Bossman's List

by Ashlee Price

  My blood ran chill, and my mouth was dry despite the many paper cups full of water I’d been offered throughout the interrogation. Then my bladder began to pound, and I realized that after keeping me waiting hour after hour they were now trying an even more devious tactic.

  I knew they were lying about Langdon. I could easily imagine them trying the same tactic on him, telling him I’d described him as being responsible to save my own neck and that he’d better fess up while he still could. But I knew he’d see right through that, and I could almost feel him mentally reaching out to me, telling me not to fall for any of their ruses.

  After another few hours I was released without charges. I asked the female officer about Langdon’s status, but she shook her head. “Hard to say, hon. If that boy dies, your Mr. Cane could be looking at manslaughter, up to twenty years—”

  “Oh no,” I couldn’t help but mutter.

  “They’ll consider him a flight risk, too.”

  “A—? But he’s famous. He’s not going to be able to hide out anywhere.”

  “Depends on how famous the court decides he is. He’s got a lot of money, and he’s an Australian citizen. I don’t even know if we could extradite him back here for trial.”

  I let the bad news sink in as phones rang and conversations muttered around us. “So what does that mean? Will a judge set bail? My God, Langdon’s gotta sit in here until he can post bail?”

  “Far as I know, hon. Anything you can do to help out there?”

  “Me? I can barely pay my rent!”

  “But your man has money, doesn’t he? Can’t you contact his people back home, make some arrangements?”

  I gave it a little thought. “He’s probably made that call already.”

  “I’m sure he has.” I turned around to see the face that went with the familiar voice. John Alister was glaring down at me, lips pulled tight over those bleached teeth, his eyes glowing with his anger and frustration. “Sheryl, what the hell is going on here?”

  “Mr. Alister, I… I’m so sorry. It all happened so fast. There was nothing I could do about it.”

  “What happened, exactly? I hear Flynn McGinnis is wrapped up in it? Your little office dalliance?”

  “It wasn’t a dalliance,” I said. “We never… dallied, not once. Anyway, he stumbled across us in the park, got all upset. But it wasn’t Langdon’s fault, like I told the police. Langdon was as cool as he could be, patient, relaxed, even tried to help Flynn out, give him money. But once Flynn threw a punch… wham! It was over. I tried to keep things from escalating, Mr. Alister, we both did.”

  He looked around the busy station bullpen, full of phones ringing and computer keyboards clacking. He turned and I followed, as usual. “I don’t blame you exactly, Sheryl; obviously there are some things you couldn’t be expected to anticipate or control.”

  “Well, yes, thank you for saying so.”

  “But that doesn’t mean you didn’t buy me a shitload of trouble, or that you’re not going to have to help pay for it.”

  We walked down the hall, my stomach turning. I felt like he was leading me somewhere from which there’d be no escape, to my destiny, my fate, and it would be nothing I’d hoped or dreamed, and everything I’d come to dread.

  “How do you mean, Mr. Alister?”

  “First of all, I can’t do business with Langdon Cane. That should be obvious even to you.” I didn’t like the dig, but I knew I couldn’t do much about it. I pretty much just had to stand there and take that one, and probably others in its wake.

  “And you’re going to have to go public.”

  “Go… go public?”

  “Sheryl, you’re the reason for the fight! One of my employees is in a forced coma in New York Presbyterian. Cane and I were going to do business; now we can’t. Somebody’s going to have to explain all that and take the brunt.”

  “Take the brunt? You mean… I’m going to be fired?”

  John huffed. “No, Sheryl, certainly not.” He led me to the registration desk and we turned to face the double glass doors and the crowd of reporters gathered on the steps just beyond. “But you won’t come out of it unscarred.”

  He led me through the doors, and the reporters exploded with questions, cameras flashing, video cameras leaning in, mics poking up out of the crowd, fists holding zip drives.

