The Hazards of Good Fortune

by Seth Greenland

  The government-issued brown sedan pulled into the Gladstones’ Bedford driveway. Lou Pagano climbed out of the passenger seat, Officer Russell Plesko from behind the wheel. Today was the summit of Pagano’s career. It wasn’t every day someone in the DA’s office got to haul in a catch this size. Pagano couldn’t wait to tell his wife about it, his colleagues at the office, the guys with whom he fished in Pelham Bay on weekends. Although Gladstone’s lawyer had negotiated a media blackout, Pagano had tipped off a photographer so there would be at least one picture of him and Gladstone in every paper and on every news website in the country.

  He took in the house, its scale, the Gilded Age atmosphere. Why was anyone in America permitted to have this kind of money, Pagano wondered. He was no Bolshevik but that degree of wealth—something from a parallel universe—disgusted him and, on a level so deep he refused to acknowledge it, made him feel insignificant. But Lou Pagano was not insignificant, far from it. An esteemed member of the New York State Bar, a dedicated public servant. And today, as a representative of the people, he was going to haul the great Jay Gladstone to prison.

  “You hear that?” Plesko asked.

  “What?”

  “Sounded like gunfire.”

  “Probably some rich prick, fooling around with a deer rifle,” Pagano said.

  “You don’t think Gladstone killed himself in the backyard or something?”

  “Too much self-regard.”

  Pagano lifted his chin to indicate that Plesko should move toward the house. He wanted to stand right where he was and watch as Gladstone opened the door and took it all in, the uniformed officer, the official vehicle, the deputy district attorney on his lawn like a stone-cold avenger. Gladstone would have to walk as a supplicant toward Lou Pagano.

  Plesko climbed the steps and stopped. At the front door was a gym bag. Had Gladstone left it there and gone for a walk? Was he watching them? Spidery legs skittered up Pagano’s spine. Maybe they’d call Gladstone on the phone and tell him to come out.

  “Hey, Russell,” he yelled.

  The cop was holding the bag when he turned around.

  “Yeah?”

  There was an ear-shattering roar and then a blazing mixture of sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate enveloped Plesko in a luminous cloud that blasted a hole in the front of the house. The force of the explosion knocked Pagano to the ground where for several seconds he lay disoriented and terrified. The acrid smell of gunpowder was overpowering. Torn strips of soot, oil, and ash drifted through the air. His ears rang, and all he could hear was what sounded like a rushing river. He couldn’t see anything. He realized his eyes were filled with blood and he wiped it off with the forearm of his suit coat. Tried to get his bearings. Twenty feet away lay a tree branch that he realized was a human arm. Pagano examined himself to confirm that it did not belong to him. He unsteadily clambered to his feet. After making sure everything was intact, his first instinct was to check the perimeter to make sure the explosion did not portend more havoc. He wheeled toward the road and saw nothing. He turned around nearly losing his footing in the process and took in the destruction. Plesko was gone, and the part of the house where the front door used to be was on fire. In the ethereal quiet Pagano heard a percussive sound, a rhythm beating as if from deep in the earth. Then Gladstone appeared over the crest of the hill astride a horse. High in the saddle, silhouetted against low gray clouds, he resembled a Cossack galloping through the wispy smoke of a battlefield. There was a dark blotch on his leg.

  It was impossible for Jay to know what had happened. After the second gunshot, he had managed to get the horse, crazed with fear, to gallop. They had burst from the woods and were charging toward the house when an explosion rocked the property. At first, he thought perhaps it was the boiler or a gas leak, but when he rounded the corner and absorbed the carnage, he realized it was far worse. Lou Pagano was stumbling around, grievously injured. A car he did not recognize was damaged. His home was on fire. Jay had to decide on the fly. Unlike the time he faced down D’Angelo Maxwell when the temporary opacity of his mind had inhibited his thinking, on this day everything was clear.

  Pagano gestured toward him, raised his arms. The man was trying to talk. His jaw jittered, but no words emerged. He looked like the ghastly dummy of an evil ventriloquist. Jay’s natural instinct to help rose up, but he recognized that it was impossible. Whatever had caused this nightmarish vision, the world would blame him. An already intractable legal situation would only get worse. He dug the heel of his good leg into the horse and kept riding.

