Pink Jinx

  She sat down at the desk then and started to work at the computer again. It made a funny whirring sound, and the screen went black. “Oh, no! No, no, no! Dammit!” she yelled, trying desperately to bring the machine back to life by punching various buttons.

  Stefano, one of Rosa’s sons, rushed in, handgun raised. “What?” Before she could blink, he was in a crouched firing position, surveying the room.

  “Omigod!” She ducked to the floor, behind the desk. Her tight jeans strained their seams. “What’s the matter?” she yelled from her hunched-over position.

  After a long silence in which Veronica could swear she heard her heart beating, Steve said a foul word. Then, “You can come out now.” He still had the gun dangling from his fingertips when she emerged.

  “Why do you have a gun?” She practically screeched as she crept warily from behind the desk.

  He gave her a look that pretty much put her in the idiots class. “Why did you fuckin’ scream?”

  “Nice language! Because the computer crashed—for the fifth time in two days.”

  “Un-be-fucking-lievable,” he muttered, oblivious to her complaint about his swearing.

  She stood and dusted off her behind—actually, she was checking for splits in her jeans.

  He put the gun back into a shoulder holster, hidden under an open denim shirt, which he wore over a white wife-beater T-shirt and jeans. Actually, he didn’t look half bad in a dangerous sort of way. At least that had been her opinion before he’d done his Rambo impersonation.

  “I thought you were in danger,” he grumbled.

  “Jeesh! What did you think, that I’d been attacked by some cybercrook . . . or a dust ball?” she joked.

  His face didn’t crack even a sliver of a smile.

  Steve and Tony had been standing guard outside the office and Frank’s house every day, all day, being relieved occasionally by some cousin or other. What they were guarding, she wasn’t sure. Maybe they thought Frank and his crew were going to run off with the diamonds. Or maybe—ha, ha, ha!—they feared pirates.

  Steve continued to glare at her.

  “I wish I had a new computer,” she said, trying to break the silence. “But Frank doesn’t want me to spend any more money than I have to and, really, I can probably get it to reboot, but holy cow, what did you—”

  Steve turned and stomped out the door in the middle of her nervous blathering. Well, so long to you, too, Mr. Manners! She was lucky she hadn’t peed her pants.

  She worked till noon, saving her data every five minutes just in case the computer crashed again. Flossie and her grandfather showed up with a “little” lunch Flossie had prepared.

  Her grandfather grumbled to Flossie, “It’s cheaper to make the food ourselves, but did you have to make so much?”

  Flossie just elbowed Frank in the side. “Stop being so stingy.”

  While her grandfather went aboard the Sweet Jinx, his diving boat, to help Brenda work on the troublesome motor, Flossie enlisted Veronica’s help to set up folding tables in the warehouse where the office was located.

  On the way out the door to get the boxes of food from Frank’s truck, Veronica almost ran into a big, chest-high carton that had been placed near the entrance. “Who put this here?” Veronica asked.

  Flossie shrugged.

  Veronica read the print on the box: “MACINTOSH.” She was pretty sure it wasn’t a carton of apples. Could it be? I don’t believe this! It was a new computer—a super-dooper computer with all the bells and whistles. “Did my grandfather buy this?”

  “No. Definitely not. He would have told me if he had,” Flossie said, her brow furrowed just like Veronica’s.

  “That’s odd. Just this morning, I wished for a new computer and . . .” Veronica’s words trailed off as she saw Steve standing nearby, leaning against a piling on the bulkhead, arms folded across his chest. Could it be? Did Steve—did the Mafia—get a computer for them? Just because she’d wished for it? Uh-oh! Did it “fall off a truck”? Was it stolen?

  For now, she decided not to question Steve. After all, her grandfather might have bought it, without Flossie’s knowledge. Yeah, Frank probably bought it and didn’t want Flossie to know about such an extravagant purchase in light of their diminished finances.

  Soon there were two folding tables covered with tablecloths and enough food to feed a school of sharks. Her grandfather and Brenda stood at a utility sink, washing away the grease from their hands from tinkering with the boat’s motor.

