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Dorothy Zbornak strode into the kitchen of the home she shared with her two best friends and opinionated mother with a grumble, a stack of notebooks pressed to her chest. Today marked her final day filling in for Sister Elyse at Saint Elizabeth's Academy in Coral Gables, a week which had passed by in miraculous though somehow tiring pace.
The books were placed near the doorway with her purse, to be carried to her room later. What Dorothy desired most at the moment was a late-afternoon snack, and the mood she was in seemed to call for salami and provolone on crackers.
She didn't notice that her mother had perched herself on a step stool by the window, her knees propped up beneath the Yellow Pages and a pair of binoculars to her eyes, until she reached into the cupboard for a box of Ritz and accidentally tapped Sophia's arm with the cabinet surface.
Dorothy cried out in surprise, falling back a step - fortunately Sophia didn't fall off of her rather precarious seat, though she jerked her binoculars away from her face in guilt. "Ma, what are you doing up there?!"
"Watching the Donaldson's plastic flamingos sunbathe! Whattya think I'm doing?" She pointed out the window. "Y'know Sam down the block? With the Hawaiian shirts?"
"With the beer gut and the girlfriend half his age?"
Sophia hiked her thumb toward the window. "I just saw him crawling through the back hedge."
"Ma," Dorothy grumbled, "why would Sam be crawling through the hedges?"
Sophia lifted her shoulders. "Maybe he's trying to sneak one of Blanche's brassieres off the clothesline?"
Dorothy let out an extravagant sigh. "You know you shouldn't be spying on the neighbors!" She guided Sophia down to the floor, and he mother walked to the table. "Let me make you a snack - would you like some salami and provolone?"
Over Dorothy's shoulder in the window, Sam popped up, his brown eyes round with fright. Sophia's eyes glinted. "Maybe we should ask Sam if he wants some. He looks pretty sweaty."
Dorothy whirled around just in time to see one of Sam's white sandals fly in the air as he hit the dirt. With a deadpan expression, she opened the window and peered down at the man who lay sprawled, failing in his bright red leaf-printed shirt to blend in with the dark dirt beneath him.
"Hello, Sam," Dorothy said, her tone mock-polite. "Would you like to stop hugging Rose's tulip bulbs and come in for a cup of lemonade?"
***
Sam Axe, in his personal life, was a horrible liar. Put him in Tunisia and ask him to sell himself to a bunch of drug dealers as a sober virgin and ice wouldn't melt in his mouth. Put him in a small room with someone he likes, off the clock, and his tongue turned to a brick of cement. He tried not to meet the eyes of the elderly Sicilian woman staring him down from across the table.
"What?" he asked, squirming against the kitchen chair.
"I'm watching you, Axe," Sophia said, her gaze steely. "It takes a helluva lot of work to put one over on Sophia Petrillo." She tilted her chin upward proudly. "Now, where did I put my mug?"
"Ma, I'm holding your mug," Dorothy sighed, as she handed the vessel filled with hot tea to her mother.
"Must've run away while you were watching me," Sam smirked, accepting the lemonade Dorothy had offered him. Sophia just gave Sam another steely glare, sipping her tea.
"What were you doing in the hedges, Sam?" Dorothy asked him with her characteristic bluntness.
He froze instantaneously, "uh...I...was looking for my spare key!"
"In our hedges?"
Sweat beaded upon his forehead. "Yeah, I hid it over on your property for safe keeping. Who would look for it over here, right?"
Dorothy's look was just as steely as Sophia's. "I'm starting to believe in the impossible."
"What?"
"That my mother's right."
Sophia glared at Dorothy, choosing not to add anything to the conversation.
"Hello," called Blanche cheerfully as she entered the kitchen. Sam couldn't help but feel amused when she immediately slowed her gait and gave their neighbor a lazy smirk. "Hello there, Sammy," she purred, sidling up to and sitting beside him.
"Hi, Blanche," he smirked over his lemonade.
She scooted her chair closer and ran her fingertips lightly over his arm, making Sam's smile widen. "Isn't it awfully late for a bronzed sungod such as yourself to be out?"
"Even bronzed sungods have to hydrate," he replied, finishing off the drink. He needed to beat a hasty retreat, before Madeline started wondering why his beer-run-come-surveillance-sweep was taking so long. "Thanks for the lemonade, Dorothy."
"Bye, Sam. Stay out of my hydrangeas," Dorothy replied, as he chortled and walked out the door.
***
She emerged from the fog of a dream (the one about Humphrey Bogart and Jimmy Cagney facing off for her affection in a Gattling gun battle) and lay, stiff-muscled, listening to an odd, distant popping sound.
