Caesar nodded. “Well, she said there was some danger, but Ricky Thompson’s out there.” He pointed toward the window. “So there’s nothing to fear.”
Flossie waved her arms to get his attention. “Yes, there is Caesar. Yours is the last one. The Russian killers who are after them don’t know you sent yours to Florida.”
Sterling broke in. “Listen old man, you’re a target whether you like it or not. But we have a plan…very dramatic. And I guarantee, we’ll catch those guys.”
“It’ll be fun for you, too,” Flossie said.
“The girls don’t know we’re here,” Sterling resumed in a businesslike way. “I suppose they told you the cops won’t help until a crime’s committed. But we’ve seen what those guys will do. It’s not pretty, Caesar. You don’t want to wait until your house is a crime scene.”
Caesar considered that. Then he said in his flawlessly accented stage voice, “If it’s really that dangerous, why haven’t Ricky and his boys been more visible? I’ve barely seen him.”
Flossie chuckled. “Of course you haven’t. That’s the way he works. Under the radar. I’m sure he knows we’re in here, too, but we’re not the enemy, so that’s why he let us pass. After all, you’re my daughter’s paramour. I’m practically your own Jewish mother!”
Caesar sighed. “I’m not so sure about paramour anymore, Flossie. But why don’t we move into the dining room and I’ll get a plate for each of you. Jewish mothers aren’t the only ones who feed you when you visit.”
Once they were seated Flossie took one bite, rolled her eyes. “Caesar, what is this? It’s soooo good.”
A charming smile broke across his face. The aroma of tomato, oregano and anise filled the room as he placed a heaped silver platter on the table in case his guests wanted a second helping.
“I don’t have a name for it yet. I was just playing around with some veal and vegetables and spices. Perhaps I’ll name it for your daughter, she has such an elegant sounding name.”
Sterling smacked his lips. “I tell ya what, anyone who cooks this good ought to be somebody’s wife. What do ya say we get married?”
Caesar bellowed with laughter. “I’m afraid you’re too old for me, Sterling.”
“In that case, let’s get down to brass tacks. Here’s our plan, we’ve got the stuff in the car…”
The sound of the security buzzer interrupted Sterling. Caesar excused himself. He peered at the camera monitor and pressed the voice button. Then he said in a booming voice, “What is it?” He followed that with, “Isn’t it a little late for Food Broadcasting to send a messenger?”
Ready to unveil their brilliant plan, Flossie and Sterling were getting impatient because now Caesar was yakking away with someone from the TV network. Sterling said in a stage whisper, “Keep calm, Flossie. It sounds like Caesar is getting a delivery from the studio. A few more minutes won’t make a difference; it gives me enough time to have a second helping. Please pass me that platter.”
Caesar’s voice sounded disturbed. “Just leave it by the gate. I’ll get it later.”
After a short silence, he said, “Since when do they require a signature? That Manny Manicotti is a real pain. Hummph. Dinner hour.” Another pause while the messenger spoke. Then, “Okay, I’ll open the gate. I’ll let you in, you give me the package, I’ll sign and you leave. No chit chat, got it? Manicotti’s got some nerve.”
Caesar popped his head into the dining room. “Sorry. There’s a messenger out there from my studio. I’ve got to let this guy in so I can sign for something. Shouldn’t take a minute. Help yourself to some more food.”
The heavy door groaned a bit as he swung it open. The next thing they saw as they craned their necks to peek around the corner was a stocky man who looked like Edward G. Robinson wearing a Food Broadcasting cap and jacket. But something out in the hallway was very wrong. He had a gun shoved in Caesar’s back.
THIRTY THREE
Caesar avoided looking in the direction of the dining room as the man pushed him forward. Meanwhile, Flossie and Sterling worked their way back to a far corner of the room, out of the intruder’s range of vision. They might have been able to hide, if Sterling hadn’t stepped on Flossie’s toe, causing her to screech “
Oy vey
!” The intruder whipped around, searching for the source of the high-pitched cry of pain echoing through the hall.
Unfortunately right after the
oy vey
she shouted, “You
klutz,
watch where you’re going.” The man pushed Caesar into the dining room and said sarcastically, “Hmmm, what do we have here, Mr. Fancy Pants Chef? Your mother and father, maybe?” He waved the gun in their direction, keeping one big paw clamped securely on Caesar’s shoulder. Then he shoved the bewildered chef forward as Flossie and Sterling tried to inch back, which was impossible because they were already plastered against the wall.
