Death and Diamonds: Little Lies Everywhere, #2

By Victoria Kosky

The riotous reunion of two sisters. After escaping her mob past, Gabriella is making a new life for herself. Her sister, Sylvie is mobbed up and a walking disaster in five-inch heels. She arrives on the eve of Gabriella's wedding, pissed off that she's not invited.

 

Sylvie carries a gun in her Gucci handbag along with her husband's severed finger. The gun is to protect her from the Borkovic crime family. They have given her one week to return six million in diamonds or else. She blames Vince, Gabriella's deceased husband, for the old vendetta and murder of Drago Borkovic. She reckons her sister is obliged to help.

 

No way is Gabriella ever getting mixed up with the mob again. But when a mob-heavy attempts to kidnap them, they are forced to take drastic measures. They fall back on their skills: Sylvie offers a roll in the hay while the more practical, Gabriella, wants to cook for him. In an awkward self-defence scramble, the gun goes off. The bullet ricochets off Gabriella's cast-iron skillet and the mobster drops dead.

 

Now, they're faced with the perennial mob problem; what to do with the body? To protect her family, Gabriella agrees to a wild ride in a stolen truck through the Australian countryside with her hair-brained sister at the wheel. They break more laws in their attempt to dump the corpse. But when they cross paths with an escaped convict wanted for murder, their prospects turn bleak.

 

As the bodies start to pile up Gabriella wonders if she can trust Sylvie. Things don't add up. But if they hope to survive the Borkovics they need to stick together. When Gabriella's son is kidnapped, the stakes become personal. Can they find the missing diamonds? Will they get through their ordeal alive?

 

The quarrelsome sisters put the fun back in dysfunctional! Buy it today and see the sisters' relationship tested to its limits

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Kosky
• Release date: Sep 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201499983

Victoria Kosky

Victoria Kosky refuses to let age or approaching senility prevent her from accomplishing a lifelong dream. She writes satirical crime fiction and crafts gay, light-hearted stories of murder and mayhem. As Ray Bradbury said, ‘I don’t believe in being serious about anything. I think life is too serious to be taken seriously’.  With two degrees, she has enjoyed several diverse careers that no one is interested in. Motherhood was a highlight for her; she achieved two high distinctions in child-rearing. One of her son’s is six-foot-four-inches tall, and the other measures six-foot-five. ‘Retirement is the greatest adventure of my life,’ said Victoria. ‘Sure, the body isn’t what it used to be, but as long as I have my marbles, I’ll keep writing.’ Although her primary goal is to not die yet, she has even bigger goals: writing fifty novels before her mind goes. (I’m not kidding her father had brain atrophy in his seventies. You can see that bewildered look, and she’s only sixty-six.) Take pity on the old girl and read her books before her time runs out.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The night was dark and moist; Sylvie thought the moisture was because of the sweat lathering her. She’d put up a good struggle to prevent getting shoved in the van. But the two men proved stronger than a diminutive woman. Even if one was a lumbering hippo and the other a string bean.

She was lying on her hands, tied behind her, fingers numb. Cold concrete beneath her back and a breeze whistling through a broken window, made her think industrial building. The fumes of motor oil hung in the air. She heard shrill drilling and thumping sounds from nearby, suggesting a panel beater or a garage. Plenty of noise so no one would hear her scream. Her throat dry, she had to summon some spit to swallow.

The two goons had stuck a pillowcase over her head. Pointless, since she’d caught both their reflections in the shop window when they’d snatched her. The fat one, Pietro had once been Vince’s driver. Vince Carlucci, her brother-in-law had been slaughtered by a rival family. She had shed no tears. And Silver, short for Silvestre, had been her father’s man Friday. She hadn’t seen them for over fifteen years. Since Sal had rheumatoid arthritis, he’d relied on Silver for the rough stuff, like debt-collection. As far as she knew, neither of them had a reputation for killing anyone. They might not be killers, but she sure didn’t want to get tasered again.

