by Hal Ross
She fumbled with her coffee cup, then brought her hand back and clasped her fingers together to still them. “I’m going to say this once more, then I want this to be the end of it: I didn’t have time to tell Matt that I wouldn’t marry him.”
She unwound her fingers. One by one. Carefully. “I stalled. I never told Matt anything at all. I never said yes, I never said no. I was trying to find the words, the right words. I knew he would be hurt. He and your mother were my only friends in the world…”
There was something hollow in her voice that nagged him into wanting to believe her.
“You’re an artist,” she said suddenly.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“You of all people should understand that nothing is black or white. There are a million shades of gray.”
It was true enough, he thought. So why was he trying so hard to pigeonhole Matt’s death?
“I never would have married him,” she said. “I told you that. But if you think I’d have held back because I gave you my word, you’re a fool. I didn’t owe you anything. I owed Mattie. And he deserved someone who wasn’t so … so…”
She trailed off and made an odd, gulping sound. Jonathan looked at her quickly; it occurred to him that she might be on the verge of crying.
She was just searching for the right word. “Pretty.” She finally spat out.
Jonathan was startled. There was some kind of wound here, one that did not involve Matt, and he couldn’t for a minute imagine what it was. She would never share it, he knew. So he could either believe her … or not. Maybe it was simply an issue of gray. Maybe she’d never had time to tell Matt with the kind of words that wouldn’t have left his heart broken. And maybe Matt had misunderstood her silence.
Jonathan realized he could accept that explanation and still resent Ann. It remained that if she had told him, if she had been faster, firmer, more definite, Mattie would have likely still been alive today.
“Let it go now,” she said finally, quietly.
“Yeah.” Suddenly, he was exhausted, and filled with the possibility that by the time this doll business wrapped up, he could have spent enough time to actually get to know her. And maybe even like her more than he would dare to admit.
CHAPTER 11
The man breathed in deeply through his nose and hit the light switch. The apartment was pitched into shadow. He let himself out and meticulously turned both locks on the door.
Downstairs, he undertook the onerous chore of hailing a cab. Autumn was sharpening. The wind had a fractious edge, signaling that winter wasn’t too far behind. A taxi stopped for him, and though he detested public transportation, he was grateful to get inside.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
An Armenian or Arab, the man thought. He had absolutely no objection to the ethnic snarl of New York’s population. But the way most of them drove was another matter entirely.
“Twenty-fifth and Broadway,” he said.
Ann Lesage may not have been ready to give up on her doll, but under the circumstances she would almost certainly have returned early from Canada. He would head over to her office, where he hoped to catch a glimpse of her grim expression.
The cabbie drove, the car hitching, swerving, brakes squealing on grinding stops and near misses. The man held on tight. As they pulled up to the address, fate smiled on him.
A woman he recognized at once came through the lobby doors. She was a brunette of enticing proportions that he could just make out beneath her open, flapping coat. Her stride was choppy in a way that told him she was angry. She drove her long hair back with one hand as she looked right then left, perhaps deciding in which direction she should go. He knew her name, knew her to be Patrick Morhardt’s secretary.
Although they had clearly arrived at their destination, the man instructed the cab driver to keep the meter running.
“But you said Twenty-fifth Street,” the cabbie protested in broken English.
He handed him two twenties. “You can keep the change if you just hang tight for a minute.”
The driver shrugged and did as he was told.
The man knew he had to make a decision. He could follow his intended plan, a rather indulgent one with no immediate consequences, and wait to see if Ann Lesage would show up, or he could make a change. His instincts told him that now that he had spotted Verna Sallinger, this was the more fortuitous path to take.
Verna headed south on Broadway, and he bid the cabbie to follow. They didn’t have far to go. She crossed 23rd, strolled a few blocks before turning west and into a bar just past the corner.
Ten minutes later he stepped inside the same bar—finding that it resembled a small Irish pub.
Four patrons sat at the counter, a middle-aged couple, a man in his twenties, and Verna. Fortunately, the stools on either side of her were unoccupied.
“May I?” he asked, indicating the seat on her right.
She picked up her drink, sipped, then put it down.
He didn’t wait for her answer and introduced himself.
“Vincent?” she repeated, closing her eyes and leaning back in her seat with a small groan.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“I’d rather be alone, Vincent, if you don’t mind.”
The man’s blood began to boil at the slight. But he kept his emotions in check. The germ of an idea was beginning to percolate—one that was too good to reject. So he swallowed his anger and inquired if it would be alright if he stayed for just one drink before going on his way.
Even that didn’t seem to sit well with Verna, but she nodded her head as if she had no choice in the matter.
Neither said a word until his drink—a Belvedere Martini—was served. Then he asked what was troubling her.
“Who said I was troubled?”
“I like to watch people. When you left your office, you were walking mad.”
“You saw me leave my office?”
“Yes. I knew who you were. You’ve been recommended to me, Ms. Salinger. I’m looking for a secretary and I heard you were a good one.”
“I’m good and presently employed, thank you very much.”
“But I can make it worth your while.”
He watched her mull over his comment. It always came down to money. He believed everyone had a price, no matter their self-esteem or determination.
