4th Musketelle

One: The Tottering Empire

Endowed with a rare genius for intrigue which rendered him the equal of the ablest intriguers, he remained an honest man. – The Three Musketeers, Alexandre Dumas

1. Trouble in Rich-ville

Laila Armstrong was not beautiful. She was ravishing, and men sure as hell noticed.

At 31, she was a woman at the height of her powers, but she was also eager to step into a new phase of life beyond the mere stroking of male egos.

She gazed into her vanity mirror at her husband standing by the door with hands in his pockets. Despite his casual stance, he radiated power and a degree of menace. Working on her makeup gave her an excuse to avoid looking directly into his eyes.

Why don’t we go to Las Vegas, Frank? she said. My friends have all been there. They loved it.

Frank’s expression of impassive fortitude soured. Your friends, huh?

Yes.

Laila brushed her cheek with a decisive motion, then she dabbed at a tiny scar indent beside her right eye. Frank removed his hands from his pockets and glanced at his Rolex.

That’s fine for them, he said, but I can’t see any reason to waste money on gambling.

Laila stiffened in her chair while her husband adjusted the silk necktie she’d picked out for him. It harmonized with his power suit, giving a touch of sophistication to his rugged demeanor. Without such refinements, he’d more closely resemble a retired prize fighter than a business mogul. The gray fabric of the suit complemented his aggressively styled hair.

Laila began to speak, but pounding noises intruded through the ceiling, cutting her off. Frank glanced up with annoyance, then looked back toward his wife’s face in the mirror.

Do you think I got where I am today by gambling? he said.

Well, no.

You’ve got that right. Gambling is strictly for suckers.

There’s more than just gambling in Las Vegas, Laila said.

Such as?

We could go see Hoover Dam. Then there’s live entertainment and shopping and fine restaurants.

She turned toward Frank with an alluring smile. We first met at a fine restaurant, remember?

Frank ignored her charm attempt.

It’s all a waste of time and money, he said. I’ve got a hell of a lot more important things to do than go traipsing off to the desert.

Laila turned back toward her mirror. You don’t have to come if you don’t want. I could go without you.

Frank’s eyes widened. He took a step toward her. His movement conveyed enough belligerence to make Laila flinch.

"I’ll be damned if any wife of mine is going to run around Las Vegas by herself!"

Laila recovered her composure. I wouldn’t be by myself. I could take a friend.

Back to your friends, eh?

Well… maybe Debbie would like to go. She could use a break from Henry and the boys.

You know she wouldn’t be interested in that sort of thing, Frank said. What’s gotten into you?

I could ask her.

Frank made a slashing gesture with his right hand—the one he used when decapitating a topic.

The answer is no, and that’s final!

More pounding came through the ceiling, adding to Frank’s irritation.

How long are they going to keep up that infernal racket? he said.

As long as it takes, I suppose.

The life had gone out of her voice. Laila slumped, defeated, in her vanity chair.

Well, I’m going to give those bums a piece of my mind. Frank turned abruptly and stalked out of the room.

His decisive, take-no-crap footsteps moved down the hall and descended to the ground floor. Laila remained seated, fuming into her mirror.

"All right, whatever you say, Mr. Big Shot," she muttered.

Outrage filled Laila’s heart, along with feelings of helplessness and a desire to hit back. But like most people, she was overawed by her husband. Standing up to him was out of the question. He’d never been violent to her during the eleven years of their marriage, nor even verbally hostile—except when she ‘really deserved it,’ like now.

He didn’t have to be violent. The world naturally twisted itself around to accommodate Frank Armstrong. Laila formed her hand into a mock pistol and turned it toward the open door. She pulled the trigger.

"Pe-tuuu!"

$ $ $

Frank strode purposefully from the staircase, determined to find out why the workers were still pounding on the roof when, by his estimation, they should have finished the job long ago.

By God, they’ll get a piece of my mind! I’m not paying them to jerk around.

His anger at Laila needed an outlet, and the hapless roofers would have to do. No… he wasn’t angry at her, he decided, just annoyed. Were he totally honest, he’d admit to feeling threatened. What had gotten into his previously docile wife—why this sudden dissatisfaction?

Hadn’t he bought her everything she could possibly want? Luxury car, jewelry, clothes and shoes galore, a top-end computer. Did he ever quibble about the expense?

Now she was talking about running off to Las Vegas with her friends. He knew what her friends were capable of, and he didn’t like it one bit. The remark about Debbie was just a sop. His daughter-in-law was too much of a straight arrow for all that. Hell, she didn’t even drink.

His cell phone rang, strong and assertive like Frank himself—the theme song from the old Bonanza TV show. Ordinarily, he enjoyed the aggressive sound, but now it added to his ill humor. He yanked the phone from his jacket pocket. It was his son.

What do you need, Henry? Frank barked into the phone.

At the hyper-masculine sound of the Blow-nanza ringtone, as Frank called it, Laila stood up from her chair. She quietly left her room and took an eavesdropping position at the second-floor railing. This was her customary spot for monitoring events on the ground floor.

