Fifth Avenue wst-1

by Christopher Smith

  “Not with me on it, it isn’t.”

  “I can promise WestTex won’t infringe on your business.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. How could you possibly promise me that?”

  “You’ll see soon.”

  “I’d rather see now.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Celina kept her gaze on his.

  “I don’t like playing games, Celina.”

  “It’s business, Anastassios. We’re all in it to win. It’s why I respect you so much. But my father and I never play games.”

  “Except for those you win?”

  She didn’t reply.

  Anastassios shrugged, as if the conversation now meant little to him. Still, a hard look remained in his eyes. “I just hope no one gets their toes stepped on,” he said.

  So do I, Celina thought and turned to Jack. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Where are my manners? This is my friend, Jack Douglas.”

  Fondaras nodded at Jack. “I’ve read about you,” he said. “You’re the man who sold $500 million worth of bonds a few weeks ago, right? Became a Big Swinging Dick at Morgan? I was thinking of hiring you myself, but I see that Redman beat me to it.” He turned to Celina. “Let’s hope that doesn’t become a habit. Have either of you met my good friend Lady Alexa Ionesco from Spain?”

  Lady Alexa Ionesco from Spain was a tall reed of a woman with dark hair pulled back into a chignon, black eyes that reflected a curious intelligence, and lips that were oddly full, likely from a few too many injections. Celina thought back to her conversation with Jack and was willing to bet that her title-unlike the ropes of diamonds that blazed at her neck, wrists and ears-was fake.

  As they made small talk, she wondered if this woman, who was dressed in a stunning red dress and who was at least thirty years Fondaras’ junior, stood a chance with him. Divorced twice, widowed once, Anastassios Fondaras was one of the world’s most eligible bachelors. And he knew it.

  “I think you’re darling,” Lady Ionesco said. The way she said “darling” made it sound as if she’d taken the word and stretched it like a rubber band.

  Celina took her hand. The woman warbled a bit. And I think you need to lay off the booze. “You’re very kind.”

  “Have you ever been to Turkey in the fall?”

  “I think only in springtime.”

  “Fall is best. Fall is a must. Fall is the new spring. You must come. Promise me, you’ll come. I own a little cottage there-fifty rooms along the ocean, fifteen servants, three pools, a garden to die for-but we make do.” She glanced at Jack. “There’s plenty of room.”

  “Of course,” Celina said. “Let’s have lunch sometime and look at our calendars.”

  “Mine’s impossible,” Lady Ionesco sighed. “My assistant put everything on one of those little iPad things for me, thinking it would organize a life that can’t be organized. He still doesn’t know who I am. He still doesn’t get that there is no order to the world in which we move. He thinks my life can be squeezed-squeezed! — into something shiny and slick. And now, naturally, the situation is worse than ever.” She tossed her head back and cackled out two words. “Technology! God!”

  In an effort to steady her, Anastassios put a hand on her back.

  “Anastassios,” she said, her head rolling toward the ceiling. “That chandelier. I never noticed it before. It’s sublime.”

  “It’s Lalique.”

  “It’s terrifique!”

  “You about ready for a drink?” Jack asked Celina. He looked at Lady Ionesco. “We just came from the city and I have to say, a drink is in order.”

  “Try the champagne,” Lady Ionesco said. “It’s divine. And then try a Manhattan. God, I love a Manhattan. So ‘20s. So now. So forever.”

  Celina gave Anastassios a kiss on each cheek, and then did the same with Lady Ionesco, who said too loudly, “Turkey! Fall! Lunch!”

  As they stepped away from them and moved into the crowd, Celina said, “You handled yourself well.”

  “I barely said a word. You, however, were impressive. That woman is a mess and that man is a clever son of a bitch.”

  “He’s a lot more than that,” Celina said as they followed a wave of instant celebrities and old money to an aft bar that was teeming with people anxious to forget the pressures of the world in which they lived.

  While Jack ordered drinks, Celina glanced around the polished deck.