The man poked Caesar with the gun causing the color to drain out of his handsome face, leaving it a ghostly shade of pale olive. The stranger shouted, “Okay, where is the samovar?”
Flossie rolled her eyes skyward and said, “Not those
farstunkener
samovars, again! Is that all anyone thinks about anymore?”
“Button yer lip, Grandma,” the stocky man growled. “No stalling. I want that samovar, now.”
Caesar couldn’t seem to make his mouth work. The lips flapped up and down, but no sound escaped. He raised an eyebrow at the oldsters, as if to ask, “Where’s your clever plan now?”
Sterling cleared his throat, stalling for a bit more time. Then, he took a deep breath and in as soothing a tone as he could manage, said, “I guess you don’t really work for Food Broadcasting, do you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, never mind. The samovar isn’t here, is it Caesar?” The chef’s head bobbed from side to side like a robot with a short circuit.
A brilliant shade of scarlet crept from the stranger’s neck up to his forehead as he drew back a fist as big as a wrecking ball.
“Shame on you,” Flossie scolded. “You shouldn’t get so rough, you bully.” She reached over to the silver platter on the table, nudged it toward him. “Here Mr. Burglar. Have some of this delicious food. Maybe it will calm you down.”
Caesar found his voice. “It’s quite good. One of my new creations.” He tried to ooze a little charm, but it was a miserable failure, because his chattering teeth distorted the words.
The phony messenger raised his voice, clearly furious. “Cut the crap, chef. I don’t want food. I don’t intend to be nice. I want that damned samovar! I know it was sold to you and it wasn’t at your studio so it has to be here somewhere. I’ll get it if I have to tear the whole place apart. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll pulverize you and these two old farts.” He waved the gun in the air. “Trust me, this isn’t an idle threat.”
He pointed the gun at Flossie. “You, Grandma, take those ropes holding back the drapes.” She moved as though in a trance, carefully removing four tiebacks. “Now, take two of ’em and tie up this old coot. One for his hands and one for his feet. You better make it tight…or else.”
Flossie did as she was told. She tied the ropes with a special trick knot they used in one of their escape illusions. To the average observer, it just looked like a normal knot, but Sterling would easily be able to slip out of it. The tough guy smiled with satisfaction, showing tobacco-stained teeth with a chip on one of the front ones. “That’s good you old bag. Okay, now come over here…very slowly.”
Without thinking, Flossie snapped, “Watch who you’re calling an old bag. You’re no pretty boy yourself, you know.” Then her eyes sparked with fear. A smart remark could cost her dearly. In a meek voice she said, “Sorry,” and moved toward the other side of the room.
While the stranger stood behind him once again clamping down on his shoulder with that meat hook of a hand, Caesar sat in a chair, eyes glazed over with pain and frustration. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Perspiration dotted his forehead. The man said to Flossie, “Give those other two ropes to Chef Romeo here.”
Caesar finally found a shaky little voice. “That’s Romano, not Romeo. Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Never mind who I am, fancy pants. Take those and tie the old lady up.” He yanked Caesar from the chair and shoved him toward Flossie. “Okay, Grandma, don’t get no funny ideas. Just behave and let the good chef here tie you up.”
She started to protest and he whacked her across the face, knocking her glasses off her nose. A slight trickle of blood worked its way down her wrinkled cheek.
“Don’t mess with me you old bat, or I’ll forget myself and really let you have it.” For once in her life, Flossie shut her mouth.
Sterling mumbled something under his breath but no one could understand what he was saying.
Caesar tried to control his shaking hands as he tied Flossie up. She attempted to signal him not to worry by winking. However, instead of winking, her flurry of continuous blinking looked more like she had something in her eye.
The man moved over to Sterling, got right in his face and said through clenched teeth, “Be good Pops, or you’ll wind up dead.” He whacked Sterling on the side of the head with the gun and laughed when pain flashed across the old man’s face. Satisfied that the oldsters were out of commission, he left Flossie and Sterling tied to the dining room chairs, grabbed Caesar again, and yanked him to his feet. Pushing the gun into his back, he commanded, “March!”
