Life was good. How could it not be when
you were richer than Bill Gates? Richer than anyone, as a matter of fact?
And let's not forget suave, handsome and debonair. Yes. Life was good.
Ezra Standish glanced down at the blonde in his bed. One who bore a
striking resemblance to Mary Travis. Probably because she was Mary Travis.
Buying her controlling stock in the leading town newspaper had been an
inspired notion. One that Chris Larabee had strongly disapproved. Sour
grapes on his part, Ezra was sure. What could his butler possibly offer a
woman like Mrs. Travis that he couldn't offer better? Or more of?
Ezra rose from the king sized bed and slipped on a robe. Padding
barefoot over to the French doors leading out onto the balcony, he stared
out across the rooftops of the neighboring Bel Air residences. It looked
like it would be a typical bright, sunny day. Moving to Southern California
had been another inspired notion on his part. No more snow. No more
mountains. Just beaches and shops and idle rich wherever you looked. Had he
mentioned that life was good?
Of course, the others were not quite as
pleased with things. But then they were not nearly as rich. Or as charming.
But that was hardly his fault. If he had a nickel for every time Chris
muttered about there being no place to park. Or Buck whined that it wasn't
anything like Baywatch out here. Or Vin complained that the city's
population of ten million was 9,999,999 too many. (There was that one old
waitress at Denny's that the sharpshooter had made an exception for. Nettie
or something like that) Well, let's just say that if he had a nickel for
every time, then he would be the richest man in the world. But wait. He
already was the richest man in the world. Ah yes. Life was indeed good.
Superlative, even. Magnificent. He could go on, but never let it be said
that Ezra Standish would be so gauche as to gloat. At least not in
public.
He frowned thoughtfully as he turned away from the doors and
meandered over across the sinfully soft carpeting. Mary was still sleeping
and he had learned not to bother her in the morning. No amount of money in
the world could buy that woman a good mood unless she'd received her full
eight hours beauty sleep. Perhaps he would see if Buck had finished cleaning
the pool and then he could go for a swim.
Ezra shook his head as he
thought of the rather motley assortment of servants he had. He didn't think
a man in his position ought to even be aware of the existence of such things
as Denny's and waitresses named Nettie. Or musical groups with names such as
the Smashing Cantaloupes. Or Chevy pickups. Or any number of other things
that they seemed to intrude upon him incessantly. Maybe he should start
making plans to acquire new help? Something to think about,
anyway.
He came to a stop in front of a large mirror hanging on the far
wall of the room, next to the walk in closet. It was a work of art. Rumored
to belong to Anne Boleyn, Henry VIII's doomed queen, it had cost him a
pretty penny. In appearance it had always reminded him of the one from Snow
White. The one the wicked queen used. Perhaps that was why he smiled
suddenly and with a flourish, he asked.
"Mirror, Mirror, on the wall,
who is the richest one of all?"
"That would no longer be you. You're in
a bit of a jam. But that's what you get for trying to cheat Uncle
Sam."
Ezra was considerably startled, and not at all pleased, to find
that Chris Larabee and the other five men had entered the room and were
standing there watching him.
"Shouldn't you be off polishing the
silver, Mr. Larabee?" Ezra drawled sarcastically, trying to cover his
growing feeling of dismay.
"Did I forget to tell you? I found another
job." Chris Larabee folded his arms and smiled. That never boded
well.
"Well, what about the pool, Mr. Wilmington? I trust it is
finished?" Ezra felt in desperate need of reassurance that his life was
still good.
"Nope. Got me a job at the same place Chris did." Buck's grin
threatened to take over his face.
"Vin. What are they talking about?"
Ezra turned to the quiet man leaning against the wall.
"Ain't for me
to say. But you're gonna have to find someone else to prune them roses of
yours."
"Josiah?" Ezra turned to his chauffeur.
"I've taken real
nice care of your cars Ez, but just as birds must fly and bees must sting,
so must the rich be made poor." This made about as much sense as any of
Josiah's utterances.
"Nathan?" Ezra appealed to his chef. He at least
usually made sense, despite a rather tedious tendency to lecture him on his
dietary habits.
Nathan's eyes gleamed with amusement. "I couldn't let
them have all the fun. Sorry, Ezra, but I've cooked your last
meal."
"WHAT are you people talking about?" Ezra's exasperated shout woke
Mary who glowered in their direction and then sat up with a
flounce.
"They're talking about how you cheated on your income taxes and
now that the government is going to take all your money you won't be needing them as
a butler or a gardener or a pool guy or a chauffeur or a chef or me as your personal
slave. I mean assistant. Oh yeah. And how we all got jobs working for the
IRS." JD said this all in one breath.
"My newspaper!" Mary's screech
caused them all to jump slightly.
"It's ok, Mary. Your newspaper is safe.
I made sure of that." Chris merely smiled smugly as Ezra glared at him.
Mary flew out of bed and threw herself into Chris' arms.
"My
hero."
"Maaaaaaary!" Ezra protested, but his former mistress didn't even
spare him a glance.
"This is preposterous. I've been framed. I shall
consult my lawyers and..." Ezra's tirade cut off in midstream as two burly
men came into the room and began carrying off the furnishings.
"Wait. That's a Queen Anne chair. And an original Monet. You vile
cretins be careful with that! Come back here!"
Life was not good for
one Ezra Standish. But it had improved dramatically for six former ATF
agents who now worked for the
IRS.
"Ezra.
Ezra. Wake up." JD Dunne shook the southerner's shoulder a bit harder and
did his best to dodge the flailing limbs.
"Mr. Dunne?" Ezra's green eyes
stared wildly around the room.
"Who were you expecting?" JD asked
crossly, rubbing his arm where he hadn't managed to avoid Ezra's
fist.
Ezra shook his head but didn't reply. God. What a horrible dream.
And it had started out so promising. He felt as if he'd been robbed. Gipped.
Cheated. If one was going to dream about being rich, it was only fair he be
allowed to enjoy it.
"Did you have some purpose in mind or were you
merely awakening me for your own amusement?" he asked JD acerbically. He was
still feeling rather miffed about the way the dream had ended.
"You
got a phone call. Sam somebody from the IRS." JD glared at the other man,
still rubbing his arm.
"Ezra? Ezra? Are you ok? You look awful pale all
of a sudden."
The End
