“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Donovan. “Anyway, I helped put his brother in jail for a long time.”
“Who are we talking about here?”
“Twin brothers. Quinn and Denny Lang.”
“Which one’s in jail?”
“Quinn.”
“So Denny wants you dead. And you know this how?”
“Word on the streets,” said Donovan.
“Streets?” Albert snorted. “You live in DUMBO.”
“We have streets here, too.”
“Fine. I’ll see what I can dig up. Hey, looks like you got that girl’s attention.”
Donovan had been watching, too. The waiter had delivered the two bottles of wine and made a great show of opening them for the ladies. He then pointed to Donovan, who promptly nodded and waved. The girl nodded, too, then raised her left hand high. Even from where Donovan sat, he could see the brilliant sparkle on her ring finger.
Albert laughed and slapped the table hard. “Married. You know how to pick them.”
The girl and her friends laughed, too, and when she was done laughing, she blew him a big kiss. “Better than nothing,” said Donovan. “Besides, married just means I can't keep her.”
Albert was taken aback by that. “Jeesh...”
As they waited for their order, Donovan went over the wine menu; he had half a mind to ask the sommelier to come and give his advice on a bottle that would complement his veal order, but he knew Albert would resent such pretensions.
“So, just out of curiosity,” Albert began. “What did this Quinn Lang go into the clink for?”
Donovan looked down for a second. “You'll find out.”
“I'll find out from you, or I won't find out anything.”
Donovan's lips moved as he swore silently. Albert never bluffed. He did not want to tell the man, but he needed the FBI information. “I got him convicted of smuggling.” The answer was reluctant, and he knew instantly that Albert would recognize it as such too.
“But?”
“But what?”
“But there's something you're not telling me.”
Donovan sighed. “They have a sister, Mara.”
Albert nodded. He understood instantly. “You screwed the bitch and when they confronted you, you got one of them locked up?”
“Something like that,” Donovan muttered. He quickly took a sip of his Jack and Coke and looked over at the married woman again. He smiled at her. She was a gorgeous creature and he could see her looking at their table. She smiled and he saw her brush her fingers through her hair. His eyes flickered down and he noticed she was angling her leg at him too. Hook, line and sinker, he thought.
Their orders arrived and Albert tucked into his order with relish. They had always gotten along, but there was a clear difference between the two men. Albert leaned over his plate and scarfed up his steak while Donovan sat up straight and carefully cut up his veal and transferred the food gracefully to his mouth.
Storm Donovan was from an old family that had first come to America to live in the Rensselaerswyck. He could count Abraham Van Salee as one of his ancestors and his whole family tree was essentially a who's who of the elite of North America.
Albert was nothing of the sort. He had come from a farming town in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. His mother had been a hippie who had tried to bring her commune into the town. When the commune had to face the reality of the U.S. society and broke up, his mother had not lost her liking for free love and found it the perfect way to supplement her income. Albert had never known which of the hundred or so men in the town had been his father. They moved around the country like gypsies and had “settled” in New York State when Albert was 6, 11 and 15.
Albert did not speak until he finished his meal, so Donovan entertained himself by casually flirting with the olive beauty in the swing dress. She really was a rare sight. He smiled as he recalled something from a British comedy about a nudity buffer. How it took time to figure out how a woman looked naked, especially trying to figure out her nipple type. It was something that kept him entertained though. Certainly more entertaining than watching Albert belch over his steak.
It took Albert a quarter of an hour to make the steak disappear and by that time, Donovan had drawn out his cigar case and his lighter. He only just finished his own food, but he knew already that he wanted a cigar. “You want one too?” he asked Albert the moment he sat back and rubbed his hands over his belly.
“Nah, I'm laying off them.”
“Why?”
“Wife and me are trying to get pregnant. Seems they are bad for sperm production.”
“Fuck that.” Donovan picked up the cigars and his lighter and got up. “By the way, your wife is trying to get pregnant, or you're trying to get her pregnant. Though looking at that gut of yours, she might have knocked you up already.”
