Deadly Rich

by Edward Stewart

  Excitement began beating in Zack’s chest. “I’m not sure what I’m sensing about you. But I like it.”

  “And what about you?” she said. “Are you from a ghetto?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Is Morrow short for Morgenstern?”

  “Why would you think it’s short for anything?”

  A mocking little pucker came into her lips. “Come on, now. It’s short for something.”

  “Are you speaking from intuition or knowledge?”

  “Doesn’t all knowledge begin as intuition?”

  “Does it? Give me an example.”

  “Two hours ago I intuited that you’d be a great way to spend dinner. So I switched place cards, and now I know you’re great for dinner.”

  “Only great? Only for dinner?”

  “Don’t look now, but Tori’s watching us from the table in the hallway.”

  “And what does your intuition say about that?”

  “A woman dresses for dinner the way Tori’s dressed for only one reason: She’s scared her lover’s playing around.”

  “And does your intuition say her fear is justified?”

  “My intuition tells me a man who changes his name is capable of deceiving his lover. You’re not sensitive about it, are you?”

  “About the name?” Instinct told him that honesty would earn him massive points with this woman. “It is Morrow. Almost.”

  “Aha. Tell me about the almost.”

  “I added the w.”

  “Then without the w, you’d be—” She stopped, as if she were trying to visualize the name in print.

  “Morro means Moorish in Spanish. Like Morro castle in Havana harbor. It’s a very common name in Latin countries. I’m a spick.”

  “But everyone thinks you’re—”

  He nodded.

  She threw her head back with a look of good-natured ferocity and laughed. “That’s priceless.” And then she added, “I adore Latin men.”

  “And I adore Jewish women.”

  “Tarot, anyone?” a voice cut in.

  Zack looked to his right. A blond woman who had not been there for dinner was sitting in the chair that the weather girl from A.M. New York had vacated. He recognized Nan Shane, Annie’s resident fortune-teller.

  “Could you use any guidance from the cards tonight?” The pupils of Nan Shane’s blue eyes were pinpricks. The concave shape of her nose suggested to Zack that she’d had at least two retreads. A kind of willed zaniness animated her.

  “Why not,” Gloria Spahn said.

  “Would you like the Swiss spread,” Nan Shane said, “the Celtic cross, or the ancient ten-card spread?”

  “Which would you recommend?” Zack said.

  Nan Shane looked at both of them. Her gray evening dress had a fringed neckline that reminded Zack of a beaded lampshade. She wore two tiny diamond earrings and an obviously faux diamond necklace. She was smiling and, despite a certain dowdy note in her appearance, she seemed to have great confidence in herself.

  “I recommend Celtic cross.” She reached into her oversized carpetbag purse. She produced a deck of oversized playing cards illustrated with heavy-metal comic-strip gods, goddesses, sorcerers, animals, and rock singers. She pushed away an abandoned plate of ginger mousse and cleared enough tabletop to shuffle the deck twice.

  Nan Shane pushed the cards toward Gloria Spahn. “Shuffle the cards facedown. Put all thoughts and desires from your mind, except the question you wish the cards to answer.”

  With blinding speed Gloria Spahn separated the deck into two exactly equal parts. She riffled them together in a single snap.

  “State your question,” Nan Shane said.

  Gloria Spahn smiled at Zack. “Is now a good time to launch a joint venture?”

  ANNIE MACADAM STOOD savoring the bustle and energy and laughing that filled her eight-room rent-controlled apartment. She saw Zack Morrow in the crowd and slipped into brisk forward motion. “Zack, I’m so sorry—I had you seated next to the new Channel Four newsbreaks girl, and Gloria Spahn switched place cards. I hope it wasn’t too awful.”

  “Annie, you always serve delicious, delicious guests. Any chance that Ms. Spahn might be interested in viewing an apartment?”

  Annie had it on unimpeachable authority that Gloria Spahn was an opportunistic tramp; she’d also heard whispers that Zack Morrow’s seven-year relationship with Tori Sandberg was in trouble. Annie winked. She wanted Zack to understand that she could be a good guy for the right guy. Besides, he was such a big, friendly-looking, dark-haired fellow with such gorgeous brown eyes—how could you not love him? “Real estate is my business, Zack, and I have just the apartment.”

