‘But you don’t want to pay the right price.’
‘It doesn’t even have to be big. I’m not looking for a lot of square footage here, Mr Fassbaum. I’d take a small boutique in the right spot, any day.’
He stared. ‘Miss, for you, the right spot is Times Square. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve shown you some genuine bargains and you’re still not satisfied.’
Dina’s eyes widened. She took a step backwards.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. Fine.’ She tugged at her jacket. ‘Look, bear with me, Mr Fassbaum. I appreciate you showing me this space. I . . . I‘m going to do some more research and come right back to you. I hope that’s all right.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ Fassbaum said, to her departing back. Then he pulled out his Blackberry and erased Dina Kane from his contact list.
Goddamn time waster
. He felt like an idiot.
Dina ran to the subway and got on the express to Times Square. She felt her heart beating, her pulse racing.
For you, the right spot is Times Square
.
Of course it was. The centre of Manhattan: the neon skyscrapers, the moving advertisements, the giant billboards and stock tickers – the beating heart of the richest, most powerful, most
beautiful
city in the world. Was that nuts? Billboards here cost two hundred thousand dollars a month, and that was just for the signage, before you spent one cent on electric screens. She could hardly afford market rent for a goddamn storefront.
And yet . . . And yet . . . Times Square: it was her home, it had to be, it just had to be. The train slid into the station and she rushed out, joining the throng of tourists and commuters, all that foot traffic, the most you could imagine. Here was the heart of everything, and of Dina Kane.
She walked around the square. It wasn’t, of course – wasn’t square. A sort of diamond-shaped space, everything that looked directly on to it counted: Paramount Pictures, Toys ‘R’ Us and ABC’s flagship studio building. But Dina wasn’t disheartened; she looked elsewhere – at the other subway stations, how people came here, where they travelled. Broadway was reserved for the fancy shows, but Seventh Avenue had a couple of diners . . . office buildings . . . and a subway station, right there. And, as Dina looked around, the answer was staring her in the face.
If ‘staring’ was the right word. Perhaps ‘poking’ was more accurate. There, right in front of her, was a silhouette of a bare-breasted woman with cartoonishly erect nipples. It was just a little store frontage, all black, with a faded red carpet and a sign, calling it a
Gentleman’s Establishment
, inviting her to come downstairs.
Dina watched that entrance for twenty minutes straight. Not a single customer. This was an eyesore – a remnant from Times Square’s sleazy past. It had to be rent controlled, and there was no doubt in her mind that the city would love to lose it.
She picked up the phone and called Fassbaum.
‘What do you want?’
‘I think I might have found somewhere. On Seventh Avenue. A strip club.’
‘Why would the tenant want to give his business up?’
That was what she didn’t know just yet, but she was determined to find a reason. ‘Maybe I can make him a better offer. Can you run the address and see who rents the space?’
There was a heavy sigh. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Just for doing a few searches, I’ll buy you a coffee and give you two thousand dollars in cash. Not the firm’s commission – just your cash.’
There was a pause. ‘I’ll come back to you.’
Within ten minutes, her phone rang again. ‘Find another strip club. This one’s a non-starter.’
‘Why? Who’s got it?’
A beat. ‘Some people from Westchester.’
‘Westchester?’ Dina repeated. Why would suburban hicks want a strip joint in Times Square?
And then it dawned on her. ‘What kind of people? Italian people?’
‘Do your own research. And keep your goddamned coffee.’
Dina hung up, ecstatic. She knew exactly who Fassbaum meant. What a blast from the past! She hailed a cab, heading home to do just that – work on her computer; do her research. She would need it for the presentation she would make tomorrow.
At nine a.m. precisely the next morning, Dina put her laptop in its carry case, headed out of her building and walked towards the nearest subway. She would go to Grand Central and work on the way. There was no time to waste. This company needed to launch within the month.
And that meant taking risks.
Chapter Seventeen
‘There is a girl at the gatehouse, Don Angelo, asking for admittance.’
