by Chris Gilson
Chester nodded and took Tom van Adder’s gnarly hand. At least that formality was out of the way. He had wanted to surprise the couple with the apartment two floors below as a wedding present, a modest seven-room but with a view of Central Park. This starter home would do until they had a family and growing pains.
Then, in a few years, it would be time for Chester to turn the reins of Lord & Company over to Tucker, and hand over the keys for Penthouse A to his daughter and son-in-law. The kids would keep O’Connell, if he were still useful. This rite of handing down the ancestral co-op from generation to generation that so thrilled his grandfather and father left Chester with a stuffy feeling, almost a sinus headache.
Where would his own home be after that? Probably Palm Beach. He saw himself as an old man in a wheelchair, sitting on the sunny Addison Mizner–designed terrace looking out over the Atlantic Ocean through his cataracts, and shivered. At least he would feel relieved to conclude his lifelong duty, at long last, to Lord & Company. In the meantime he would try however possible to address his duty to his daughter. Perhaps now he could begin to pay her back, in baby steps if need be, for the damage he had done.
Then he brightened as a new guest arrived, drawing rapt stares from the men and narrowed eyes from the women. Roni, the carriage driver, entered wearing a form-fitting dress. It exposed her firm shoulders, draped with an explosion of jet-black curls. Her eyes were lightly made up to accent their almond shape, resembling exotic characters he’d seen in storybooks.
“Excuse me.” Chester left Chip Lindsay muttering some hollow pleasantry.
“… her father’s date,” Tina whispered to the two Roberts as they passed Roni, seeing Chester on his way toward her. “Chester has that fifth-grade-crush look, doesn’t he?”
And the Pack stopped to gawk at Roni. All three of them had to look up.
“Who are you?” the meaner Robert, No. 2, asked her.
“My name is Roni.”
Robert No. 2 put his hand out, glanced to see that Chester was still out of earshot, and leaned up to whisper in her ear. “How about meeting me on the terrace for a drink?”
Roni took his hand and squeezed it slowly until it made little crunching noises and Robert’s mouth turned down in painful stages.
“If I see you outside,” she promised Robert, “I’ll field-strip you like a cigarette.”
As Roni led Chester away, Tina tried to shake some pink back into Robert’s fingers.
“What did he say to you?” Chester asked her when she let him take her arm.
“Nothing.”
He could only nod, feeling somehow vital in this woman’s presence, feeling her warmth through her sleeve.
“So, Chester,” she said, “did you really talk to your daughter? Listen to her?”
“Ah…” He had tried at breakfast, but she had gone off in an unexpected direction.
Her almond eyes begged him. “You have a little time still. These people don’t need you now. She does.”
Two blocks away on Lexington Avenue, the Emergency Medical Services ambulance pulled to a stop, double-parking on Madison Avenue.
Marne Doyle, still wearing her borrowed EMS uniform, stepped out of the passenger seat and ripped large strips of sticky-backed black tape off the sides and backs of the van. The words they obscured, “City of New York,” would have given them away at the Sanctuary. The back doors opened up from inside and Kevin Doyle stepped out, muscles stiff and sore.
“Thanks again, guys.” Kevin jumped out of the back door and shook hands with each member of the EMS team his sister had mustered from Brooklyn. He hugged Marne. “How do I look?”
“Not bad for a dead guy,” she told him, stripping off her EMS vest. “How’d you get over the fence?”
“Corny told me it was high-frequency current and wouldn’t do much damage.”
“You still took a big chance.” Marne gave Kevin a look.
“First time for everything.”
Marne checked her big watch with twenty dials and gauges. “Guess you better get to the church on time.”
“Marne,” Kevin said as he kissed her cold cheek. “I owe you.”
She mussed his hair and whipped him a kidney punch just hard enough to take his breath away. “You watch yourself.”
He kissed Marne and jogged off for the front door of 840 Fifth. His getup of jeans, EMS work boots, T-shirt, and cheap nylon jacket smelling of mothballs and emblazoned with “New York Bets” across the back, an old nickname for New York City’s off-track betting parlors, was hardly impressive. A fine figure of a prince, galloping up to save Cornelia Lord on her wedding day.