Dorothy knew what those noises were. Tossing off her blankets, she automatically hit the floor and started crawling toward the door. Throwing it open, she saw her mother hunkered down in the doorway opposite. A hint of gold waved from up the hallway - Blanche and Rose, both pale, starting at Dorothy.
"What is it?" Rose whispered. Apparently Sophia had stepped forward and taken charge, ordering them to the floor without explanation.
"Gunshots!" Dorothy responded.
Rose and Blanche made exclamations of differing vehemence as Dorothy stared up the hallway, into the darkness, noticing that the gunfire had abruptly ceased. She heard glass shatter, then the sound of feet stomping their way up the hallway.
"What are we going to do?" Rose whispered.
"I'm going to get my mace!"
"You have mace?" Dorothy hissed.
"Mace is a ladylike weapon," insisted Blanche.
"Maybe for Brigitte Nielson!" Dorothy called.
Rose sat cowering as Blanche had run into her room in pursuit of a can of mace. Dorothy chose the more direct route, standing to confront the footsteps approaching them and confronting....
"Sam?"
The man standing in their hallway was undeniably Sam, minus his tropical shirt, toting a Glock, and carrying an unconscious man fireman-style over his shoulders.
"Hi, Dorothy," he smiled wanly. "I can explain..."
***
She didn't demand one immediately; the man Sam had brought into their house by shattering a patio window needed immediate medical attention. Dorothy looked on approvingly as Rose bandaged the seeping wound on his shoulder. Though her friend could be naive in the extreme, when an emergency struck Rose immediately turned to her Red Cross training and got the job done in a practical way.
"Bullet grazed him, but he hit his head on the way down. He should wake up soon," Sam said. "Mikey," he barked firmly, slapping the younger man's cheek, which Rose tried to stop him from doing. He turned to the right, caught Dorothy's look, and sighed. "Want me to start from the top?"
"What's the rush, Sam? Why don't we trade stories about our childhoods while we give each other pedicures and Toni perms?" Dorothy replied.
"I was born in a nunnery in..." Rose began, pressing a towel to 'Mikey's' forehead.
"Shut up, Rose!" Dorothy and Blanche chorused.
Sam grunted. "I'm not really a retiree," he began. "And I wasn't a car salesman in Boca, either." He looked down at Michael. "I used to be a SEAL."
"Ooh!" Blanche cooed. "I knew you were a navy boy!"
He smirked. "Walk give me away?"
"You do have a certain swagger..." she smirked, stroking his arm.
He ignored Blanche's touch, continuing, "I work for myself now...well, it's more like I work with Mike. You wouldn't believe me if I told you what he used to be..."
A low grunt from the couch drew everyone's attention. "I think after what you just did tonight they'd believe you." He winced, opening his eyes. "These are Carbone's friends?"
"One of 'em's his girlfriend." Sam explained.
Rose paled. "It's not the blonde," she called out.
"We already know it's you," sighed Sam. "You TOLD me Miles was your boyfriend when we met, remember?"
Dorothy put a protective hand on Rose's shoulder. "What does this have to do with Miles?"
"Mr. Carbone hired us to keep an eye on Rose." Michael said.
"We've been doing a bit of research on Miles' behalf, and everything that's come out says the Cheeseman's looking to escape the big house," said Sam. He saw the violation in Dorothy's expression and Rose's eyes. "I've been looking out for all of you, in case he decided to make life difficult." He gestured to the blood staining his wifebeater. "Which, as you can see, he just did."
"So..." Dorothy began.
"So he tried to take out the muscle first," said Sam.
Silence filled the room. Michael's eyes flew open suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. "Sam, where's mom?"
"Relax, I told her to hit the deck when they started shooting."
"You left her alone in that house?"
"After they winged you I didn't have much of a choice," Sam pointed out.
"Go get her. I'll call Fiona."
"Why do we have to bring Fi into this?" Sam grumbled.
"We're going to need firepower, and if there's one thing Fi has..."
Sam winced. "I'm going. PLEASE don't make me picture Fi's firepower..."
As he vacated through the broken window, Michael looked directly at Dorothy. She scanned the room - Rose looked ready to throw up, Blanche perched on the sofa, admiring the play of Michael's muscles, and Sophia stared after Sam, smugly confident in the realization that she was one hundred per cent right.
In times of crises, Dorothy turned instantly toward the reliable. "You know, there's half a cheesecake in the refrigerator."
"I'll get the whipped cream," offered Blanche.
"I'll get the sprinkles," mumbled Rose.
"I'll get the cooking sherry. The last time Sam and I had cheesecake together he ended up drinking all the good stuff."
