“Do you have a current address for this guy?” I finally asked Hoodie. “Tagaletto?”
He was already two steps ahead of me. I’d no sooner finished the question than the purr of a printer filled the room. Hoodie handed me not only Tagaletto’s last known address but also his latest mug shots.
“Anything else I can do for you?” he asked.
Yeah, you can tell me what the hell you’re doing working for a hedge fund firm. On second thought, never mind. I probably don’t want to know that, either.
“No, that’s more than enough,” I answered. “Thanks a lot, man.”
I shook Hoodie’s hand, thanked him again, and was about to show myself out the door.
“Oh, one more thing,” he said. “It goes without saying but I’ll say it anyway. This meeting never took place.”
I nodded. “What meeting?”
Chapter 53
I WAS NEVER one to keep secrets from Courtney, personally or professionally. Nonetheless, I felt I owed it to Hoodie Brown – not to mention Derrick Phalen – to keep mum on the meeting that had supposedly never happened.
What I did plan to tell Courtney was that Phalen had promised to try to help me out, albeit on the down low. That wasn’t a lie; it just wasn’t the entire truth. A sin of omission, as they say. Or, as one of my journalism professors at North-western used to put it, “The truth may set you free, but it’s the little white lie that will save your ass.”
Now if Courtney would only return my call.
There was no answer on her cell, and when I rang her secretary, M.J. told me Courtney had left the office without saying where she was going.
Of course, the last time Courtney did that, Thomas Ferramore had stopped by the office with news of a certain supermodel’s YouTube video.
Why was I suddenly getting a weird feeling again?
The answer came soon enough as I stepped off the train back from Greenwich. Walking through Grand Central Station I passed a newsstand just as a guy was stacking the late edition of the New York Post.
Voilà! There she was again, the French supermodel Marbella, on the cover with yet another glass of champagne in her hand and a mischievous smile.
“JUST KIDDING!” read the headline.
Fifty cents later I was standing off to the side, my head buried among the pages.
Apparently Marbella had given an interview to a French television station claiming – au contraire – that she’d never actually slept with Thomas Ferramore. It had all been a bad joke, she insisted, and she deeply regretted any problems it may have caused the billionaire or his “lovely fiancée” in America.
Yeah, right. Color me sold, sweetheart.
But there was more.
And on the believability scale, it was actually a bit more convincing, or at least creative.
The CEO of ParisJet, the company in France that Ferramore was negotiating to buy, had told the French business magazine Les Echos that Ferramore had been in talks with him day and night for his entire trip.
“Trust me, Mr. Ferramore had no time for any funny business or hanky-panky business,” read the money quote.
I closed the Post and tucked it beneath my arm, walking toward the Lexington Avenue exit to hail a taxi. I could feel the whoosh of commuters rushing by me for their trains and the vibration of their footsteps against the wide marble floor.
But what I really felt was numb, confused, and more than a little lost.
For sure, Courtney hadn’t been scooped by the Post. She had to be up to speed on this latest twist and turn in her marital saga. Ferramore probably even made sure of it. Why wouldn’t he? It was alibi city.
But was she buying it?
The verdict rang in my pocket no more than a minute later. Courtney was finally calling me back.
“I saw the story. Do you know what you’re going to do now?” I asked her.
“I do,” she answered.
Chapter 54
IT WASN’T THE words themselves but the way Courtney said them. As if she were already standing at the altar with Thomas Ferramore.
“I do.”
I immediately fell silent on the phone. There was no need for Courtney to officially break the news. It was broken. Just like my heart.
“I need you to understand, Nick,” she said. “I’m marrying Tom, but I need you to be there for me.”
“I was there for you,” I said.
“I know you were. Promise me you won’t stop now. Do you promise?”
What could I say? As much as I loved her, she had always been my friend first, before anything else.
“Please,” she said, pressing me. “Do you promise? I need to hear the actual words, Nick.”
I took a deep breath and swallowed it along with my pride.
“I do,” I said.
Of course, little did I know how fast I’d have to make good on that promise.
A few hours later, with the sun setting over Manhattan, I arrived downtown at the North Cove Marina to climb aboard Sweet Revenge, Thomas Ferramore’s 180-foot Trinity megayacht. I’ve seen much smaller houses. Actually, I grew up in one.
In a word? Wow.
At the bow stood the bar, and at the stern was the live jazz band, a really good combo. In between was a veritable who’s who of publishing, fashion, and what remained of the decimated ranks of the banking and Wall Street elite.
You get one guess as to where I headed first, and it wasn’t to shake Thomas Ferramore’s hand.
“I’ll have a Laphroaig Fifteen Year Old,” I said to the rent-a-bartender, who barely looked old enough to drive, let alone serve drinks.
The young man looked at me as if I’d just spoken Swahili to him. “A what?” he asked.
“A Laphroaig Fifteen Year Old,” came a voice over my shoulder.
It was Courtney, and in her hand was an entire bottle of my favorite Scotch whisky.
“Here,” she said, handing the bottle to the bartender. “Please keep this behind the bar for Mr. Daniels, and Mr. Daniels only.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, quickly pouring me a double. “Laphroaig Fifteen Year Old.”