  The first person her gaze settled upon was the last person she expected to see here-Louis Ryan. Celina remembered that Ryan, who was ousted by society because of his refusal to donate money to charity, once was quoted by a newspaper as saying: “My mother used to tell me that charity begins at home. If that’s the case, I own eight homes, and that’s where my money goes.”

  She watched Ryan and wondered why he received an invitation to this event, where money almost certainly would be expected from him to help combat that forgotten disease, HIV, which was starting to become hot again among the charity set. Standing alone near the twenty-piece orchestra, he was sipping a glass of champagne and watching the guests giggle and hug and push.

  Celina wondered if her father had seen him yet.

  She turned to look for George and came face to face with Diana Crane, who was standing near Celina, her back to the bar, a glass of bubbling champagne in her hand. There was a silence while the two women stood looking at one another. Appraising one another. Then Diana stepped forward. “Hello, Celina.”

  Celina nodded. She noticed the fading bruise around Diana’s eye, the carefully concealed scrape on her forehead and couldn’t help wondering what she and Eric had gone through the night they were attacked.

  “That’s a beautiful necklace you’re wearing,” she said.

  Diana brought a hand to her neck and her fingers tip-toed over hundreds of carats of diamonds and rubies and sapphires. “Thank you,” she said. “Eric gave it to me.”

  It was a casual remark, not a slam, and Celina felt a kind of sadness for Diana, not anger. She wondered how such an intelligent woman could fall for someone like Eric. And then she checked herself. Why not? I did.

  She decided to at least deliver a warning.

  “I remember when Eric bought it for me,” Celina said. “We were in Milan, vacationing, and I was struck by the size and the clarity of the stones. You do realize that the stones are flawless, don’t you?”

  It was a moment before Diana could speak. Her fingers pressed against the necklace, the stones cutting into her flesh. “Eric bought this for you?” she said.

  Celina nodded. “Three years ago, I think. I sent it-and others like it-back to him when we broke up. I think it looks better on you, though. The sapphires bring out the blue in your eyes.”

  Diana Crane walked away. Celina felt a twinge of guilt as she watched her leave. “I had to do it,” she said aloud. “He gave her that necklace and made her think he bought it for her. What a bastard.”

  “Who’s a bastard?”

  Celina put her hand on Jack’s arm. She wondered how long he had been standing behind her, wondered just how much he’d heard. “It’s not important,” she said, taking the glass of champagne he offered. She sipped-and noted it wasn’t champagne. It was beer. “You really are too much,” she said.

  “Would you rather have drunk from the can?”

  “We have in the past. Why stop now?”

  “Good point,” Jack said. “Next time, I’ll ask for a six-pack.”

  “You do that,” Celina said and, acting on impulse, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “You know what I’d like to do right now?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “I’d like to dance with you before this floating palace casts off. What do you say?”

  They danced slowly at first, Jack’s hand gently embracing hers, Celina’s cheek touching his, each aware of the other’s body. Couples Anastassios had flown in from around the world were twirling around them, some laughing, others talking
-all enjoying the orchestra.

  Celina was aware of people looking at them from the surrounding tables, but she made an effort to ignore them. She was happy to be here with Jack. She was glad to have him in her life.

  “Isn’t that Harold Baines over there?” Jack asked.

  Celina followed Jack’s gaze with her own. Standing with his back to the railing, drink in hand, was Harold. He was talking with Louis Ryan. She nodded, surprised to see the two men together.

  “I wonder what he and Ryan are arguing about?”

  “What makes you think they’re arguing?”

  “Harold raised his voice a moment ago,” Jack said. “I heard him. And look at Ryan’s face-it’s as red as that woman’s dress. They’re arguing.”

  The music became softer, slower and Jack held her closer. Celina looked away from Harold at the same moment Harold stormed away from Louis Ryan. She brushed her cheek against Jack’s, smelled his cologne and felt the warmth of his body through the thin material of her dress. She wondered if he was as aware of these things as she was. She wondered if she was on his mind as often as he was on hers. She wondered if he was as attracted to her as she was to him.