Michael watched them all with a raised eyebrow. "Are you coming?" Dorothy asked, not giving an inch.
He watched her steadily. "When in Rome," he shrugged, getting up off of the sofa.
***
Michael wasn't much of a cheesecake man to Dorothy's observation. He picked at his slice as he seemed to listen to the conversation filling the kitchen. Sophia and Fiona had become fast friends as they traded war stories; Rose tried to teach Madeline something of the making of Sparehovenkrispieces while Maddie tried to curb her nicotine cravings - when she caved, Sam followed her outside to watch her smoke, and to better escape from Blanche's come-on lines. Not that Sam was entirely impervious to them; he let Blanche run her hands through his hair and laughed at her jokes.
She noticed that Michael was watching her from across the table. "There's some leftover pizza in the refrigerator," she suggested mildly.
"Do you have yogurt?"
"Michael," Madeline said sharply, "I know I taught you better than that."
A look of vague humiliation crossed Michael's face. "I'll run tomorrow morning," he muttered, getting up and striding to the refrigerator with purpose. He found the pizza with little difficulty and then took it to the island, picking off anchovies on the way and collecting them in his free hand.
There was something isolated about him; Dorothy had to admit she felt sorry as he stood outside of the group, observing with a keen expression. Sam poked her shoulder. "Mikey's always like that," he said, as if he thought there was something wrong with his friend, too.
"I can hear you, Sam," Michael said, his tone bored, taking a bite of the pizza.
"Surprised you can from that far away," responded Sam lightly, sipping his beer.
"It's getting late," Michael pointed out. "We'll trade watches," he told Sam.
"Good plan," Sam observed.
"I'll go first," Fiona offered. "The two of you look like you've fought the devil and won."
"Feels like it, too," Sam cracked, pushing away from the table, holding a beer in his right hand, then stretching his back.
"You know," Blanche offered, "I happen to be proficient in several exotic eastern massage techniques..."
"Thanks, Blanche..." Sam said, trying to push her away.
"I once caused a man with severe scoliosis to melt into a puddle of throbbing ecstasy," she said.
Sam stared at her for a good, long minute. "Uh...yeah..." he backed out of the kitchen.
Blanche just smiled at the gathered audience, flouncing out the door
"She's a pushy one," Fi noted with some amusement. She seemed to draw a bit of joy from the sight of Sam being under such pressure.
"Blanche Deveraux always gets her man," Dorothy pointed out, then sipped the last of her coffee.
"I doubt she'll have a hard time with Sam," Fi acidly said, "He's not what you'd call the hard-to-get type."
"Oh, great; Miles could be dead at any minute and we have a front row seat to 'when sluts collide!'" Rose cried out.
"I'm not going to let him die," Michael said. "Or any of you. I promise."
Rose quieted down. "I think I need another slice of cheesecake."
"I'll get more ice cream," Fiona offered. "Michael?"
"Do they have vanilla?"
"French vanilla bean," Dorothy said.
Michael considered it. "One scoop," he said.
****
The following morning, Dorothy awoke early and slumped her way to the bathroom, not expecting to bump rather directly into Fiona on the way in.
"Sorry," the younger woman mumbled, fixing her hair. "All right?"
"Mf," said Dorothy. Apparently, none of them had slept well. After she'd prepared herself for the day, she took herself to the kitchen for a bracing cup of coffee.
Her mother sat at the table with Fiona, and they were...wrapping sticks of dynamite? Scratch Dorothy's need for coffee. "Ma, what are you doing?!"
"Preparing for the revolution," replied Sophia, with a smirk. "What does it look like?"
"In Blanche's kitchen?!" Dorothy asked.
"I've done it in stranger places," Fiona offered, untangling the wires attached to the bundle of dynamite Sophia held.
"Take her word for that," Sam retorted as he entered the kitchen. Dorothy raised a brow at his appearance - he wore one of Blanche's robes.
"Sam," Fiona said shortly. "You look...very pink."
Sam looked down at himself. "Don't start with me..."
"If only you didn't give me so much material," Fiona said, the corner of her mouth barely ticking upward. "So much shiny, pink material."
"Hey, I make pink look good," Sam replied, digging into the refrigerator for a beer.
"Liberache-good," Sophia replied, but Sam only smirked at her comment.
The kitchen door opened - it was Michael. The look on his face suggested trouble - big-time trouble. He didn't bother with hellos or to apologize for his disheveled look. "Where's Rose?"
Fiona stiffened. "I looked in on her around midnight, just before I switched shifts with Sam. She had just fallen asleep."
"They have Carbone," he said bluntly.
Sam's expression turned to firm. "What's the plan?"
