The Last Day For Rob Rhino Read online

  THE

  LAST DAY

  FOR

  ROB RHINO

  Kathleen O’Donnell

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Thank You!

  Connect with Me!

  Preview: The Invisible Heiress

  About the Author

  For my husband, Ed—my one reader.

  Our kids, and sons-in-law, whom I love—Daniel, Kayla, Che Sr., Kristen,

  Paul and Kenneth.

  And, my mom, Pat Edwards—who made sure I loved to read.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to all the good people at Italics Publishing. Particularly Alex Roman for giving this novel new life. My undying gratitude to Marsha Bailey, who thought I could do it. Robin Winter, who taught me to move the furniture. Doctor Elizabeth Downing for all the medical instruction. Those early readers who cheered me along, Marybeth Carty, Lisa Rivas, and Angel Cottrell, and my friend Ray Barnds, who I miss, and who would have loved this book.

  Chapter One

  “I bought you the hat because you’re scary bald.”

  Claire held the phone away from her ear, nostrils flaring. “I wouldn’t wear a hat if Philip Treacy sailed it over himself on the QE2.” She strolled the gateway to watch the planes take off through the windows. Her reflection in the glass mirrored back, her head shiny, embryonic.

  Her stepdaughter let out a puff of breath. “Claire, you know how much his hats cost. It’s just lying here on the floor.”

  “I don’t give a flying—” Claire caught herself, counted to five. Annabelle meant well. “I don’t do hats. I do bald. It is what it is.”

  “Listen, why don’t you take a vacation?” The wheedling commenced. “Instead of going wherever, to do whatever, you could go to that place I told you about in Hawaii.” Annabelle spoke in run-ons. “They have a state-of-the-art meditation center.”

  A woman wearing sweats gawked going by, smiling, nodding. Claire’s condition elicited the sympathy of strangers. Maybe it was terminal. Whatever it was it looked bad.

  “That place where I can sit around all day touching myself?”

  “You can get in touch with yourself, Claire.”

  “I’m halfway to Pennsylvania where I want to go.” Claire’s free hand pushed against the window. “Me and my bald head.” Airport foot traffic hurried behind her in both directions.

  “Well, you look like crap. Please reconsider Hawaii. It’s a luxurious place, the—”

  “The ashram?”

  “It’s not an ashram. It’s a—”

  “Loony bin?” A harried traveler knocked her purse sitting by her feet. The pill bottles at the bottom rolled and shook, cha, cha, cha, a druggist’s maraca.

  “It’s a retreat center. Andrew sent Meg there for her birthday. He said she loved it.”

  “Um-hum.”

  “Are you listening?”

  Claire suffered in silence as loud as she could.

  Annabelle tried a different way. “I’m worried about you. Jordan is too. Dad—”

  Claire’s sudden tears annoyed her. She stabbed her phone off with one rigid finger, rammed it into her purse. Enough of that nonsense. You can cry yourself a river, but you can’t cry your hair back, or your life the way you wanted it.

  ****

  Claire stared at the homeless looking guy sleeping on the airport floor and brushed the tears from her lashless eyes.

  She looked around. There were serious looking men in expensive suits waiting for their flights. Most poking at their iPhones. Liam used to think every man who crossed her path wanted to sleep with her. Now if they saw her at all she repulsed them. Claire had been a beauty until she wasn’t. An emerald-eyed, fair-haired princess, her dad used to say. A long, tall, drink of water. Before she’d been stared at, smiled on, envied. Now she was just stared at. Sometimes laughed or pointed at and almost always pitied.

  The wreck on the floor moved. Propped up on his scaly elbows, nodding off, his mouth open, eyes closed. Even in his unwashed state he looked familiar. Like someone who used to be famous. Claire scanned the crowded O’Hare terminal but didn’t notice anyone else looking at him. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he was just another loser. She looked at her Rolex and wondered how late the flight was going to be. She couldn’t remember now what the voice said on the announcement. Between the noise and the sedatives it was hard to keep up.

  When she walked back to her gate the boarding had already started. She hadn’t heard the announcement. Again. The man lying on the ground was gone. Maybe security’d shooed him away. She noted her seat number and got in line. Sweat broke out over her upper lip. Sweating was a problem with no hair. An added humiliation. She hoped they didn’t dilly-dally too long with the drinks on the plane. Thank God for the three-hour jump in time going east.

  She boarded then hunted for her seat—8B. She really needed to get some glasses. The plane was a small commuter with three seats across, a single on one side of the aisle, a double on the other. Claire found aisle 8 and was about to sit in her seat, one of the doubles, on the aisle, when she saw him.

  The dirty hobo from the airport slumped in the window seat, 8C. Right next to her.

  He sprawled out over both seats, looking fatter up close, and older, late sixties at least, despite the desperate dye job and combover. A bushy moustache like a squirrel’s ass wasn’t big enough to cover his pock-marked face. His gut hung over his thighs. He looked either asleep or passed out. He reeked.

