Shit!
The weasel, more than two blocks away, sprinted hard, fast, and disappeared around a corner. When Robert got there, the agile killer, with the strength of an anaconda, vanished.
Thorne limped up next to him breathing heavy, and handed him his guns. They searched the faces along the street, the buildings, and alleyways, but found nothing.
Sirens screamed, coming their way. Unwilling to endure more questioning from Durbin and the police, they gave up and headed back to Crossroads.
They reached the shelter as the coroner loaded Miller’s body. A crowd of homeless men, women, and children looked on, sullied, sad.
Robert’s anger seared like alcohol on an open wound.
Detective Durbin lumbered out of the mission, spotted them and walked over. He stopped in his tracks and looked them up and down.
“Should I ask?”
“Don’t bother,” said Robert.
“Another missing person case I guess,” said Durbin, directing a facetious smirk at Thorne.
“Is there something you need from us?” asked Robert, exhausted.
Durbin laughed and shook his head. “It seems you’re in the clear.
For the moment. Several people say they saw you leave while Miller was still alive, and the coroner’s preliminary estimate of the time of death puts you at Judge Weiss’ house at the time of the murder. But don’t go too far. Doctors make mistakes.”
“As have the police,” said Thorne, wincing, and rubbing her behind.
“Don’t worry detective,” said Robert. “I’m as concerned about Miller’s death as you are. So if you get any ideas let us know.”
“Sure I will,” said Durbin. The detective walked to his car and crammed his girth inside, stressing the black Crowne Victoria’s shocks to their max. “Just as soon as you let me in on your missing person case.” Durbin slammed the car door, took a long, lustful look at Thorne, then drove off.
“I can’t believe that little fucker kicked me in the puss,” she said, openly rubbing her crotch, to the delight of several officers and onlookers. “Only twenty-four hours and we’re already in the mix. We better find your boy Charlie and figure out exactly what the hell he’s gotten us into. I don’t mind a fight, but I want to know who the hell I’m fighting.”
“I’m with you on that partner,” said Robert, stroking his jaw. “We better find him before that guy in the alley does. Did you notice his fighting tactics?”
“Yes,” said Thorne. “Definitely Company trained. I guess the old man told us the truth.”
Charlie told the truth. Miller’s death and the man in the alley are confirmation. “Meet me at the office in the morning,” said Robert. “I need a few hours sleep. I’m going home. I’ll see you around eight.
Thorne agreed and walked gingerly to her Rover. Sliding inside, she swore profusely and sped off.
Twenty minutes later, Robert pulled into his parking complex, head reeling. A serial killer he couldn’t find would strike again soon. The murder of a decent man, for reasons unknown, vexed him, and a professional tomcat whipped their asses in an alley. His hands quivered.
President John F. Kennedy. We’re close. I feel it.
The elevator zipped to the eleventh floor. Robert trudged down the rich burgundy carpet to his apartment, eleven-twelve. He touched key to lock; the door cracked open. He pulled his weapon.
Braced against the wall, eyes closed, he took a deep breath, adrenaline churning. He rolled inside, came up on one knee, and pointed the nine-millimeter back and forth around the pitch-black room.
“No need to be alarmed,” said a calm voice, from the darkness.
“Hands up in the air,” Robert shouted. “Now!” The lamp next to his recliner clicked on. Robert trained his weapon.
His eyes focused, he holstered his gun, and sat down across from his visitor. Marilyn London.
“Sorry I startled you. I wanted to follow up from earlier today.” Robert rested back in his chair. “Follow up?” Marilyn stood and removed her coat. A steel blue cat suit clung to her, leaving little to the imagination.
“Yes,” she said, approaching. She straddled him. “I felt like we left things open.”
Robert smiled. “You always this bold?”
“Always,” said Marilyn, pulling close to his lips. “Scared?” Robert stroked her cheek. “Terrified.”
The next morning, Robert awoke to an empty bed, a note on his pillow. It was better than I expected. Marilyn.