She lay doggo, breathing shallow, hoping to catch what they were saying. Every bone in her body had turned to wax and there was a lump pulsing on the back of her head as big as an emu’s egg.

‘I’ll cut the rope,’ said a voice. ‘You bring her over here.’

She thought it was Silver. Her heart rate ratcheted up a few more notches. She heard footsteps, sensed Pietro looming over her. Overweight, he ran hot, the sweat pouring off him. The stench of his body odour pummelled her through the face covering. He grunted as he bent down to lift her. With a loud groan he hefted her over his shoulder, and it knocked the wind out of her.

‘Ooomph!’ she cried. ‘Aargh!’ To add to her miseries, the brute just bruised her ribs, chucking her around like a sack of potatoes. Her teeth were starting to chatter, but she gritted her jaw, determined not to show it.

‘Good. She’s comin’ around,′ said Pietro.

With adrenaline surging through her blood stream, she readied for battle. Once they tied her up it would be impossible to get away.

‘Drag the chair across,’ said Pietro.

‘Why? Leave it where it is,’ grumbled Silver.

‘In the movies they always tip the chair back and get away.’

‘Smart,’ said the younger man. ‘So, we shove it against the wall.’

Good to know they were following movie tips. But it wasn’t the dumbest idea she’d ever heard. Sylvie’s heart was banging like a jackhammer, and she hadn’t moved yet. Silently, she coached herself to strike where it counts—the throat, the nose, the eyes. Trouble was her hands were tied and she couldn’t see a thing.

The second he tensed his muscles, about to lower her to the chair, she lashed out with her legs, a frenzy of kicks. Satisfied when she struck something solid, that felt as squidgy as a mountain of fat.

He buckled and cried out. ‘Get over here and give me a hand.’ The other one must have gone for the rope.

She was lucky he didn’t drop her on the concrete. He dumped her in the chair and tried grabbing her legs. She kept up the frenzied assault, curling back in the seat and jabbing out like a fighter.

‘Aaargh…’ he moaned.

She’d struck something spongy and hoped it was his old shrivelled nuts.

His meaty hands released her, and she sprung to her bare feet, ready to run. Different hands clamped onto her arms. Silver thrust her back in the chair and sat on her lap. She banged her head on the brick wall and her eyes welled with tears. He was laughing at her.

‘Bitch!’ panted Pietro. ‘My balls, my balls.’ He was still groaning, and the satisfying sound improved her morale.

‘Get this thing off me,’ hollered Sylvie, gasping for breath. ‘When I get loose I’ll gouge your eyes out,’ she screeched. It wasn’t as easy moving, with a man sitting on her. He’d applied a spicy aftershave liberally, and the stink threatened to choke her. She tried tipping the chair sideways, but it wouldn’t budge. The adrenaline rush was subsiding as pudgy fingers grappled her ankles and tied her up. A lot of grunting and wheezing ensued as he bent over his belly to the task.

‘You really need to work on your fitness fat fart,’ she said.

Silver chuckled and edged off her lap, still holding her upper legs. The odour was almost overpowering as fat-boy tied her upper-body to the back of the chair.

‘She’s not meant to see us,’ said Silver in a sarcastic tone.

She guessed they’d just worked out that they couldn’t get behind her this way. Why did they care if she recognised them, she wondered? It made her more confident that they didn’t plan on killing her.

‘Okay. We’ll shift her.’

They carted her a couple of metres away.

‘I can’t breathe—I’m suffocating,’ she yelled. ‘Get this thing off me. I’ll do whatever you say.’

She couldn’t see who whipped the pillowcase from her head. They were in a dark empty warehouse, the only light coming from a builder’s lamp set up on the floor. It cast eerie shadows around the walls where metal chains and hooks hung from rusted rails. Bare brick walls enclosed them, steel roof and small louvred windows. All she could see was an old desk with what looked like a crowbar lying on top.

‘We’re gonna arx you a few questions,’ said Silver. ‘Behave yourself, or we’ll have to torture you for information.’

