Last Ditch Effort

by Isobella Crowley

  He wasn’t about to challenge that statement. In fact, he was unexpectedly impressed by her.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I…uh, have had a few unforeseen expenses, you know, important things that later turned out to be not as important as I’d thought. And my family seems to feel that it’s time I learned my lesson and took control of my own finances. I hate the fact that they’re probably right. So, I want a more active role in this firm. I’d like to know what I can do for it—you—and what it can do for me.”

  He sipped his coffee again. The cup was almost empty by now. He hadn’t lied to her, but neither had he revealed too many details of the kind that were none of her business.

  “Interesting,” Taylor quipped. “Most people have to ‘learn their lesson’ several years earlier in life. But we’ll allow that late is better than never. What I want to ask, though, is why you are specifically inquiring about this company. Why not any of the others?”

  David frowned. “I already sold the other three in my portfolio,” he confessed. “Yours is the last one I have. If I try to start over with something completely new, I might well run out of cash first.”

  “That’s understandable. Wanton substance abuse is quite pricey, isn’t it?” She did not make this blunt statement sound as cold and bitter as she could have and for that, he was thankful. Mostly, she simply sounded slightly amused. But even that stung. It was true, after all.

  “I’ve managed to stay off the drugs for a few weeks now,” he explained, “and with the aid and advice of my doctor, am working my way through the withdrawal symptoms. So much fun. I’ve also…uh, partially scaled back on my alcohol consumption, although I should have stopped altogether, I suppose. It’s at least within normal-person bounds.”

  He didn’t see any point in lying to her as she clearly already knew a few things about him. She probably wanted to make sure he wasn’t the type who would demand a position on the company’s management simply so he could raid her petty cash and hand it to his dealer. Admitting to his worst excesses—while pointing out that he was leaving them in his past—must allay the worst of her suspicions.

  The silhouette nodded its head. “I see. Your family has cut you off from their proverbial teat until you clean up and grow up. And you claim to have been off drugs. But what about that party two weeks ago?”

  “Oh…that.” He grunted and adjusted his tie. “I guess you heard about it on the news?”

  Taylor laughed, a light bell-tinkling sound. “David, everyone with the ability to hear heard it. The news only confirmed what half of Manhattan already knew.”

  He nodded. “I was about to ask if you lived in my condo, but ‘half of Manhattan’ broadens the possibilities.”

  She laughed again. He hoped it was because she enjoyed his wit but there was an edge to it. There was still danger there, even if it had taken a back seat as their conversation had progressed.

  “I have told you what our company does. I would not even need to live in Manhattan to know you were partying again last night.”

  Footsteps approached and he turned toward the waitress. “Are you ready to order food, sir?” she asked.

  He noted that she’d given him and Taylor considerable time to talk before she intruded. “Yes, I’ll simply have the special of the day, or whatever the house recommends.”

  “Certainly.” She jotted the order down. “Would you like any more coffee?”

  “No, thanks,” he said. “I’d rather sleep tonight, actually.”

  The waitress left and he turned to his host.

  “So, tell me,” she continued and picked up where they’d left off. She sounded legitimately curious. “Why have you been so irresponsible and self-destructive? I don’t mean that as an insult, exactly. I’m simply keen to know why you’ve chosen to live your short life the way you have, thus far.”

  By now, David had finished his coffee. He set the cup down with a firm motion.

  “Because I can,” he stated. “I’m a fucking Remington. Even my parents never really punished me for anything, now that I think about it. I was born to do whatever I wanted and still get my ass kissed for it.” He shrugged. “Until now. Maybe.”

  “Hmm.” Taylor’s fingers curled into a small white fist and her knuckles cracked slightly before the hand uncurled. “Why now? What happened to make you want to change?”

  He leaned back in his chair and considered the question. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I’m merely…tired, I guess. Tired of seeing people passed out, half-dead, on my furniture and wondering if they were actually happy. What would happen to them after they went home from the party. Whether or not any of it might even be my fault. Well, that and being cut off from my family’s proverbial teat, as you called it.”

  She seemed about to say something else but he decided to push ahead and test her response to a different kind of question. “So, you’re with the Mob, right?”

  The silhouette showed no sign of being fazed by this inquiry.

  “No,” she replied mildly. “I simply have an understanding with the Family. I’m able to request small favors which are always granted.”

  David peered into the shadows again and tried to discern her face with as little success as before. “Who are you?”

  “Someone,” she said, “whom even the Mob respects. If I ask for privacy and security, they oblige.” She gestured with her visible hand toward the restaurant.

  He glanced aside and saw that it was now empty. The table out front had cleared and they were the only two who remained. And the waitress, of course, who now approached with his food.

  Given how little time it took her to return, he was not surprised to see that she held a plate heaped high with penne pasta and meatballs bathed in marinara—the same thing the men had been eating.

  “Thanks,” he told her as she set it before him. “Now, check back in another, say, ten minutes and we’ll discuss this matter of the cannolis.”

  She nodded and left.