Robert laughed, jumped out of bed, and slipped on his pants. He heard stirring in the living room. His smile widened. “I’m glad you’re still here,” he said. “You can’t just leave a note and run. That’s my move.”
He trotted into the living room. Charlie stared at him from the recliner. “She left about an hour ago,” he said. “Nice.” Robert sat down, forearms on his knees. “How long you been here?”
“Long enough. I waited for you in the stairwell, heard the elevator, and peeked into the hall. I saw your lady friend go inside your apartment, so I headed outside and slept between the dumpsters in the back. She drove off around six o’clock, and I came back upstairs.” Charlie wheezed. “They killed Miller. They know I talked to you and now they’ll try to kill us all. Unless you get to them first.” Robert fixed on Charlie’s eyes. “I believe you, I do, but you’ve got to tell me who we’re up against. Who’s running the show? Who are we after?”
Charlie sank deeper into the recliner. He stared at the floor, his face ashen. “Rothschild,” he said. “Edward Rothschild.” Robert mulled over Charlie’s answer. He knew it would be someone highly placed, and most insiders considered the Rothschild clan as diabolical as they come. Rothschild lived in a class of his own. Rich, connected, a Nobel Prize in economics, and very well respected.
“Are you absolutely sure? There’s no room for error.” Charlie’s face reddened. He coughed and wrenched violently. Blood poured from his mouth. Robert ran to the kitchen for a dishcloth.
Charlie’s coughing worsened. Blood spilled down the old assassin’s chin painting his coat. A few moments later, the coughing stopped.
Charlie relaxed.
“Is there something I can get you? Should I call a doctor?” Charlie shook his head no, leaned back and closed his eyes.
I was right. The old man is sick. Probably why he’s trying to clear the air.
Robert went back to the kitchen to get Charlie a glass of water. He heard a thud and raced back to the living room. Charlie lay face down on the carpet. He dropped the glass, ran over and flipped Charlie on his back. Unconscious.
Robert tried CPR. Nothing. No pulse. He picked up the phone, hesitated, then dialed. “Don’t die on me old man.”
9
“America has evolved over its brief tenure as a republic, into a great nation. A nation where no person who desires a better life need be left out, and those willing to work hard and sacrifice are rewarded. As we move forward into the twenty-first century, this great country of ours can expect new challenges, uncharted mountains to climb, and fresh opportunities to explore. Whether medical advances and cures for the incurable, or original, exciting technology, Americans stand ready to bring these visions to life. Our strength, energy, and vigor remain unmatched anywhere in the world. And government should stand at the ready, to lend support and leadership to these causes.”
“Like a lighthouse, we who are elected to serve, should safely guide all who wish to navigate these waters of promise, in the land of the free.
As Governor of New York, my administration has maintained an outstanding record of excellence and accomplishment, benefiting of all its citizens and communities. We promised a lower unemployment rate, and delivered. We promised safer streets and less crime, and delivered.
We said we would take steps to protect the city and its residents from terrorism, and we have. Now the time has come to expand the level of excellence we have established in New York to the entire nation. We’re here at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial be
cause this great President fought and died for a country based on the Constitution, a country based on inclusion. It was a noble effort then; it’s a noble effort today. This effort I plan to take up anew, hand in hand with you. I hereby announce my candidacy for the office of President of the United States, because in America, nobody gets left behind.”
The Friday afternoon crowd erupted. Charleston Rothschild finished his speech forcefully pounding the podium. Edward joined in, clapping and smiling, a proud father who’d just watched his son score a winning touchdown. He salivated at the prospect of his son occupying the White House. For Edward, the final coup on his long list of conquests-for his family-the crown jewel of legitimacy.
Most important, with Charleston in the Oval Office, he’d complete a power play, and seal the Rothschild legacy forever. Nothing accomplished by his family to date came close.
Three weeks passed since he made his proposition to the men at the Cosmos Club. Eventually, all called with offers of wholehearted, albeit insincere, support.