  “This is a mistake.” Claire stopped, twisted around in search of a flight attendant. She couldn’t see one. The teeming line of travelers behind her tried to keep her going. “This can’t be right. I can’t possibly sit here,”
she said like an Astor in steerage on the Titanic.

  The Asian man behind her smiled, moved his head up and down.

  She was about to indulge in a hurricane force panic attack when she heard, “This is a full flight. Please find your seats. Make sure your carry-ons are stored below your seat or in the upper bins.”

  Claire swung her Louis Vuitton bag into her seat hitting the filthy hobo’s fat leg hard. He jiggled up with a snort and scooted over to his side. She heaved her matching carry-on into the overhead bin, sat down, dug a little blue pill out of her bag then swallowed it dry. She made a big show of settling into her seat so she could turn her head to see what he was doing without seeming obvious. He leaned against the window, eyes closed, mouth open. She could hear him snoring.

  Claire stuffed her bag under the seat in front of her then fastened her seat belt with a click. When he opened his milky blue-gray eyes he looked at her with eyelids that appeared too heavy for him. All of a sudden he had the hearing of a dog. One side of his mouth lifted in a lopsided half smile. He leaned forward to make sure his ragged backpack was still there, fiddled with the seat-back pocket, readjusted his seatbelt. Satisfied that all was as it should be in his area, he gave Claire another look, one that seemed to urge her to give hers another check just to be safe. She did. In seconds he slept again.

  It occurred to Claire her unwanted traveling companion hadn’t noticed he sat next to a hairless woman. He didn’t look her up and down and then quickly look away like most people. Nor did he insist on politically correct earnestness, meaningful, direct eye contact. Her grubby neighbor seemed to care only that seat trays were upright, all electronic devices were turned off, and appropriately stored until takeoff. Claire shook her bald head. Whatever drugs he was taking she had to get some.

  The plane was almost full. Claire looked up to see a man about her age. One of the impatient ones in a pricey suit in the aisle next to her seat. Staring. Oh no. She could feel the color begin to climb up her neck.

  “Hey, aren’t you that guy?” the man in the suit said.

  Claire exhaled. She turned to her right, startled.

  “Yeah, you’re the guy from that reality show, aren’t you?” The suit wasn’t budging without an answer.

  “Uh-huh... yeah, I’m him.” Claire’s seatmate slurred, barely stringing the words together. His double chins fell forward on his chest.

  “Rob,” the suit said.

  “Yeah, Rob.”

  The flight attendant came up behind the man prodding him forward. “I knew it,” he muttered before moving toward his seat.

  That’s where she’d seen him. What’d he say his name was again? She turned toward him. Asleep again. “Hey,” she elbowed him. “I thought you looked familiar. You were in a reality show. What else would I have seen you in?” She hardly ever watched reality television—at least not on purpose.

  He eyed her Rolex and ten-carat diamond ring. “Nothing.”

  “I thought you were someone famous when I saw you in the airport.” She knew she was right. She almost always was. “What else are you famous for?”

  His head swiveled toward her, jowls sagging.

  “My cock,” he said. “I have a thirteen-inch cock.”

  Chapter Two

  They stared at each other. She lifted her nonexistent brows to meet her nonexistent hair line. For what seemed like an eternity visions of fat pasty men, hideously endowed, traumatized her. She cleared her throat and scratched her chin.

  A grin split his face as if carved by a machete-wielding lunatic. He was missing a front tooth. He leaned toward her lisping, “Baby, I’m a porn star.”

  ****

  “Would you care for a cock—?”

  “No.” Claire recoiled, a vampire rejecting a cross.

  “—a cocktail?” the flight attendant finished.

  “Yes. Absolutely yes. A vodka tonic please.” Claire wiped her sweating upper lip with a wadded tissue. The porn star snored lightly again mouth hanging open.

  She swallowed a mouthful of vodka and sat back in her seat. How could he be asleep already? There’d been no more inflight confessions from her pornographic neighbor. Just minutes ago he’d been like a monkey diving for lice on the scalp of his mate. Now he pounced on his backpack, dug out his mail, a pair of glasses.

  “SoCal Gas,” he said to himself, peeling open the envelope. With one cloudy eye he snuck up on the innards, tried to see what it said without taking anything out. “Highway robbery.” He set it aside. “Verizon.” Same routine. Picked up another envelope. This one yellow, heavily scented, definitely feminine. “Ohhh... interesting.” He kept talking to his pile of mail. He took that fragrant lucky winner out of the envelope, looked down the slope of his bulbous nose and read. Every few seconds he’d hoot, smack the tray. Loud.

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He’d picked at his remaining front teeth with the corner of the yellow envelope. “Tsssst, tsssst.” Every few seconds he’d made weird gyrations with his mouth and tongue. Some kind of turbo teeth cleaning.