  “You’re a doll, Annie.”

  “Takes one to know one. I’ll phone your office tomorrow, okay?”

  Annie threw a kiss-kiss and moved on to the living room, where a little old wealth, a little old fame, a lot of new wealth and new fame had crowded together. Annie’s gaze took in the dark oak paneling, the oyster-colored silk curtains on loan from Elsa Piranese Fabrics, the green marble fireplace with its brass gryphon andirons on loan from Gurdon-Chappell Interiors, the painting of a naked marquesa on loan from the Paul Redouble Gallery, the deep plush-upholstered sofas and chairs on loan from Meubles Meurice, the Steinway concert-grand piano in the sixth year of its loan from Steinway.

  Annie was satisfied. The perfect, sparkling setting was in perfect, sparkling form, and the perfect, sparkling cast spilled across her stage. She knew she had hosted another hit dinner.

  “ALL YOU HAVE TO DO is be photographed at Archibald’s drinking Roederer Cristal champagne,” Robbie Danzig said. “And mention it in the article.”

  Dick Braidy felt an adrenal spurt of disbelief that his own publicist could actually attempt such a hustle at a dress dinner. He stared at the bald, bespectacled little man. “I am not writing ad copy. I am not posing for endorsements. I am writing journalism and prose.”

  “And what the hell do people drink in your prose—water?”

  Dick Braidy gave Robbie Danzig one of his famous glares. They were standing in the crook of Annie’s grand piano, practically shouting and still barely hearing each other over the other voices in the room.

  “Would it kill you to give the poor slobs a glass of Roederer now and then?” Robbie said. “Truman Capote was glad to yank every fucking Mumm from Answered Prayers and substitute Cristal.”

  “And the only reason Tru did it was because he had AIDS and he’d let his Blue Cross expire and he desperately needed the money. I happen not to be dying and I happen not to need the money, knock wood.”

  Gloria Spahn came and sat down on the piano bench. “I didn’t know Tru died of AIDS.”

  “Besides which,” Dick Braidy said, “I have no intention of setting foot inside Archibald’s.”

  “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.” Avalon Gardner, camera in hand, had joined the group. “If I’m willing to take the picture, you should be willing to sit for it.”

  “Not so long as my daughter’s killer is employed there.” Leigh Baker stood beside Dick Braidy, one finger circling the rim of a tulip glass of mineral water. “And we don’t drink it’s very nice of our friends to go there either.”

  Gloria Spahn had a blank look: not so much critical as completely puzzled. “But there are parolees in menial jobs all over town. If you take a stand like that, this city would have to shut down. Who’d run the service elevators?”

  “There’s a time to hate, and a time to forgive.” Avalon Gardner fixed on Leigh Baker and Dick Braidy an earnest, unblinking gaze. “Nita is dead, God rest her soul. Nothing can bring her back. Hatred certainly won’t. What the two of you have to understand is that we’re all human, we all make mistakes.”

  “That’s all it was?” Leigh said. “Killing Nita was a mistake? And I suppose killing Oona was a mistake too?”

  “It’s our duty to forgive,” Avalon Gardner said quietly.

  “It’s easy for you
to forgive.” There was something jagged and almost hysterical in Dick Braidy’s voice now, in the line of his mouth. “You’ve never known the agony of losing your child. And you never will!”

  Avalon Gardner spun around. His cheeks stretched out as if he’d swallowed the head of a sledge hammer, and his voice was screaming. “Why don’t you just take that charade and shove it! Nita Kohler wasn’t your child, she wasn’t your anything except the biggest break you ever got! And ever since she died you’ve been strip-mining her corpse for every nugget of publicity you could! Well, you’re beating a very dead horse, and I suggest you stop trying to sell the result as prime cut, because by now it is rancid! Maggoty! And your public is barfing! Barfing!”

  Stillness swept the room.

  Annie MacAdam stepped quickly through the crowd. Her frown cut a space between Dick Braidy and Avalon Gardner and her body occupied it instantly. “Hey, fellas, enough’s enough. Let’s discuss a different subject, okay?”

