Rose stood at the bar while he lifted the partition and went over to the group of men sitting at the tables. He bent down deferentially and whispered in the ear of one of the men.
They all looked over toward her. Rose heard laughter. Then one of the smaller men shrugged.
The bartender straightened up and beckoned her over.
Rose walked across the restaurant. She felt herself straighten and shook out her hair as she went.
“This is Mr. Salerni,” he said.
Rose suddenly understood. Adrenaline flushed through her body, prickling on the palms of her hands. She felt herself dew with perspiration. She thanked God it was dark in here.
“You’re Rose Fiorello?”
The man’s eyes were intense. He was small and wiry, and very frightening. The huge-chested men who sat around him didn’t scare her half as much as Vincent Salerni did.
Salerni’s eyes swept her slim, young frame, with the usual male interest. In fact all the men were staring at her body in a way that made Rose incredibly self-conscious.
“Yes,” she said. “Piacere, Don Salerni.”
“You know me?”
Rose tried to control her racing heart. She forced herself to appear calm.
“No,” she said. “I worked it out.”
Salerni chuckled. His henchmen chuckled after him.
“You are Italian?”
“Yes, Don Salerni.”
“And you are here on behalf of a husband? A boyfriend?”
The dark, piggish eyes were keen with interest.
“No, Don Salerni. For myself, alone. I—I wish to do business with you.”
“So I was told.” He spoke to a lieutenant without moving his head. “Get the young lady a seat.”
A bull-necked man pulled a seat up at the table for Rose. She sat down, feeling very small, very conspicuous in the crowd of men. Her father would have forbidden her to ever get involved with these people. Her mother would be terrified to see her here.
But Rose had come. It was too late now.
She had to be very, very careful.
Rose lowered her eyes. “My respects, Don Salerni. I wish to apologize for arriving improperly dressed.”
Salerni gave a surprised grunt of approval.
“I did not want to seem conspicuous at your hotel. And when I told my man to set up an appointment with the owner—”
“Your man?” Salerni laughed.
Rose shrugged, in the way she had seen the men do. “He wets his beak on my deals.”
Salerni’s eyes danced.
“He told me I could not be late. So I had no time to change.”
“You want to buy the hotel?”
“I do. It cannot be of interest to you, Don Salerni. It makes no money…”
“I have uses for everything I own. The Rego Park hotel handles a lot of cash.” He was telling her he used it to launder money. “And it is a convenient place for a man who may not want to be at home.”
A love nest for Mafiosis and their bits on the side? Rose blinked.
“Pardon me, Don Salerni, but I would not have thought the Rego Park was good enough for the second mode of use.”
“You haven’t seen the penthouse suites,” Salerni said mildly. “Why are you asking these questions? You are a young girl. You cannot do business with us. You have no idea what you are asking.”
“With your permission—” Rose said. She opened her briefcase and produced a slim file. “I have been investing since I was eighteen. I own nine buildings, thirty-one units—”
“You?”
“Yes, sir,” Rose said, respectfully.
“Your family is in real estate?”
“No. Just me.”
“Humph.” Salerni glanced over her figures. “You have done well for yourself.”
“I would like to do a little better. I can make more use of that hotel than you, Don Salerni. I understood the business was on the market, but I don’t want the business. I want the building.”
“To do what with it?”
“To convert it to condominiums,” Rose said truthfully. Lies to Salerni could get her dead. “Of course, I would use your people to do the work. And I can provide you with another cash business as part of the deal.” She thought about it. “Benham has a Chinese restaurant for sale. Then, as to the matter of the suites, I would, of course, retain one floor for your exclusive use, Don Salerni. Free of charge. Just permit me a month to outfit it to the proper standards.”
Now they were all staring at her.
“How will you cover the cost of the work?”
“I will sell what I own and do a 1028 tax-deferred exchange,” Rose said. “Of course, I cannot offer you your asking price.” She named a sum that was 30 percent below Benham’s quote.