At the door, he squeezed in front of a couple with mahogany tans. Kevin caught a whiff of what he imagined as golf course gardenia about them.
“Hey, Andrew. How’s it goin’, Vlad.”
Andrew clutched.
When he planned this out, he’d carefully weighed how the other doormen would take the shock value of his just showing up unannounced. He counted on Vlad to nurse his old romantic fantasies. Andrew, sworn keeper of the status quo, was the wild card.
Vlad’s eyes bulged and Andrew’s forehead crumpled into confusion. Neither spoke for a moment as Kevin started past them.
“Guess I’ll just head on back, get changed. Thought you could use a little help today, the wedding and all. Me, I’m feeling great. Really needed the rest.”
Andrew stepped directly in front of him.
“Son,” Andrew said, as kindly as he could manage. “It’s good to see you back in one piece, but we’d better talk. See, you are what we call persona non grata around here, meanin’ you’re about as welcome as a rat in the wedding cake.”
Kevin raised his hands in a wide shrug. “Hey, I’ve just been on sick leave. I left a message for Gus, told him I was punching in today.”
He had Marne call the building manager earlier, believing correctly that Gus Anholdt would make himself scarce on a busy day. She got his answering machine.
Andrew took out a white handkerchief and mopped his forehead.
“Vlad, watch the guests.” His watery eyes searched Kevin’s. “Son, Gus said you were fired. He sent us a memo.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say why.”
Vlad whispered in Andrew’s ear, loud enough for Kevin to hear. “The boy defies authority. Is that so bad?”
Andrew spoke solemnly and stubbornly. “All I know is, you’re through here. It’s no good, son. Chester Lord himself left standing orders, we can’t let you in the building.”
“Chester Lord doesn’t cut it.” Kevin folded his arms. “This is a union thing.”
“Say what?”
“Go back to the staff room, check the bulletin board. International Brotherhood of Portal Operators Regulation 247. ‘No Union employee shall be discharged except by due process. Wrongful discharge shall be cause for a Job Action.’ They can’t fire me. Let me get my uniform on, and I’ll talk it out with Chester Lord myself.”
“He’s a little busy today, Kevin.” Andrew gave him a minimal smile.
Kevin planted his EMS boots a foot apart and crossed his arms again. “I think when you tell him I’m down here, he’ll find the time.”
On his way to see his daughter, Chester found Han Koi, Sr.
The Hong Kong pirate popped out of a huddle of businesspeople misted in cigar smoke and planted himself in Chester’s face. He grabbed Chester’s hand and pumped it violently, his droopy wattles shaking in mirth.
“Congratulations, Chester. We are so happy for you.”
Han showed his teeth, revealing lots of his receding gums. The studied absence of any malice at all in the old predator’s face was too much for Chester to abide.
“Are you?” Gimlet-eyed, he withdrew his hand and spoke softly. “You lose your run on Lord & Company now, you two-faced son of a bitch.”
And Han did seem to have two faces now, sucking in and out like an aquatic plant, moving between stunned and bellicose.
“Chester,” old Han finally wailed, “how can you insult me?”
“Insult you?” Chester labored to keep his voice down. “For God’s sake, I got you into the Hamptons Bath & Tennis Club when they tried to blackball you.”
Han glowered. “And I took you to the races in Hong Kong, our special box. You didn’t even have a top hat. Typical ignorant American.”
Oh, the venom would come on now if he let it. Instead, Chester drew his shoulders back.
“Enough. This is my daughter’s wedding day.”
Then he noticed O’Connell tapping him on the arm.
“Mr. Lord,” the butler whispered, rolling his r’s. “It seems there’s a problem to sort out with the building staff.”
Chester fumed. They were circling him like buzzards, on what should by all rights be a day of bliss. “I can’t handle that now.”
“I do think you might wish to address it personally, sir.” O’Connell insisted, holding his head down to avoid eye contact with the Father of the Bride.