  And in stumbled Adam, Caleb, and John, all of them resembling monsters in their neoprene deep-sea diving attire. They quickly shucked the fins, fitted hoods, and goggles, and unzipped the suits—which must have been terribly hot—down to their waists, exposing their sweaty chests. Dry suits, which were big and bulky, were a necessity for deep-sea diving. In the cold, bottom waters of the East Coast Atlantic, where the deep wreck diving would be done, the temperature could plunge as low as forty degrees; therefore, hypothermia was always a concern.

  Steve was there, too, though he kept to the doorway, standing with his Styrofoam plate in hand. He answered questions from anyone who approached him, but he kept mostly to himself.

  At one point, with polka music blasting away, her grandfather explained to them all the recurring problem they were having with the motor. “I wish we could buy a new one, but that’s just not feasible on such short notice. Don’t worry, though. Brenda and I will putter with it.”

  Translation to Veronica: He can’t afford a new one.

  There were stacks of delicious chicken salad sandwiches cut into crustless, whole-wheat triangles, and several homemade salads—potato, crab, pasta, and fresh fruit. For dessert, there was baklava, still warm from the oven. Plus, Flossie had provided a bowl of grapefruit slivers for Brenda, who was on a grapefruit-only diet. Flossie must have been busy all morning. For some reason, Veronica had never pictured her as the domestic type. Probably because of the way she looked. Today, she wore blue capri pants; a matching blue and white sweater tucked into the pants that sported a wide silver chainlink belt; and high-heeled, silver slingbacks. And of course the big, blonde hair and makeup out the kazoo.

  Flossie was probably another example of Veronica’s misjudging people, à la her grandmother, she decided.

  At one point during lunch, Veronica thought back to her grandfather’s complaint to Flossie about bringing so much food. She wondered why Flossie, usually sensitive to her grandfather’s every wish, would be so careless when money was tight. Frank looked at her, as if reading her mind. “It’s cheaper than the caterer Floss wanted to hire.” He sighed dramatically.

  Just then, Flossie went, “Eeeek!”

  “What? What?” Frank grumbled. “Did you see another mouse? I swear those exterminators don’t know what they’re doing.”

  “No, silly,” Flossie responded. “I broke one of my sculptured nails opening the pressure lock on that plastic container.”

  “Shiiiit!” Frank exclaimed while the rest of them stifled a grin. “Why dontcha just cut them all off?”

  Flossie’s expression of horror was priceless. You’d think he had suggested cutting off a limb.

  “Don’t start cryin’, for chrissake,” he interjected quickly. Everyone knew Flossie was going through menopause, and her mood swings were horrific. “Just go over to that nail place and have it fixed.”

  “I wish I could.” Flossie sniffled. “But Vivian is out with the flu, and no one else at Nail You does manicures like her. Good heavens, it’s hot in here. Did you turn the air conditioner down again?”

  Meanwhile, polka music continued to blast away on Frank’s tape player. A scene right out of a Fellini movie.

  “Uh, any chance we could turn the music down?” Veronica asked Frank.

  “What? You don’t like polka?” The amazement on his face was almost comical, as if everyone should like accordion music.

  “I don’t mind polka, but it’s too loud. And, jeesh, I didn’t even know there was suc
h a thing as disco polka. There ought to be a law or something.”

  “There’s no such thing as a too-loud polka,” her grandfather said stubbornly, and walked away.

  The disco polka music segued into “The Last Polka.” She could only hope.

  Nevertheless, excitement rippled throughout the group, the crew talking excitedly about the upcoming diving expedition and what they might find. Everyone seemed to be on an adrenaline rush. Veronica assumed it was the same at the onset of every new treasure-hunting project.

  “Nice outfit,” Flossie told her.

  Oh, that’s just great. I’m fond of Flossie, but she really has horrible taste in clothes. “Thanks. The food is delicious. Did you prepare it all yourself?”

  Flossie practically beamed at the compliment. “Yes. It’s the first time I’ve tried baklava, though. Was it okay?”

  “More than okay. I had three pieces.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “Flossie, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  Flossie immediately went stiff, bracing for what she thought might come.