Salerni laughed uproariously.
“Salud,” he said, when he had finished wiping away tears of laughter. He raised his glass of anisette to Rose. “You are a brave little girl. You should have been a man.”
“That would have been a waste of all this,” Rose said flirtatiously, tossing her long, dark hair.
He laughed again. “True, bellissima. But you are brave. Still, one does not bargain with Don Vincent Salerni.” The piercing eyes glittered. “I am not angry.”
Fortunately for you hung in the air unspoken.
A fresh mist of perspiration dewed Rose’s brow. “I do not wish to waste your time, sir.”
“Good.” Salerni reached over and laid a claw-like hand on her knee. Rose fought with every ounce of will not to shrink from his touch. Salerni was like an animal; she knew he could smell fear. “Then you get to walk out of here intact, no?”
“But,” Rose said; her voice sounded very small, but she could not stop herself, “I can make up the deficit to you by using your firm to do the work. Then, with the profits, I will buy more buildings all over the city. And of course, I will work with Don Salerni’s people exclusively.”
He did not reply, and she hurriedly got up to leave.
“Don Salerni, I am twenty-one years old and I already have more than a million dollars. I know this is small stuff to you. But if you will consider doing me this favor, I will be able to repay your generosity in the future.” Her voice was almost a whisper now. “Many times over.”
One of the goons stood up and folded his muscular arms across his chest. Despite the expensive suit, she could see the hard brawn of his biceps. Butcher’s arms.
Rose muttered, “Goodbye, Don Salerni,” and fled.
*
Outside, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small linen handkerchief, dabbing the sweat from her brow as she walked to her car. Her heart was beating wildly. Man, she was dumb. Thinking she could negotiate with a scorpion.
Please God, may she not have offended him.
Rose parked the car near her own apartment. She had managed to calm down. She might have annoyed Salerni, but surely she had been as humble as a peasant petitioning a prince. Which in a way, she had been.
It was terrifying, but Rose forced herself to be logical. He wasn’t going to hurt her. Not if she did not bother him again, anyway. All she had lost was Rego Park.
And that had been a stretch, anyway. She wasn’t even thirty. Who was she to start doing big-time deals? Donald Trump in a skirt? She should go a little slower, buy some more four-families …
Rose ran a bath and poured in some L’Occitane lavender bath oils. Great clouds of fragrant steam rose up and filled her room. She peeled off the T-shirt and jeans and stepped into the warm, comforting water.
The phone trilled.
“Damn it,” Rose swore. She jumped out, dripping, grabbed a towel and padded into her living room. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for a Rose Fiorello,” said a haughty voice.
Rose clenched her fist. Yess! It was Don Salerni, calling her back! He was going to do the deal with her! It was all going to happen!
“It’s Rose,” she said.
“This is Ella Brown in Jac
ob Rothstein’s office,” said the voice.
“Hi,” Rose replied, not bothering to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
“We understood you applied for an internship with Rothstein Realty. I’m happy to tell you that your application has been accepted. You’ll be starting in the office of Mr. Richard White. Arrive at reception at eight-thirty sharp on Monday morning. Interns do not have parking privileges. Smart business dress is required. Any failure to arrive on time or arrival in incorrect attire will result in your termination as an intern with Rothstein Realty. Is this clear?”
Rose trembled with annoyance.
“Perfectly.”
“Good, then we’ll see you at eight-thirty on Monday.”
Ella hung up without further pleasantries.
Rose stumbled back into her bath. It was still nice and warm, but she couldn’t enjoy it. She lay there wondering if Jake had listened to that conversation. How he must love having her as a supplicant.
Yeah, well. Not for long.
This was the second step toward her vengeance, Rose thought. The first had been to establish herself, get a little money. Now she had to move up to the majors. And learn how to destroy Rothstein at the same time.
