by King, Leo
“Well, you’ll have a good time with it, I’m sure,” Richie said, opening to the inner cover and uncapping his pen. “Who should I make this out to?”
“Sam,” said the woman, who paused for a second, squeezing what looked like a red plastic something in her free hand. “Just Sam.” She looked around as if someone was distracting her.
Looking up at her, Richie noted that the woman was carrying a manila envelope with some words on it, but he could only make out the word Bourbon. He found himself wondering what had her so distracted. Shrugging, he quickly adopted a pleasant smile and said, “All right, Just Sam, one Richie Fastellos autograph coming up.”
Scribbling quickly, Richie wrote out, “Just Sam, pleasure to finally meet a real fan,” in the inside cover of her book.
As soon as he handed Sam her book back, she smiled at him. It was a small smile, but it had a sincerity to it that every other smile around him seemed to lack. For a moment, her hand touched his as they handed off the book, and Richie felt his entire body tingle. As Sam pulled back, he could see a small look of confusion on her face as well. He wondered if she had felt the same thing.
The look of confusion was quickly masked by that pleasant smile, however, and with a nod of the head, “Just Sam” wished him the best and headed off. Richie’s eyes followed Sam’s back for a few moments, noting that she had an attractive posterior. Realizing that he was staring, Richie arched his eyebrow and chuckled to himself.
I need to get laid.
Richie shook his head at his own sudden rush of maleness before looking back to the next person in line, an extremely heavy man who smelled of Cheetos and Diet Pepsi.
Richie groaned inwardly. It was going to be a long ninety minutes.
It was one thirty when Richie was finally able to tear himself away from the autograph table, the line having been much longer than he, or the more-than-patient staff at the Ritz-Carlton, had anticipated. As soon as the line closed, Richie waved good-bye to the remaining fans, quickly threw them enough canned responses, love, and praise to fill a book on being fake, and rushed up to his room.
Once inside, Richie immediately called the concierge desk and requested a cab to come pick him up, giving the destination address as Kent Bourgeois’s office. Finding out that the office was only ten minutes away, Richie scaled down his panic from frantic to furious and changed his clothes. Soon, the fancy dress clothes were replaced with a more casual set: a button-up white shirt with a dark navy-blue tie and a pair of casual dress pants of the same color. The bottle of his anxiety pills went straight into his pants pocket.
In record time, Richie made his way downstairs and, sneaking out the side door so as to avoid the mob of his fans, got to the concierge desk. He was greeted by a gentleman in a full tuxedo who looked like he was perpetually smelling something foul.
“Ah,” said the man at the concierge desk, “Mr. Fastel—”
“Shhh,” Richie said, “let’s keep that on the down-low, okay? I want to get outside while avoiding”—he pointed to a gaggle of his fans, congregating at the bottom of some stairs and theorizing about his next book—“things like that.”
The concierge, while initially looking offended, gave Richie an understanding nod and said, in a lower voice, “We have a few side entrances that celebrities like to use. Shall I have the cab come around to one of them, sir?”
“Yes,” replied Richie, sliding the man a ten-dollar bill. “Take me to one of those private exits.”
The concierge looked at the ten-dollar bill with an inscrutable expression, but he picked it up. Richie just smiled. He knew that tipping well was a way to gain favor with hotel staff, and ten dollars was a pretty good tip as far as he was concerned.
Tucking away the money, the concierge motioned for Richie to follow him. “This way, sir.” As he led Richie through an unmarked door, the concierge snapped at one of the bellhops, “Tell the cab to meet Mr. Fastellos at the Number Six Exit.”
The bellhop snickered and ran off. Richie wondered what was funny. As the two men wandered through what Richie was certain was a maze of halls, the novelist, who was struggling to keep up with the concierge, said, “Number Six Exit? What’s that?”
Without looking back, the concierge replied, “It’s a place for guests such as yourself who wish to exit the hotel in privacy. Trust me, no one will ever think to look for you at the Number Six Exit. Your privacy is assured.”
“Ah, good,” Richie said as he and the concierge passed by more hotel staff.