“Fuck you.”
Donovan grinned and walked out onto the small balcony which was the only place they were now allowed to smoke.
The balcony was empty, but at least there were some comfortable seats. He cursed the smoking ban in New York. People had seemed to stop smoking altogether now. Maybe some smoked good cigars at home, but in public there was nothing of the sort any more.
He mused on it as he pulled out one of his Cohibas and smelled it. They were the proper Cohibas, from the plantations and factories founded by Fidel Castro, not the US/Dominican fakes. Not that those were bad cigars, but they simply were not the same thing.
With a sigh, he cut the cigar and flicked open his lighter. The large flame burned bright blue and he put it to the cigar's end. He sucked on it and rolled it around once or twice, making sure it was lit properly and then, clicking his lighter closed again, he sank back into the chair, puffing out a large cloud of smoke.
There was a noise behind him coming from the stairs and he looked up. He half expected to see Albert appear there, having changed his mind about his offer of a cigar, but instead it was the olive-toned woman. She brandished a slim cigarillo and smiled at him. “Got a light for me?”
Donovan frowned. There were not many women in NYC these days who smoked, let alone women who smoked high quality tobacco. “Sure,” he said and flicked open his lighter again. “It's a rare thing.”
The woman lit the cigarillo and puffed out a large cloud of smoke, then sat down on the edge of the seat next to Donovan. She crossed her legs and leaned her elbow on her knee, holding her smoke aloft. Donovan smelled the smoke and thought for a moment. “Sweet Java tobacco?”
The woman nodded, a smile on her face. “Dutch stuff, Mehari Sweet Orient. There are a few stores around here who sell them, but I mainly rely on friends to bring them over from Europe.”
Donovan smiled brightly and leaned forward, taking care not to breathe the smoke straight into the woman's face. That would be rude. But she smelled the smoke and her face lit up even more. “Cohiba?” she placed her hand on his knee and looked seriously at him. “You do know Cuban cigars are illegal, right?”
Donovan nodded, equally serious. “Quite illegal, but I won't tell the cops about your smuggled Dutch cigarillos if you don't tell them about my Cubans.” He broke out in a smile again then. The woman also laughed and she extended her hand to Donovan. “Naomh Walsh,” she introduced herself.
“Storm Donovan.” Donovan took her hand, turned it and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles, much to Ms. Walsh's delight. “Pleased to meet you.” He wanted to withdraw his hand, but she held on to it and looked into his eyes. Her eyes were twinkling. Her fingers stroked the palm of his hand.
She sucked another cloud of smoke out of the thin cigarillo and then lay it down in the ashtray. She uncrossed her legs, careful not to have a Sharon Stone moment, and stood up. Donovan was momentarily at a loss of what to do or say. His face was inches from her crotch and his hand was still in hers, very close to her hip. He saw her toned legs, the shapely thighs and the calves that were accentuated by her high heels, but he dared not look down or up t
oo obviously. Then she stepped away.
Naomh Walsh walked to the stairs again and then looked back at him, offering him a flirty wink and a wave of her hand. Sure Donovan was looking as she went down the stairs; she gave a tiny wiggle of her pert behind as well.
Donovan was reeling. He was used to his expensive gifts to women being wasted, and he had resigned himself to the fact that this woman was spoken for, but obviously she had decided she was not spoken for after all. He looked at the ashtray and smiled even brighter. She had not stubbed the cigarillo out. Many cigar lovers, including Donovan himself, considered that a grave sin. A sin she had not committed. He also noticed now there was no filter. So she was less concerned about the health effects than about the taste.
He sank back in the chair, cigar in hand, as he thought about that. He could completely fall for a woman like that, he mused. Then he saw a bit of white poking from beneath the ashtray and he sat up again to grab it. It was a business card. “Naomh Walsh, O'Hourihane & Walsh PR” it said on the front, together with a logo. On the back there were two phone numbers and an address. “Call me,” she had written next to one of the numbers in a loopy handwriting, using a thin pencil.