  Jay Gladstone was not the kind of man who went out for a carton of milk and did not return. He was dependable and trustworthy, a man of substance, a man whose absence was unimaginable. Yet he vanished.

  THE ACE, W.A.C.E. AM

  NEW YORK SPORTS TALK RADIO

  WITH SAL D’AMICO AND THE SPORTSCHICK

  Sal: He’s guilty. No doubt in my mind. Guilty, guilty, guilty.

  Sportschick: How do you know? You don’t know anything.

  Sal: My gut tells me, okay? The guy is due to surrender then he changes his mind.

  Sportschick: And he blows up a cop?

  Sal: He’s no better than a terrorist.

  Sportschick: Jay Gladstone would never have done this.

  Sal: I’m not saying he did it himself.

  Sportschick: Who helped?

  Sal: Maybe the Mob, maybe the Mossad. What do I know? He’s headed to jail, a bomb goes off, and who benefits? Gladstone! Come on! Guy’s probably on a tropical island wiggling his toes in the sand.

  Sportschick: So, your theory is this guy who was an upstanding citizen his whole life—

  Sal: A slumlord.

  Sportschick: Jay Gladstone is not a slumlord.

  Sal: Anyone who owns buildings in the Bronx is a slumlord.

  Sportschick: All of a sudden, he becomes a terrorist?

  Sal: Who else had a motive? Gladstone knew he was going down and wanted to take someone with him. Simple as that. Let’s go to a caller. Daryl from Staten Island, you’re on the ACE.

  Caller #1: What’s up guys, longtime listener, first-time caller. Here’s my theory.

  Sal: Let’s hear it.

  Caller #1: Al-Qaeda.

  Sportschick: Al-Qaeda killed that cop?

  Caller #1: Yeah, but their target was Jay Gladstone. Look, he was racist, anti-Muslim, and he was going to be out of their reach so when they had a chance—KABOOM! The cop got in the way.

  Sal: I don’t think so. Mikey from Tenafly, you’re on the ACE.

  Caller #2: It was his wife.

  Sportschick: Nicole made a bomb?

  Caller #2: No, listen. She wanted to help him get away. Has anyone seen her since this went down? They’re back together.

  Sal: That’s not what happened, Mikey. Gladstone built that bomb or hired someone to build it for him, which is more likely. He set it to go off when the cops arrived. In my book that makes the guy a serial killer. He needs to be hunted down, brought to justice, tried, and, if convicted, spend the rest of his life stamping license plates.

  Sportschick: You’re maligning him, Sal, just like every other mook in America. What is it about the destruction of prominent people that we love so much? Why do we revel in it?

  Sal: Who’s reveling? I’m not reveling! Guy’s a vicious killer, a lowlife, and you’re defending him? What’s wrong with you? Let’s go to another caller.

  Sportchick: Don’t go to another caller, not yet. Look in the mirror, Sal. We’re jackals, okay? Jumping a wounded animal and tearing into it with our teeth for what, entertainment? We’re selling advertising time on the back of a tragedy and, honestly, I’m disgusted. Are you not in the least disgusted?

  Sal: If I were disgusted by horrible human behavior would I be doing sports talk radio? I talk about horrible human behavior because it reminds me I don’t act
like that. We need the Jay Gladstones of the world, the terrible human beings, because they let us feel good about ourselves. As far as his behavior goes, I’m entertained by it, and the fans will tell us if they’re not entertained, and when they’re not entertained, we’ll stop doing it.

  Sportschick: And when are they going to stop being entertained by the misery of other people?

  Sal: That would be, let’s see—never? All right. Let’s take a call. Phil from Floral Park is on the line.