  “That’s all right, Annie,” Avalon said. “I was just about to go anyway. Thank you for a delightful evening, as always. I have only one thing more to say.”

  “Don’t say it,” Annie warned.

  Avalon faced Dick Braidy. “Did it ever occur to you that despite the courtroom testimonials you two extorted from your friends, perhaps your little angel richly deserved to go out of existence?”

  A gasp, part disbelief, part delight, went through the crowd.

  “And so do you deserve to!” Leigh Baker shouted. “The sooner the better!”

  Avalon considered Leigh with a chilly, lingering, head-to-toe examination. “You shrill, stupid, spoiled, life-destroying lush. I hope you’ve sewed up your next reservation at Betty Ford.” He turned. “Good night, Annie.”

  AVALON COLLECTED HIS COAT from the caterer’s hat-check man. He dropped his camera into the pocket and went to the mirror hanging just inside Annie’s front door.

  Tonight he was wearing something new in fashion—a summer fur. It had the look and bulk of the most luxurious, deep-pile winter fur—but, in fact, it was a fully vented featherweight Japanese synthetic.

  He adjusted the coat, the lime silk scarf that matched his eyes, and finally, the broad, floppy-brimmed, prestained-at-the-factory safari hat.

  He did not like what he saw: Annie’s mirror turned him into a sort of Interpol mug shot, distorted unpleasantly by a kind of fishbowl lens.

  He stared back at his reflection with defiance.

  Mirror, he said silently, I do not care what you or the idiots at this party say about me. My life and accomplishments beam on me from the newsstands: My town house is featured in Architectural Digest; my peach linen shirt in GQ; my avocado flan in the “Living” section of The New York Times; my dinner guests are listed in “Suzy.” I am reported on, I am famous. I am envied. I have not only arrived, I have the keys to the castle. I am a completely fulfilled person.

  He backed away three steps, made sure there was a casual assurance in the way he stood. He allowed the maid to open the front door for him. Stepping into Annie’s outer hallway was like squeezing into an off-track betting parlor in Queens.

  Two dozen or more burly bodyguards had crammed into the space. They were standing, sitting, reading newspapers, drinking coffee from paper cups, dunking doughnuts, smoking. They talked in low street-wise rumbles, moved like swaggering army tanks. Hanging out there in front of their scowls, like a neon sign, was that I-dare-you readiness for violence.

  By a furious convulsion of the will Avalon was able to maintain an even step, ignoring them, moving slowly among them to the elevator. Riding down to street level, Avalon was hit by a sense of elation. Avalon, baby, you made the top exit of the evening. They’ll be talking for a month.

  As he stepped onto the street a Checker cab roared down Park Avenue, ignoring his upstretched arm. Park Avenue seemed unusually deserted. He would have expected more traffic at this hour, certainly more cruising cabs. He stared south, at the sidewalk stretching out darkly between the chalk-white spills of streetlights.

  What the hell. He needed the exercise.

  He began walking.

  Halfway down the block a movement in the darkness between two co-ops caught his eye. Something jutted for one flickering moment into the light. It came and went too quickly for Avalon to see clearly, but he had a curiously unreal impression of a smile hovering inside a steel circle.

  Instinct told him to keep to the curb side of the pavement, well away from that narrow column of darkness.

  Still, his photographer’s mind couldn’t help wondering what on earth he had seen, or imagined. And he couldn’t help glancing back over his shoulder, to see if he could see it or imagine it again.

  And that was how he managed to let a second Checker cab go right past him.

  He realized his mind was drifting under the stress of the evening. He stopped walking and lifted an attentive gaze to the north, searching for another cab.

  His eye flicked back to that dark space between the buildings. There was nothing there, of course. He could see now that the darkness was just that—darkness.

  And then, floating where it could not possibly have been floating, he saw the steel circle again.

  But it wasn’t a circle. It was a semicircle, the band holding two Walkman earphones, and it was clasped over the head of a man who was looking across the sidewalk straight at Avalon, nodding in time to whatever music he was hearing, allowing a blade of smile to show.

  Avalon’s breathing became short and labored. His lungs and muscles suddenly were burning.

  He saw a cab two blocks away, heading toward him.