Rego Park hadn’t come off, but it wouldn’t be the only deal in the world. To find deals like that, you needed to be where the action was.
Rothstein Realty.
Rose thought of her father. She needed to call him, to go back to her parents, have dinner, remind herself why she was doing this. So she didn’t get distracted by Jacob. A pair of predator’s eyes, a square jaw, and a well-built chest … she couldn’t let it stand in her way.
He was an arrogant fuck. She was going to destroy him.
Twenty-Six
She wasn’t going to be too impressed, Poppy told herself.
She was standing in Joel Stein’s office. Summoned by the master. Her little stunt had paid off; it was a classic piece of record industry chutzpah. If she could just get through this interview, he was gonna hire her.
Her music business career was off and running.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one,” Poppy said breathlessly. She was standing in Stein’s office, trying to keep the huge grin off her face.
He sat there, tapping the Silver Bullet tape against his desk.
“Not at college?”
Poppy grimaced. Mom and Dad had tried to talk her into going to college. Her grades had been outstanding. But she had no intention of wasting three years.
“No. Not my speed. I want to do things.”
“You’ll have to start at the bottom.”
“Not as a secretary. I brought you this band—”
“No, not as a secretary. Not as a manager, either.”
“But—”
“You don’t know enough to handle an act, honey. You don’t know shit about contracts, about deals, about promotion. You may—may—have good ears. In which case the sky’s the limit. Or this could be a fluke. But in either case, you have to learn. Got it? Good,” he said, without waiting for her answer. “How’s your math?”
“Pretty good,” Poppy muttered, crestfallen.
“You organized?”
“Yes,” she lied.
“Like Green Dragon?”
Poppy glanced up at the huge tour poster for Green Dragon. One of Dream Management’s hottest acts. They were crude, rude, and multi-platinum. She’d had a crush on the singer forever.
“Are you kidding?” Poppy’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, I love them. They rock. They’re rad—”
“—and they’re on tour with Mission Status. Arenas. We’re getting back to the people,” Stein said with a touch of irony. “I need an assistant tour accountant.”
He picked up the autographed Sid Fernandez baseball that was sitting on his desk and tossed it at her without warning. Poppy had great reflexes; she snapped out her left hand and caught it.
“You’re up, rookie,” Stein said.
*
Poppy brought the band in that afternoon. They had washed their hair and put on their stage clothes. They were nervous, but they looked great. Kate thanked Poppy all the way in.
“Poppy, man, how can we ever thank you, we’ll be with you forever, you’ve just changed our lives … You don’t know how long we’ve been plugging…”
They stared at Dream’s glittering offices with hungry eyes. Stein let Poppy sit in while he sketched out a future plan for the band. Support slots, studio time, the works.
“Go home, get ready for a showcase,” Stein said finally.
The band were all over it.
“Wow, thanks—”
“Thank you so much—”
“We can’t believe this—”
“Thank Poppy,” Stein said. “She’s the one that found you.”
They signed management contracts on the spot. Once they’d left the office, Stein turned to Poppy.
“Got a passport?”
She nodded.
“Good. The tour’s in France. You’re flying out tomorrow.”
*
Her parents insisted on driving Poppy out to the airport.
“Really, Mom, I’m gonna be OK,” Poppy insisted.
“All those junkies and punks,” her mother twittered.
“Poppy, you just say no. You don’t have to do any drugs. Honestly, I can get you a great D-girl job over at Artemis Studios,” her father added.
“Look, I’m not going to do anything. The record business is really clean these days. All water and going to bed early.” Poppy stepped out of the car, hoisting her red cases with her. “I’ll be fine. Honestly. Love you both.” She kissed her parents and hurried into the airport; goodbyes made her cry, and there was always the possibility that her nose had grown out a foot or two …
*
“Welcome to Continental,” the stewardess said. “Four-F? Just over there.”