  Claire moved to the opposite side of her seat as far as she could go without falling into the aisle. Every time he opened his mouth her butt sucked up more of the seat cushion. After he regaled her with his genital dimensions he paid no more attention. No further information was forthcoming. Nor had he peeked at her or her hairless head. He wasn’t interested in her story. She was dying to know his. She’d tried to see the name on his mail, but between her bad eyes and the pill/cocktail combo, no dice. Not without getting into his lap. Not going there for God’s sake.

  Without moving her head she looked downward and sideways—at his crotch. She clamped her eyes shut. She’d read once that the Elephant Man had a huge penis. The final, cosmic cruelty. She wondered how many times he’d gotten laid. Like zero probably. The problem was he’d been poor. If the Elephant Man had been rich he’d have been called distinguished. A curved spine and a skull divided in triplicate would have been all the rage. No such thing as a rich man too ugly to get a woman.

  She hadn’t worried about Liam’s looks or his money. There was truth in that old saying: you could just as easily marry a rich man as a poor one. Not that it mattered. She’d have married Liam even if he’d been poor. Of course she would have. Definitely.

  Claire grabbed for her bag and started digging for her pills flinging whatever-the-hell out the top. Why was it so hard to find the damn pills? There was a whole bottle from Doctor Freidman, Doctor Edgemont, Doctor Zucker. Plus the one she got online. Not to mention one from her gardener’s roommate, Guillermo, from Mexico City. In case of an emergency. She unfastened her seatbelt, leaned too far out of her seat. She caught herself, felt her stomach rise to the top of her throat. Her hands and feet tingled, went numb. Her skin felt pinpricked, icy. The sweat dripped.

  “You’re cool, you’re cool.” The porn star steadied her with his dirty hand. “Your purse exploded.” He held up a pen, her cell phone, a tampon with the wrapper torn half off.

  “I’m... I’m not... I’m not feeling well.” Claire swallowed the sourness in her mouth, yanked the loot out of his grimy hands.

  “You need crackers. They help with the puking.” He held up his hand to get the flight attendant’s attention.

  “I don’t have cancer. No chemotherapy,” Claire croaked out. Her breath came too fast, too shallow.

  “Uh, yeah. I figured,” he said. “Too bad.”

  The flight attendant came, rustled up some crackers and a barf bag. By the time she made the necessary inquiries about whether or not Claire needed assistance the porn star was passed out again. After several minutes of breathing in and out of the paper bag Claire stopped feeling like she’d die. She took a pill, bunched up the bag and the empty cracker wrapper in her hand, mopped her still sweating brow and leaned back in her seat.

  I figured? Too bad? What did he mean he figured? How dare he? He couldn’t figure the first thing about her. What’s too bad? Too bad she didn’t have cancer? Asshole.

/>   He hadn’t asked her a single question. There’d been no conversation. He was too stoned for one thing. Lowlife crackhead. This was a commuter flight or she’d be in first class and he... he wouldn’t.

  Claire poo-pooed the flight attendant’s over-solicitous ministrations. “I’m fine, I said.” Was the woman deaf? She kept hovering.

  “I think these are yours?”

  The flight attendant with too much makeup on held out a wrinkled stepped-on piece of paper and a lipstick. She peered at the Wikipedia printout.

  “Your info on, um, exhumation? And a lipstick.” She turned the sleek black tube over. “Chanel. You must’ve dropped them or something.”

  She frowned at Claire’s bag, sticking out too far in the aisle, then pushed it back with her airline-approved navy pump.

  Claire mumbled a snotty thank you to Nosy Nellie Stewardess while she pulled her bag back out again, returned her belongings to it, and closed its clasp with a firm clack. She shot another peek at the slumbering bad omen sitting next to her. Maybe he was a sign from the gods who’d already proved to have a piss poor sense of humor. Perhaps she should go back home. She pressed her palm to her sticky naked scalp. Not a chance.

  The fasten seat belt overhead lights went on while they prepared to land. Claire refused to look to her right. Under normal circumstances she’d have thanked him for his chivalry. But he was not normal. He was a Neanderthal not worthy of even the minimal social graces. The plane hit the runway with a screech and a hop. He made no effort to speak to her.

  Claire’s hearing improved when a velvet voice from the front of the aircraft gave them permission to disembark. She grabbed her bag, tried to race out of her seat. But her Courtney Love slosh through the friendly skies made her exit less than dignified. Shit. She stopped, took a few wobbly steps back, then shoved the other passengers out of her way.

  From the overhead she grabbed the carry-on she’d left behind in her haste.

  The one with Liam in it.

  Chapter Three

  She was such a bad solo traveler. Liam always got their luggage. Stop Claire. Liam wasn’t getting the luggage. Liam is in the luggage.