Half an hour later, there was only a few fingers of his cigar left and the smoke that he drew into his mouth was becoming hot. He laid down the cigar and walked back down to the table where he had left Albert. As he sat down he looked over at the table where Naomh Walsh and her friends were seated. The bottles of wine were empty and as he watched them the waiter brought another bottle.
“They're well-oiled by now,” Albert said.
“Eh?”
“Getting quite drunk; probably the right time for some bastard to put on a move.”
“Probably.”
“So?” Albert frowned at him. “Either entertain me by making a move on one of them or pay the bill and let me get home.”
“But you'll have a look for those files for me right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Wouldn't want the elite streets of DUMBO to be running with your blue blood, now would I?”
Chapter Two
The taxi dropped Donovan at the gate of his loft apartment in the DUMBO. He paid the driver using his Smartphone and suddenly wondered if he should start paying people in cash again. Who knows who could access his phone? If someone was out to get him, they could be trying to get onto his phone. He shook his head and decided he was just being paranoid.
He unlocked the gate with his phone as well. He pulled up the key program that would generate a random QR code that could be read by the scanner at his gate. An old college friend had developed the system, and Donovan was glad for it. The same program was used for the apartment itself, but it meant that nobody could ever open the gate or his doors unless he had sent them the app to open them.
And a secure system was needed as well. Not only was his trim physique the envy of guys like Albert, but this loft apartment was the envy of most, from the Upper East Side to Williamsburg. It had once belonged to the greatest gangster of the early 20th century. It had been owned by him at that time when no policemen dared to patrol that beat alone and to live in the apartment that housed one of the most talked-about gangsters of all time was something he could never tire of. William “Wild Bill” Lovett, in Donovan's opinion, was the greatest gangster of New York City. It was one reason he had bought this apartment.
The other reason for buying the loft was the eccentricities it was built with. He loved weird houses. Houses that were a bit odd. When he worked for the FBI, he had lived in a penthouse. It was one of the biggest, most expensive, most luxurious penthouses and the location was what any socialite dreamed of Upper East Manhattan, but it had not suited him. The layout was too standard, there were no surprises, and there was nowhere to hide.
That was the one thing he loved about this loft. There were places to hide. It reminded him of the great family home in Manhattan. It was one of those very old houses you can only find in certain areas of the city. It was large and full of nooks and secret places. The loft, owing to the Irishman it had been a home to, was just as intriguing.
Donovan entered the 19th century-styled elevator and went up to the loft. The door swung open with another generated QR code and he went into the large hallway. Immediately, he took a left, which took him into his library. The room was massive. The room was in fact two levels, with a mezzanine that allowed access to the top shelves. There was a massive fireplace, a large table and a writing desk. He walked straight through it and into the next room. This was his smoking room. A large humidor took up one wall of it, but there was also a piano and some other instruments.
He had learned to play violin and piano when he was young, and he was still fond of playing, but right now he had another fancy. And he made enough money with his firm to indulge his fancies. There were a few amplifiers which he switched on and then he grabbed the electric guitar from its stand. He had had it specially built by a guild craftsman in the UK and it was more expensive than the piano, but it sounded better than any instrument he had ever heard. He took up a pick and strummed a chord. He grinned, thinking of the rock star dream he had when he was a boy and then began picking the strings.
Not too long after he had begun playing, Donovan realized the tune he was playing was quite melancholy. He stopped picking the strings and put the guitar down. He looked at the grandfather clock and decided it was late enough. He turned the amplifiers off and walked back through the library. In the hallway, he made for the grand oaken staircase. It was the sort of thing you could see a woman in a ball gown walking down without too much imagining. At the top of the stairs were a number of rooms, including another sitting room and his breakfast room. There were several suites, all in the same classic style, including his own bedroom. But he ignored that bedroom and took another flight of stairs to the third floor, and there, below the ceiling, was the room he would use tonight.