“Sorry. Not interested.”
The little bitch. Not interested, my ass. He heard her but pretended he hadn’t. He continued to drink in silence, focusing on the fulfillment of his idea, which was beginning to delight him. When he finished his drink, he stood from the bar and said good night. The smile was back on his face and it was no longer forced.
He was confident that he could persuade Verna Sallinger to become a foot soldier in his cause. Her personal relationship with Patrick Morhardt—the drunken fool—would prove invaluable. Once Patrick was trapped and Verna Sallinger gone, he’d be left with Ann Lesage, and oh what wonderful surprises he had in store for her. His blood rushed with the thought of it. He could hardly wait.
CHAPTER 12
“Your mother called.”
The news soured the coffee Patrick had just swallowed. He put his cup down on the kitchen table. “When?”
“While you were in the shower.” Irene lifted his cup and set it on the sink counter with a thud.
“What did you tell her?” Patrick asked warily.
“That you’d already left and I didn’t know if you were heading straight in to the office this morning or not.”
He should have been out the door an hour ago. He had planned to stop at the office before his morning appointment, but last night had done him in. He’d spent most of it in the den, thinking, drinking. He lifted a shaky hand to his eyes, rubbing until they were sore.
“And what’s with your brother lately, anyway?” she demanded.
Patrick frowned at the change of subject. Even that reflex hurt, and he had to think hard to change gears. �
��What are you talking about?”
“Jonathan. He’s been stuck up Ann’s ass like an enema all week.”
“Christ, Irene, that’s crude.”
“I’m running out of niceties, Pat. I’m sick of this.”
He took his briefcase from the counter and stepped toward the door to the garage without answering.
“Talk to me, damn it!”
Patrick looked back at her, his gut churning. It occurred to him that he hated her. He wished he had it in him to hurt her, physically hurt her for all her derision and complaints over the years. Nothing had ever been good enough.
“I didn’t get the financing,” he said. “That should have been it, but Ann went ahead with the commercial shoot anyway. Mom’s pissed. She blames me. She wants this bloody doll and she expects me to find the money to pull it off. We’re out the cost of the commercial because Ann wouldn’t back down. And they’ve both got their drawers in a twist over going back on our word with the Chinese. So I’m going to have to think of another way.”
Irene stared at him, then she groaned as she leaned against the refrigerator. “You can’t do anything right,” she said.
He thought again of putting his hands around his wife’s throat, tightening, squeezing. Patrick took a deliberate step into the garage instead.
“What do I tell Felicia if she calls back?” Irene called after him.
“That I told you I was going to try one more bank before I went to the office.”
He was bone-tired and the day hadn’t even started yet. Patrick closed the door behind him. A minute later, he was in the Volvo wagon, heading for the train station.
He wasn’t going to a bank. He was going to a lawyer.
He had worked with Ann for too many years. She wouldn’t have taken his word on the bank situation. By now she would have contacted them herself and checked his version of the story. She had probably even figured out that he had never spoken to Margin at all. She’d call him on it if he couldn’t sidetrack her by miraculously producing the money she needed.
How the hell had she done it, he wondered as he left his car in the lot and headed for the train. How had she usurped him so completely over the years? He’d kept his eye on the little bitch from the first time she’d set foot in Hart Toy’s mailroom. But it wasn’t just Felicia she had wowed. She’d taken everyone by storm. Part of it was that chilly intelligence. The rest was the I-could-like-you-if-you-really-wanted-me-to vulnerability she let peek out now and then.
He’d seen how she’d done it with Matthew. Snuggling in, touching the kid’s neck, his hand. Grinning into his eyes, then backing off. I’m no good for you. He’d overheard her say that to Matt once, full of regret and shame and hopelessness.
Patrick had almost respected her then for realizing that she didn’t belong among the Morhardts. He’d cornered her coming back from the beach one night in Long Island, just before Matt had died, and he’d taken that fantastic blond hair of hers in his hand, pulling her head back, kissing her hard. He had been prepared to accept her on her own terms that night. He thought he knew what she wanted. Barefoot in the sand with that dress all fisted in her hands, she would be the perfect receptacle for his disdainful love. But she’d kneed him in the balls, showing herself to be a vicious little street fighter who would feign insult and injury. He had been enraged.
Two weeks later, she’d gone to Felicia with her pirate ship idea. They’d been planning to go big that year with his idea of a jumbo-sized model boat, but she’d coopted the concept and turned it into a ship, complete with rigging, tiny holds with gallows for the prisoners, cannons that fired ammunition, and treasure chests filled with gold coins and jewels. She’d created a map of the Caribbean circa 1560 that converted into a board game. The ship was a stand alone toy, but any kid who owned one would want an opponent to play against, and that meant another ship sold. The proceeds from the product had pretty much funded the acquisition of the game company from Chicago.
After that success, there had been no stopping her. She was creative. She was cunning. And she had a way of smiling that made men hurt.
What the hell was Jonathan doing sniffing around her these days? What was that about?
The train disgorged him in the city. Patrick stood on the platform for a woozy moment, his mind seizing on the conviction that he had to call his brother before the day was over. He had to find out what was going on with him and Ann.
