Mikalo's Flame

by Syndra K. Shaw

  “Well, I ...” Abby began before falling silent.

  Richardson sat back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap.

  He waited quietly.

  Then he spoke.

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me Mr. Byzan, one of the Firm’s wealthiest clients and a man you’ve worked very hard to ingratiate yourself with, a man I’ve personally known and liked for several years, is a liar.”

  He watched her.

  “Is he?” he then asked.

  God, what I wouldn’t give to see her sweating now.

  I slightly turned my head and snuck a peek.

  Her chin was trembling and there were tears in her eyes.

  Shit.

  I felt horrible for her now.

  She was watching her career circle the toilet and I was the reason for it.

  No, wait. That’s not right.

  She’s the reason for it. I was just here calling off her dogs and salvaging what I could of my quickly diminishing reputation. Wounds she was inflicting.

  So, no, it was her fault. Not mine.

  And if she wanted to cry for her career, let her.

  I wasn’t going to feel sorry for her.

  Or at least I was going to try not to feel sorry for her.

  “No,” she finally said, her voice quiet. “He’s not a liar.”

  “Would you care to explain why there was this concerted effort to damage Miss Grace’s reputation with the Byzans?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath.

  “I need to be honest with you,” she began. “I have no idea why Marcus was doing this. I don’t know what got into him and, really, in all honesty, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  Oh my god, that lying bitch!

  “I didn’t even know what was happening until the end,” she continued, the lies coming easily and effortlessly, her ability to throw her soon-to-be son-in-law under the bus both impressive and terrifying.

  “One minute, he was hard working, brilliant and fantastic. Truly impressive and, in my opinion, moving toward a fantastic future both at Macfarlane, Schaal, as well as in the industry at large.

  “The next, I hear he’s making up stories about Miss Grace, arranging dinners with the Byzans. Meetings and what not.

  “Of course I go,” she continued, her hand on her chest in a Bad Acting 101 show of sincerity. “You know, to protect Miss Grace and the Byzans and, of course, the Firm.

  “But before I even knew what was happening, it was almost too late to stop him. And believe me, I tried and tried and tried.”

  Going for Top of the Bad Acting class, her voice slightly broke.

  “The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt our Miss Grace,” she finished.

  Richardson paused, watching her, before turning to me.

  “And what does ‘our Miss Grace’ think about this?” he then asked me.

  He waited, the smallest of smiles curling the very edge of his lips.

  “It’s bullshit,” I said. “You know it’s bullshit, I know it’s bullshit, and even dear Abby over here knows it’s bullshit.

  “That’s what I think,” I finished, sneaking a look at Abby.

  She sat as stiff as a board with her eyes closed.

  “You know what I think,” Richardson began. “I think Ronan’s right.”

  “Rainier --” Abby began.

  He cut her off.

  “You lost the right to call me Rainier when you sat there and lied to my face, Miss White. For over ten years I’ve supported you and encouraged you. Allowing you great leeway in building your department and going after those really big deals that would put you on the map. Put your name in the papers.

  “After all that, you sat there and lied through your teeth.

  “So, no,” he continued. “From now on, it’s Mr. Richardson when you speak with me.

  “If you speak with me, that is.”

  She took a deep breath and then spoke.

  “Am I to take it I’m no longer welcome at Macfarlane, Schaal? That you’re firing me and I’m to pack up and leave?” she asked, her eyes avoiding his.

  “If you wish,” he said. “But, to answer your question, no, I’m not firing you. You’re welcome to stay at Macfarlane as long as you wish.”

  I smiled to myself, knowing exactly what he was doing.

  Firing her would be easy. She’d be the victim. Poor Abby White suffering at the hands of the horrible Rainier Richardson and evil Ronan Grace.

  She could use that, pivot, and land at a new Firm, if she wanted. Or at least soak up a bit of sympathy.

  But for her to remain at Macfarlane would be unbearable, though not as unbearable as hitting the streets, cap in hand, meeting with other Firms in the hope of landing a comparable position with a comparable paycheck, a near impossibility at her age.

  And, of course, that didn’t even mention the questions surrounding why she would want to leave Macfarlane. Questions followed by phone calls. Phone calls followed by gossip. Gossip followed by the unmasking of her lies, her deception, her underhanded backstabbing.

  Richardson was giving her the choice to remain at Macfarlane and be reviled, her reputation tattered and torn. Or go out into the big, bad world of New York law and, if she was lucky, find work at a lower tier law firm for less money and less prestige, ending her career with a dark cloud hanging over her.

  “May I go now?” she asked, her voice small.

  “Please,” Richardson said with a smile. “Take the rest of the day off, if you like. Get some rest.”

  And then he said the three words every older woman who’s climbed the ladder of success dreads hearing. Three words signaling the knives were out and the end was near.

  “You look tired.”

  She bristled, her back going up.

  And then she stood, turned to me, nodded, turned to Richardson, nodded, and then walked to the door, opened it, and stepped out.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I’m sorry about this,” I said.