  EPILOGUE

  By his disappearance, Jay Gladstone no longer had legal standing to pursue a lawsuit against his cousin Franklin, so his sister Bebe became the chief plaintiff and she prepared for a protracted conflict. After vowing to fight until all avenues were exhausted, Franklin quickly settled the case. He paid back the funds he had “borrowed” from the company, and agreed to cover all of Bebe’s legal fees. They divided the kingdom into two separate and discrete entities with no ownership overlap. The agreement prohibited Franklin from using the name Gladstone to designate any of his future endeavors.

  The transition from second in command to being the CEO of the Gladstone Group was effortless for Bebe. With Boris as her deputy, she managed the business with steady competence that instilled confidence in every employee worried about the harmful consequences of Jay’s absence. Every day she hoped for news from her brother and, although she understood that it would be risky for him to contact her, she longed to at least receive word that he was alive.

  A year went by, then another. She did not hear from him.

  It was early morning in Amagansett on the eastern end of Long Island, and Bebe had just finished a call with Boris, who was in Abu Dhabi supervising their first project in the Middle East. There had been a problem with the delivery of Chinese steel, and to resolve the situation an industrialist from Beijing had to be looped into the conversation. In turquoise linen shorts and a white T-shirt, Bebe stood on the deck of her sprawling home and gazed over undulating dunes flecked with patches of straw grass beyond which the Atlantic Ocean boomed. An arrow formation of Canadian geese bisected the low-slung sun, beating north to Newfoundland for the summer. Shielding her eyes, she watched as their wings etched the cerulean dome of sky.

  Aviva stepped into the morning and inhaled the salty air. She wore a sleek one-piece bathing suit and a floppy straw hat. A tube of sunscreen in one hand, a mug of tea in the other, and a beach bag slung over her shoulder. Bebe informed her that they were going to spend the day on a friend’s yacht and sail to Fishers Island off the coast of Connecticut.

  “I can’t remember the last time I was on a boat,” Aviva said.

  “Just do what the captain tells you.”

  Aviva mock-saluted her aunt, who mock-saluted back. “Can we talk about how patriarchal the whole ‘captain’ thing is?”

  With a sly half-smile, Bebe said, “The captain is a woman, so your assumption was a little sexist.”

  For a moment Aviva looked embarrassed at having been exposed as an adherent of the status quo, but then she grinned, as if in surrender. Bebe appreciated the easy rapport they had, a recent development. They had not been close when Aviva was growing up. Whether it was because of the divorce or because Aviva was just not drawn to her, she was never certain. Whatever the cause, Bebe was grateful for the shift. Since Aviva moved to Brooklyn after college, Bebe tried to see her semi-regularly for lunch or a movie but the two women were both busy with work and travel, and it was not always easy to find the time. She was pleased that Aviva agreed to spend the weekend at the beach house.

  Bebe gestured to a pair of Adirondack chairs on the deck and asked Aviva to sit down; there was a matter she wanted to discuss. Settling in, Aviva regarded her aunt guardedly, wondering if this barefoot morning had become more formal.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  Bebe laughed. “No, nothing like that.” She paused a moment, sea breeze rippling her hair, trying to decide where to begin. “I’ve got so much going on—the project in Abu Dhabi, and now it looks like we might be doing something in Bahrain, and I haven’t been able to pay proper attention to our family foundation, which was incredibly important to my brother. So.” Aviva inclined her head, which Bebe took to be an encouraging sign of interest. “What’s been going on with your work?”

  “I’m producing a documentary with a couple of partners.” Aviva’s voice ascended slightly at the conclusion of the sentence as if she couldn’t quite believe it herself and was asking her aunt whether it was true. The information did not surprise Bebe. Aviva’s family money brought her into contact with a world of people, some genuinely talented, others less so, all of whom were exhilarated by the possibilities it offered. “The project came together a month ago, and I’m going to Germany next week so we can start shooting. It’s about the refugee crisis.” Bebe was amused by this and Aviva noticed. “What?”

  “Your grandfather hated Germans,” Bebe said. “Hated them.”

  “It’s a new world,” Aviva said. “Now they’re the good guys.”

  “Anyway, the foundation was never much more than your father and me, but there’s a significant endowment, and I’d like for you to get involved.”

  Aviva’s face glowed. “Do you remember who you’re talking to? I’m barely an adult.”