‘Where are my frickin’ heels?′ she screeched. ‘They cost me a fortune. I’m not saying nothing until you give them back.’

‘Forget about the shoes, bitch,’ shouted Pietro. ‘Tell us where you’re hiding them. Your father took them out of the vault. He must have brung them home.’

‘My father?’ said Sylvie. ‘He’s been dead for three years you imbecile. He’s buried at Rookwood. Why don’t you go ask him?’

‘I’m only gonna arx you one time. Where are they?’

‘What the hell are you talking about? Ow, ow, ow…’ Sylvie groaned as someone yanked her hair until her scalp stung.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ asked Silver.

‘What’s it look like?’ said his partner.

‘I’m only gonna arx you one more time,’ growled Silver, for the second time. ‘Where are they?’

‘I don’t know what you’re on about. I’d tell you if I knew,’ she sobbed, her scalp burning. ‘I’m not a mind-reader.’

‘Vince had something of ours and we want it back,’ said Pietro.

This was about Vince! ‘Bloody Vince Carlucci! He never gave me nothing but trouble. They sent him to jail seventeen years ago and I never set eyes on him again.’ She heard footsteps as they distanced themselves and discussed how to proceed.

They were back, hovering behind her. ‘Listen. You’re only making this hard on yourself,’ said Silver in a kinder tone. ‘You’re forcing us to hurt you. All we want to know is where the Di-things are?’

‘One minute you’re blaming Sal and now Vince. What the hell do you want?’ shouted Sylvie, frustration simmering.

‘They didn’t just disappear. Somebody must know something. What about your sister?’ Pietro’s voice vibrated as though he was reaching the end of his patience.

‘Why ask me?’ Sylvie shrugged as the familiar pain pierced her heart. ‘I haven’t seen her since they locked Vince away. She could be dead for all I know.’

‘Just tell us where Maria is and we’ll let you go,’ said Silver.

‘If Vince couldn’t find her for all those years, I doubt you two morons will.’

Without warning someone smacked her across the side of her head. She spluttered for air, her teeth vibrating. ‘Just you wait,’ she threatened. ‘My husband’s gonna come after you and you’ll be sorry you were born.’

‘That’s not what I hear,’ scoffed Pietro.

So, the news was out already. She didn’t know why the knowledge gouged a hole inside. ‘Look, I’m telling you, I don’t know where Maria is. That’s the God’s honest-truth.’

Another slap across the head. Other side this time. It left her seeing stars. Black spots floated in her vision. She hung her head, feeling dizzy. She would have used all the swear words she knew except fear and the shortness of breath stole her voice.

‘See that crowbar on the table?’ grated Silver. Someone tugged on her hair again, forcing her head up. ‘You see that crowbar?’ he repeated.

‘Yeah,’ she whispered, starting to tremble.

‘You’re not gonna look so hot when we smash that through your skull,’ said Pietro.

‘Or we could break a couple of legs,’ offered Silver. ‘You won’t need them shoes again.’

‘Whatever you do to me,’ she said, hopelessness swamping her, ‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know. My father and Vince never told me their business. And I don’t know where Maria is. I’d tell you if I did. She’s nothing to me—left without a word to me or Mama. I’d call that betrayal, wouldn’t you?’

She heard some muttering behind her, then fat-boy put his clammy fingers across her eyes.

A resounding crack came from the table and she jumped. Silver returned and placed the cold steel against her cheek. He slid it over her arms and poked her upper legs. ‘Think what this could do to your bones,’ he said. ‘I could cave in that lovely face.’

She couldn’t help it; she began to whimper.

‘This is your last chance,’ bellowed Pietro. ‘Tell us what we want to know.’

The sound of the crowbar rapping against the struts of the chair made her wince.

‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ Tears flowed down her cheeks. ‘Help me, Holy Mary, Mother of our Lord Jesus,’ she whimpered, ducking her head, preparing for the blow. The only consolation was that the pain she was currently experiencing throughout her body would pass once he cracked her head. Either she’d be out with concussion, or brain damage, or she’d be dead. Waves of ice and heat alternated over her damp skin. Her gut churned as she tensed, waiting to be struck.

She heard the crowbar clang to the floor behind her. Imagined him taking out his gun to dispatch her. All she could hear was the mewling sounds coming from her own throat. Then silence. In the background, the steady thumping, banging, and pounding continued like jarring music. Outside she heard an engine turn over and the squeal of tyres, fading into the night.

When she stopped whimpering, she knew they’d gone. Her whole body sagged with relief. They’d taken the light and the space was black as charcoal. Gradually it dawned on her that she was still tied to a chair. Her wrists throbbed and her shoulders ached. ‘Rotten turds.’ If she had any money, she’d pay a thug to bash them. ‘It would serve them right.’ She heaved a long sigh. Anyway, she was glad she wasn’t dead; her pig wouldn’t survive without her.

She used her feet and calf muscles to manoeuvre the chair and turn it in the opposite direction. They’d left the door sagging open and weak light streamed in through the crack. With patience, determination and a lot of anger fuelling her, she shuffled, hopped and jolted her way towards the doorway. She stopped at intervals for a breather, muttering what she’d like to do to the pair. The distance half-covered, her chair cracked beneath the strain. Its joints came apart. The kindling poked and jabbed her as she wriggled until she freed herself. She was left with rope across her torso and her hands tied behind her back.

Grateful for her Pilates classes, she sat down, rolled back raising her legs, and squeezed her backside and legs between her arms. The exertion left her covered in perspiration, but at least she was upright. Hands tied in front of her, she padded out barefoot. ‘How am I supposed to get home from here?’ she said, heading towards the noise blasting from the garage.

Outside was a huge bitumen parking area, dotted with smashed cars. The light became brighter as the noise level increased. She aimed for the light streaming out of an industrial shed. Taking a deep breath, she approached the raised roller door. The place was filled with cars, mechanics, and spray painters in overalls. There was so much noise that no one noticed her.

‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ Sylvie asked herself. They could only kill her. She stepped over to the closest bloke, a bearded chap in overalls and nudged him.

He almost had a heart attack. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’ he said, removing his eye goggles and ear protectors.

She held out her arms. ‘Could you give me a hand with these?’ As exhaustion struck, she sagged against his machine, needing the support.

The guy fiddled with her bindings, with no luck, as she told him two men had kidnapped her. He whipped a Stanley knife from his tool belt and cut her loose.

‘Thanks,’ she said, offering him the hint of a smile. ‘One more thing, could you call me a taxi.’

He nodded, grabbing his mobile.

Light-headed, she slid to the floor, resting her back against the blocks propping up the car. Her wrists were grazed and sore, oozing blood. She couldn’t help the bitterness boiling up like bile. It wasn’t the first time that Maria had brought trouble on her head. She’d cut her off, like a rotten piece of cheese, even changed her name to Gabriella. She wanted no connection to her or the family. They’d once been so close, friends as well as sisters.

But Maria had betrayed the bond between them. And for that, Sylvie would never forgive her.

***

SYDNEY, January 26, 2018

When Sylvie Tosetti pulled herself from the fog of sleep, nauseated and head still thumping from last night’s exertions, she had an intense urge to kill. It throbbed in her veins. The incessant sobbing sound echoed through the empty rooms jangling her nerves. She’d endured it for three days now. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair and massaged her scalp. The question was, who should she kill? Why not shoot the prick who had caused this grief?

As anger surged through her, she leapt out of bed and swayed over to her red leather Gucci handbag which carried the essentials of her life. If fire tore through the building, she’d salvage her handbag first. Her eyes focused as they fell on the weapon it held. She’d bought it for cash from a seedy contact in Kings Cross at 2:00am, no questions asked.