Courtney took my arm as we moved away from the bar. “Thanks so much for coming,” she said. “It means the world to me. You’re the best.”
Apparently not, but I took a big swig of excellent whisky and winked at her. “What are friends for?” I said.
She gave me a huge smile and leaned in to tell me something, when the music suddenly stopped. It was replaced by the sound of a knife tapping on crystal. Oh boy, Thomas Ferramore wanted to make a toast.
Once again he had come between Courtney and me. I guessed I’d better get used to it.
“C’mon up here, sweetheart!” he bellowed, standing up straight and proud on the captain’s deck. He was wearing a faux white naval jacket replete with shoulder boards and a sleeve insignia. Two blond women flanked him, both very pretty, and I figured they were his PR team. Was this guy for real? I couldn’t understand what Courtney saw in him. Not even when I tried extra hard.
As she made her way to join him, Ferramore thanked everyone for coming on such short notice “to this wonderful celebration of love.” That brought a rousing cheer from the entire crowd. Minus me, of course. I had one hand in my pocket and I was wiggling my middle finger at him.
Ferramore took no offense and continued: “Courtney and I wanted to make it very clear this evening that no rumor, no unfounded gossip, no nonsense whatsoever, will ever get the better of us. We can ride out any storm that comes our way!”
Ferramore turned to face Courtney, pulling her tightly into his arms. As the two of them kissed, he thrust his hand high in triumph. An even louder cheer erupted from the crowd of his friends, or whoever these hordes of overdressed people were.
Right on cue the first firework exploded in the night air, a beautiful collage of rainbow colors mixing with a sea of stars. It was an amazing spectacle, actually.
But the real spectacle that night was yet to come, and
of course, I would be part of it.
Chapter 55
I’D SPENT THE afternoon with Hoodie.
Now here I was with Houdini.
Thomas Ferramore had just pulled off the impossible, a trick for the ages. He had escaped the seemingly inescapable bind he’d been in, and he’d made it look easy.
Deep down, Courtney may have still had some suspicions, but there on his yacht, for all of Manhattan ’s glitterati to see, Ferramore still had his prize. That’s all that mattered to him.
And me.
I should’ve stolen a page from Courtney’s playbook and put everything into a box.
Instead, I put it all into a glass… and drank it.
After about an hour at the party, and after the youthful rent-a-bartender decided that my drinking two-thirds of a bottle of whisky was clearly one-third too many, I decided I would tell Thomas Ferramore exactly what I thought of his marrying Courtney.
Only I couldn’t find him. So I did the next worst thing.
I told Courtney.
Cornering her along the starboard railing, I slurred the truth to her in a voice somewhat louder than it should have been. “You can’t marry him! You’re making a mistake! Don’t you see what a mistake this is? You’re smart – so act smart, Courtney.”
Her eyes filled with tears as everyone within earshot turned to gawk at the scene I was making. Courtney was so upset, she could barely get the words out.
“All I see is someone drunk who just broke his promise to me,” she said.
She walked away then, leaving me alone – unless, of course, you count all the lookie-loos still watching. That’s when I really gave them their money’s worth. All that whisky in my otherwise empty stomach churned and sloshed its way up past my heartache and back out through its original port of entry. Right there over the starboard railing, with an ear-wrenching heave-ho, I power-fed the fishes.
I should’ve been embarrassed to death, but that’s the temporary beauty of being drunk: complete lack of self-awareness. Still, I did manage one decent decision – to go find a bathroom to wash up so I could hail a cab home without scaring off the driver.
Parting the deck crowd like Moses with the measles, I babbled while stumbling and bumbling off. “A bathroom… a bathroom… my kingdom for a bathroom.”
No one laughed, and I guess I couldn’t blame them for that. I had let myself become a complete horse’s ass on Courtney’s special night. I had let my best friend down.
I entered the main galley and immediately began twisting every doorknob in sight down a long hallway. It figured that every room was locked.
Finally one door opened. As I groped for a light switch, all I could think was, Please, Lord, let this be a bathroom!
But as the room lit up, I couldn’t believe my eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I blurted out. “This can’t be for real!”
Chapter 56
IT WAS LIKE the game of Clue, only the sex-addict edition. Thomas Ferramore… in the supply room… with his pants down around his ankles.
In front of him was a young and very pretty blonde on her knees. Needless to say, she wasn’t praying. I wasn’t sure, but I thought she was one of the PR ladies who had been with him on the deck.
Panic flashed across Ferramore’s face, but amazingly, it vanished almost as fast as it had arrived. Apparently you don’t get to be a billionaire without being able to think quickly on your feet, even with your dick hanging out.
“Get up, honey,” he said calmly to the young blonde. “Go enjoy the rest of the party.”
She quickly buttoned her white blouse, dabbed at her lips, and hurried out the door. I suppose I couldn’t blame her, but not once did she look at me.
Meanwhile, that’s all Ferramore could do. His dark eyes bored straight into mine. He was staring, unblinking. And of all goddamn things, he started to smile.
