bout the Russians?” Peter offered.

“I doubt the United States government is going to hand over a little old lady to Moscow.”

Peter finished off his soda, his face brightening.

“So Olga doesn’t have to be scared of going to jail?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“She’s sure gonna be relieved to hear that.”

B. J. had a litmus test: Hogs and Heifers.

If a woman could deal with a night at the biker bar in the heart of the New York City meatpacking district, there was hope that she would be his type. He was past the point of progressing through the series of dinners, movies, and concerts that was the traditional dating routine. That’s what he used to do to get his dates ready for the big test.

Now he got right to it. What was the point of beating around the bush? If a woman couldn’t deal with Hogs and Heifers, ultimately she wasn’t going to be able to deal with him. He loved the wildness of the place, its total abandon.

He watched Meryl’s face. It was inscrutable. What was she thinking as they maneuvered their way past the transvestites that strutted the streets leading to the bar? Did she realize that the heavily made-up, long-legged, booted and miniskirted creatures were actually men?

A tall, thin blond approached them and arched a darkly penciled eyebrow. “Want some, honey?” asked the deep baritone.

Meryl looked up at B. J. “You really know how to impress a girl, don’t you?”

Outside Hogs and Heifers, dozens of Harleys were parked, their owners openly guzzling beer on the
street. Passing through the black motorcycles and the sinister-looking, black-leather-jacketed bikers, Meryl took tight hold of B. J.’s arm.

It’s working already
, he thought.

The couple entered the smoke-filled bar, the Allman Brothers welcoming them from the blaring sound system. Confederate flags hung on the wall. A long bar lined the left wall and, overhead, scores of bras hung from the ceiling.

B. J. checked out Meryl’s reaction.

“Charming,” she said sarcastically, but her dark eyes sparkled.

The female bartenders wore bikini tops and short cutoffs, with cowboy boots and hats. Through megaphones, they jeered insults at the customers who left lousy tips.

“Twenty-five cents? That’s what your mother gets for making out with the sailors when the fleet’s in.”

There was nowhere to sit and B. J. was reminded of a packed subway train that stunk of stale beer, cigarettes, and cheap cigars.

“Two PBRs,” he called to a bartender over the din.

“Wow, you’re a sport, B. J.,” Meryl remarked. “Pabst Blue Ribbon . . . mmm.”

“Come on, Meryl,” B. J. laughed. “Get with the program.”

The bartender popped the tops of the two cold cans of beer and plunked them down on the bar. “Now, you gotta get three shots with that, bud.” She poured three jiggers of tequila, immediately swallowing her own. B. J. followed suit and grinned at Meryl expectantly.

Without blinking, Meryl put away her shot neatly. “I thought it was illegal for bartenders to drink on the job,” she related earnestly.

B. J. answered with an impish shrug of his shoulders, as if to say,
Who cares
?

“What’s that over there?” She pointed. A pole with barbed wire at the top stood next to the bar.

“If you can scale to the top, you get a free shot of tequila,” B. J. explained.

“Clever.” Meryl took a long drink of PBR.

“Come on, Mama,” the megaphone called. “Get on up here and drop that bra.”

She’d heard about this place, read about it in the newspaper. A lot of young movie stars came down here to party with abandon. The bras of some of the biggest Hollywood box-office draws hung over the Hogs and Heifers bar.

“Come on, now, yo! You, China girl. Get on up there and show off what your Mama gave you.”

B. J. was watching Meryl for her reaction. Her face remained passive as she tried to ignore the megaphone’s demands.

The bartender wasn’t giving up.

“Come on, baby, we’re all friends here. Share the wealth with your friends.”

Meryl chugged back the rest of her beer and resolutely placed the empty can on the bar. She hoisted herself up on the bar, and before B. J.’s admiring eyes, she began to sway in rhythm to the country-rock music. As the tempo increased, so did the gyrations of Meryl’s hips and the cheering of the crowd. From beneath her black wool sweater, she wiggled free of
her bra and swung it over her head to the audience’s delight.

When they left Hogs and Heifers an hour later, the stench of dead meat hung in the night air, and packs of moldy bacon lay strewn before them on the sidewalk. Meryl seemed not to notice, and B. J. knew this chick had passed the test.

First Sunday of Lent

It had been a long time since Farrell had been to Mass at blue-bricked St. Andrew’s Church, and she found it comforting this Sunday morning. Things may be unsettled in her life right now, but the church she had gone to growing up was pretty much the same as it had always been.

Farrell crossed herself with holy water from the font at the entrance, said a silent prayer, and took a seat in a pew at the back of the church. As she rubbed and blew on her icy fingers, cold from the several-block walk from Pat’s house, she looked around. Nope. The old place hadn’t changed. Farrell could picture all those Sunday mornings that she and Robbie, uncomfortable in their good clothes, had been marched in by their parents. They alternately sat quietly and fidgeted, eager for Mass to end so they could get their reward at Purity Bakeshop, Farrell always getting the thick crumbcake, Robbie always choosing the chocolate creme-filled donuts.