  John held his hands out to quiet them, and they dribbled to a silence before the great man on those mighty stone steps as a red cardinal fluttered by overhead.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the failing New York press corps…” They chuckled, and I was renewed and warmed by the confidence of standing beside such a man. But at the same time I worried about what his own needs would inspire him to say next, and what price I’d have to pay. “What can I say about what’s happened here? There’s been a tragic turn of events, and one of my former employees lies fighting for his very life. From what I’ve heard, from what the only eyewitness has said, my own personal assistant, it was a single blow.”

  “That’s true,” I said, “it was.” John glared at me, and I backed down, clearing my throat and retreating, ducking down and turning away.

  John went on, “This was no extended beating, as many seem to assume. I knew this young man, Flynn McGinnis. He worked for my own company on the very floor my offices are on. He was… is… a troubled young man with a lot of misguided energy. I had to release him from service to my company not long ago, in fact, something that no doubt played a part in his hasty, angry, and misguided actions in Central Park. But I hardly think Mr. Langdon Cane, my friend and colleague, should be held accountable for this young fellow’s hair-trigger temper or eggshell skull. Langdon thought, I believe, that Miss Sheryl Francis here was in some jeopardy, and he did what he apparently felt he had to do to protect her. Personally, I’d have done the same thing. And if Mr. Cane requires any legal or financial aid from me, he only has to ask for it.”

  The reporters threw up a frothing sea of questions, and John pointed out a man close to his own age, maybe a bit older, with gray hair and a gravel voice. “Jerry Mancuso, the failing New York Times…” Everybody chuckled, and John nodded.

  “How’re the kids, Jerry?”

  “Good, Mr. Alister, thank you for asking. May I direct a question at Miss Francis?” John glanced at me, and I knew he was calling me up to the plate. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do or say, but I knew I was being tested and that I couldn’t afford to fail. “Miss Francis, what was your relationship to Mr. McGinnis? There are rumors of an office romance?”

  “Any rumors to that effect are completely false,” I said. “Any romantic connection between me and Flynn McGinnis was completely imagined on his part.”

  “But you did go out in the past, isn’t that true?”

  “We shared an afternoon in Central Park several months ago, without knowing how prescient that would turn out to be.” The reporters chuckled, and I couldn’t help notice John smiling at me through the corner of his mouth.

  “Follow up—”

  But I was quick to say, “You already followed up, Jerry.” After a stunned—and I must say, impressive—moment, I pierced the tension to say, “But if your colleagues don’t mind, I suppose it’s okay with me.”

  They chuckled and nodded, and Jerry Mancuso said, “What, if any, is your personal relationship to Langdon Cane?” The reporters went silent, all eyes falling on me.

  I looked around and thought about it, feeling the moment stretching out in front of me. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I am not a public servant. I have not run for any office, and I do not hold any office. So my personal business will remain just that… personal.”

  The reporters threw up another cloud of questions, hovering above us all and clapping like a thundercloud. John pointed somebody else out, and the chubby brunette said, “Leslie Greene, the not-failing New York Herald.” More chuckles rose up to greet the running gag. “There are also rumors about an affair between you and John Alister—”

  The
happy mood shattered as the other reporters muttered and mumbled and shook their heads. I said, “Let me state for the record that those rumors are absolutely false. In the year or so I’ve worked with John Alister, I have never known him to be less than faithful to his wife.”

  And it was true, strictly speaking. Anything else was just ugly guesswork, even if those guesses were becoming increasingly easy to make.

  The other reporters raised their hands, and instead of waiting for John to pick one, I pointed out a lovely African American woman.

  “April Carlson, the amazingly successful Wall Street Journal…” We all laughed again before she asked me, “You’ve attested to Mr. Cane’s innocence. If Mr. McGinnis dies of his wounds, will you stand by Mr. Cane in court?”

  “Of course I will,” I answered without a single moment’s thought, not bothering to glance at John as he looked at me with new understanding, new admiration, but also a new kind of resolve I didn’t quite understand—and didn’t want to understand.

  There would be more than time enough for that, and it was coming sooner than I thought.