If Vince’s boys returned, she would be ready for them. Gently, she touched the reassuring cool steel of the Glock 42, picked it up and stroked the barrel like a lover. She liked the textured grip and the way it suited her hand. She liked that it concealed in her purse. But mostly she liked the sense of security she hadn’t experienced since her husband, Steve, left.

Thoughts still blurry from last night, Sylvie didn’t check the caller ID when her mobile pealed. It sat charging on the chest of drawers—the single item of furniture in her room apart from the bed. Without thinking she grabbed for it.

‘Yeah.’ Sylvie’s rough voice sounded like a rake dragged through gravel.

‘This is Douglas Schneider from the bank. Am I speaking to Mrs Tosetti?’

She chewed her lower lip and squinted at the ceiling. Three seconds of silence followed.

‘No Missy Tossy hee. This Wed Dwagon Chinee Westwant,’ she said, imitating a bad Chinese accent. ‘You collin wong numba.’

He groaned on the other end of the line. ‘Mrs Tosetti, we need to talk. Your mortgage repayments are overdue—.’

That’s the last she heard before she cut him off, dropping the mobile as if it had singed her. Ten o’clock in the morning. Surely the manager could find better things to do? Sensibly, she resisted shooting the iPhone. Couldn’t afford a new one. She returned the gun to her bag. Crossing to the pack of fags on the floor beside her bed, she lit up and took a long, soothing drag. The now intermittent sobbing wafted through the house. To Sylvie’s ears it was as jarring as a pneumatic drill.

‘For heavens sake! I can’t take this no more.’ She strode to the closet, found her silk gown scrunched on the carpet and shoved her arms through the sleeves.

Worn down by days of blubbering, Sylvie stalked down the hallway to her daughter’s room. She barged in without knocking. Paused for an instant to take in the scene. Elena reclined limply against the headboard. Her snoopy dog from childhood snuggled at her side while she fiddled with her mobile phone. In her greasy-haired, devoid of make-up state, she didn’t look eighteen.

The place reeked of dirty socks; at least she’d opened a window. Discarded tissues spotted the floor. Her porcelain doll collection lined the spare bed. A dozen painted faces stared at her. The bookcase brimmed with ceramic pigs of all sizes. The blind flapped at half mast knocking against the window frame and blocking the daylight.

‘You look like crap,’ said Sylvie. ‘Get out of bed.’

‘I can’t.’ Elena’s weak voice was barely audible. She peered up at Sylvie with puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

Hands on hips, Sylvie took a deep breath while she focused on the poster behind the bed. The sentiment of Amy Poehler: ‘You deserve love and you’ll get it.’ She itched to rip it off the wall, but controlled the urge. That poster encapsulated Elena’s whole problem. She filled her head with nonsense. Unrealistic rubbish. Gritting her teeth, she crossed to the foot of the bed, grabbed her daughter’s leg and yanked hard.

‘Stop it!’ Elena yelled, squirming to get free.

Sylvie ignored her. Though she was a head shorter and ten pounds lighter, she accomplished her task.

A loud yelp accompanied the thud of Elena’s landing. ‘Ow! What did you do that for?’ she whined, rubbing her hip.

‘You’ve been off work three days. Keep it up and they’ll sack you.’

‘You haven’t worked for twenty years. So what?’ Elena glared at her through blood-shot eyes.

Sylvie didn’t need a reminder of her shortcomings. Besides with a mobster who provided for them, she’d never had to find employment. ‘Don’t start sniping! You know I’m trying to get this business off the ground.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Elena’s tone held little conviction. ‘I’m allowed ten sick days.’

‘You’re not sick. And you’ll need a certificate from a doctor to prove it.’

‘Not sick?’ Elena screeched. ‘My heart is bleeding.’ She thumped her chest in a dramatic gesture.

‘For heaven’s sake!’ Sylvie pulled her hair back from her face and rubbed her eyes. ‘It’s not the first time someone has dumped you. And it won’t be the last.’ A half-finished bottle of brandy sat on the bedside table. ‘I hope you’re not drinking that on an empty stomach.’