Chocolate had been Robbie’s passion even back then. Thirty years later, his breakfast of choice was Cocoa Puffs or Cocoa Krispies, cereals which he’d readily accept as lunch or dinner courses as well.

Robbie. He seemed to be doing better, Farrell thought, relieved. Maybe the worst was over. Maybe
it had just been an isolated episode. She prayed so.

The purple-shrouded crucifix over the altar would stay that way until Easter Sunday. Then the cross would be uncovered, symbolic of Christ’s resurrection from the dead. Six weeks. In six weeks, where would she be?

She’d better start making some plans. Get some interviews lined up. Six weeks went by awfully quickly. She didn’t want to think about it.
Hey, girl, you
better
start thinking about it! Your bank account isn’t any too full

Why hadn’t she saved more? She made a good salary. Where had it all gone? What did she have to show for it?

Farrell knew the answer. She lived in New York City. It didn’t come cheap.

Perhaps she should give up the city life. Move back out here, get a job on the local newspaper or go work for New Jersey Network. They’d hire her in a flash. KEY News was a great credential, if Range didn’t sabotage her.

It would be much less expensive to live out here in suburbia. Rents were cheaper, she wouldn’t have to spend so much on clothes or going out to eat. It would be much simpler.

But would it be boring? She’d always wanted to get out of Westwood because she thought it was dullsville. Funny how appealing it was looking now.

And, hey, things happened in the ’burbs. Look at this whole Olga thing. She wished she hadn’t promised not to tell Pat. Farrell really wanted to get her take on Peter’s story.

But what if Peter’s account was true? What a story! A candidate for the lead on
Evening Headlines
. If she could nail this down, she could hold her head high as she left. And best of all, she’d show that son of a bitch, Range.

The priest was droning on. Farrell was paying just about as much attention to his words as she had done when the nuns had herded all her grammar-school classmates to Mass every morning of Lent to start their days off right. How she’d groaned about having to climb up the hill and sit quietly in God’s house, when she’d much rather be secretly making paper dolls in the scarred wooden desk she shared at school with her artistic buddy, Laura Dail. But you wouldn’t dare complain out loud. That would be like
asking
Sister Raymond to twist your ear or pull your hair.

Farrell watched to see if she saw any familiar faces as the parishioners lined up to go to Communion. She didn’t, but the ones there today looked like decent, hardworking people trying to do the best they could with their situations, playing the cards life dealt them.

I guess that’s all any of us can do
, Farrell concluded, thinking of Pat. She’d taken a really tough blow and had carried on bravely. She was a real role model.

Farrell and Pat spent Sunday afternoon eating a roll of raw chocolate-chip cookie dough and poring through the books on Fabergé Pat had collected.

“When Olga brought the first piece of Fabergé into the shop, I got hooked,” Pat explained. “Every time I see a new book on the subject, I buy it. Here’s one I bought at Hillwood—you know, cereal heiress Marjorie Merriweather Post’s estate in Washington, D.C. She was a Russophile and an avid Fabergé collector. She purchased the diamond crown that Alexandra wore at her wedding to Nicholas, as well as two Imperial Easter Eggs.”

“Which ones?” asked Farrell.

“See here?” Pat pointed. “This blue monogrammed egg and the Cameo Egg. But the surprises are gone from the inside of each of them. The most valuable eggs are the ones which still have their little unexpected treasures left intact.”

Farrell continued flipping through the art book, through the chapters on the history of the great house of design, and artists diagrams of the works that were carefully drawn on paper before they were made into objects of gold, enamels, and precious stones. She stopped at the chapter on the Imperial Eggs and read hungrily.

There is uncertainty about the number of Imperial Eggs produced by Fabergé. This reflects the private nature of their commission and execution. They were not considered to be created for the public’s enjoyment, not to be displayed for the world to see. They were, instead, family gifts from the czar, personal tokens of his affection.

Ten eggs were made during the reign of Alexander III and another forty-four were made for Nicholas II. Two more eggs were designed and made in 1917, although they were lost and there is no evidence they were ever delivered to the czarina Alexandra or to the czar’s mother, the dowager empress Marie Feodorovna, before the Romanovs were overthrown.

The Moon Egg was one of the last two eggs
, Farrell thought,
ordered by the czar, not knowing that he and his family would be killed within the year
. She shivered and continued reading.

The Armory Museum of the Kremlin has ten of the Imperial Eggs. America has a richer collection of the precious eggs, twelve of them at the Forbes Museum in New York City. There are a number of eggs in European collections and there are some owners who are reluctant to admit they possess Imperial Eggs, knowing their value and not wanting to explain how they came by the treasures.

Olga.

Farrell wished again she could tell Pat about Peter’s story. But she had promised not to tell.

Unlocking the door to her apartment and switching on the lights, Farrell backed down the little hallway that led to her living room. She held up one end of the wrought-iron side table and Pat lifted the other.

“Well, here it is.” Farrell gestured widely. “Welcome to my abode. Is it everything I said it was?”