Fat Tuesday(130)

He was obviously deranged. He had lost all touch with reality, believing himself unstoppable and untouchable, the common downfall of egomaniacs, men who gorge on their own power until it, paradoxically, consumes them.

But Remy didn't point this out to him, or argue against his insane delusions, or warn him of the impending collapse of his world.

Instead she remained seemingly unaffected by his chilling plans for her and Basile.

But as soon as she heard the door lock behind him, she scrambled off the bed. Inadvertently, Pinkie had given her another idea.

Bozo the Clown wended his way through the merrymakers.

He declined the glass of champagne offered to him by a masked waiter dressed in cowboy hat, boots, and chaps. On one cheek of the wrangler's bare butt was tattooed a red heart.

No one could touch Pinkie Duvall when it came to hosting a party.

There was enough food and liquor to stock an oceangoing vessel for a long cruise. The decorated rooms of his home teemed with merriment and resounded with music and laughter. Masked men and women cavorted with bacchanalian abandon as the clock ticked toward midnight and the end of Fat Tuesday.

King Henry VIII was flirting with a mermaid with gold glitter on her nipples when Bozo spotted him. He moved in their direction and reached the king's side in time to hear him say, "Wiggle your tail for me."

The mermaid playfully swatted his groping hand with her jeweled scepter, then undulated away.

Bozo said, "Great party, Your Royal Highness."

"Thank you," Duvall replied absently, still watching the mermaid.

"I understand you're looking for Burke Basile." Suddenly the king's eyes connected with the clown's. He peered past the makeup.

"Jesus," he hissed."What "

"Not here. Unless you want a scene in front of all your friends."

Duvall, turning red beneath his feathered velvet cap, nodded and signaled the clown to follow. They went into Duvall's home study.

Bozo closed the door.

"Okay, where is he?" Duvall demanded as he moved toward his desk.

Bozo fired a pistol, striking Duvall in the back just above the kidney.

The attorney staggered. A second shot caught him right between his shoulder blades. He fell forward across his desk.

Moving quickly, Doug Pat pulled on a plastic glove over the white cotton one that went with his costume. In his oversized red clown shoes, he moved to where Pinkie was sprawled across the desk, arms and hands extended in front of him. He had landed on his cheekbone, one side of his face turned up, his open eye registering the surprise he must have felt at dying so unexpectedly and so ignominiously, shot in the back like a fool.

Pat opened the lap drawer of the desk. In a plastic tray, along with paper clips, a couple of ballpoint pens, and a book of postage stamps, lay a loaded snub-nosed.38, a Saturday night special."A no-class weapon for a no-class guy," Pat said, whispering into Duvall's ear.

He took the revolver from the drawer and placed it in Duvall's right hand, positioning the dead man's fingers around the weapon as though he'd been about to fire it.

Pat stepped back and checked the scene. What was he overlooking?

What could trip him up? Duvall had legions of enemies, any number of whom could have come to the party disguised, enticed Duvall into his study, and then when an argument ensued, Duvall had been reaching for his weapon, when said enemy got to him first. No more than fifteen seconds had passed since they entered the office.

Even with the silencer, the shots had made sounds, but they would never be heard above the party noise. Pat was confident no one would remember the last costumed guest Duvall had been seen with, and even if they did, the man behind the Bozo the Clown makeup could never be identified.

Finally satisfied that he hadn't overlooked an incriminating detail, he removed the plastic glove and stuffed it into his pocket, then moved toward the door.

And then he stopped, realizing that he had overlooked something.

Duvall hadn't bled a drop.

Bozo the Clown spun around in a swirl of polka-dot taffeta just as Duvall fired the.38.

The hollow-tip bullet mushroomed inside Pat's abdomen.

Clutching his belly, he fell to the floor.

"I highly recommend Kevlar," Duvall said, steering his black velvet slippers clear of the lake of blood forming around Pat as he approached."You never know when some gutless traitor is going to shoot you in the back." He aimed the barrel of the pistol at Pat's head.

"Mr. Duvall!" Someone knocked hard on the door, then flung it open.

"She's gone, Mr. Duvall!"

" What?"

"I just checked the room, like you asked me to. The door was still locked, but she's not in there."

"Did you look out on the balcony?"

"Not there, sir. The windows were still locked."

"That's impossible."

"I'm sorry, sir, but it "

"Get out of my way." Duvall pushed the man aside."Finish up here."

With his cape flaring out behind him, Henry VIII ran out to search for his wife.

Doug Pat looked up into the face of a man he'd never seen before, but whom he knew was the last face he would ever see.

grayw Burke, dressed like the pirate lean Lafitte, kept to the shadows at the side of the house until he reached the backyard. He glanced at the gazebo where he'd first seen Remy. A couple were necking beneath the vine-covered dome and didn't notice when he vaulted the fence. On his way inside, he picked up a half-empty glass an invited guest had left behind and strolled in as though he'd been out for a breath of fresh air. The rooms were thronged with people, all costumed and masked for the occasion. He waylaid a waiter a steroid-popping body builder by the looks of him who was dressed as a sumo wrestler.