Everything’s always important with you lawyer types, isn’t it? Frank was saying. You can’t leave things well enough alone.

What does that mean? Laila wondered. What things does Henry want to change?

She had zero trust for her ‘stepson.’ She was well aware of his animosity toward her and that of his sister, too. Suspicion rose in Laila’s mind, dark and threatening like a bogeyman jumping out of the closet in broad daylight. Her heart beat faster, and she felt hot despite the air conditioning.

Look, Henry, Frank said, I don’t have time to talk about this now. We’ll discuss it later.

He terminated the call and strode out the back door, grumbling.

Laila descended the stairs. Everything about her spoke of understated class—from her elegantly casual clothes to her manicure to her tasteful makeup. She moved gracefully but with an odd tentativeness, as if insecure about her position in the world. She could not remove this timid aspect from her body language. In her mind, she was never far from the cocktail waitress she’d once been.

2. Rooftop Follies

Atop the roof, under the glorious sunshine, two men blasted away with nail guns amid a large area of newly installed shingles. The older man, Gus the Roofer, owned the company. The younger one was a new hire learning the ropes.

The trainee spotted Frank Armstrong exiting the back door and striding aggressively in their direction.

Uh-oh. Looks like we’re gonna have company, Boss.

Gus looked up from his work and felt his acid reflux kick in. The bright sun on the rooftop chilled.

Not again, he groaned.

Frank approached the ladder against the house and glowered up at the men on the roof. Another worker, standing on the ground by the ladder, backed off.

Are you guys going to take all day up there? Frank yelled. It sounds like a war going on inside the house.

He couldn’t know just how accurate that bit of imagery was.

Gus moved toward the edge of the roof and peered at the angry man standing on the ground below him.

Sorry, Mr. Armstrong, he said. A lot of wood was rotted around the leak. We had to replace all of it.

You didn’t say anything about that before, Frank shot back.

We didn’t know how bad it was then, Gus said. We had to tear the shingles off before we could see all the damage.

Is that so? Frank huffed. Let me have a look.

He pushed past the workman and mounted the ladder.

After a moment of recovery from the rebuff, the workman seized the ladder and steadied it.

Jerk! he thought.

Unnoticed by everyone, Laila exited the back door. She began to say something but thought better of it. Anything she tried to say would be ignored, as she knew from long experience. So, she stood quietly on the patio, arms folded, and observed the events.

Frank climbed to the upper rungs of the ladder and glowered at the repair work.

You mean that little area? he said scornfully. "How long would it take you guys to do a big job? He turned his gaze to the trainee. You don’t look old enough to be up here. Are you one of those illegal immigrants?"

The trainee wilted under Frank’s ire and looked to Gus for direction, but the boss seemed equally cowed.

I’ve got some important projects coming up, Frank said, and I just might be calling somebody else. You guys aren’t the only contractors, you know.

Gus swallowed hard. He badly needed the work on the estate and on other properties owned by Frank Armstrong, but he detested the abuse he’d had to endure from the man. Sure, Armstrong paid top dollar, but he seemed to think he owned the roofing company and everybody in it.

You need a comeuppance, pal, Gus thought.

Acting out of pure resentment, he gave a surreptitious hand signal to his employee on the ground. The workman stepped away from the ladder, releasing his hold on it.

Really, Mr. Armstrong, Gus said, it was much worse than you think.

Yeah? Frank said. Show me.

He took another step up. The unsupported ladder wobbled dangerously under him, and Frank struggled to recover.

What the hell!

Gus feigned alarm, but inside he was grinning. Careful, Mr. Armstrong!

Things spun out of control. The workman on the ground reached for the ladder but was too late to stabilize it. Frank tumbled off, cursing violently. He hurtled through the air, silk tie fluttering.

During this moment of terror, Frank Armstrong seemed to vacate his body. He was hovering above it, observing the disaster from the heavens like a powerless guardian angel. Then he hit the lawn with a resounding thump! An agonizing reunion between body and soul, sharp pain in his wrist.

The onlookers gaped with shock. Then the trainee broke out in a grin.

That was some trick, Boss, he said in a low voice.

I was only trying to scare him a little, Gus said, get him off our backs.

Uh-huh.

The trainee did not sound fully convinced. Both men leaned over the edge and watched Frank writhing on the lawn amid a cloud of curses.

I didn’t think he’d take a nosedive, Gus said.

Ah, he’ll live… unfortunately, the trainee said.

Well, at least we’ve been chewed out for the last time, I suppose.

Gus experienced a sinking feeling at the thought of the lost revenue from the Armstrong contracts. Upgrades to his equipment would have to be put on hold. And forget the fishing trip he’d been planning for Canada, the same place he’d seen on the Wandering Willie Fishing Adventures TV program. But he also felt a sense of justice attained, even if the price was high.

Serves the bastard right.

Laila stood rooted to the patio, trying to recover from her astonishment. Finally, she overcame the paralysis. She rushed to her husband and sank to her knees beside him.

Are you all right, Frank?

My wrist… I think it’s broken.

Laila raised her eyes from her stricken husband to the older of the two men gaping down from the roof. They exchanged a meaningful look.