“Here we are, sir,” said the concierge as he came to a door marked Exit. Opening the door, the man smiled once more and motioned for Richie to step through. “Your cab will arrive momentarily. When you return, let us know if there is any other way we can serve you.”
Richie gave the man a nod and muttered his thanks before going through the doorway and stepping out into the back alley behind the Ritz-Carlton.
Richie splashed down into a pool of pink and orange liquid that smelled like spicy meatballs, and as he turned, the door closed behind him. Looking around, he saw a heap of trash bags overflowing from the two green Dumpsters, several rats crawling around the refuse with twitching noses. His ears perked up as he heard the caterwaul of two alley cats fighting for supremacy. And as the cab turned into the alley, a pack of dogs started barking in the distance.
“Wow,” said Richie to himself as he waved toward the cab, gingerly shaking off his shoes. “I wonder what I get for a twenty?”
Ten minutes later, Richie was stepping out of the cab and heading up to the office of Kent Bourgeois. The building was impressively large and housed a number of businesses, including a mortgage corporation, a technology company, and over two dozen different legal and medical practices.
Taking an elevator to the fortieth of sixty floors, Richie had to admit that he had a twinge of vertigo as he exited the elevator. Remembering that Gordon Rockway’s office was only on the tenth floor of his building, Richie figured he had never been this high in a building before.
Following the directory on the wall, Richie soon reached impressive oak doors that had the words “Kent Bourgeois, Estate Law Attorney” written on them.
At the door, Richie inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and focused on his thoughts. He reminded himself that the point wasn’t to buy the townhome, it was to meet Samantha Castille. With that determined, Richie entered.
He didn’t have to wait at all, as Kent Bourgeois was more punctual than even Gordon Rockway. Just as Richie entered the office, it turned two o’clock, and the receptionist on duty, a pretty young lady with the whitest teeth he had ever seen, said, “Mr. Fastellos?”
Richie nodded, and the woman kept that bleach-white smile up. “Mr. Bourgeois is waiting for you. Please head through that door. At the end of the hallway.” She motioned toward a large door to the side of her desk, and Richie, smiling politely at her, traveled through the doorway and into a hallway with rather expensive-looking artwork. He soon reached an open doorway leading into a huge office.
“Mr. Fastellos,” said an older gentleman’s voice from within the room, “please come inside, sir.”
Taking everything in, Richie entered the office. His initial impression was correct—it was huge. The room was easily the size of a studio loft apartment, and sported a soft carpeted floor with area rugs of a Persian design. The walls were, once again, adorned with expensive artwork, and a few marble busts appeared to serve no other purpose than to break up the monotony of wall art.
Seated behind a solid mahogany desk, in a leather chair, was Kent Bourgeois. The man was dressed in what Richie assumed to be a tailored Armani suit. He wore spectacles. His hair was a medium gray, and he looked, above anything else, like a man who meant business.
“Yeah,” said Richie, not sure what he was saying “yeah” to. “I’m Richard Fastellos, the writer. I’m glad you responded to my e-mail, Mr. Bourgeois.”
Kent offered Richie a small smile before motioning to the seat in front of him. “Pl
ease, take a seat. I wish to talk with you for a while.”
“Right.” Richie, a bit overwhelmed at the sheer size of the office, took a seat. For some reason, Kent looked like a mob lawyer, and Richie suddenly felt that he had come here unprepared. “Look, I don’t want to cause any trouble for your client, Mr. Bourgeois. I’m just here on business.”
To Richie’s surprise, Kent chuckled and shook his head. “Ah, Mr. Fastellos, if you were perceived as any trouble, you wouldn’t be here.” The attorney slid his fingers together and rested them over his lips, which made him look positively villainous. “I just want to feel you out some before introducing you to Samantha.”
The response confused Richie, who leaned back and, wearing a perplexed look on his face, said, “Yeah? Is that so?”
“Mr. Fastellos,” Kent said, leaning back in his chair, “you are familiar with Vincent Castille, are you not? Known in his time as the Bourbon Street Ripper? The most famous serial killer in the history of New Orleans? Surely you know he was Samantha’s grandfather.”
