“Who’d be the big boss of this new arrangement, Damien?” Don Leopoldo asks.
“Why, me, of course, and you can all serve me in a happy plantation sort of arrangement!” Damien says with a genuine full-face smile and a hearty belly laugh.
“I know you’re kidding, Damien, but it’ll be a problem. In fact it’ll kill the deal if we don’t come up with a good solution from the get-go.”
“I have an idea.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“All members of the council will be of equal rank from the start. Among ourselves, we will elect an administrator who will be paid a salary for the work of running the organization—say a million a year. There will be a mandatory rotation of the capo di tutti capi. I’m not sure how long we want each guy to serve—maybe three years; so, he can get into a good grove—but no possibility of reelection until everyone of us has had a turn. We will need to make up a constitution; so, we don’t get a dictatorship going or some kind of “president-for-life” deal. We’ll need limitations and responsibilities and a means of peaceful removal of our capo di tutti capi if he can’t perform or oversteps. What do you think?”
Don Dominic speaks for them all, “We need to sleep on it. Let’s meet uptown at my place in a week after we’ve had time to run the whole idea past our guys and after we have each had a chance to come up with suggestions about this ‘constitution’ you talked about, Damien.”
“Okay, sounds good,” Damien says. “Now, I’ve gotta get home to get ready for my daughter’s birthday party.”
Chapter Three
Damien takes a cab from the East Harlem Men’s Club on 133rd Street to Angelina Paxton’s five-story condominium at 142 West 129th Street in uptown Harlem. He directs the cabbie to let him out two blocks away from his wife and children’s condo and takes a serious calculated risk to leave his security detail back at the club to avoid calling attention to himself and thereby to the place where his family lives in relative safety under assumed identities. It is only with effort that he avoids demonstrating his usual and obvious self-protective wariness for the same reason.
The brownstone condominium building is very similar to the rest of the buildings in the neighborhood—the 10027 zip code in New York City. Desireé—he refuses to think of her as “Angelina Paxton,” a phony identity. The 3,500 square foot, five-story, ten-room, three-bath building was originally constructed in 1893 and reconstructed in 2002. It was recently appraised at $1,921,586, and its value has been increasing every year. The two-family brownstone building includes an owner’s triplex and a simplex floor-through rental unit that provides Desireé, Cinnamon, and Paprika a comfortable independent income. Damien has no legal ownership; the condo is owned on paper by the fake person, Angelina Paxton. Damien does not begrudge Desireé the ownership or the profit; she deserves it. Unlike many of the wives and girlfriends of his associates in his business, Desireé has never been a high-maintenance girl, and her demands on him are minimal except for her altogether understandable desire for safety for their daughters. Despite all of his and her precautions, Damien carries a low-grade anxiety that their identities and address may become known, and they may become endangered.
He knocks—although he does not have to—and Desireé admits him into the owner’s triplex. As soon as the door closes behind him, Desireé plants a fervent open-mouth kiss and a full body embrace that creates the old stir her body always does. Despite the separate arrangements of their lives, that aspect remains undimmed in its intensity. There is a hurried and chaotic disrobing and a trail of clothing from the entryway to the master bedroom that does not require an Eagle Scout to follow. When the personal heat diminishes, the still loving couple lies close beside each other and begins to talk in the comfort of the condo’s central air conditioning and an overhead fan that make this small oasis in the teeming and unseasonably hot city a place of refuge for both of them.
“How’s business, Damien?” Desireé asks, as interested as ever in the legitimate side of Damien’s interests.
“I’ll give us ten years to get completely legit. I have been putting a lot of money into REITs and an investment called the Vulture Fund that buys up properties that have been foreclosed on, fixes them up, and sells them at a profit. I have actually bought two of them, and they bring in about $12,000 a month after taxes. I should have the principal paid off in ten years.”
“Sorry, Damien, you told me before what a REIT is, but I forget.”
“Real Estate Investment Trust. You and I own a tree farm, a peach orchard in Georgia; and you own—all by yourself—a huge potato farm someplace in Idaho. Those investments come to completion in five years. We can sell them and move over to some Utah drilling companies which pay a big dividend as they bring up natural gas. America leads the world in natural gas production, and this investment looks like a long-term keeper.”
“Well, I’m glad about the Idaho investment. I have always liked huge potatoes,” Desireé jokes. “Are you keeping safe with the rest of the business?”
“As a matter of fact, just this morning I set in motion a plan to get my competitors to take a civilized and cooperative deal which should make our lives a lot safer. We’ll join instead of continuing to fight. That should ease my way into retirement. I’m hoping that this arrangement will give stability for doing business and help to eliminate problems of succession when my time comes. In the past, most of my predecessors could not find a safe permanent way to leave that end of the business. I’m hoping this idea will make it both safe, easy, and profitable which should make the idea of hostile takeovers less appealing.”
Desireé laughs inwardly at Damien’s euphemistic description of his business. It is as if he were explaining his most recent spreadsheet for a paper products factory. She smiles.