  Chapter 13

  Langdon was hovering over me, arms thick and straight at my sides, holding his perfect physique in a holding pattern, staring down at me with an intensity I’d never known in a man’s eyes before.

  “I told you they’d never keep me in there,” he rasped. “Nothing’s going to keep me away from you, nothing and nobody!”

  “No,” I repeated, “nobody.”

  His cock went in deep and hard, and I clamped down around it, teeth clenched, eyes slammed shut, every part of my body closing down hard to hold onto him with everything I had. I was so desperately glad to have him back, out of the arms of the law and back into my own, that I wanted to hold him so tight that I crushed him, so tight that I never let him go.

  The bedroom door flew open, interrupting our feverish lovemaking. We both stopped and turned toward the door. John Alister stood there, lit by a shaft of moonlight.

  “J.A.?”

  “Mr. Alister, what are you doing here?”

  He took a step forward, now silhouetted by the light of the living room suite behind him. “How could you both do this to me? I trusted you!”

  Langdon and I looked at one another. Langdon ventured, “We don’t know what the hell yer on about, mate!”

  “I’m done talking, anyway.” John pulled a small semiautomatic handgun, the same one I’d often seen in the top drawer of his desk. I got a lump in my throat every time I caught the odd sight of it, and I finally knew why.

  I said, “We didn’t do anything against you, Mr. Alister!”

  “You used to love me,” John croaked out in a sudden fit of spittle and anger, gun quivering in his hand. “You loved me, and I did the right thing!”

  “I… I admired you, Mr. Alister, but I…”

  “Liar! You’re a filthy little liar!” With that, John raised the gun a bit more, leveled it at the two of us, and fired.

  Langdon screamed out, “John, no!”

  The room lit in a heated white flash with every shot.

  I screamed out, “No!” as Langdon froze above me, then twisted, arms shivering. Langdon fell back and John closed on me. I wanted to scream, to beg for mercy, but I had no breath, no words, no thoughts, no time.

  He pointed the gun right at my face. “Sorry, Sheryl, but… you’re fired.” I tried to scream, but the only thing filling my ears was complete, deathly silence.

  ***

  I sprang up in my bed, looking around my little Brooklyn bedroom, gasping for breath, sheeted in sweat. My eyes struggled to refocus on my surroundings. My mind was still not certain where I was—or if I was even still alive.

  But as the moments crept along, my conscious mind managed to catch up and recover.

  Just another dream, I told myself, this time with relief, panting and closing my eyes and dropping myself back down onto the pillow. Just a dream. And after all, dreams don’t really come true.

  But my eyes shot open again.

  Don’t they?

  ***

  They held Langdon at the 53rd Precinct station house instead of shipping him to Rikers Island. I didn’t doubt that Langdon’s charm had gone a long way toward making that happen, not to mention his power and connections. I was certain that Langdon had taken care of things with a single phone call, that there was little I could do that he hadn’t already done for himself. But I still felt terrible, helpless, that I’d somehow failed him.

  And I was dead-set against telling him about the dream. If he put any stock in it at all, it might make being in jail all the more difficult. If he didn’t, he’d probably think I was a lunatic, and I had to admit he probably wouldn’t be far wrong.

  The police station was clean, and even though it was overcrowded, they arranged to have Langdon meet me in a private room, where I fell into his arms. At this, the guard began clacking his baton loudly against the metal desk in the little office.

  “Sorry, mate,” Langdon said with a wink.

  The guard shrugged. “No problem, man.”

  Langdon turned to me. “You needn’t have come, Sheryl. I’ll be out in few shakes.”

  “What does that mean? Minutes, months?”

  Langdon chuckled. “Won’t be long now. You’ll be able to walk out with me.”

  Oh no, I thought, I don’t want to face that pack of wolves all over again! But I don’t dare abandon Langdon yet again. I’d be proud to stand beside him, and if he wants me there, then that’s just where I want to be!

  So I answered, “Of course I will, Langdon, whatever you want. What… happens after that?”

  Langdon glanced around. “Thought they were gonna hold me till that kid comes around, although honestly I think he already has.”