Photographers and news crews crammed together for better angles.
On cue, the crowd chanted. “We want Charleston! We want Charleston!” Pleased, Edward watched the product of his loins masterfully field questions from the media, easy questions, just as Charles Kingston promised.
Fifteen minutes later, they climbed into the limo and rode back to Edward’s twenty-story building, were they met more applause from the Rothschild company staff, as per Edward’s orders, along with more media and paparazzi. The press shouted questions over the noisy crowd and snapped pictures. Edward’s wife, Meredith, and Charleston’s wife, Diana, joined them on stage, completing the picture-perfect photo op.
After a few more inquiries from the press, father and son waved their goodbyes, kissed their wives, and caught a private elevator to the penthouse. They met briefly with a small group of business leaders and politicians who unequivocally vowed to support the Rothschild family.
Later, he and Charleston adjourned to Edward’s well-appointed lair, and relaxed.
“A fine job son, you’re on your way. You’ve made us all proud.” A waiter entered and poured them drinks. “Just remember, this is only the beginning. Soon they’ll be circling like sharks.”
“Thanks dad, but I’m Governor of New York. I’ve been through this before.” Charleston took his usual, Jack Daniels on the rocks, from the silver tray. “Besides, I plan to send out a few sharks of my own.” Edward lifted the remaining drink from the tray, a dirty martini, extra-dry. The waiter disappeared.
“Son, this will be quite different. Trust me. You won’t know what hit you if you underestimate the difficulties of running for this office.
Piss the wrong people off and they’ll make you pay dearly. A Governor’s race is child’s play by comparison. Lose it, and no one remembers.”
Charleston drained his glass. Good. I have your attention. Edward sat his drink on the coffee table and leaned close. “On the other hand, if you fuck up the White House, then maybe even I’ll forget who you are.” Charleston squirmed. “I get the picture father,” he said. “I’m prepared to fight hard and win.”
“Good,” said Edward. “Then I’ve made my point.” Edward complimented Charleston on the speech he gave earlier, then looked past his son at a portrait of his father and grandfather, their faces stern and impatient.
“Have you given any thought to our conversation about Ian Goldstein?”
“For campaign manager? I’ve already decided on Ralph Wright.
You know he’s been with me from the start of my career. I trust him.
How would it look if I abandoned him now?” Edward rose to his feet, bumping the coffee table, knocking over his drink. “It would look like you really wanted to win! And by the way, you trust him? No, trust me. Trust me when I tell you that if you don’t start listening, you’ll fail miserably. You trust him. No, you spoiled ungrateful ass! I’m still your father. You trust me.” Charleston’s face twisted. Edward walked over to the large Rothschild portrait and looked up at his namesakes. Their presence gave him a sense of peace during stressful moments. Likely I’ll come here often during this campaign. .
Charleston walked up behind him. Edward faced him. “Son, look, I’m just saying…”
“You’ve said enough,” snapped Charleston. Fire blazed in his eyes.
Good, thought Edward, very good.
“Dammit dad. You’re not running for President, I am. And it would do you well to remember that. I need your help, but make no mistake about it. I’ll live without the White House, and live well. How will you sleep?”
“Meaning?” asked Edward.
“Meaning I know you want me in the White House for reasons other than the Rothschild legacy and honor. So if you intend to interfere throughout my campaign, I’ll drop out.”
Edward considered calling the bluff, but decided to let his son walk away. Too soon to pressure him too much. It didn’t matter. He’d already offered Ralph Wright a substantial sum to withdraw.
“Calm yourself son.” He gently, lovingly, put a hand on Charleston’s shoulder. “It’s not that important. Let’s pull together on this one. Your grandfather would kick both our blue blood asses if we didn’t.” Charleston smiled, relaxing like a boy standing up to his father for the first time.
“Move ahead with your plans,” said Edward. “I’m here if you need me.”
