Do You Promise Not to Tell? by Mary Jane Clark Page A

lead to a fascinating story from this college kid? She knew that news often came from unexpected sources, but the tale Peter was spinning for her now was so fabulous that Farrell was extremely skeptical—skeptical that the story would turn out to be true, and skeptical that she would have the good luck to have it fall right into her lap like this.
    “Peter, do you think you could get Olga to let us shoot some videotape of the Moon Egg?”
    Peter’s eyes widened and Farrell saw the Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed.
    “Are you kidding? In a million years, Olga’s not going to allow anyone to see the Moon Egg, much less a television crew.”
    “Look, Peter, it won’t be a big production. Just me and my cameraman, B. J. He’s a great guy. It will be very calm and we’ll be as unobtrusive as possible. We can do the whole thing in a half an hour.”
    “She won’t go for it.”
    “I’ll need this, Peter,” Farrell urged. “I’ll need some proof that another,
real
Moon Egg exists. Unless, of course, you could get Olga to turn the egg over to us.”
    “Not a chance in hell.”
    Farrell grinned sheepishly. “All right, all right. But if anyone can talk her into letting us have a glimpse of the Moon Egg, it’s you, Peter.”
    Peter looked troubled.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “I don’t want to put Olga in any kind of danger.”
    Farrell’s expression turned serious. “I know you don’t. But the truth has a way of coming out eventually. And Olga won’t be in any trouble, she hasn’t done anything wrong.”
    “What about her taking the egg from the Fabergé studio in St. Petersburg?”
    “Her father took the egg. And it was over eighty years ago. Ever hear of the statute of limitations? Who do you think is going to prosecute her anyway?”
    “How ’bout the Russians?” Peter offered.
    “I doubt the United States government is going to hand over a little old lady to Moscow.”
    Peter finished off his soda, his face brightening.
    “So Olga doesn’t have to be scared of going to jail?”
    “I’m sure of it.”
    “She’s sure gonna be relieved to hear that.”

Chapter 38
    B. J. had a litmus test: Hogs and Heifers.
    If a woman could deal with a night at the biker bar in the heart of the New York City meatpacking district, there was hope that she would be his type. He was past the point of progressing through the series of dinners, movies, and concerts that was the traditional dating routine. That’s what he used to do to get his dates ready for the big test.
    Now he got right to it. What was the point of beating around the bush? If a woman couldn’t deal with Hogs and Heifers, ultimately she wasn’t going to be able to deal with him. He loved the wildness of the place, its total abandon.
    He watched Meryl’s face. It was inscrutable. What was she thinking as they maneuvered their way past the transvestites that strutted the streets leading to the bar? Did she realize that the heavily made-up, long-legged, booted and miniskirted creatures were actually men?
    A tall, thin blond approached them and arched a darkly penciled eyebrow. “Want some, honey?” asked the deep baritone.
    Meryl looked up at B. J. “You really know how to impress a girl, don’t you?”
    Outside Hogs and Heifers, dozens of Harleys were parked, their owners openly guzzling beer on thestreet. Passing through the black motorcycles and the sinister-looking, black-leather-jacketed bikers, Meryl took tight hold of B. J.’s arm.
    It’s working already
, he thought.
    The couple entered the smoke-filled bar, the Allman Brothers welcoming them from the blaring sound system. Confederate flags hung on the wall. A long bar lined the left wall and, overhead, scores of bras hung from the ceiling.
    B. J. checked out Meryl’s reaction.
    “Charming,” she said sarcastically, but her dark eyes sparkled.
    The female bartenders wore bikini tops and short cutoffs, with cowboy boots and hats. Through megaphones, they jeered insults at the customers