  “You should have come to me earlier,” he said. “Before it got out of hand.”

  I nodded.

  “Again, I’m sorry,” I said, standing. “And thank you, Mr. Richardson.”

  “Rainier,” he said with a smile, correcting me. “Call me Rainier.”

  “Of course, Rainier. I should get back to work.”

  “No, no,” he quickly said reaching into his desk. “I need you to go talk to the Byzans. Smooth things over. Make sure everything’s okay and that they understand you’re the one to speak with from here on out. You and no one else.”

  He handed me a card with a Fifth Avenue address.

  “Sure,” I said. “No problem.”

  I stopped.

  “Well, there is one problem.”

  “Which is?” he asked.

  “You know Mikalo Delis and I are close.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ve recently learned the Byzans are making a play for one of Mikalo’s businesses. One of his father’s first businesses, in fact. One with a great deal of sentimental value.”

  Richardson waved it away.

  “No,” he said. “They’re not.”

  “I’m sorry. They’re not?”

  “No, not with us, they’re not,” he said.

  “No doubt Byzan will clear that up when you speak with him. Now go. He’s expecting you.”

  The card in hand, I left, carefully closing the door behind me and walking down the hall.

  Turning the corner to my office, I glanced toward the elevators and stopped.

  Abby and Marcus stood in the elevators glaring at me, a security guard in tow.

  The doors closed with a ding.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I stood at the window watching the trees of Central Park sway in the breeze.

  Although winter had stripped them bare, there was an odd, timeless beauty to their bodies, these thick, woody trunks rooted in the earth, the branches of their arms lifted, always re
aching to the sky.

  “Please, Miss Grace.”

  I turned to find Mr. Byzan waiting with two cups of tea.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking the thin cup, its rim discolored from years of use, the handle flaking and chipped.

  “If you would?” he then asked as he politely directed me to the small sofa plunked in the middle of the room.

  “Of course.”

  I sat, balancing the cup as I sipped.

  “Delicious,” I said, prompting a smile of relief from the old, rumpled man.

  In truth, it was weak and a bit too hot. But his happiness at what he perceived as my pleasure, my gratitude, made this little lie a bit easier to swallow, unlike the tea.

  “You must forgive the house,” he then said.

  Save for the couch we sat on and an old TV perched on a small table nearby, the room had nothing in it.

  A huge apartment worth millions of dollars sitting a block or two from the museum on Fifth Avenue with an incomparable view of the Park out the windows and there was nothing but an old couch and an even older table cradling an old TV.

  Even down the long hallways and into the small kitchen, there was a sense of continued emptiness and dust and footsteps that echoed when you walked.

  Unbeknownst to those wandering by several stories below, the often envied apartments lining that stretch of Fifth Avenue from 59th Street all the way up into the 80s and 90s were usually a haphazard puzzle of large rooms giving way to many small rooms, the stringent rules of the co-ops that ruled them with an iron fist placing more of a premium on maintaining the historical status quo than the comfort of those with pockets deep enough to get past the doorman.

  Not that any of that seemed to matter to Mr. Byzan.

  Like many who came from meager beginnings and made their fortunes through hard work and sacrifice, this small, rumpled man with the manners of a prince was surprisingly frugal and wonderfully approachable.

  I doubt he cared that the kitchen was small and hadn’t been updated since the 1950s or that the wood floors beneath our feet creaked when we walked.

  He gave a small smile and sat back, blowing on his tea before taking a small sip.

  “I am so happy to have you here,” he then said, his eyes twinkling. “And, please, I apologize for my Mara. The other night at the restaurant. Without her mother, she is, how you say, more than a bit crazy. And with the drink?”

  He pushed the thought away and looked around the room.

  “You have a lovely apartment,” I said.

  “It is empty, I think.”

  “There’s a lot you can do with it,” I said as I looked toward the windows and the blue sky beyond.

  “No, no,” he quickly answered. “This is not a place where I will spend much of my time. I miss my home in Prague. And Paris. And London.

  “This here,” he said. “This is for Mara. It is what she wanted. The address I will give her. But the fancy apartment? Everything new and shiny?”

  He shrugged.

  “If this is something she wants, she will buy it with her money.

  “But with the difficulty she has in the hotels ...”

  His voice trailed off.

  Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about the stories of her wild parties, her name blacklisted in four- and five-star hotels around the world.

  Destroyed rooms, beds set on fire, holes punched through walls, mirrors shattered.

  An infamous tabloid photo of her dressed in couture, champagne bottle in hand, as she squatted, urinating on a priceless Persian rug.

  Always with Papa Byzan to apologize and pay and promise she’ll never come back again. Ever.

  The real estate buying spree they’d been on recently, a spree that was throwing them into serious debt, was making more sense.

  “Well,” he continued after a lengthy pause. “In the end, I think this is perhaps easier and will cost less money in the long run.”

  “No apology is necessary,” I then said.

  He looked at me, momentarily confused.

  “About the restaurant,” I added.