“Well, yes,” admitted Richie. “I mean, I’ve heard about him, but I was just a kid when that happened, so it’s not like I followed the events or anything.”
“Yes, yes,” Kent replied, lowering his folded hands down to the surface of the desk. “Well, I handled the Castille estate during Vincent’s lifetime. In a way, I still do. I also handle Samantha’s personal estate, and that makes me, in many ways, her advocate.”
“Advocate, huh,” said Richie. “What, is she a recluse?”
“Of the highest variety,” Kent answered. There was a certain sadness to his voice as he gave that response, or so Richie thought, but it was quickly covered up.
“She keeps to herself, communicating only with myself and a few choice people. She also leaves the handling of all her property and investments to me, and since she has given me no indication that she wants to sell any of her properties, I have had no reason to negotiate with you.”
“Ah,” replied Richie, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. Kent went on to talk about his responsibility to watch over Samantha’s interests, and that he’d bring up the idea in a few weeks, or something or other. Richie wasn’t listening, but instead was in the deepest of thought.
This guy is way too protective of Samantha’s interests for a mere estate lawyer. There is something else here, something that’s just off about the entire thing. But what is it? What reason would an estate law attorney have to stop anyone from having any contact with a client?
A sudden thought entered Richie’s mind, and even as Kent was beginning to wrap up the conversation, Richie blurted out, “Mr. Bourgeois, are you the executor for the Castille estate?”
That question seemed to shock Kent, who froze for a second before saying, “Well, I don’t see how that is any of your business, Mr. Fastel—”
“Yes, but it is a matter of public record,” interrupted Richie. “I mean, I could go down to City Hall and find out, so you might as well just tell me.”
Straightening up, Richie started to feel anxious. He slipped his left hand into his pants pocket where his bottle of anxiety pills were and ran his fingers over the bottle, the smooth plastic surface reassuring to him.
“Very well,” stated Kent. “Yes, I am.”
“So, you are the executor of the Castille estate,” Richie said, pointing animatedly at the attorney, feeling that Kent had just opened himself up wide for a good verbal rebuttal. “And are you the executor of Samantha Castille’s estate? Again, matter of public record. Don’t think you can lie to me.”
Kent looked confused as he said, “Yes, as a matter of fact I am.”
“So, you are the estate law attorney for two separate estates under the Castille name. And I assume then that Samantha is the beneficiary of Vincent’s estate?” said Richie, feeling anxiety start to well inside him. He knew that if he took the conversation the wrong way, Kent would toss him out on his ear.
“What are you getting at, Mr. Fastellos?” replied Kent, with more than a hint of irritation in his voice and his eyes narrowing.
Richie felt a rush of elation that matched his gnawing anxiety. He knew nothing about law itself, just that if he let Kent retake control of the conversation, he’d never get what he wanted—a chance to meet Samantha Castille.
“Well, if you are still overseeing the distribution of the estate of Vincent Castille to his granddaughter after twenty years, then she must, for whatever reason, not be using that estate.” Richie’s mouth flew faster than his brain, much like words flew from his fingers when he was on a writing binge. He squeezed the bottle of pills in his pocket more strongly.
“That means her own estate, for which she has turned the daily operations over to you, is what she lives on. I can only assume that estate is finite. I can also only assume that the sale of the townhome in question would expand the financial value of that estate. Samantha hasn’t said that she wants to sell anything, but she also, according to you, hasn’t said that she doesn’t want to sell anything.”
“The point?” Kent said, boring holes into Richie’s skull with his eyes. There was something almost dangerous in Kent’s gaze.
Richie gripped the arm of the chair and leaned back, pushing his anxiety down to his gurgling stomach. “This just smells a lot like a conflict of interest, that’s all. I don’t suppose we should audit the Castille estate and find out, should we?”
Richie, who was pulling most of what he was saying out of his ass, did not expect his bluff to have any effect, but it had come out before he had even realized what was going on. He got this way sometimes, and was aware that this anxious method of talking a person to death rarely worked. Fortunately, it only happened when he got stressed out.