Outside Ricky and the bikers still watched for some sign of the Dumkovskys. The plan was to let them get inside and then Ricky, Ivan and half of the bikers would storm the house and the others would standby to wait for the signal. In the end, the criminals would be handed over to the LAPD. At that point the various police jurisdictions involved could quibble over who got them.
Ricky tapped Ivan on the shoulder. “If that Food Broadcasting guy doesn’t come out pretty soon, we may have to go in and get him. Can’t have him getting in the way.”
One of the Ghost Riders said, “He was carrying a pretty big package. Maybe he had lots of papers or something for the chef to go over.”
“I don’t know,” grumbled Ivan. “It sounded like Caesar just had to sign something and send him on his way.”
A beat up turquoise Chevy with “Rent-a-Wreck” stickers on the rear bumper cruised past them and parked halfway down the street. Two big hulks got out and started toward Caesar’s house. The messenger was quickly forgotten as Ivan signaled everyone to keep quiet.
Both of the men were dressed in black from head to toe. One threw a grappling hook with a rope over the wall surrounding the property and literally walked up the wall, then swung over. The bigger of the two struggled after him. Ivan whispered to Ricky, “So much for security walls!”
Ricky, Ivan and the twelve Ghost Rider volunteers drew into a tighter circle.
The Dumkovskys smashed the leaded glass in the front door, reached in and turned the handle to open it. When the intruder heard the noise, he stopped walking toward the living room and spun Caesar around just as the two big guys lumbered into the elegant hall. All four of them were face-to-face. Igor grunted in amazement and stopped short. Boris rammed into him. They both stared at the man terrorizing Caesar and chorused in unison, “Rimsky?”
Rimsky sneered at them. In a mocking tone he spat out, “Yes, you stupid oafs. It is me, Rimsky.” He pointed the gun at them while keeping a firm grip on Caesar. “How convenient for you to show up right now. That makes it a lot easier to hang a few more murders on you. Move it.” Turning the gun in a circular motion, he indicated the direction of the living room.
Sterling whispered to Flossie. “Okay old girl. I don’t know what the hell is going on out there, but they’re far enough away now to get untied. Good job with the knots.” He loosened the ropes with a few quick movements and threw them aside. He rubbed his numb hands and feet and then untied Flossie.
As the octogenarians crept toward the doorway, they heard a huge commotion in the living room. There was a noisy scuffle and three gruff voices shouting in Russian. Somewhere in the house a phone was ringing. Flossie grabbed a big brass candlestick off the sideboard and followed Sterling into the hall. When one of the thugs spotted her and bellowed, Flossie swung the candlestick with such force that she knocked the man to his knees and she wound up halfway across the room, upside down on the sofa.
At that moment, a mighty roar arose outside, rattling the windows and shaking the house. “Just what we need right now, a damned earthquake!” muttered Sterling as he braced himself in the doorway.
Ricky had given the Dumkovskys a few minutes to enter the house before he carefully opened the gates just enough so that Ivan and the motorcycle gang could walk their bikes forward, taking care to be as quiet as possible. According to plan, once through the gates, they regrouped in the gigantic courtyard and arranged the bikes in a semi-circle pointed toward the house.
Blinding light streamed in through the leaded glass side windows and through the broken glass in the entry door. Everyone froze in their tracks. The phone rang again.
Ivan and Ricky crashed into the hall. Half a dozen giants in black leathers followed close on their heels, while another half dozen revved the engines of the bikes in the courtyard until the roar became earsplitting. Confused by the lights and roar of the Harleys, Rimsky started shooting blindly into the hall from his position in the living room.
Neighbors streamed out of their houses and shouted questions to each other. Some called the police on their cell phones to complain of bikers disturbing the peace. The scene in the street escalated into something that resembled a sleazy movie.
A sleek blond in a designer dress kept screaming, “Murder, murder…” as her husband tried to calm her down. An aged former movie star clasped his heart and pleaded, “Get me an ambulance,” and parents pushed their kids back toward the imposing homes lining the street. Several of the enormous Ghost Riders stood beside their bikes and very courteously cautioned the local gentry to return to their homes so they wouldn’t get hurt.
THIRTY FOUR