Elena shot her an accusing glare but didn’t reply. ‘You should get a medal for mother of the year.’ She pulled herself off the carpet with a groan and crawled to the bed. Like a woman of eighty, she heaved herself up to a sitting position, shoulders slumped, head drooped. At least, anger had brought colour to her cheeks. The snivelling stopped too.

‘And you should get fresh air and sunshine. It’s a gorgeous day. Let’s go shopping. I’ll buy you whatever you want.’

‘You said we had no money,’ said Elena. A frown creased her forehead.

‘I sold the last of my dresses on eBay,’ Sylvie announced. Surreptitiously she checked out the doll collection. Many of them were antique—.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Elena, reading her mind. ‘You’re not touching them. Dad gave me those.’

With a flap of her hand, Sylvie turned aside from multiple accusing eyes. ‘Get cleaned up and I’ll take you to Intermezzo. Then we’ll do the shops.’

Hunched on the edge of the bed, arms locked around her knees, Elena shook her head. Her dark hair made a vivid contrast to her pasty complexion. ‘I love Tony,’ she wailed. ‘I love him so much.’

‘Can’t you love him at the shops?’ When she received no response, Sylvie’s temper snapped. ‘Love is just delusional.’

‘You mean it’s a delusion,’ said Elena.

‘Thanks for that Miss educated check-out-chick.’ Aware of her own lack of schooling, Sylvie hated being corrected. ‘Whatever!’ she flapped a hand and continued making her point. ‘People talk about it but no one’s seen it.’

‘You don’t understand… you never understand.’ She flopped back on the mattress as if drained of energy.

‘Elena, there’s only one thing to understand.’ Crossing to the bed Sylvie looked down at her offspring, wagging an index finger in her line of vision. ′They all leave. Get that into your head you’ll be fine.′

‘I feel sorry for you, I do.’

‘Keep the sympathy for someone who needs it. I’m doing great.’ Sylvie heard a snuffling sound. She stooped, lifted the flounce and peered under the bed. ‘OMG! Why are you hiding there?’ She reached for her pet and gathered her close.

‘Poor girl,’ Sylvie soothed, cradling her like an infant. ‘Honestly Elena—you have to take better care of her. She’s shivering. See, your mood is rubbing off; she’ll need therapy. Pigs are sensitive to our feelings. I got you Harriet to make you happy. Have you even fed her today?’

Sylvie glanced across. Her daughter wasn’t listening. With her thumbs working on her mobile at high speed, Elena was writing a text.

Pleased to witness this resurgence of energy, she peeked at the message over her shoulder. The text was peppered with pleas and promises. In an attempt to get him back, Elena was writing to the turd. The very boyfriend who’d wounded her.

With more force than she’d intended, Sylvie snatched the phone in mid-emoji. She crossed to the window and chucked it into the garden.

Elena gasped in shock. ‘You’re insane!’

‘Don’t grovel!’ Sylvie shouted, eyeballing a startled Elena. ‘Never grovel! He broke your heart and you’re begging for more,’ she spat in disgust.

Elena sobbed. ‘He said he loved me.’

‘Yeah, right. He told you he got a job offer in Brisbane. Why didn’t he ask you to go with him?’

‘He might,’ she said. Her eyes looked hopeful, but her voice sounded hesitant.

Sapped of strength, Sylvie released Harriet and set her down. The pig trotted out of the room. She massaged her temples wondering how to word this tactfully. ‘Elena, I’m telling you this for your own good.’ Though it hurt to watch the light in her eyes dim, she maintained eye contact. ‘I was messaging with Carlotta on Facebook. She’s in Bali on holiday.’ Desperate for coffee, her throat was desert-dry. She licked her lips. ‘They bumped into your Tony. He’s in Bali, with some blonde.’