  David forked and sawed at a meatball, then added it to his mouth along with a couple of the cylindrical noodles. He finished most of his chewing before he resumed the conversation.

  “So,” he began and allowed a smile to creep onto his face, “this is my last meal, I suppose. I wish I’d known so I could have ordered something more specific. I prefer alfredo over marinara.”

  The woman seemed taken aback. “Why? Are you committing suicide tonight?”

  She almost sounded genuinely baffled. He allowed himself to relax a little. Snark had long since been his usual way of dealing with any situation, even the veiled threat of murder, but it was always nice to know that someone didn’t specifically plan to kill him.

  “Oh, you know,” he retorted, “I basically assumed that someone who has the Mafia under their thumb might conceivably be plotting my demise themselves. As for my own intentions…I actually want to clean my life up.”

  As he said this, it struck him that Taylor hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since he’d arrived. And she’d declined to order anything when given the chance.

  Her fingers drummed the table. This time, he found it faintly irritating. “And that fracas two weeks ago? The party last night?”

  “Tests,” he said.

  “Of what?”

  He chewed another mouthful before he answered her. “Of my ability to resist temptation.”

  “Did you resist?”

  “Last night I did.” He smiled. “I only had enough alcohol to make myself moderately hungover the next morning and that was all. And this while there was enough snow to make my condo look like Mount Fuji during winter and enough pills to set up as a pharmacy. Oh, and enough weed to intimidate a Rastafarian.”

  There was a long pause from the darkened side of the table. “Well, if you are truly dedicated to cleaning yourself up, I guess you will do.”

  David blinked. “I’ll do for what?”

  “For helping me with a project.”

  He half-gagged on a mouthful of food. “No
w, hold on. I’m not looking to get involved in the day-to-day operations of the business. I merely wanted a better understanding of—”

  “You will,” Taylor interrupted him, “understand after you’ve aided me. Only with one or two things, we’ll say. This interview is concluded. I’ll send you information on when and where to show up for work. If you want a stream of revenue, you should try earning it. It will help you to ‘grow up.’”

  In the moment it took his brain to process the ramifications of this statement, she had somehow stood without him seeing it and already snaked between chairs and tables with easy grace.

  As he started to rise himself, she looked over her shoulder and he could almost see her pale face. “Don’t be tardy, David. I always go to sleep on time and I won’t have you making me late for bed.”

  With that rather cryptic statement, she was gone.

  He glanced at the table and saw a handwritten note with an address and an hour. The first was meaningless to him, but the second seemed odd.

  “Who the hell goes to bed at five am?” he marveled. “I mean, who among people who actually work for a living? Unless they work the night shift, I suppose.”

  David sat again, shook his head, and decided he might as well finish his food. The waitress managed to reappear at almost the same instant as he set his fork down.

  “I’ll skip the cannolis, after all,” he told her, “so you might as well get straight to the bill.”

  She held the palm of one hand up as she slid his plate onto a tray with the other. “Oh, no. The lady has already paid. It would…insult her to accept anything more.”

  He shrugged. “Well, hopefully, she also tipped you while she was at it since it’s not like I carry cash. If not, there’s always the leftover cannolis.”

  Taylor’s strange words and even stranger manner still gnawed at him as he stepped out the door and into the New York night which seemed, to his somewhat bemused senses, simultaneously so dark and so vivid.

  Chapter Four

  Midtown Manhattan, New York City

  Another night, another rideshare. It was a step down from what he was used to but he’d have to manage.

  He greeted the concierge as he stepped out the front doors of his building. “Hi, Enrique. Have you seen any attractive prostitutes so far tonight?”

  The man frowned slightly and responded in the appropriate and professional manner. “None, sir. Of course, I can’t vouch for the professions of all the ladies I see coming through, but certainly none who were obviously in that line of work. We…ah, strive to keep that kind of thing out of this neighborhood.”

  “Well,” he countered, “the night is still young.” He glanced at his Rolex. It was 3:29 am.

  Going to work at this hour seemed beyond bizarre to him, but he tried not to think about it, let alone complain. He didn’t want to upset the Scary Mafia Lady. Who, furthermore, was probably as hot as all hell—he hadn’t managed a decent look at her, but something about her had given him a special tingly feeling in his nether regions.

  He sighed and muttered, “Just my luck. Meeting her under these kinds of circumstances.”

  His car pulled up, carefully avoiding the puddle that had formed beside the curb after the rain earlier that evening. He was dressed nicely, once again, and he nodded with approval. It was remarkably pleasant when people overcame their natural urges as New Yorkers to simply splash anyone who happened to be in their way.

  “Hi,” he said and leaned toward the vehicle as the driver rolled down the window. “I’m your customer, obviously. You have the address in your system, right? We need to be there before 5:00 am. And the more before, the better.”

  The man at the wheel was about the same age as him—thirtyish, a little overweight but noticeably clean-cut and eager-looking and probably reliable.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, checked something on his phone, and gestured with a wave of his hand. “Hop in.”

  David tried not to grimace too obviously. He was accustomed to having car doors opened for him. Fortunately, Enrique had already rushed up to do the deed himself.