The phone rang in Chester’s study, but Tucker ignored the soft jangle. He ushered his guest into the room first and locked the door behind him. Tucker motioned him to one of the wing chairs across from Chester’s desk.
Tucker removed from the pocket of his shantung-lined black suit Cornelia’s power of attorney and placed it on the desktop near the picture of Chester, Elizabeth, and Corny at age nine.
“This,” he pointed out, “gives me control of Cornelia’s voting stock the minute we finish the marriage vows.”
“Very good,” Han Koi, Jr., nodded, glancing over the document.
No, Chester won’t need to buy a partners desk now, Tucker chuckled, recalling his mentor’s unease. Chester’s business career just ended. He settled into the well-worn burgundy leather chair, pulled open Chester’s humidor, and removed two of his cherished Romeo y Juliet robustos.
“Han,” Tucker offered. “Have a cigar on me.”
“Ah.” Han Koi, Jr., took the fat Romeo y Juliet. He leaned toward the heavy gold table lighter that Tucker held for him and puffed hard.
Tucker lit the tip of his own cigar and put his head back to stare at the mahogany paneling on the ceiling. He released dense rings from his rounded lips to create a cloud cover inside Chester’s sanctum sanctorum. A good cigar, he believed, forced others to gag in his presence.
Han Koi, Jr., sat back across the desk from him, ramrod straight, holding his own Koi laptop. Bringing it to wedding, for God’s sake. Tucker had to smile. Maybe there was some good in him after all. If anybody should consider himself even luckier than Chester Lord that his father had come before him, it was Han Koi, Jr. No wonder the old man never let him make any decisions. But Han Junior had discretionary power over just enough Koi cash to buy up Lord & Company voting stock without old Han finding out.
And partners without much ability needed Tucker to make their decisions for them.
“Good time to congratulate the groom,” Han Junior smirked, as Tucker punched him playfully in the arm.
“Fuck that, Han. We’ll get on the front page of the Wall Street Journal on Monday morning. You and me. We pulled it off, buddy.”
Tucker hauled up his own laptop from beside the desk and fired it up, his fingers sprinting over the keyboard. “Today we consolidate Cornelia’s shares in Lord & Company with the lots you bought. That’s us in the column that says ‘51 %.’ Here’s how bad we just kicked Chester Lord’s ass.”
Han Koi, Jr., studied the screen that Tucker turned proudly in his direction. His face became a happy jack-o’-lantern’s.
“Your father’s going to be proud of you when he finds out.” Tucker blew smoke at his new partner. “He’ll complain a little, but he’s a businessman.”
What a joke. Tucker believed the elder Han would view his son’s actions as sneaky and underhanded. In the best-case scenario, old Han might blow an artery in his shock when he found out what Han Junior had done behind his back and drop dead. In the worst, Tucker would force a split in Koi Industries. The father would be blackmailed into swallowing his son’s deal whether he liked it or not.
Whatever.
This would be only the beginning. He’d met his first goal of thirty by thirty. On Monday, as Cornelia Lord’s husband with her power of attorney, he would make the board of Lord & Company change the name on the door to Fisk & Company. Next goal, push the elder Han Koi out of Koi Industries so young Han and Tucker could take over.
Tucker blew a perfect smoke ring into the air.
“Let’s go give Chester his big day,” he told Han.
“What will happen to him?” Han asked.
“After we throw him out and seal up his office?” He chuckled. “He’ll survive. Useless rich guys always do.” He didn’t add “present company excepted,” even though he could clearly see Han’s future.
He stood up as Han rose, came around, and slapped his much shorter partner’s toadlike back. “Congratulations, big guy.”
Tucker sauntered out of the room, adjusting his tie. He rubbed his hands together.
Poor, forgetful Chester.
Chester hadn’t noticed recently that Penthouse A was put in Corny’s trust for tax reasons. Corny’s power of attorney would even give Tucker this co-op once they were husband and wife. Would he automatically become chairman of the co-op board? Outside the study, he bumped into a parchment-skinned woman who wore a sequined dress and tiara on her head. Lily Stern, a widow who got lucky with a husband about ninety years ago.