When Elena started howling, it was Vesuvius erupting all over again. Loud, gut-wrenching sobs. Sylvie reached out to stroke her daughter’s hair, but something held her back. She wanted to tell her there were more fish in the sea; that he was unworthy of her. Curious at the ruckus, Harriet poked her nose in, but decided against entering. Sylvie turned away with a loud sigh, leaving Elena soaking the bedspread with tears, her body curled up on itself.

***

After hunting through the bushes, Sylvie found the discarded phone floating in the pool. ‘Cazzo!’ Once again she’d forgotten to apply Mama’s stop and count to twenty rule. If Mama were here, she’d scold her for swearing. She didn’t even bother fishing it out—it was cactus. Why was life so complicated?

She returned to the kitchen, fed Harriet and made herself a strong coffee, accompanied by the tune of Elena’s wailing. She switched on her iPod, set it in the dock and tried to drown out the cacophony. It was Friday and apart from getting Elena a new phone no appointments showed on the calendar. Nothing to look forward to. Then she spotted the note circled in red: It was Francesca’s birthday. Her hand flew to her throat. She had to send her a message, quick; buy her a gift at the shopping centre.

A sense of relief flooded her, knowing she‘d remembered her friend’s birthday. As it was, her membership of the mob-wives’ club hung by a thread. She couldn’t afford to make things worse. Married to Vitto Stromboli one of the top Mafiosi in Sydney, Francesca was high up the ladder while Sylvie dangled mid way, tumbling fast.

The membership didn’t come with a card or documentation but it was real. It depended on a host of things: your husband’s status among the other soldiers and your own glamour—the designers and stylists you chose, the labels you wore, the jewellery and cleavage you flaunted. If the other wives envied you and wanted to compete with you, your membership was secure.

Sylvie decided that a phone call was more personal than sending a message. She trotted to her bedroom, picked up the mobile and pressed the speed dial. She knew that Franny was in Singapore, recovering from recent plastic-surgery, so it would impress that she was careless of the cost of an international call.

‘Happy Birthday Franny and lots more of them,’ she squealed when Franny answered.

‘Darling, how sweet of you to remember.’

‘I would never forget you! How long have we known each other?’ said Sylvie.

‘Too many years to admit,’ Fran chuckled.

‘You sound great. How are you feeling?’ That was code for the surgery outcome; Franny preferred that only a select group knew she’d had work done. This struck Sylvie as ridiculous. Franny’s face had been uplifted and tightened so much she talked like a ventriloquist—the sound squeezed through lips a fraction apart. She’ll probably be eating through a straw, thought Sylvie.

‘I’m great! My man in Singapore is a miracle worker,’ Franny said. ‘The drugs ease the pain and I get massaged and pampered and treated like a queen.’

No doubt the treatment carried a hefty price tag.

‘I’m so glad it went well. When are you coming home so I can drop in a presie?’

‘I am home,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t miss the party the girls are throwing.’

In former years, Sylvie had been first to be invited to Franny’s parties. She gritted her jaw. ‘Sounds fun,’ said Sylvie, trying to keep the green out of her voice.

‘You should come with.’

‘I’ve got plans for tonight,’ she lied. ‘Where’s your celebration?’ Sylvie was hoping she’d say somewhere nice and cheap—barbecue on the beach.

‘Black Bar and Grill followed by The Star to try our luck.’

The Black Bar’s prices were outrageous! They had steak there that needed ordering in advance and cost more than most people earned in a week. No way she could afford that joint, even with her eBay windfall.

‘Count me out,’ said Sylvie. ‘I lost everything but my undies last time I went to the casino.’

Franny chuckled. ‘Tell that husband of yours to up his game. Seriously Darling, if Steve needs a job he should talk to Vitto. I’m sure he’d be able to find—.’

‘Oh no. No worries,’ said Sylvie. ‘Steve’s doing fine and I’m trying to get my decorating business off the ground.’

‘Sure. I can spot you a couple of K. Why not come with,’ Franny cajoled. She sounded sincere and with two thousand Sylvie might be able to change her luck.

‘I’ll get out of this other thing. What time?’

Sylvie listened to