Unfortunately, just being in the same room as Kent stressed him out.
To Richie’s surprise, however, Kent just stared at him with narrowed eyes, looking more frustrated by the moment. The effect was significantly more unsettling than he had anticipated.
Finally, Kent spoke. “Your knowledge of the law is a bit flawed, but your basic accusation is disturbingly accurate. All right, Mr. Fastellos, the truth.” Leaning in, the lawyer looked right at Richie, his face once again masking any emotion. “The truth is, I’ve known Samantha since she was a child, and I’ve seen that girl suffer in ways most people will never understand. That, paired with the fact that her own family loathes her has made me, well, very protective of her. I’ll admit I’m going far beyond the duties of a family attorney, but dash it all, someone has to look out for Samantha.”
This confession took Richie completely off guard, and with an “Oh,” he slumped back, unsure of what to make of the situation. He couldn’t tell if Kent was bullshitting him back or not. Every knot in his stomach told him it was time to leave the office.
Finally, he sighed, leaning forward and looking at the lawyer in a frank manner. “Okay, I see why you’re doing what you’re doing, and I promise not to do anything to harm her. I just want to talk to her. If you can make that happen… I promise not to bother her if she says ‘no.’”
Richie felt irritated at having to hand-hold a seemingly all-powerful lawyer through what he felt was tantamount to pinkie swears. But the alternative wasn’t even possible. After a confession like that, telling Kent he wanted to talk to Samantha about a book involving her grandfather would seem like pure exploitation.
“Deal?” Richie prompted.
After a long moment of silence, Kent nodded. “Deal. I’ll contact Samantha this afternoon and arrange a meeting between the two of you for tomorrow. Is that satisfactory?”
“Of course,” replied Richie, who struggled to keep the smugness off his face. The anxiety was gone, and in its place was the feeling of how awesome he was.
Kent nodded, showing no more emotion. “I can reach you by e-mail, then, Mr. Fastellos?”
“Of course,” responded Richie, “or just call the Ritz-Carlton and ask for my room.”
“Leave your room numb
er with my receptionist,” Kent instructed, then reached down to pick up a pen. The stern-eyed lawyer started going through a stack of papers on his desk, then stopped when he noticed that Richie was still there. “Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Fastellos. Have a good day.”
Richie finally took the hint and left, making sure to drop off his room number with the receptionist, who almost laughed when he made sure to explain that it was for Kent to call him and not some attempt to pick her up.
Once in the lobby of the building, Richie popped a pill, washing it down with some water from a nearby fountain. While he didn’t feel a panic attack coming on exactly, he felt anxious enough that his stomach and head were starting to hurt. It was a dull, throbbing ache, like someone was walking around inside his skull.
Despite all that, Richie was in a fantastic mood when he got back to the hotel. He even tipped the concierge twenty dollars, which the man looked at with what appeared to be mild interest. Heading up to his room, he busied himself with answering e-mails, having an hour-long conversation with Gordon about the morning’s interview and signing, and looking over the dinner menu of a local pizzeria.
It was five o’clock, and Richie was just settling down to order a pizza and then watch some television, when the hotel phone rang. Picking it up, he said, “Hello?”
“Mr. Fastellos,” said the unmistakable Bond-villainous voice of Kent Bourgeois, “I just spoke with Samantha Castille.”
“Great,” replied Richie, his heart starting to race. “What did she say?”
“She wants to meet with you tonight”—Kent’s voice sounded like someone had taken away his plate of cookies—“at the restaurant at the Ritz-Carlton.”
“She what?” Richie said in a voice that was completely incredulous, before quickly recovering. “Oh, that’s fantastic! Tell her I’ll meet her. What time? What will she be wearing?”
Kent’s voice continued to sound disgruntled as he said, “Seven o’clock. Yes, I know that is a bit later than usual for dinner, but Samantha is somewhat of a night owl. As for what she’ll be wearing, don’t worry about that. She’s already reserved a table for you and her. When you get there, just give your name, and you’ll be seated. Samantha will join you shortly.”