  Gradually, she began to lose herself in him and the dance. He was speaking to her. His voice was a low rumble above the lapping of the waves and the faint roar of the engines as the ship cast off. She heard him mention something about the yacht and the guests, about the thickening storm clouds and the threat of rain, but she was unable to follow what he was saying. As far as Celina was concerned, they could be anywhere in the world.

  “Am I boring you?” Jack asked after awhile. They had been dancing for nearly twenty minutes. “Is something wrong?”

  Celina pulled back and knew he had asked her a question she hadn’t heard. She felt embarrassed. “No. I-my mind was elsewhere. Sorry.”

  Jack was no fool. He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. Celina kissed him back, only dimly aware of the murmurs rippling through the crowd. There was no question what would happen next.

  “Come with me,” he said, taking her hand.

  They found a staircase that went below ship and followed a narrow passage to its end. As they turned onto a wider passage and began looking for one of the staterooms, Celina thought that she never wanted a man more than she wanted this man.

  It came to her then that this would be only the second man she had ever been with, and the thought exhilarated her. She sensed that it would be different with Jack than it had been with Eric. She sensed it would be better.

  They stopped in front of a door that was at the end of the hall. Jack opened it and stepped inside. Across the room, seated naked at the foot of a large four-poster bed, was Harold Baines, a rubber tube tied to the sunken flesh of his upper left arm, the needle of a syringe buried in the fold.

  Seated behind him was a young man, his legs wrapped around the shadow of Harold’s thinning waist, his waiter’s uniform cast carelessly to the floor.

  There was a moment when Harold’s eyes met Jack’s, when shock registered on each man’s face, then Jack quickly closed the door before Celina could see.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  She went for the door. Jack reached for her hand and pulled her toward him. He kissed her on the forehead, then on the mouth. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” he said. “Anyone could walk in on us here and we’d regret it. Here isn't the place. Let’s wait.”

  “This must be some sort of joke,” Elizabeth Redman said in a whisper to her husband. “He can’t be seated here. He can’t be seated at our table. Anastassios knows better. He never would have allowed it.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” George said, looking away from Louis Ryan, who was seated opposite them. “Anastassios knows I’m trying to buy WestTex. He knows I’m going to be competition. This is exactly something he would do.”

  “Well, I can’t believe it. The man doesn’t even belong here. What does Louis Ryan care about the discovery of twelve Monet paintings? What does he care about HIV and AIDS? Just look at him,” she said in a low voice. “Sitting there, smiling, as if he doesn’t know that we’re here. As if he doesn’t remember what he put us through all those years ago. You murdering his wife. Ridiculous.”

  George squeezed her hand. It was a moment before he could dispel the image of Anne Ryan that flashed before his eyes. “Look,” he said quietly. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen him. This was bound to happen someday. Why don’t we just ignore him and enjoy ourselves?”

  “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we just leave?”

  “Because we’re on a boat in the middle of the Hudson. We can’t leave.”

  “Oh, please, George. Somewhere on this floating island there’s a helicopter. We can tell Anastassios that there has been an emergency.” She looked around her. Everyone was either sitting down to dinner, or preparing to. The air was a hum of voices. “Where is Celina sitting? Maybe she and Jack wouldn’t mind switching tables with us.”

  “I haven’t seen Celina.”

  “And I haven’t seen Harold. Look at poor Helen over there, sitting by herself, having to talk to that awful Mamie Fitzbergen and listen to one of her dull conversations about how splashes of Holy water are restoring her youth. You’d think Harold would be more considerate of her.”

  “Something isn’t right with Harold,” he said. “He seems distracted lately. Not himself. I’m going to talk to him soon and see if anything is wrong.”

  “And when you do,” Louis Ryan said from across the table. “Make sure you give him my thanks.”