"They want him dead," Michael said. "The 'plan' is to get him out of there alive."
"What do we have to do?" Sophia asked.
"Ma!" Dorothy exclaimed.
"Miles is family," Sophia said. "Family doesn't turn its back on itself."
"I don't want to risk you on this," Michael said. "Let me handle it. Fi..."
Fiona had already unstrapped a glock from her ankle. "I'll keep an eye on Rose."
"Get dressed, Sam," Michael requested.
"I'm going with you," Dorothy said abruptly, shocking both herself and Sophia.
"Too dangerous," Michael repeated himself.
"If she wants to go, let her go," Fiona replied. "You might need her for negotiations."
"Moran doesn't take hostages." Michael said. "We're going in with force."
"Force?" Dorothy flashed back to Al and Bobby.
"We'll be fine," Michael said confidently, calmly, and Dorothy realized he was trying to soothe her.
"Pussycat.." Sophia began.
She gave Michael her best steely gaze. "I'm fine, too."
They traded a look of mutual respect; Michael seemed to know she wouldn't back down, not now or ever.
***
There was nothing for them to do but wait, something Dorothy admittedly had little to no patience for. She concentrated on supporting Rose, who tried to face the situation with calm forbearance - Fiona concentrated on distracting her, while Sophia shrugged and occupied herself with Wheel of Fortune and As The World Turns. Blanche was less-than-pleased on awakening to a Sam-free household, but accepted; Fiona told her to call in sick for the day - all of them had to. Maddie sat on the kitchen counter, chain-smoking, blowing puff of steamy oxygen out into the mid-morning. Dorothy felt a touch of sympathy for the woman, and offered her an ashtray.
"I'd split one with you but I quit several years ago," Dorothy said, sitting down beside her.
"I should be used to this," Madeline stated. "By now, I should be ready when the three of them run off in the middle of the day to do God-knows what."
"I know how you feel." At the woman's surprised look, Dorothy said, "my son's a traveling musician. He doesn't call or write and right now I have no idea where he is."
Madeline snorted. "He doesn't have a license to carry."
"No. But his name is Michael."
Madeline smiled. "You're trying to distract me."
"Is it working?"
"No."
Dorothy shrugged. Couldn't say she hadn't tried.
That was when the phone rang. Fiona rushed over to it and picked up the receiver. "Hello, who is this...For Rose? No, I'm her niece, Genella....Pardon me?! How could you use language like that in the presence of a lady?" Fiona's eyes darted quickly to Rose's eyes. "No, she's not home. Would you like to talk to her attorney?"
Fiona's gaze shot to Dorothy, and she rose her brows once.
And Dorothy realized that it was all up to her....
***
"I still don't believe it. I'm just STUNNED," Blanche murmured, staring at the TV set.
"That The Cheeseman believed Dorothy was my lawyer and got so scared that he handed Miles over to Sam and Michael without a struggle?" Rose asked.
"No," Blanche replied.
"That Sam and Michael managed to turn the Cheeseman in without getting caught?"
"No! That Sam broke off our relationship after only one night," Blanche pouted. "I'm so mad I could burn down every Tommy Bahamas in Florida!"
"Even the one with the salesclerk in tight pants who doesn't speak English?" Rose asked.
Blanche paused, and her lips tilted up into a grin. "I wonder if the Trader Vics next door is still open..."
While Blanche and Rose headed into the kitchen, Dorothy watched them go with a sigh. "Hail the conquering heroine," Dorothy joked.
But Sophia smiled and patted her on the shoulder. "You did a good job, Pussycat."
"You really think so?"
"Miles is alive," Sophia said, "and The Cheeseman's back in the slammer. You couldn't've done it any better." A pregnant pause. "Except for that Spanish accent you used. That stank!"
***
Michael grunted as he closed the Charger's driver-side door. "We got lucky there, Sam."
"Don't I know it," Sam replied, leaning his head against the open window. He sighed.
"Melancholy, Sam?" Fiona asked.
"I just realized that I'm never gonna see those girls again. They were one hell of a party," he smirked. "Especially Blanche."
"I'll miss Sophia," admitted Fiona. "I've never met another woman who could shape charges that way."
"What about you, Mike?"
"They were all nice enough," he said, after a pause.
They all sat in the quietude of the car. "Maybe I could keep using that place as a safe house. Check in on 'em from time to time." The car's other occupants gave him deadpan looks. "They're older and, and they need looking after," Sam insisted.
Michael laughed as he gunned the motor. "You don't know how wrong you are," he said, thinking of Dorothy, and how she had saved their lives without committing a single act of force. "They'll be all right," he declared, driving away, knowing they really would be. All of them.