  He stepped into the street, waving.

  When he glanced behind him, the dark space between the buildings was empty again.

  The cab was one block away.

  Avalon could feel his heart beating in his fingertips.

  He kept waving as the cab approached.

  Behind him, to the side, his eyes registered a dark shape, a skittering, leaping movement.

  Before he could turn, a force like none he had ever felt before yanked his head back, and a light flashed before his eyes.

  He saw the taxi go by.

  He called out to it.

  Tried to call out to it.

  All that came out of his mouth was a soundless pink spray, and it dawned on him that his throat had been slashed.

  NINETEEN

  Tuesday, May 21

  HE LAY ON HIS back on the sidewalk. A ribbon of red wound down his neck and petered out below the collar of his dress shirt. His hands were clutched over a series of deep horizontal wounds in his stomach. They were a chubby child’s hands, translucent and small and white, and they had not been able to keep his stomach from spilling onto his trousers.

  “Any idea who he is?” Cardozo said.

  The uniformed cop was standing stone-faced, silently appalled. He handed Cardozo a billfold of leather soft enough to have been unborn kid.

  Cardozo opened it and smelled sandalwood. The charge cards and driver’s license said the dead man’s name was Avalon Gardner, of East Sixty-third Street.

  He had died four blocks from home.

  A flash went off. The photographer rose from his crouch and walked around the dead man and crouched again to get a shot of the opposite angle.

  Around the body each separate crack and blister in the pavement stood out like a canyon in the police floodlight. Avalon Gardner’s face, with its still amazed eyes, glowed as though lit for a close-up. A man from the lab was using a tape to measure the distance from the dead man’s left hand to the trash basket on the curb. A woman in blue jeans was walking around the body in a half crouch, drawing a thick outline on the sidewalk in heavy white chalk.

  Day-Glo orange tape had been stretched from the trash basket to the awning poles of the nearest building, from there to the wrought-iron bars of a ground-story window, marking off a perimeter around the corpse. Signs the size of little greeting cards dangled at two-foot intervals along th
e tape. The greeting on them read CRIME SCENE, and a steamy breeze nudged them into a dance.

  An officer draped a slick yellow tarpaulin over Avalon Gardner’s body. A small crowd had gathered to watch. The medical examiner’s men were maneuvering a stretcher through.

  Traffic along Park was picking up.

  Cardozo’s eye scanned sightlines. On the corner diagonally across Park Avenue, three town houses stood dark. A white-pillared, Greek Revival Christian Science church took up the corner to the south. Except for a lantern-shaped light dimly glowing above the parish-house door, it too was dark.

  “Did the doorman in this building see anything?” Cardozo asked.

  “He didn’t see the killing,” the cop said. “But he thinks he may have seen the perpetrator.”

  The lobby door was locked. Cardozo rang the buzzer. The doorman who let him in was a beefy, red-faced man.

  “I understand you think you saw the perpetrator,” Cardozo said.

  “I didn’t say perpetrator. I said a guy. There’s a difference.”

  Cardozo’s eyes began to accustom themselves to the dimness. The lobby had an expensively simple look: gray walls, polished wood surfaces. Two rows of man-high corn plants stood in Chinese vases, floodlit from beneath so that the dark green veining of each leaf stood out.

  “When did you see this guy?” Cardozo said.

  “About two hours ago. He was hanging out in the doorway. We’ve had trouble lately. Kids come down here, graffiti the walls, piss in the doorway, mug the residents. An old lady on the eighteenth floor was getting out of a cab. A kid tried to snatch her purse—broke her hip, dragged her halfway down the block. I’m sure you’re aware what’s happening.”

  Cardozo was aware. The police could no longer provide a secure environment, and Park Avenue money knew it. “Could you describe this guy?”

  “About six feet, six one. Hundred seventy pounds. Cleanshaven. Dark hair. He was wearing Walkman earphones. He had on sweatpants and jogging shoes. They always wear jogging shoes, so you don’t hear them coming.”

  “What color sweatpants?”

  “Green. And he was wearing a T-shirt that said I love Alcatraz. There’s a heart where it would say love. I haven’t seen that one before, so it stuck in my mind.”