This was his second master suite. Unlike the classical rooms on the floor below, this suite and the others on this floor were very modern. There was a flat screen on one of the dressers; the bed was large and luxurious, covered in black satin sheets. A door, in the wall behind the bed, led to a large en suite. Donovan stripped off his shirt and dropped his trousers as he walked through the room to his personal bathroom. He turned the shower on, waited a moment for the water to warm and got under it. He just washed with water, knowing the overuse of soap would dry out his skin. He was a vain man, something he was keenly aware of, but he had his limits. Smearing his skin with products to counter the effects of other products just seemed stupid to him.
He took a few minutes to wash, then stepped out and dried himself. Naked, he got between the satin sheets of the large bed. And even though he had plenty to ponder, he drifted into sleep very quickly.
In the morning he woke from the sound of his butler knocking on the door. “Sir, it is time to get up,” the butler's Oxford accented voice said. “Your breakfast will be ready in half an hour.”
Donovan rubbed his eyes and rose in the bed. He slowly swung his legs out of the bed and got to his feet. Bleary-eyed, he stumbled into his en suite and turned the faucet on. He placed his head under the cold water and suddenly felt himself wake up. He dried his short brown hair and wrapped the towel around his waist. He headed downstairs to his other suite, next to which was his private dressing room. He picked out a pinstripe shirt with a classic white collar, a pair of suit pants and suede loafers; he got dressed. To finish his look, he added a tie. Looking through his tie rack, he picked a simple one which complemented the colors in his shirt; he expertly tied a perfect Windsor knot.
His breakfast was already waiting for him in the breakfast room. His butler stood by the door with that day's copy of the New York Times in hand.
“Thank you, Johnson,” he said as he took the paper and sat down. His breakfast today was a selection of fresh fruit, muesli and Greek yogurt. It was the breakfast he ate most often. He liked fresh fruit from warm climates, even in the stubborn
winters of New York, where snowstorms would prevent deliveries from getting to the city. He liked pancakes and a full English platter too, but on most days it was just too heavy for the strains and stresses he was expected to deal with throughout the day.
There was nothing interesting in the paper, he decided fairly quickly, and he handed the paper back to Johnson. He was mighty pleased with his decision to hire the butler. It suited him and his lifestyle to have a butler in the first place, but he had always been hesitant to hire too many servants. He liked the good life and could afford it, but he did not want to appear like the rest of the elite that chose to live in the thick of it in Manhattan’s Upper East Side: pretentious. Of all the people in the part of town he lived in, he was one of the very few who actually had the breeding as well as the riches. As a result, he remembered that he could not, nor wanted to, display his wealth too much. He just showed it enough to make everyone aware of it. That was the reason he only had four people working for him in the loft. There was his butler, Johnson; Miss Graeme, the housekeeper; Juan, the janitor; and his cook, Emily Harkness. In his eyes, the latter was the most indispensable.
After his breakfast, he went to brush his teeth and then he gathered his briefcase and went out. He walked to the eastern wing of his 3,800 square foot home and went down a flight of stairs. At the bottom of those stairs was his underground garage. He jumped into his favorite car, a British racing green Jaguar E-type. He turned the key and the engine coughed. He turned it again and this time the engine roared into life. He pulled up the key app again and opened the garage door. Moments later, he blasted out into the street. He laughed. There was nothing like the joy of driving a car like this.
Forty minutes later, he pulled up in the garage of his office building in Midtown East Manhattan. He took the stairs up to his office at the top of the building. Most people would take the elevator, but he liked walking the stairs. He had long decided he felt better starting his day in the office by walking all those floors up than by taking the lift. Only when he was running late did he use the elevator now. It took him ten more minutes to reach his office.
Sons of Camelot: The Complete Trilogy Page 26