  He nodded his thanks to the man, climbed into the back seat, closed the door, and belted himself in.

  The driver chuckled in a good-natured way. “You can ride shotgun if you want, you know.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” he responded. “The back seat looks more comfortable.”

  “Whatever you say, my man.” He pulled the car out into the street and accelerated. Enrique and the condo vanished behind another, slightly less opulent building and a row of streetlamps.

  “So,” David began, “are you familiar with that address? Does it ring any bells? Do you know where the hell you’re going, in other words?”

  The shaggy head nodded vigorously in the rearview mirror. “Oh, yeah. I know where this is. The neighborhood, at least. And it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, probably, to find the individual house.”

  “Good,” he murmured. “I honestly have only the vaguest idea where the hell that is. Somewhere outside the actual city, it seems. So either someplace unimportant or so important that even I would have no reason to be familiar with it.”

  The drive proceeded and things went relatively smoothly. Even the City That Never Sleeps saw some downturn in its traffic during the wee hours of the morning. And, to his satisfaction, his new coachman seemed highly competent.

  The man’s name was Stan—short for Stanislaw, apparently. David, without specifically wanting to, learned this as well as a fair-sized chunk of the guy’s life story. His family came from Poland when he was six years old. He went to school mostly with a ton of Asians and he was heavy into role-playing games, both video and tabletop…blah blah blah.

  “Fascinating,” he remarked and rested his cheek on a fist, which in turn was propped up by his elbow on the armrest. “It’s astonishing how much you’ve managed to talk over the course of the last…uh, almost an hour. Are we there yet? I’m hoping we’re close by now.”

  “Oh, yeah, definitely.” Stan laughed. “You can basically tell by the types of houses they have here.”

  He looked out the window. The driver had spoken the truth. He almost felt as though they’d driven into nineteenth-century England, barring a few telltale modern contrivances. The houses were not so much “houses” as “estates” and the landscaping more than matched their quality.

  Shaking his head, he could not help feeling slightly…intimidated? That wasn’t exactly the right word, but it was the best one he could think of.

  This was an area purchased by old, old money that would have looked down its nose upon the mere decades that the Remington fortune had existed. Compared to these peoples’ wealth, his looked like last night’s casino winnings. The families that lived there were among the ones who’d put New York on the map.

  Stan coughed. “Uh…well, I’ve been to this neighborhood before, but I’m not sure where the hell this particular road is.”

  There were multiple small, private drives that wound their way along the forested grounds that surrounded the mansions. He probably would have gotten lost himself, had he been driving, but he was paying this guy.

  “Don’t you have GPS?” he inquired. “Turn-by-turn directions and all that? I thought you all had to have that?”

  “Yeah,” the driver replied, “but it doesn’t seem to recognize half of these little private streets and stuff. I can’t tell which of them are driveways. Don’t worry, though, we should stumble onto it nice and quick.”

  David adjusted his tie. “Should, yeah.” He brushed off the longing to ask if the man had a joint. While it would most definitely take the edge off, perhaps an edge was exactly what he needed tonight.

  Fortunately, after a couple of moments, they took a turn around a tall hedge and Stan cried, “Ah, here we go!” He swerved onto a narrow, winding drive that led slightly uphill.

  They arrived at a half-circle turnaround before a tall, wrought-iron gate set within a long stone wall draped with curling
ivy.

  “Right,” said David. “Let’s see, it’s…uh, 4:43 a.m.” He exited the vehicle. “Five or ten minutes earlier would have been better, but I’ll still leave you a halfway decent tip of some kind.” He didn’t have time to dick around on his phone at the moment but made a mental note to keep his word on the matter.

  Stan waved. “Good luck,” he quipped and rolled the window up before he drove off.

  He turned to the gate. A buzzer was set into the column to the right of the ironwork, and he pressed it with his finger and leaned close to the intercom.

  No one spoke on the other end but the gate clicked and swung open, creaking a little as it moved.

  “How theatrical,” he remarked. He stepped through, pushed it shut, and heard it latch behind him.

  The path ahead looked like a walk through some kind of park. In the darkness of pre-dawn, all that nature was almost sinister. Again, he found himself reflecting on the woman’s slightly ominous words and disturbing choice of meeting place. This, he thought, would be an excellent place to murder someone.

  Fortunately, nothing assailed him as he strode along the path. It took almost five minutes, though, before the actual house came into sight.

  The gnarled and towering trees fell away to either side and he stood in a broad clearing. In the center, directly before him, was a paved area where at least six cars could park with ample space to maneuver.

  And beyond that stood the house.

  It was two stories high and not merely “nice,” but downright ornate. It was built partially into the base of a small rocky hill—the peak of the incline he’d been slowly climbing since he’d entered the gate. He estimated the size of the entire home at a good seven to eight thousand square feet.

  Trees, each looking at least a century old, had been planted all around the perimeter, which made it very private.

  “Exactly how much is this company worth?” Something did not seem right. His family, who owned the company, might have had some difficulty procuring a property like this. He pushed the thought from his mind—five am was not far off.