  Bebe ignored this. “I need to know if you want to step up because if things work out, you’ll eventually be running it.”

  Although flattered by her aunt’s suggestion, Aviva didn’t answer right away. Instead, she squirted sunscreen on to her palm and began to apply it to her legs. “You’re not going to believe who left a message on my phone,” she said. “A producer for Christine Lupo’s TV show.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “For the third time.”

  “That woman wouldn’t dare call me,” Bebe declared, recalling their encounter at Franklin’s penthouse. It was no surprise to Bebe that after Christine Lupo got crushed in the gubernatorial election, she was hired to host a cable news show with a particular emphasis on crime.

  “Like I’m going to go on TV and talk about my father,” Aviva said.

  Bebe marveled at the solidarity her niece exhibited. Jay used to talk about how little he thought family meant to his daughter.

  Finished with her legs, Aviva squeezed sunscreen on to her arms. “You know, he once asked me to go with you to give scholarships to kids.”

  “Why didn’t you come?”

  “I was mad at him,” Aviva said, a shadow passing over her face at the unpleasant memory. “If he knew you were asking me to participate in the foundation—”

  “He would love it,” Bebe said.

  “Hah!”

  While Bebe sensed that Aviva had grown to understand her father’s complexity, and this resulted in what appeared to be a greater degree of compassion for his suffering, she could tell that a residue of deep ambivalence remained.

  “Promise me you’ll think about it,” Bebe said.

  Aviva rose from the chair and handed her aunt the sunscreen. “Would you please do my back?”

  Bebe began to rub the lotion over Aviva’s smooth shoulders. The smell was pleasant, and they did not talk as she massaged in a circular motion. Aviva was twenty-four now and had matured more quickly than her aunt had expected, given the stories Jay had told when his daughter was growing up. Perhaps it was the seriousness of what befell her father, or maybe it would have happened anyway, but Aviva was different from the angry child she had been.

  “So, are you interested?”

  “We should talk about it,” Aviva said, sitting back in the Adirondack chair. She removed her hat and began to brush her hair. In the salty air, it required extra attention.

  Bebe felt gratified as she began to apply sunscreen. Her muscles were still taut. Her complexion remained youthful. There were endless new obligations and yet Bebe was not so harried that she couldn’t spend a tra
nquil day on the Long Island Sound with her niece and some friends. She had not expected to find herself in this position but inhabited the role as if it had always been hers. Bebe had recently taken on a more public profile—giving speeches, hosting charitable events—and found that people responded positively. Profoundly affected by Jay’s situation and the treatment he received from those in lofty positions, she was thinking about getting into politics.

  The baby’s eager cries could barely be heard over the banging of the steel hammer Nicole employed to fabricate the silver and onyx bracelet she was crafting at the living room workbench in her Manhattan apartment. Orders had been pouring into her jewelry business, and she was keen to show this piece to a department store buyer with whom she was meeting later that week. But nap time was over, and there were other priorities. The boy smiled when he saw his mother and bounced on the balls of his feet waiting to be picked up from the crib. He was eighteen months old with coppery skin, and his black hair corkscrewed in all directions. Already big for his age.

  Afternoon light streamed through the curtains and brightened the assortment of toys on the floor. Stepping over them to get to a fresh diaper, Nicole placed her son on the changing table, smeared ointment on what remained of a minor rash, wafted some powder over his wriggling body, and fastened the adhesives.

  With her hair in a ponytail and a touch of makeup, Nicole pushed the stroller out of the postwar building and on to East 87th Street. She headed west across Third Avenue toward Central Park where she was going to meet her friend Audrey. The toy truck that the baby held was a gift from his uncle Trey, who sent it from Europe where he was playing with a professional basketball team in the Spanish league.

  In the time since Jay disappeared Nicole had found an apartment, given birth, and filed for divorce. Her marital status was currently in limbo since there was no way to reach the other party. Speculation abounded. There were accounts of him in Caracas, and Buenos Aires, and various cities in Africa, but no one could say for sure where he was living. On a day as magnificent as this, she did her best to not worry about it.