The mafioso looked up at his valet. This kind of thing was unusual, these days. His wife and children had long since been moved to a mansion outside of Bronxville, where they enjoyed the local schools and suburban life. He wanted to head into the city, but there was too much business in Westchester. Leaders who took their eyes off the ball wound up ousted, and that usually meant dead.
It wasn’t machine-gun drive-bys outside steak houses anymore, either. Law enforcement was far too good for that. When somebody got whacked, it was far more subtle, more terrifying. Bad medicine. A heart attack. Yachting accident. The boys were getting smart.
Angelo had plans, and was executing them. As much of the junk stuff as possible, he was selling off, dumping, losing. Discipline was necessary amongst the soldiers; made men knew to keep their mouths shut, even amongst themselves. He was experimenting with online gambling, where the big money was made. The older, bloodthirsty types were pensioned off – buy them waterfront condos in Florida, mansions in La Jolla, even estates in Tuscany, in the old country – divide and rule.
Things were changing, and he liked it that way.
But there were privileges he wanted to keep. Businessmen were afraid of him, afraid to say no. That mattered. He’d wiped guys out, didn’t give a fuck about that. And girls never refused him, either. They opened their legs the way developers opened their wallets.
But he called for them, not the other way round. He didn’t like pieces of ass turning up without appointments. They whined for favours, money, help. Some of the girls dared to think they could have a relationship. He wasn’t like other men, though; they were warned off, and it usually only took one go. A friend paid them a visit, had a word. After that, the girl kept her mouth shut.
He enjoyed that – the basics – power, pussy, the fear he inspired in other men. Even while he legitimised, he kept all those things good and close. Besides, the boys expected it of a Don. They were all taking chances; that was the life.
‘Which one?’
‘None of the regular girls. Says you’ve seen her before. A beauty, though.’ Tony kissed his fingers. ‘Maybe twenty-four; a great-looking lay. She says she wants to do business. We can find some business for her . . .’
‘Name?’
‘Diana something. Diana Kane. Something like that.’
Don Angelo shook his head a little. ‘That name rings a bell. Send her into the office.’
‘You want company?’
‘I think I can handle a twenty-four-year-old, Tony.’
‘OK, boss.’ His consigliere made a face. The killers came younger these days, and never like you’d expect. What if the girl had a needle? A pill? Angelo was his responsibility; anything happened to him, Tony was in trouble. And he had a wife and two daughters at home – they needed their dad – and the
famiglia
was unforgiving when it came to a
capo
. Which this urbane son of a bitch still was.
He pressed a button on the phone. ‘Send her to the house. She can be shown to the office.’
They waited. A minute later, the girl arrived. Tony smacked his lips again.
Hell, what a great ass on that chick. A beauty – real classy
. He would put her rate at thousands an hour; a girl for high rollers on Wall Street. She was wearing demure clothes, which made her even sexier: a knee-length sweaterdress in cream cashmere and light brown flats. Her legs were bare, tanned, and her hair was twisted on top of her head in a bun. She had green eyes, and she carried a cute chestnut leather bag and, incongruously, a laptop in a case.
The computer would have run through the scanner. They put one in last year – same standard as you had in courthouses and public schools. Don Angelo took no chances.
‘Do I know you?’ Angelo said.
He lifted a finger, and Tony reluctantly took himself out of the room. He would hover outside, and that was OK. Angelo didn’t think the girl was here to fuck, although he toyed with the idea of making her do just that. She certainly was gorgeous.
But not a hooker. You could go as high-end as you liked – and the fresh-faced girls always came the most expensive – there was always some desperation behind that pretty smile, some stress from alcohol and drugs and self-loathing. There was none of that in this girl’s features. She wasn’t in the life. And that made him more curious.
‘You saw me once before, Don Angelo. Do you remember?’
‘I see lots of people.’ But then he did remember, and he started with surprise. ‘Wait – you’re the daughter . . . That guy on one of my crews.’
‘Paul Kane. Yes.’
‘You had a problem with your mother. I fixed it.’
‘Yes, sir, you did. Thank you, Don Angelo.’
He liked that, liked it a lot. It was sexy, hearing the girl call him
sir
, the submission laced into it. He started to feel aroused. She should be careful what she was playing with. She was older now, fair game.