  “What’s wrong with my grandfather? I mean, how bad is the money crunch?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Flossie’s face bloomed with a blush.

  She’s lying. “He won’t even show me his checkbook.”

  Flossie’s blush deepened to crimson under her heavy makeup. “He doesn’t show me his checkbook, either. We have separate accounts.”

  Hmmm! That could be another sign of his money problems. “I can’t help him if he keeps me in the dark. Can’t you make him be more forthcoming with me?”

  “Do you honestly believe I could make your grandfather do something he doesn’t want to?”

  “You’ve been with him a long time.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve been with Jake a long time, too. Off and on. Does he follow your orders?”

  Veronica laughed. “Point taken.”

  “Where is Jake, anyhow? I thought he’d be back here by now. Frank keeps getting an answering machine when he calls Jake’s condo.”

  “Oh, I forgot that he was supposed to help with the project,” Veronica lied. “I have no idea where he is.” Actually, I can guess. He’s with his fiancée. Maybe even off somewhere, like Las Vegas, getting married.

  Flossie squeezed her hand with understanding.

  Well, that certainly brought my good mood down to the pits. Next I’ll be having a crying jag, like Flossie. I’ve gotta stop this. Change the subject. Anything. “Let’s cut to the chase here. Is Jinx, Inc., on the verge of bankruptcy?”

  Flossie’s pink face went bright red. “You’ll have to ask Frank about that.” Turning abruptly, she said over her shoulder, “I need to clean up.”

  Okaaay, Veronica thought. Flossie refuses to answer my questions. Hmmm.

  Frank was clapping his hands, calling everyone to attention. “Back to work, guys. We’ll meet here again tomorrow morning, hopefully with a firm departure time. See you then.”

  The three divers were putting on their dry suits again when her grandfather came up and handed her a big box. “Here. This is for you,” he said gruffly.

  “For me? A gift?”

  “Why shouldn’t I give you a gift?”

  “Maybe because you never even sent me a birthday card in the past thirty-two years.”

  Frank jerked back as if she’d slapped him. “I sent cards . . . and presents, too.” Under his breath, he muttered, “The bitch!” Then he stomped away, over to Flossie, where he began talking and gesticulating wildly.

  Really, the man had the disposition of a bear. Could it be true, what he said about having sent her cards and gifts? If so, her grandmother had a lot more to answer for than giving her the boot from the law firm. But she couldn’t think about that now. She set the large box on the floor and saw the imprint on the top: “Elmer’s Dive Shop, Brielle, NJ.”

  He wouldn’t.

  She opened the box and dropped the lid on the floor.

  He would.

  Inside was a complete neoprene diving outfit, a wet suit, not a dry suit like the men had on, which meant it would be very tight. “Noooooo!” she screeched, and looked toward her grandfather, who, surprise, surprise, had already left the premises. “I’m not going to be deep diving,” she yelled, hoping he could hear her from where he was probably hiding.

  “Of course you won’t be deep diving. You need to practice in shallow water first,” he called back, his voice getting progressively fainter as he walked away.

  Her skin felt clammy, and her head hurt as she stared down at the “gift.” It was another way in which her grandfather hoped to torture her. She had enough problems breathing in the salt air, let alone diving. No way! The man must have lost his mind.

  She decided she needed to find the miniature St. Jude statue that Tante Lulu had given her and everyone else on the team before she’d left last week. Patron saint of hopeless causes, she was pretty sure the old lady had explained. The problem was, in this situation, she wasn’t sure if it was her or her grandfather who fell into that category.

  “Oh, definitely you,” a voice in her head said. Whether it was St. Jude or her subconscious speaking, she couldn’t say, but it gave a whole new meaning to the expression “talking heads.”

  Veronica started to walk back to the office, then turned around, walked back, and picked up the box. Maybe she’d try it on to see how ludicrous she looked in such a revealing suit.

  The voice in her head was laughing.

  Chapter

  8

  How long can a woman suck in her stomach without exploding . . . ?

  “Hey, Ronnie,” Adam Famosa called out as he walked into the Jinx, Inc., office a short time later.