  He nodded, suddenly remembering.

  “It’s sweet of you to apologize, but, really, it isn’t necessary.”

  “Mikalo and you, this is a relationship?” he asked.

  I smiled.

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  He laughed.

  “Another apology from me to you, I am afraid,” he then said, wiping his eyes. “I am like an old woman with my questions.”

  He sighed.

  “My nose is long,” he continued, “and I sometimes poke it into these places it does not belong.”

  “No, no, that’s okay. I know you’ve known him for a very long time. Of course you’d have an interest.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Yes, I knew his father. And I was familiar with his mother.

  “In fact, and Mikalo may not know this, but my father almost married his mother’s mother.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes. A very long time ago. They came so close, and loved each other, I know, or at least I’ve heard, and then, who knows? It wasn’t to be. The Byzans and the Delis, they were almost one family.”

  He laughed again. A small laugh that lit up his face, his eyes disappearing into the folds as his mouth opened, his teeth surprisingly perfect and white and strong.

  Sitting back, he sighed another sigh and sipped his tea.

  “You are here to apologize for the Firm, yes?” he then asked.

  “Yes --” I began.

  He interrupted me.

  “There is no need. It has been said that the young man with the bad suits and his mother, that woman who looks like she bites lemons, it is promised they will no longer be an issue.

  “This is enough for me,” he then said before he bent forward and put the tea on the floor next to his feet.

  I was trying not to laugh. Abby a woman who looks like she’s just bit a lemon? And her being Marcus’ mother?

  He certainly had a wonderful way of putting things.

  “But there is one more condition,” he continued. “One thing I insist on and that is important if we, if you and I, are to continue this work.”

  “I’m listening.”

  He turned and watched me.

  “You do not call me ‘Mr. Byzan’. You must call me by my name.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “And you may call me by mine,” I said in return.

  He stood, indicating it was time to go.

  Reaching forward, he took the tea from me as he held out his hand to help me from the couch.

  “And this is?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Your name,” he explained. “The one I am to call you by.”

  “Ronan,” I said.

  We walked to the door.

  “I am Radek,” he said.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Radek.”

  Another small smile.

  “Ronan,” he said to himself.

  He stopped.

  “Can you give me a moment?” he then asked.

  “Of course.”

  Quickly leaving, he turned a corner and padded his way down a hallway.

  I looked toward the main room again. The sagging couch and small TV. The large windows framed in simple sheets of white. Fantasized for one brief moment how stunning it would look with a bit of love and care and a deep cleaning. A top to bottom renovation. The happy sound of children.

  I shook my head, wondering where that came from.

  His footsteps echoed down the hall as he made his way back, turning the corner and standing before me, his eyes shining.

  “Ronan is a unique name,” he said as he held a silver framed photograph out to me.

  Taking the heavy silver from him, I saw an older black and white picture. A beautiful woman with dark hair sitting in the arms of a strikingly handsome man.

  “I recognize that smile,” I said, aware I was looking at a very young Radek and, I assumed, his wif
e.

  “Yes, it is me. A many years ago me. And this is my wife, Ronish.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  He took the photo from me, holding it in his hands and gazing at it.

  “She is. She was.”

  “May I ask ...?” I began.

  “Cancer. Quick. Sudden.”

  Looking up at me, he offered a slight grin.

  “Not even money can beat death,” he then said. “But she and I, there were forty years. Forty years I will not forget.”

  He suddenly laughed.

  “Do you know what she used to say?” he then asked.

  I shook my head, joining him with a smile.

  “When we were young and new, she used to say that when I was old and grey, my eyes would still dance. That is what she looked forward to. What she could never lose, she would say. My eyes dancing when I smiled or laughed.

  “She would say ‘You are handsome now, yes, but when you are old and not so handsome, I will see you, this handsome you, in the happiness of your eyes.’

  “And she was right, of course. No matter how much of an old man I become, my eyes, they give me away.”

  “That’s beautiful,” I said, fighting the lump in my throat.

  “This Mikalo,” he then said, carefully. “He is good. And I think his eyes, too, they will dance when he is old and grey. If there is a chance to be there and dance with him, my new friend, then, yes, that would be a good thing. A very good thing.”

  We moved to the door.

  “Ah,” he said. “Do you know what would be better than that?”

  The door opened and I stood in the hall, politely waiting for him to continue.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “For me to dance with you,” he answered. “At your wedding.”

  And, again, he laughed, his eyes dancing.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Despite the bright sun, the air outside still held the chill of winter, Spring still several weeks away.

  I shoved my hands in my pockets as I turned south and began walking down Fifth.

  I could try and hail a cab now, but my chances of finding one were better down toward 72nd. Besides, a walk sounded good.

  There was something quite sweet about Mr. Byzan. Radek. I didn’t know if it was the fact that he had ended up being very sweet kind of surprised me. Or if it was his easy laughter and quick smile. Or perhaps how he spoke so lovingly of his wife, the silver framed photo held gently in his wrinkled hands.