  “Really? How do you know that?”

  Langdon gestured behind himself at the empty room, the guard, the endless network of information and corruption that snaked out beyond. “Reliable sources,” was all Langdon said, adding a little wink. “Word is they’re trying to find out what he knows before they cut me loose.”

  “They? Who’s they?”

  “Feds, IRS, who d’you got? Sheryl, a guy like me, I know it seems like I’m the big man, just striding through life. But all this success comes with a high price, Sheryl, enemies…” I was only beginning to learn for myself what he was talking about, but it certainly wasn’t anything I could tell him. He went on, “But they won’t be able to hold me, they know that.”

  That only directed my own attention to everything I didn’t know and felt like I was never going to be able to figure out. “Does that mean you’ll be going home?”

  “Chances are I’ll be here in the States a few days yet, and you and I are going to have a lot to do in those few days. Are you ready?” I wanted to be, but I wasn’t sure. “Sheryl?” I finally nodded, biting my lower lip and preparing myself for what was to come.

  ***

  It was just an hour or so later that I was standing on those same steps as before, in front of that same whining pack of hyenas. They all saw me coming from a mile away, and standing beside each man in this high-profile disaster only magnified my participation, my profile, my vulnerability.

  Leslie Greene of the New York Herald introduced herself and her paper once more. “Nice to see you again, Miss Francis.” The other reporters erupted in sarcastic, sardonic laughter, though neither Langdon nor I could join in the fun. He gave me a little wink, reassuring me that he’d take care of everything.

  And I didn’t doubt it.

  Leslie went on to ask Langdon, “Miss Francis here has denied any romantic connection between the two of you—”

  “Excuse me,” I said before I could stop myself, “I never denied or confirmed anything. I stated simply that whatever the nature of our relationship, that it should remain private and that there was no compelling reason for it to be otherwise.”

  The reporters shared a stunned murmur, more than impressed. Leslie Greene went
on, “Follow up. Mr. Langdon, is there any romantic relationship between you and Miss Sheryl Francis here?”

  “So what if there is?” The reporters broke out in a burst of muttered awe, and I shot Langdon a stunned look. But he seemed calm, smiling, and I knew I had to trust him.

  At that point, I didn’t have any choice.

  Langdon went on, “As Miss Francis here said the other day, and you all heard her, she’s not a public person, I’m not running for anything, and what we do oughtn’t mean a wallaroo’s arse to any of you.”

  “If it was a crime of passion,” Leslie Greene countered, “it would cast a whole other light on the case, wouldn’t it?”

  “If it was a crime of passion, luv, the passion was all on his end. I just needed to make sure Miss Francis here was unharmed. I didn’t have any passion in me for this bloke whatevah!”

  “Even though you’re in love with Miss Francis here.”

  “That’s right.” I felt myself go white as a sheet as the reporters echoed my shock. But swaggering Langdon Cane was forever unfazed. “That’s right, I love ah! And I’m proud to be standing with ah, by ah, whatevah! You bunch of hypocrites can make whatever you want of it, but I know you’re all in bed with each other behind the scenes. You? You’re doin’ it with that one over there, the pretty one in the purple, right?” Langdon pointed to a chubby man in a bushy red beard. “Who’re you doggin’ then, beardy? C’mon, ya bunch o’ loy-aahs! Come clean, if you dare!”

  The Wall Street Journal’s April Carlson introduced herself and her paper as the mutters of the other reporters rose and fell around her. “What are your feelings about Flynn McGinnis?”

  Langdon shrugged. “None. Don’t know the kid, still barely know anything about him. I tried to give him a few bucks to see him on his way, he forced my hand… or rather, me fist. Problem with men in this country, y’all play at being so sensitive and sophisticated, but yer all just a bunch of wolves in sheep’s clothing! You want a fairer society? Try being a bit more fair, yeah? Where I come from, a man raises a hand to a woman, or a man, he gets put on the ground one way or anothah! No apologies, no regrets.”