Among other things Damien loves about his young wife is her easy and toothy smile. She is a beautiful woman with an unblemished café au lait complexion. She has honored his request that she not mark her skin with tattoos or piercings except for earrings, and he is grateful at her willingness given the exploding trend of inking as much skin as possible by both men and women—”tramp stamps” he calls them. Tattoos on women remind him far too much of the drug besotted women he employs in his most lucrative “other business,” the one he makes a strong effort never to mention to his wife. Desireé has lustrous thick black hair that has been artfully straightened to hang gently down to the bottom of her neck. Without him asking, she has avoided coloring her hair with some blue or green or purple stripes—also a fashion statement which his drifted snow girls have taken up with enthusiasm. She is small—size 2—and lissome. Her finely chiseled face bespeaks a beauty derived from a fortunate genetic selection.
“Let’s talk about the party, Damien. I’m so sorry that you can’t be there. The girls understand … sort of. I want us to be together for a while before the party, probably as soon as they get home from school. What do you think about us having a little late lunch—something simple—at the hotel before everybody starts coming?”
“How can we pull that off? It won’t take any feat of genius to become suspicious if they see us together.”
“You’re not the only one who knows a guy or two who can get things done. I made an executive decision and booked a room at the Carlyle on 76th Street and Madison Avenue under a phony name. You are Lester Givens, and I am your dutiful wife, Katrina. We have a suite, and we can order room service.”
Damien laughs. He loves the fine old hotel, which debuted in 1930. He knows that a suite would set him back about $600, and he does not care.
“Get a room with a view?”
“Of course. It’s on Madison Avenue overlooking Central Park. And it’s luxurious.”
“I’ll just bet,” Damien says. “And, it’s known for being a serious purveyor of privacy. Okay, Katrina. Text me the particulars about the room and the time, and I’ll be there bearing gifts. You are a prize, and I promise you that your day will come. We’ll be legit; and we’ll live s
omeplace safe, tropical, and obscure reasonably soon.”
Desireé gives him a broad and guiless smile. For him it is reward enough.
“Okay, c’mon girls, it’s time to get you home and into your party dresses, then we’ll be off to the Carlyle Hotel for a big shebang!” Lydia Fairchild tells them.
Lydia is the senior security officer from the New York Protection Service. She is a former Secret Service agent whose specialty is guarding children. She managed security operations for the previous president’s three school-age children. It was her decision to wait until the school clears; so, they will have clear traffic back to the condominium on 142 West 129th Street. She works at not being distracted by the prospects of what her date—her first in almost a year—will be like. He seems like a great guy. Her choice of departure is likely to make them slightly late, but the diminished traffic and a few broken speed limits should let them get to the condo in plenty of time for the girls to get ready.
Lydia and the girls start for the limo. Chet Nichols is outside checking for threats. He motions to Andy Lusesky—the new guy—and Lydia that it is safe to leave the building. The Harlem World Academy Lower School stands on a large campus at 120 West 120th Street three blocks from Morningside Park, half a block from 7th Avenue, between 7th Ave. (on the east) and Central Park West, which shortly becomes Frederick Douglass Boulevard. The school campus and its buildings are a security guard’s nightmare—all open and airy—and with no place to be obscure, let alone to hide. Every day the guards have the same routine that entails serious surveillance and full attention all the time.
Andy comes to the unit as the defensive driving specialist with impressive credentials. He chauffeured foreign diplomats for the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, US Department of State for ten years and remains a defensive driving instructor for the DOD and state. He was wooed away from his regular government career to take a more adventuresome job with the Lanza Family higher-ups. Damien approved him as a substitute for Hank Duffy—who chose this particular day to develop a bleeding ulcer—largely because of his association with the Genovese family bosses. The final choice was Damien’s, although Desireé’s contacts at the school recommended him first.
The girls know the drill. As soon as Chet opens the door, they run to the backseat of the armored Mercedes S550 Rolls Royce Edition limo, get in as quickly as possible, and lean forward; so, they cannot be seen from outside the vehicle. The limo is as attack-proof as the US vice-president’s. Andy guns the powerful engine; and they roll out of the campus and onto the city streets, pushing other cars into other lanes. They make good time until they approach the intersection of Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard and 125th Street, where there is some sort of police blockade. A uniformed NYPD officer approaches the driver’s window and gestures for Andy to open it.
“Sorry for the delay, sir,” the officer says. “Accident. We should be cleared in less than five minutes.”
It is a commentary on New Yorkers that nobody even pauses to take notice of the accident and the three police vehicles surrounding it, or the sleek black limousine. Andy breaks policy rules and opens the door to step out and look.
Chet says to Lydia, “Hey, the newbie is outside the car; and he left the doors unlocked.”
Lydia is about to shrug the minor infraction off; but the start of her comment is interrupted by all six doors of the limo opening at once; and six men in military black outfits and wearing ski masks point Uzis at everyone in the car.
Lydia reaches for her gun and receives a sharp slap across the face.
“No guns. Hands in plain sight. Everybody out! Now!”