Jonathan had always hated her, too. Because of her, Jonathan had lied to the authorities. Because of her, his right hand—his painting hand—had been in a cast for six weeks. Part of him wished he could let go of that horrible time, the circumstances leading up to Matt’s death, but he continued to obsess about it, year after year. He was like a dog with a bone—unable to leave it alone and let it lie forgotten.
Patrick found a cab outside the station and ordered it in the direction of Park Avenue. The office he stepped into thirty minutes later was extravagant, all dark wood and leather.
He settled into a deep chair that supported and cushioned his back, then began to consider what it would be like to redesign his own office in the style of this reception area.
The secretary jolted him out of his reverie, speaking in a voice that was silky and seductive. “Mr. Morhardt? Mr. Salsberg will see you now.”
Patrick went into the man’s office. The carpet was so thick he actually felt himself sinking into it. The incandescent lighting put him in the mood for a drink. The wet bar reminded Patrick of the pubs his brother favored, brass rail, swivel stools. And damned if there wasn’t gold-plating on the chandelier.
Three-quarters of a million a year in rent, he estimated, at the bottom side. He should have gone into law and left his mother holding the Hart Toy bag on her own.
“Patrick. Good to meet you, finally.” Richard Salsberg rose to shake his hand. Patrick had gotten the man’s number years ago, when his third drunk-driving charge had put him at risk of serving jail time, but he had never used it before now. “I have good news for you.”
Patrick’s adrenaline spiked. He had dreaded this meeting, but had still prayed for the result. “You found a bank willing to cooperate?”
“It depends somewhat on how much you really want the loan.”
“What’s the figure?”
“Fifty thousand.”
Patrick’s stomach heaved. “Fifty thousand? What does it buy me?”
“A new bank, just as I explained on the phone.”
It had been a cryptic conversation, but Patrick had gotten the gist of it. “Just like that? No questions about our inventory, or what we’re planning to do with the money?”
“Not a one.”
“How much of the fifty is yours?”
The man’s congenial smile melted like ice cream in August. “Look, you produce fifty thousand dollars and I’ll give you a bank. That’s how I fit in.”
Patrick felt more nauseous than he had at dawn, when he had upchucked the last of the cognac. He wanted the deal spelled out. “You’re saying you know of an account manager who would take a bribe?”
“I’m saying no such thing, Patrick. And none of this should concern you.”
But it did. It concerned him very much. Not the ethics actually, but the fact that he could get caught. “I haven’t gone this way before. I’d like some idea of how it works.”
“It’s strictly a matter of setting up guarantees. The account manager doesn’t want to get burned. I’ll be the one to insure his neck.”
“Right.” Patrick suddenly saw his mother’s face, her judgmental frown looming in his mind’s eye.
Salsberg stood preemptively. “Apparently you’re not ready to make a decision.”
“No, I have to.” Patrick heard himself speak the words aloud. Damn Ann Lesage. “You want cash?”
“That would be best. I’m authorized to offer you terms but … you get what you pay for, if you catch my drift.”
“Cash or questions?”
Salsberg didn’t rep
ly.
“Which bank is it?”
The lawyer made a show of looking at the papers on his desk. “Atlantic S and L.”
“I’ll have the money to you by the end of the day, at the latest first thing tomorrow.”
“Good, Patrick. I’m always willing to lend a hand.”
Patrick left the office wondering how in hell he was going to siphon fifty grand out of the company.
By the time he got to his office, his bowels were churning. Ann was standing outside his door, looking rabid.
“Well?” she demanded. “Irene told your mother that you were looking into another bank this morning. What happened?”
“I got the money from Atlantic Savings and Loan.”
She seemed to explode with relief. He wished he could have made her suffer more.
“I’d like to hear the details,” she said, pushing off his door.
“Give me ten minutes.” He needed a shot of something first, to calm himself. He had pulled off a near-miracle. By nefarious means, of course, but a miracle nonetheless.
CHAPTER 13
When the cab dumped her off at West 85th and Broadway, Ann simply wanted to collapse in front of The Savannah. Home.
She had never learned the art of letting tension roll off her. By the end of the day she was exhausted from waging war against it, as it burrowed into her, dug into her muscles, and went deep into all the visceral parts of her.
She stepped inside the lobby, moving past the concierge, her back slumped, her heels slowly clicking on the floor. By the time she made it upstairs and into her apartment, her only thought was of a Glenlivet and water.
She uncurled her fingers and let her briefcase drop. She slid her shoes off and stepped over them, padding barefoot. On the way to the kitchen, she dropped pieces of clothing and various accessories on the furniture: her suit jacket falling on the back of the bulky, bronze Telegraph Hill sofa, her earrings landing on a knobby-legged, glass-topped table with brass rim.
In the kitchen, a jarring early-eighties flashback, she plopped ice cubes into a chunky, cut-crystal glass that had been a housewarming gift from Felicia, and made herself a drink. She unzipped her skirt, twitching her hips a little so it would slide to the floor. When it puddled at her feet, she bent and swiped it up, carrying that and the Scotch back to the sofa.