Laila’s glance said, I know what you did, and you know that I know. So don’t play innocent.

Gus shrank back. To his coming financial hit, he added the threat of prosecution and jail. Who knew what else these rich people could do to him? The world turned suddenly dark and ominous. He considered taking a dive off the roof himself.

Laila stood.

What are you looking at? she yelled. Finish up and get out of here!

Yes, ma’am. Gus pulled back from the edge, uncertain if he should be terrified or relieved.

The sound of blasting nail guns filled the morning air again. Bert Nagy, the grounds keeper, trotted up, winded from the exertion on his large, overweight frame.

What happened? he said.

What’s it look like, dumbbell? Frank said. I busted my ass falling off that ladder.

Nagy pushed back his Bert’s Landscaping Service cap and glanced at Laila. She looked back sympathetically.

I’ll call 911, Bert said.

He produced his cell phone and stabbed in the numbers. His manner was cool and calm, despite his being so disheveled. He seemed like a veteran football player collecting himself after a hard game.

Bert spoke into his phone: We’ve had a man fall off the roof… Yes, he’s conscious and able to move.

Hurry up, dammit, Frank said. This hurts like hell!

Bert ignored the abuse. We’re in the back of the house. The address is…

Laila observed Bert with calculating interest, admiring his efficiency and grace under pressure. He seemed a tower of strength amid all the chaos. She looked down coolly at her husband, and wheels began turning in her head, leading down shadowy corridors.

Don’t worry, Frank, she said. Everything will be fine.

3. At the Hospital

Some hours later, Frank Armstrong was ensconced in his private hospital room, sitting up in bed with a cast on his right wrist.

He also wore silk pajamas and a thunderous frown. Laila occupied one of the room’s two cushioned chairs. Even amid the drab, antiseptic decor with its Positively No Smoking! sign, she looked elegant and poised, notwithstanding the fatigued expression on her face.

She’d never seen Frank in such a reduced state and didn’t know what to make of it. He seemed to have shrunk to half his previous size. Always, he’d been hale and hearty, a veritable Rock of Gibraltar among the lesser men. Even the cardiac incident last year had hardly dented his image. He’d simply brushed it off and continued on his way, dominating the world around him.

Her cell phone began playing the theme from Gone with the Wind. Frank scowled. He didn’t like that movie much, with its romanticized depiction of the Old South.

Bunch of damned slaveholders, they deserved to get the hell kicked out of them, he’d once commented to Laila. I wish I’d been there to see it.

He’d had a faraway look in his eyes as if he truly regretted missing the burning of Atlanta. If nothing else, the rebuilding contracts would have been lucrative.

Laila answered her phone. Hi, Sharese!

A bright smile spread over her face, and Frank gave her another irritated look. For some reason, he disliked Sharese. His antipathy was a recent phenomenon, just another of his many quirks, Laila reasoned, not worth discussing.

She got out of her chair. Excuse me, Frank. I’ll take this outside.

Her husband grunted approval. She left the room and walked toward the small lounge area at the end of the corridor.

Who were you talking to? Sharese asked. Was it Frank?

Yes.

Am I interrupting something hot?

Hardly. We’re at the hospital.

Sharese’s joking tone became serious. What happened… are you all right?

It’s Frank. He broke his wrist, falling off the roof. He’s okay.

Falling off the roof! Sharese said. Let me guess. He was up there bawling out some workmen, right?

Something like that.

Sounds just like him. Give him my get-well wishes.

Thanks, I will.

Laila arrived at the lounge entrance. She glanced back down the hallway of ‘Millionaire Row,’ the wing of private rooms catering to the upper crust of the sick and injured. Laila figured that on any given day, the net worth of the occupants must be enough to buy the hospital many times over and all the people working in it, too.

Rumor had it a particular mogul kept a suite on permanent reservation in case he might need it someday. The cumulative rent must have been astronomical.

Is Henry there? Sharese asked.

Oh, he’ll probably show up soon, Laila said, unless he’s got some big case to handle.

Yes, well…

Sharese seemed to want to talk more about Henry Armstrong, but she let the subject fade. A momentary silence ensued.

Laila glanced at the oil painting reproductions adorning the walls. Some were in dubious taste for a hospital setting. The desolate seascape hanging inside the lounge could not have cheered anyone’s heart. The opulent Thanksgiving dinner scene back toward the nurses’ station would not be appreciated by people on restricted diets.

I just called to remind you about the Musketelles’ luncheon tomorrow at Gemrock, Sharese said. You’re still planning to come? I mean, Frank is doing okay, right?

Wouldn’t miss it, Laila said. I’ll be there.

Of course! Sharese said. Where would we be without our 4th Musketelle? All for one and the rest of that stuff.

Right, Laila said. How are the others?

We’re all doing fine.

Laila gazed down the dreary corridor. It seemed to go on for a meaningless infinity. Just how ‘fine’ am I doing?

Nichole’s husband opened another branch office, Sharese said. I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it.

That’s good.

Well, I’ll let you go, Sharese said. See you tomorrow.

Yeah, see you tomorrow.

Laila walked