Cinnamon and Paprika start to cry. Lydia calms them. Andy, Chet, and Lydia are pulled out onto the street, handcuffed with their hands behind them, hooded, and thrown into the back of a large unmarked van. The two little girls are removed bodily and placed in hoods and wrist and ankle bindings as well. A nondescript four-door Chevy pulls alongside the van, and the girls are lifted into the backseat. As soon as the van and the car drive away—no more than ten seconds after the limousine pulled to a stop—the three cop cars drive off as well, as if they were so blind that they missed the kidnapping. According to the handful of witnesses who were later questioned, someone drove the limo away. The entire scenario was like something out of a movie or TV action show, and had an air of complete unreality. The witnesses were unclear as to whether or not a kidnapping had occurred since the van blocked the view of people on the sidewalk. No one got a license number. No police vehicles were indicated on the precinct logs as having been dispatched to the area, and there was no report of an accident or any other kind of an incident. A New York Times reporter covering the police beat is given a brief description of the possible incident and reports it to the editor’s desk. It appears at the bottom of page nine, section D, the next day.
Chapter Four
Damien and Desireé sit in their suite in the Carlyle waiting for the security team to call. The girls and their guards should be cleaned up at Desireé’s condo by now. Desireé opens her iPhone address book and taps Lydia’s number. There is no answer—which is extremely odd—and quite unlike the overly conscientious Lydia to fail to pick up after six rings. She usually responds in one or two.
“Try Chet Nichols,” Damien suggests, not as concerned as his wife, “maybe Lydia forgot to charge her cell or turned it off for some reason.”
Desireé finds Chet’s number and calls. Six rings. Nothing.
Damien’s interest is now piqued.
“Do we have a number for the new guy … what’s his name?”
“Andy … Andy Lusky or something like that.”
“Lusesky,” Damien remembers.
“I don’t have his number.”
Damien looks on his cell phone address list then punches the listing for New York Protection Service.
As soon as the call is answered, Damien says, “This is Damien Markee. Put me through to Carl Baird.”
“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Baird is in a meeting. I will leave him a message, and he will call back first thing.”
“Get him now. My daughters and their security team are out of contact. Mr. Baird will talk to me immediately.”
His voice is calm and quiet, but the menace in his tone carries through the phone as if he had been broadcasting in Yankee stadium to an overflow crowd.
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“No. Just do it.”
Two minutes later, the CEO is on the line.
“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Markee?”
“My children are out of contact—maybe missing. Tell me what you know from their security team.”
“Yes, sir. Hang on while I check.”
A minute later, Baird returns, “I can’t reach them. They last checked in about an hour ago just as the limo left Harlem World Academy Lower School. No news since. I have three teams on their way to retrace the limo’s path. We’ll find them. Stay close to your cell.”
“I am going to send my people out as well. Don’t get into a snit if they cross your path. We are going to know what is going on; and we are going to know that as fast as is humanly possible, Baird. Understood?”
“Clearly. I’ll get back to you.”
Usually Damien Markee’s face is a bland mask when dealing with perceived crises. Now, it is a specter of determination and mounting anger. His jaw muscles are clenched,; his brow is wrinkled; and his mouth is set in a tight-lipped line. It is a face that has made many men cower and beg. Damien is a big man in top physical condition. He is six feet four inches tall and weighs a lean 245 pounds. His muscles are all well-defined—both from his almost religious workout schedule and his thrice weekly martial arts training. Unlike his wife’s café au lait skin coloration, Damien’s is a very dark brown—almost black. He is dressed in a handmade navy blue custom tailored Saint Laurie Merchant Tailors suit. The suit is an Ivy League cut that hugs his muscular frame. He is wearing a freshly laundered and heavily starched custom French-cuff shir
t and 22-carat gold cufflinks. His thousand dollar Gucci Diamante boots were handmade in Casellina, outside of Florence. This is his class-A uniform, the one that his business associates see him in. God save the man who gets to see him in his work clothes—all black SWAT style combat apparel made for physical activity. Sometimes—when absolutely necessary—Damien dons a heavy black retro slaughterhouse bib apron. Grown men all cry when he does. If something has happened to his daughters, he will readily put on his work clothes to deal with the issue.
He punches in his right-hand man—Clarence “The Turk” Appleton’s—number and has a terse conversation. He explains the recent events and his concerns.
“Full court press,” he says to end the conversation.
“Should we call the police, Damien?” Desireé asks pleadingly, fighting to hold back tears.
“Not yet, Desireé. If they have been taken, we don’t want to spook the kidnappers.”
Desireé begins to cry softly. She knows her husband all too well; and she knows intellectually, if not emotionally, that he is right.
“What do we do then?”
“We have teams out which will scour Harlem. It is probably nothing, and we’ll find them getting an ice-cream cone or something. But—whatever is going on—we will get farther faster if we avoid a police and media circus.”
“I’m sure you know best, Damien. But, get them all to hurry. I’m scared.”
He is head and shoulders taller than his model-framed wife and outweighs her by 135 pounds. He envelopes her slender body with his huge arms and pulls her tightly against him.
The Boss’s Daughters Page 2