“I love to win!” Tucker blurted out to Lily, full of executive helium.
“Of course you do, dear,” she cooed mechanically.
He swept through the guests, making small talk over the strains of three string quartets. In the dining room, the catering firm Fête Accompli bustled around an eighteenth-century English hutch that groaned with treats. Waiters dressed in white tie moved in a smooth glide pattern.
Tucker saw the mayor and his wife talking to the police commissioner. The mayor had married an editor of the Daily Globe, but the newspaper still stuck it to City Hall anyway. The Globe was owned by another guest he saw bullying his way around the room. He was a fireplug of a man with a shaved head who looked like a professional wrestler in a business suit. He yelled something to Tucker over the crowd about condos or condoms, it could be either.
Another media lord, a silver-haired mogul who owned several square miles in a pristine stretch of the Andes called Patagonia, stopped to pump Tucker’s hand. “You coulda used my spread for your honeymoon.”
No, he didn’t want Cornelia anywhere near South America.
“I appreciate it.” Tucker tried to smile like a man in love. “But I took a place in the Bahamas.”
He had booked a whole private island in the Caribbean with a pristine beach and a fully staffed estate. It cost $35,000 for a week, but the seclusion would be worth it. All hell could break loose on Monday when the law firm he had hired in secret, that Park Avenue shark tank, took Corny’s power of attorney and their marriage certificate and padlocked Lord & Company. Although he would never admit it to Han, he didn’t want to face Chester. He hadn’t wanted to ruin Chester necessarily, but his mentor had left him no choice.
A player plays, Chester.
A week on the beach would give him time to make long-term plans for Fisk & Company. Then, at the end of the day, he’d have Cornelia’s body to explore. It was new to him. Maybe to anybody. He’d never asked, she’d never told. He genuinely looked forward to sex with Corny, showing her his best moves. She seemed a little flaky still, but it would be worth it.
He had already decided that he would stick with her for as long as it served his interest. Why not? Controlling Corny would be like molding putty. He could put his own spin on his Lord & Company takeover. Good for your dad, he’s been so stressed lately. Her memory was totally blown out. And he believed that good-hearted Cornelia would make a fine mother. Family values really did matter. At least until they worked the bugs out of cloni
ng.
As he crossed the foyer, he found Chester on the antique French phone, his face a crimson blob.
“He’s off-limits,” Chester was muttering into the telephone. “Call the police if necessary. Mr. Doyle is fired.”
Tucker’s stomach flopped over in a brand-new way. For the first time in his life, he actually felt it knot with a tiny glimpse of the F-word.
F-F-F-Failure.
“Chester,” he kept his voice low, “what’s going on?”
Chester covered the receiver. “Andrew the doorman called up to say that Kevin Doyle is downstairs. He’s demanding his job back and he wants to speak to me.”
The little dick. But he needed to calm down. Doyle must not get into this apartment.
“I’ll take care of it,” he growled.
Chester wagged his head. “This could spiral. He’s citing some union regulation, claims he’s entitled to work.”
“The police commissioner’s here,” Tucker said. “We’ll arrest Doyle for fraud, mayhem, who cares? By the time they let him go, Corny and I will be in the Islands.”
“No.” Chester seemed calmer than he ever had during a crisis. “I’ve met his uncle, the union delegate. Get back to the guests and let me handle this.”
Well, Chester taking charge. Tucker smiled thinly. “As long as you have it under control, Dad.”
He smirked at how the old man winced when he called him that.
In the staff room, Andrew stood over Kevin while he called Eddie Feeney.
“Don’t count on him to back you up, son,” Andrew prophesied, looking glum at this social breakdown at his workplace.
“Eddie!” Kevin talked fast into the phone. “I just reported back to work, and Chester Lord says I’m fired. Listen, I’m covered by Regulation 247, right?”
The pause felt like sudden death at the other end. Then Eddie came back.
“You listen to me you little son of a bitch. Whatever you’re trying to pull, I’m not helping you.”
“Forget it’s me, Eddie,” Kevin said. “I’m a union guy. Just do the right thing.”