The flight attendants stared at Poppy. Who was she, a movie star or something? They didn’t recognize her. But she was wearing tight-fitting black pants around that tall, slim frame, she had a fountain of glossy raven hair—Poppy had dyed her hair black, and was growing back her natural hair color—and a black leather jacket.
She looked like she’d just stepped out of a rock video. The Metallica shirt was the last straw. They wanted to serve rich businessmen, not a teenage girl in leather and studs.
“Can I get you some champagne, ma’am?”
“I’m not old enough,” Poppy said sweetly. She didn’t want to give them the chance to demand some ID. Never mind about the petty humiliations. She was on her way to France.
Poppy settled back into the luxurious leather comfort of her wide seat and reached into her carry-on, pulling out the tour schedule. It was stapled together and printed in black and white, with a drawing of a skeletal dragon. “Fight or Flight Tour, 1993.” It had plenty of dry-as-dust instructions on making the bus, hotels, venues, and phone numbers for the production office.
Poppy thought it was the most exciting thing she had ever read.
She accepted some freshly squeezed orange juice and leaned back, flicking through the pages. Her stint with Snaggletooth had been nothing more than the occasional van ride to some gig in the L.A. suburbs. This was completely different. This was the big time.
As the plane lifted off and they pulled away from the city’s glorious smog-bound sunset, Poppy felt the plastic laminate around her neck. She couldn’t stop smiling.
This was it. Her life as an adventure was finally starting.
This was Paradise.
*
“I don’t care how you get me there. Just get me there,” Poppy snarled.
The guy looked at her. He had a face as tough and brown as old leather, his cab stank of cigarettes, and his mean little eyes were hostile. He shrugged in that particularly Gallic way.
“Voilà, Nancy,” he said.
“I know it’s Nancy, goddammit.” Poppy was exhausted. The flight had been eleven hours, an
d even in business class, that sucked. She had practically memorized her tour schedule, watched three bad movies, and got cramp. Now all she wanted was to get to her hotel and go to sleep. What time was it here? She was utterly disorientated.
The bastard cabdriver was pretending he didn’t understand English. Poppy had forgotten how much the French hated the Americans. He’d taken her to Nancy, but not to her hotel; the guy wanted to drop her in the town square.
“L’hôtel Reine Catherine,” Poppy insisted.
He shrugged again.
Poppy pulled out her wallet and produced three hundred-franc notes.
“Ah oui, La Reine Catherine, je le connais,” said the driver, his face creasing into a fake smile.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Poppy said.
Fuck him. He wasn’t getting a tip. She hoped her day was about to start getting better.
*
The Reine Catherine was a soulless block of concrete. It reminded Poppy of a Novotel. Despite the blazing French sun, there was nothing exotic about the place. Coaches were parked in the forecourt, tourists were dragging their wheeled cases inside. The day was very hot. She felt sweaty and disgusting. She wanted to get to her room.
Poppy walked in through the revolving door and up to reception.
“Wait a minute, please,” said the snotty receptionist. He was on a phone call, and it sounded like it was personal. The guy laughed and chatted while Poppy just stood there.
She looked around the lobby. Green and purple industrial carpeting, a plastic ficus tree in a pot, and a little row of leaflets in plastic containers advertising local sights. But there were also lobby chairs and a bar in one corner. A group of loud American guys were sitting on the chairs. They had crew cuts, sun-beaten faces, keys jangling, telltale little red strings around their necks that were tucked into their T-shirts.
Road crew.
Two of the guys looked over at Poppy appreciatively. One whistled, the other one said, “Ooh la la.” Then they all laughed.
The hotel porters and the receptionist said nothing. They had clearly seen it all before. Nobody reproved the men or asked them to stop ogling Poppy.
“Hey, she’s in the wrong hotel,” one said.
“No need to tell her that. Maybe they sent her over here on purpose. Added bonus.”
It was clear none of them thought she could speak English.
Devil You Know Page 21