either. C’mon. Let’s go on.”
The two men turned and left.
The whiskey bottle arrived, and Sala put a hand on his arm. “Let’s go,” she said.
But Quill was still reeling from his near escape. He’d heard that the Brotherhood paid off some of the Jungle Patrol to protect their members. Maybe that was what happened. Then again, maybe the chunky one knew they were outgunned, and he’d decided to get reinforcements. If that was the case, he was in serious trouble.
He wasn’t about to get caught off-guard relaxing with Sala. He shoved her arm away. “Here, it’s all yours. I’ve got to go.”
“What? Where are you going?”
He looked over his shoulder. “You could say I’m shipping out.”
As he reached the door, the bottle skipped off his shoulder and smashed against the wall. Sala followed up her throw with a string of salty curses. He kept going. He would see her later.
Right now he just wanted to hide out in the old freighter that Drax had sent to Bangalla for backup. Besides, he needed to send a coded message to the boss and tell him the good news.
NINE
Long Island, New York
D iana Palmer groaned as she pulled into the long driveway leading up to the opulent estate. The English-style manor was brightly lit against the black sky, and the driveway was jammed with Lincolns, Packards, and a couple of Pierce-Arrows. Several chauffeurs lounged nearby, smoking and talking.
“Great, what’s this all about?”
She stopped her Ford Woody, blocking the entrance to the driveway. “Hey, you can’t park there, lady,” someone yelled.
“You’re right,” she shouted back. She stomped hard on the gas pedal and drove around the cars and across the expansive lawn toward the mansion. She parked directly in front of the main entrance and killed the engine.
Instantly a butler in a tuxedo flew out the door, waving his arms like a penguin trying to fly. “Say now, I beg your pardon! You can’t, you just can’t park . . .”
Diana stepped out from the Woody and slammed the door. She was twenty-five, slender, and effortlessly beautiful. She wore an old red and black flannel shirt with a checkerboard pattern and khaki work pants. Her short hair looked as disheveled as her clothing.
The butler reassessed the situation. “Oh, Miss Palmer!” He dropped his arms to his sides and straightened his back. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. I, uh . . . well, I didn’t recognize you, ma’am.”
Diana waved a hand. “Forget it, Falkmoore. I would’ve thrown me out, too, if I didn’t know better.” She opened the back of the Woody and started to pull out the suitcases and travel trunks.
“Welcome back, Miss Palmer. Here, please, let me help you with those things.”
Diana glanced toward the house as she stepped back from the Woody. The sound of an orchestra filtered out through the open door. “Looks like I showed up on the wrong evening.”
She walked inside, followed by Falkmoore, who carried some of her luggage. A cocktail party was in progress, and a string quartet played for about thirty guests. She recalled her twenty-third birthday party, when Tommy Dorsey had played after her first choice, Duke Ellington, had been unable to make the date.
She looked around quickly. You never knew who would show up at Mother’s soirees. She’d acted in the movies in her younger years and still kept in touch with many of her old acquaintances. In the past couple of years, Diana had met Charlie Chaplin, Greta Garbo, Mae West, James Cagney, even Will Rogers and Dorothy Parker.
Lily Palmer, dressed in an expensive gown and draped in jewelry, immediately hurried over to her. “Oh, Diana! I can’t believe you’re here!”
“Mother, you look absolutely stunning!”
Lily studied her daughter’s appearance and shook her head in dismay. “Really, dear. Your clothes could be, hmm, well . . .”
“Don’t worry, I’ll change.”
“Your timing really couldn’t be worse. But how are you, anyway?”
Before
The two men turned and left.
The whiskey bottle arrived, and Sala put a hand on his arm. “Let’s go,” she said.
But Quill was still reeling from his near escape. He’d heard that the Brotherhood paid off some of the Jungle Patrol to protect their members. Maybe that was what happened. Then again, maybe the chunky one knew they were outgunned, and he’d decided to get reinforcements. If that was the case, he was in serious trouble.
He wasn’t about to get caught off-guard relaxing with Sala. He shoved her arm away. “Here, it’s all yours. I’ve got to go.”
“What? Where are you going?”
He looked over his shoulder. “You could say I’m shipping out.”
As he reached the door, the bottle skipped off his shoulder and smashed against the wall. Sala followed up her throw with a string of salty curses. He kept going. He would see her later.
Right now he just wanted to hide out in the old freighter that Drax had sent to Bangalla for backup. Besides, he needed to send a coded message to the boss and tell him the good news.
NINE
Long Island, New York
D iana Palmer groaned as she pulled into the long driveway leading up to the opulent estate. The English-style manor was brightly lit against the black sky, and the driveway was jammed with Lincolns, Packards, and a couple of Pierce-Arrows. Several chauffeurs lounged nearby, smoking and talking.
“Great, what’s this all about?”
She stopped her Ford Woody, blocking the entrance to the driveway. “Hey, you can’t park there, lady,” someone yelled.
“You’re right,” she shouted back. She stomped hard on the gas pedal and drove around the cars and across the expansive lawn toward the mansion. She parked directly in front of the main entrance and killed the engine.
Instantly a butler in a tuxedo flew out the door, waving his arms like a penguin trying to fly. “Say now, I beg your pardon! You can’t, you just can’t park . . .”
Diana stepped out from the Woody and slammed the door. She was twenty-five, slender, and effortlessly beautiful. She wore an old red and black flannel shirt with a checkerboard pattern and khaki work pants. Her short hair looked as disheveled as her clothing.
The butler reassessed the situation. “Oh, Miss Palmer!” He dropped his arms to his sides and straightened his back. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. I, uh . . . well, I didn’t recognize you, ma’am.”
Diana waved a hand. “Forget it, Falkmoore. I would’ve thrown me out, too, if I didn’t know better.” She opened the back of the Woody and started to pull out the suitcases and travel trunks.
“Welcome back, Miss Palmer. Here, please, let me help you with those things.”
Diana glanced toward the house as she stepped back from the Woody. The sound of an orchestra filtered out through the open door. “Looks like I showed up on the wrong evening.”
She walked inside, followed by Falkmoore, who carried some of her luggage. A cocktail party was in progress, and a string quartet played for about thirty guests. She recalled her twenty-third birthday party, when Tommy Dorsey had played after her first choice, Duke Ellington, had been unable to make the date.
She looked around quickly. You never knew who would show up at Mother’s soirees. She’d acted in the movies in her younger years and still kept in touch with many of her old acquaintances. In the past couple of years, Diana had met Charlie Chaplin, Greta Garbo, Mae West, James Cagney, even Will Rogers and Dorothy Parker.
Lily Palmer, dressed in an expensive gown and draped in jewelry, immediately hurried over to her. “Oh, Diana! I can’t believe you’re here!”
“Mother, you look absolutely stunning!”
Lily studied her daughter’s appearance and shook her head in dismay. “Really, dear. Your clothes could be, hmm, well . . .”
“Don’t worry, I’ll change.”
“Your timing really couldn’t be worse. But how are you, anyway?”
Before
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