The Countess's eyes focused on Sultan Bey and/or Concubine. Roman Villa. Afyon, Turkey.
IT WAS MY OWN SQUEEZA CREDIT CARD!
I reeled. There must be some awful error! I yanked the pack out of my pocket and shuffled rapidly through them. The Squeeza card was GONE!
Oh, Gods, in my haste to find something to write Heller's address on, I had lucklessly chosen the only credit card in the deck that had a totally blank back and was not in laminated plastic! And it was a credit company whose monthly interest charge, in one month of unpaid balance, would equal the original bill! The worst credit hounder of the mob!
There was still a chance. She might bungle the signing! They still might detect she was not Utanc, not the "concubine," and sling her in jail for forgery. I held my breath.
But the Countess Krak was obeying orders. Penmanship was a fitting part of her criminal talents. She signed it just like she had been told: "Sultan Bey and/or Concubine. Roman Villa. Afyon, Turkey."
With a sickening surge, I suddenly realized that she had thought I had given her a credit card! She was so (bleeped) stupid she didn't even realize she was forging anything! She would have that as a defense if they detected it!
But the manager took the finished product, compared it expertly to the card and nodded. All hope died within me.
"Miss," he said to the Countess Krak, "according to the accounts and credit report I just got from the Central
Credit Card Bureau, your master is always easy to locate. We can find him right down to the hour and minute at any time. But you, I am sorry to say, having a WATS phone line you use all over the world, can never be spotted. Please tell us where you are from time to time. You see, it is giving our downtown store problems."
"Oh, I'm sorry," said the Countess Krak, undoubtedly mystified but taking this strange planet in stride.
"Yes. We always send our best customers flowers every Saturday. Your favorite black orchids have been coming back from the Bentley Bucks Deluxe Arms penthouse. So is it now all right for us to send them to this office at the Empire State Building?"
"Quite all right," said the Countess Krak with charm. "But please include the store card prominently so my man won't think they're from some stupid Apparatus executive and kill him."
"I quite understand," said the accounts executive and dutifully made a note of it: "Must not complicate extra-concubine affairs." Aloud, he said, "Discretion must always be our watchword. After all, we have no interest where the lady spends her nights off or even in her travels. It is the man we are interested in. His whereabouts down to the last square inch is always of great concern, for, after all, he foots the bills."
He had his paperwork done. The digital counters he used for eyes were rolling. The crocodile smile stretched his lips. He was changing his role to salesman. "The Central Credit Card Bureau also added a personal note about you, Miss. According to Squeeza reports you always use only limousine service. So when you are through with your coiffure appointment and you have been dressed and the rest is ready to go, we insist you take our president's limousine into town. The limousine stewardess needs to be told what brand of drink you would care for on the tedious ride."
"Hot jolt," said the Countess promptly.
The accounts manager wrote down, "Bavarian Mocha Mint, dash of champagne." Inventive fellow, used to catering to the bizarre denizens of the upper crust.
"Now I must inform you," he said, "of a new service this branch of Bonbucks Teller has instituted. It is called 'Central Credit Card Spree Buying Titillating Rare and Common Commodity Procurement Service for the Rich Lady Who Is Too Busy to Go Rooting Crassly About in Stores.'" He gave her a golden card with a phone number embossed on it. "Now that we have met you and established your identity and acquired your gracious patronage, this service is yours to command."
She hadn't put the golden card in her pocket so he delicately reached across and made sure that it got there. "We are trying to cure the public impression that this branch of Bonbucks Teller is out in the woods. For we, here next to the mighty jets of JFK, are an open door to all the stores of the world. Our motto is 'Serve the Ladies at Any Cost No Matter How Great.' We can spare you the tedium of browsing through Tiffany's. We can get you furs from Siberia or a special Rolls Royce off the British assembly line in the flicker of an eye and send it straight to you. You don't need to undergo these boorish formalities again with us. Just call the number on the golden card and the charge will at once be picked up by Squeeza and added to their monthly bill. All so simple. Just a call and state your heart's desire."
He stood up. Her hairdresser was twisting curlers at the door, waiting to escort her to his salon on the roof.
The credit manager took both her hands in his. He squeezed her fingers fervently. "It is SUCH a pleasure to do business with a customer who, by every report, has credit that is absolutely UNLIMITED!"
During his speeches I had been wildly thinking of some way to invalidate the signature, invalidate the card, point out that a HORRIBLE mistake had been made. It had begun to be borne in upon me that I could not without exposing my true hostility to the Countess Krak and my actual intentions for her and Heller. They would kill me out of hand!
But at those horrible words, "credit that is absolutely UNLIMITED," I lost all grip on hopes and senses.
My supply of adrenalin was all used up.
I fainted dead away!
And as I sank into the swirling mists, a voice seemed to be echoing hollowly as in a tomb. It was my own, telling her to "Buy! Buy! Buy!" that very morning. I had unwittingly sealed my own doom.
I still owed them hundreds of thousands. I didn't have a penny to my name. And I had no slightest channel here on Earth to get any.
The house would be seized. The staff would be sold. But not only that, even I would find myself on the auction block, being bought most likely by an Arab who thought more of camels than his slaves. And thus a nightmare shattered any peace the unconsciousness could bring: I was an auctioneer shouting "Buy! Buy! Buy!" as I sold myself time and again to masters far more cruel than the Manco Devils: the credit companies!
It was evening in New York.
Assured by the elevator operator that Mr. Jet, as Heller was popularly known, was still in his office, Krak tipped magnificently the chauffeur, stewardess and building porters via just mentioning the number of the credit card-which they probably already knew from Utanc. The amount made them blink and me go faint again. Finally, they all withdrew and left Krak with a mountainously piled, four-wheel handcart before the door.
She had arrived!
She looked at her reflection in the gloss of the hall wall. She took off a fur cap, threw it on the cart and fluffed her hair. She straightened up her Blackgama mink cape. She looked closely at her reflection where the cup had now been removed. She was satisfied.
She took a long deep breath. I could hear her heart thudding heavily. She swallowed. She lifted her chin. She opened the door and let it swing wide. She stood there.
Heller was at his desk, open books between his two hands.
He looked up.
He stared.
He couldn't believe it! His mouth opened.
He muttered, "Am I dreaming?"
The Countess Krak had a little trouble speaking. She said, "You're not dreaming, Jettero. It's me."
Heller leaped from his chair. He came around the desk and began to run toward her.
She ran forward to meet him.
They came together in a crush of embraces in the center of the room.
After a savage clench, they both began to cry.
They just stood there, holding each other, crying!