‘I know the men that knew my father were grateful you respected one of your own,’ Dina said, like she could read his mind.
Boom! The start of a hard-on shrivelled right up again. Angelo almost laughed, she was playing the game so well.
‘Nicely done.’
‘Excuse me, sir?’
‘You understand me. Don’t waste my time, pretty girl, I’m a lot busier than you are.’
She smiled, ducking her head in acknowledgement, and he almost liked her for it. His was a pretty segregated society; he didn’t have women friends, didn’t mix with them outside of church and parties. This was something new, and he was kind of enjoying it.
‘I would like to do some business with you, Don Angelo. Just something small.’
He pushed back his chair. His office was wood-panelled, filled with old leather-bound books he’d never read and Roman antiques his wife liked to shop for. The computer and phones were the only concessions to modernity. There were none to femininity.
‘You have no business with me, girl. You understand, you are lucky to be Paul Kane’s daughter. You’re alone and you’re tempting. Try not to be so stupid. Clearly, you’re not Italian.’
Now Dina laughed. ‘No. Irish. My father never got made, never got close. Anyway, don’t be so sure about what business I do or don’t have, Don Angelo. Things changed for me after I came to see you.’
‘Unless you won the lottery, honey, they didn’t change enough.’
‘I moved to the city, launched a face cream, sold my share for half a million dollars. I bought and sold a few apartments. I ran the beauty department at a big department store.’ Don Angelo settled back in his chair; she now had his full attention. ‘They fired me after six months, even though I turned their shitty store around, because I refused the owner’s son when he proposed marriage.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Didn’t love him.’
Angelo chuckled. ‘How old fashioned! Go on.’
‘There’s a noncompetition clause in my contract, so I can’t take another job in the industry. Instead, I’m starting my own business. I’ll be great at it; it’s what I know.’
‘And you’ve come back to me for funds.’
‘No, sir. I’ve got the money.’
Dina Kane had surprised him for the third time that day.
‘You don’t want money?’
‘You have a strip club operating out of a dark half-store in Times Square, just north of the main drag, and right by the Seventh Avenue subway.’
‘It’s a gentleman’s club. It’s legal, honey.’
‘It might be legal, Don Angelo, but it’s attracting attention. Women are starting to picket it. There’s a city councillor trying to make a case out of it: flagship city icon, that kind of thing. You don’t want a politician on the make crawling over your business, talking to the IRS.’
She had a point. This was simmering in the background; nothing much had happened lately, but it was a problem. He was looking to get out of strip joints altogether. They were too sleazy, too obvious. Money these days was in garbage collection, and construction, still.
‘And you want the space?’
‘I can’t afford to pay market. But how about you lease it to me for six months? Three hundred thousand, with an option to buy the space after that – mid-point between our two appraisals. Reasonable appraisals.’
‘Three hundred thousand? Don’t be a comedian, honey. This is Times Square real estate. I can sell that lease to anyone.’
‘Yes, but it’s a small, ground-level piece of Times Square – mostly basement. Yes, you can sell, but it will take you another six months to find a kosher buyer, and they’ll do inspections and all that crap. Lease it to me, and I will have the painters in there tomorrow. It’s done, and your headache is taken care of.’
‘You’re too far under market.’
‘Three hundred thousand for three months, then. By that time, I’ll know if it’s working. Beauty is a fast business, Don Angelo. You hit or you don’t.’ She laughed. ‘No pun intended.’
He grinned, openly. She’d done it; she had won him over. She wanted the space – a prime-location dump – and she would take it without questions.
It didn’t occur to him to challenge whether or not she had the cash. She obviously did; there was just that confidence about her.
‘I want it all upfront,’ he said.
Dina sighed. That was a huge chunk of her capital. ‘Very well – if you agree to the right-to-purchase clause. I can make money out of this space; but, the thing is, Don Angelo, you can’t. It’s just too visible – which is why I want it.’
‘How much money did you raise, kid?’
She hesitated. If she told him, would he ask for more?
‘A million dollars.’
Screw it. You didn’t lie to the Mafia. Not ever. No disrespect.