  His voice cut across the table like a blade. Silence lingered as those seated at the Redman table-and those seated at the tables surrounding it-stopped talking and started listening.

  Elizabeth and George turned to Ryan. It was clear by his amused expression that he had been listening to them.

  “What do you mean by that, Louis?” George asked.

  Louis lowered his chin and peered over his eyeglasses. “I wish I could put it in simpler terms, George, but I can’t. It means that I’d like you to give Harold my thanks.”

  George ignored the sarcasm and kept his tone light. “What for?”

  “For finding someone to run my new hotel for me.”

  George hadn’t become successful in this crowd without possessing the ability to act. He remained calm, even though denial was rising up in him that his best friend would talk to this man. “It’s good that you and Harold have been chatting.”

  “Actually, we had a meeting,” Louis said. “And I have to hand it to him-I couldn’t be happier with his choice.” He smiled. “Of course, I should probably be thanking you and Elizabeth, as well. Without your efforts, the young woman Harold brought to my attention wouldn’t be alive today.”

  George was slipping, beginning not to care. “Maybe we should talk about this later?” he said. “Another time?” He held up his glass of champagne, lifted it to Louis and drank. “For me, talking business ended a few hours ago.”

  It was as if the suggestion went unheard.

  Louis eased back in his chair and said, “What strikes me about this young woman is how closely she resembles my dead wife. Do you remember Anne, George? Do you remember how long and dark her hair was? How tan she would get in the summer? How beautiful and stubborn and strong she was? How alive she was?” He paused. “Probably not. I would imagine that killing someone and getting away with it must force a person to stuff down any memory of it. I, on the other hand, have never forgotten.”

  At the same instant a reporter stepped forward to take their picture, Louis leaned forward and locked eyes with George. The camera flashed.

  Elizabeth Redman looked at the reporter with such hatred and stood so quickly that her chair toppled over and crashed to the hardwood deck.

  Excitement rippled through the crowd.

  The reporter took another picture. And another.

  Elizabeth reached down, grabbed
her glass of water and threw it in Ryan's face. It caught him by surprise, but his initial reaction was to laugh at her.

  And now everyone was watching. George reached out and gripped Elizabeth’s arm before she did something else she would regret. All around them, cameras were popping.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Ryan,” he said.

  “You don’t even know just how much nerve,” Louis said, wiping his face with a silk napkin. “The person I’m talking about is your daughter, Leana. I’ve hired her to run my new hotel for me. She starts next week.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  While her parents and sister were dining on the world’s largest privately owned yacht, Leana was standing at the corner of Mulberry and Prince. It was dark, a light rain was falling and traffic from the two streets hummed in her ears.

  Twelve hours had passed since she was sent the gun. Twelve hours of decisions and indecisions had passed through her mind. Twelve hours left to go before the man carried out his threat.

  She glanced around her.

  Age-worn brick buildings lined the block. Somewhere in the distance, a woman was crying, shouting, screaming. Leana was aware of the men passing her on the street, and she was aware that they were aware of her. Although she had gone through great lengths to come to this spot and not be followed, she knew that any one of these men could be the man who sent her the gun.

  She removed her cell phone from her inside jacket pocket and felt the gun she concealed there earlier. If for some reason the man decided to make his move tonight, she would kill him with his own gun. If I get the chance.

  She punched numbers. There was a click and the line began to ring. She waited for someone to answer. Rain whipped against her in sheets, soaking her clothes, chilling her to the bone. She could no longer hear the woman screaming. It was as if her voice had been snuffed. A man walking past her slowed his pace and smiled a smile that had long since ceased being a smile.

  Leana turned away. She felt the gun pressed against her ribcage. She began to tremble.

  Finally, the line was answered by a woman. Leana recognized the voice instantly and knew that once she spoke, the woman would recognize her voice as well. Still, she didn’t hesitate to ask for the one man she should have phoned earlier-the only man who could now help her. “I need to speak to Mario,” she said to his wife. “Tell him it’s Leana Redman. Tell him it’s urgent.”