“So, you caught me,” he said, the second we were alone. “Now what are you going to do about it? You have a plan of action yet?”
The son of a bitch hadn’t even bothered to pull up his pants.
“What do you think I’m going to do about it?” I shot back. “At your own engagement party? After what you said to Courtney up there?”
He shook his head and laughed some more. “It’s your word against mine and your word is pretty drunk, isn’t it?”
“Not so drunk that I’m blind, pal. I saw what I saw.”
In fact, I suddenly felt as if I’d downed a dozen cups of coffee. Not quite sober as a judge, but the thoughts and words were forming just fine.
“Do you even love Courtney?” I asked.
“Does that even matter?”
“It does to me.”
He laughed again. “Yes, I know it does,” he said. “You love her madly, right? That’s probably why you felt it was okay to fuck her when you knew she was engaged to me.”
That stopped me cold. How did he know that?
“She told you?” I asked in disbelief.
His laugh grew louder, a booming cackle now, and it dawned on me that there was another explanation.
“Christ, you had her followed.”
“I always look after my investments, Nick – force of habit. In a way, all it proves is that Courtney and I are meant for each other. In fact, for your sake, you should feel lucky I was okay with it.”
“Tell you what, then,” I said. “Since you know about Courtney and me, why don’t we go tell her about what I just walked in on and she can decide for herself.”
“You do that and you can kiss your sweet job at Citizen magazine good-bye.”
“Yeah, but I’d sure be going out with a bang.”
“Yes, you sure would. Too bad about Courtney, though. She’d be out of a job, too. You understand that, of course.”
Checkmate! And he knew it, too. Citizen was Courtney’s baby, the joy of her life.
Ferramore finally reached down and pulled up his trousers. “To show you there are no hard feelings, though, how about I cut you a check and we forget this whole thing ever happened.”
Was this prick really trying to buy me off? That was the worst insult yet.
“That depends,” I said. “What does your being caught getting a blow job go for these days?”
“That’s a very good question,” came a trembling voice over my shoulder. “What does it go for, Tom?”
Chapter 57
I SPUN AROUND to see Courtney leaning against the doorway, her arms folded tightly, as if she was hugging herself for comfort. Her eyes were shooting so many sharpened daggers at Ferramore, I practically had to duck.
No one had to ask how long she’d been standing there or how much she’d heard.
She’d obviously heard enough.
But there were no tears like she had had with me out on the deck. She wasn’t sad now, she was angry – mad as hell at Ferramore and even more pissed off at herself. I thought I knew what she was thinking: How could I have been so stupid?
“So tell me, Tom, what did you have to pay your little French supermodel to change her story? How much was that check?” she demanded to know.
I expected Ferramore to show at least a little remorse here. Maybe even a little class.
Boy, was I ever wrong. The rich have such incredibly high opinions of themselves.
The prick smirked. “Hell, she was cheap compared with that CEO of ParisJet. I actually had to buy his company.”
All at once, Courtney yanked off her ten-carat diamond ring and threw a fastball at Ferramore’s chest.
“C’mon, Nick, let’s go,” she said.
It was the four most beautiful words she, or anybody, had ever said to me.
“I hope you two are extremely happy together,” chirped Ferramore as he buckled his trousers. “Oh, and by the way, you’re both fired! Good luck finding new jobs.”
“Don’t worry, we will,” Courtney shot back. “You see, I get to start over. But you? You’ll always be a scumbag!”
Brava, Courtney!
She turned and walked off, and I was about to follow in her steps, but I just couldn’t help myself. The moment was too good; I wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.
“By the way, Ferramore,” I said, glancing down at his ridiculous white jacket, “Captain Stubing from The Love Boat called. He wants his uniform back.”
Chapter 58
IN THE MOVIES, Courtney and I would have made mad, passionate love all night long to the tune of a saxophone sound track. Then we would’ve blissfully woken up in each other’s arms without a single hair out of place.
So much for the movies, which don’t seem to get it right very often anyway.
I didn’t have Courtney in my arms or anywhere else in my apartment the next morning. What I did have, however, was a terrific hangover and a severe case of bed head that would’ve scared Lyle Lovett.
As upset as Courtney had been as she’d stormed off Ferramore’s yacht, she’d known better than to engage in any “Sweet Revenge” scenarios with me. And as drunk as I had been, I really hadn’t been looking for anything more than a kiss on the cheek. Maybe. After all, I had been beyond obnoxious at the party, and I’d broken my promise to her.
“We’ll be making two stops,” Courtney had told the cab driver. “First his apartment, and then mine.” But she held my hand for the entire ride and indeed gave me that kiss on the cheek when we rolled up to my place. And that’s how the night ended.
At least, I’m fairly sure that’s how it ended. It was all still fuzzy in the a.m. In fact, it wasn’t until I’d taken in some hot, über-strong coffee and a cold shower that I managed my first lucid thought.
According to Thomas Ferramore I was no longer employed by Citizen magazine. Just like that, I was suddenly out of a great job, probably the best one I’d ever had. Pink-slipped. Canned for doing the right thing.
But I still had work to do. I had my mission impossible to try to accomplish.
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