  Veronica was in the restroom, where she had done the most ridiculous thing. She’d actually shimmied herself into the skintight diving suit. Chalk it up to female vanity. Well, she’d found out how revealing it was when she checked herself out in the long mirror on the back of the restroom door.

  The “rubber” suit, which pretty much amounted to a full-body girdle, was so revealing, she was pretty sure the mole on her left breast was evident, not to mention the cellulite on her thighs. A woman would have to be a flat-chested, perfect size five to feel comfortable in this thing, and Veronica hadn’t been a size five since she was, oh, let’s say, ten. And while not supersized in the bust department, she was not a pancake, either.

  “Ronnie?” Adam called out again. His persistence would have been admirable under other circumstances. But right now, jeesh, you’d think he would take the hint that maybe she didn’t want to talk with him since she wasn’t answering his call. Men. They were all clueless—even when they were well educated, which Adam was.

  Incredible! she thought, and walked out.

  Adam’s face broke into a grin. It was unclear whether he was grinning at the prospect of her as a diver, or because he was happy to see her, or because she resembled a sausage and was making a spectacle of herself.

  A second passed, though it seemed like an hour, as Adam continued to grin, despite having to know perfectly well that she was embarrassed to be seen in the revealing garment. His dark eyes roamed her body at will. Adam was the type of guy girls like her avoided in high school—one with experience in his eyes and one thing on his mind. He was no teenager, and Veronica was no schoolgirl, either. The implications were frightening . . . and tantalizing, at the same time.

  “Hey, Ronnie,” he said lazily, but only after he’d looked his fill.

  “Adam,” she replied, which was not easy to do when sucking in her tummy. Slowly, she eased her breath out, and—Thank you, God!—her stomach stayed flat. No water retention today. Still, she stood extra straight, just in case. “Don’t you dare say a word, or you are dead meat,” she warned, waving at her attire.

  He indicated his lips were sealed, but his eyes were laughing. “Are you going to be diving with us?”

  “Hardly. This is my
grandfather’s idea of a joke.” At least, she thought it was. Frank couldn’t seriously think she would go diving, not with her fear of the ocean. “I’ve never done any diving.”

  “I could teach you,” he offered. His words said he was referring to skin diving; his eyes said something entirely different. “I’m free later today.”

  Oh, boy! He is not going to give up. “No, thanks.”

  “C’mon. Diving with you would be fun.”

  Not in my dictionary. “Maybe another day,” she lied. “I’m tied up this afternoon.” Or I will be if I can get out of this glove.

  Adam was a Cuban expatriate, having escaped to this country with his parents when he was only eleven. When he wasn’t teaching oceanography at Rutgers, he was enjoying his hobby as a diver on deep-sea-wreck diving expeditions. His long black hair, which contained a few white threads, was tied with a leather cord at the back of his neck and hung down his back. His skin was dark, a combination of genes and sun, she supposed. While not handsome—his mouth was too thin and his nose too strong—he was attractive, in a beware-I-am-a-wolf-and-I’d-like-to-eat-you sort of way.

  “Are your classes over?” she asked casually, and stepped behind the desk, which provided a little bit of cover, at least up to her thighs. She thought about sitting down, but she was afraid something might rip.

  “Yep. Semester ended yesterday. I submitted grades last night.”

  “Will you be teaching this summer?” Oh, God! I feel as if I’m bare naked, and I’m standing here chitchatting. Is this a woman’s worst nightmare, or what?

  He shook his head. “I’m free till August. After the Pink Project, I’m going to explore the Titanic again with a group of advanced divers.”

  “No kidding! Gee, I’d imagine the Titanic has pretty well been explored to death by this time.” More chitchat. Why won’t he just go away?

  “Actually, it’s not. Most people don’t realize that artifacts are still being recovered from the Titanic, even after all these years and despite that goofball movie.” He was walking around the office, looking at the pictures on the walls.

  Veronica felt a bit more comfortable with his back to her. She had already learned that serious divers and students of wreck history despised the portrayal in the James Cameron movie. Adam apparently shared that sentiment. “What made you decide to join the Pink Project? Surely there are more historically important expeditions.”