They embraced. Charleston thanked him for understanding and ran off to a press conference at the Ritz, energized.
Edward wondered what his son’s face would look like when he and the others met the new President in the Oval Office the night of the inauguration, and fed him a dose of reality. One moment you were the most powerful man in the world, minutes later, the most powerful flunky.
He sat down and watched the sun ease down behind a panoramic view of Washington, tenderly putting the city to bed for the night. He hit the intercom button. His assistant, Jenny, answered immediately. “Get Ralph Wright on the phone and tell him to meet me at the club at nine tonight,” he ordered, smooth and stern. Ralph Wright will play along.
He better. Edward puffed away on a Cuban. If not, there’s no telling how long his stay on earth will last.
“Mr. Rothschild, Mr. Wright has confirmed,” Jenny said, five minutes later. “Your next meeting is ready in the main conference room.” He thanked her dryly and put out the cigar. Edward walked down the long dimly lit hall that led to his private conference room, perusing the photos and portraits of various members of the Rothschild clan. Men willing to go the extra mile come hell or high water.
He paused at a black and white photo of his parents sitting on the patio of their Long Island estate. At the time of the photograph, they were typical Ivy League blue bloods, living a life of privilege during a time of war.
In August, nineteen forty-five, his grandfather and father, steel barons, earned millions from defense contracts and corporate takeovers.
World War II ended with two atomic bombs, and Reconstruction and the Marshall Plan brought more money, more power, more influence.
His mother, Katherine, a dedicated social butterfly, seldom showed him any real attention. She believed raising boys was a man’s job, leaving Edward to fend for himself, with a hard driving, competitive father who offered little encouragement, praise, or kind words.
Once, in a desperate attempt to gain his father’s acceptance, Edward worked feverishly on a school science project. Like most twelve-year-old boys with a busy father, he thought if he could make an impression with his work, it would bring them closer together.
During one of his mother’s many parties, Edward overheard a Texas oilman complain about the number of wells he’d shut down because of heavy wax build-up caked around the well’s openings, from pumped out crude, leaving millions of dollars in the ground. It gave Edward an idea.
He developed a concept using portable steam generators to heat chemicals to high temperatures. When shot down into the well, the mix would melt
the paraffin, allowing additional oil to be pumped out. His grandfather was ecstatic, and helped him get the idea patented.
The project a hit, the Texas oilman offered the Rothschild family millions to license the concept. Edward’s father negotiated a handsome fee and placed the money in Edward’s trust fund. Edward beamed, but his Dad was stoic, detached, and business-like. When the final papers were signed and the office empty, Edward silently stood in front of his father’s massive oak desk. As though sensing his son’s gaze, his father looked up, stone-faced. “What next?” he asked, plain and firm.
Edward stood in stunned disbelief.
“Oh, you want a pat on the back do you?” his father continued.
“Maybe a hug and a lollipop?”
Edward quivered uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
His father walked from behind the desk. Relief washed over Edward.
His father finally realized his need for attention and comfort from the man he admired most. He stopped shaking. His father slapped him to the floor. His vision cleared. Edward II stared down at him, unmoved.
“As long as you live and carry the name Rothschild, don’t you ever weaken or break,” his father warned. “If you want pats on the back and hugs, wear a dress and change your name. You can only count on yourself Edward, remember that. The day you forget you’ll be finished.” His father dropped a handkerchief on his chest, sat back down, and continued to work as if nothing happened, not raising his head as Edward slinked out of the room.
Edward ran from the Fifth Avenue office to Grand Central Station, his tears a trickle, then a flood. He caught the train home and ran to his room, where his grandfather waited.
His grandfather, almost seventy years old, carried himself like a much younger man. Ever the optimist, he’d often rattle on about the future, how one day a Rothschild would sit in the White House. Edward knew his grandfather hoped he’d fulfill that dream, but dismissed it as the ranting of an old fool.
“Sit my boy,” he ordered, patting the end of Edward’s bed. “Tell an old man your troubles.”
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