Fifth Ave 01 - Fifth Avenue (60 page)

Spocatti picked it up.
 
He holstered it and said to Michael, “If you want to get through the next few days alive, and especially if you want to be rid of Santiago, I suggest you cut the bullshit, listen to me carefully and do as I say.”

*
 
*
 
*

Leana was nowhere in sight when Michael left the restroom.

He looked around the crowded corridor and found her standing across from him.
 
She was on her cell phone, talking rapidly, gesticulating with her free hand.
 
Michael wondered who she was talking to and if it concerned him and the conversation she overheard in Monte Carlo.

When she snapped the phone shut, he moved toward her, the knot hardening in his stomach--tightening.
 
“Who was that?” he asked.

“Mario.”

“Mario?”
 
He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.
 
While they were in Monte Carlo, his father told him that De Cicco was running a check on them both.
 
If the man somehow learned he was Louis’ son, Michael knew that Mario would take him out.

“And?”

“Eric’s dead,” she said.
 
“The contract’s been canceled.”

He searched her eyes, trying to see if there was something more she wasn’t telling him.

“So, it’s over,” he said.

She looked incredulous.
 
“Are you serious?
 
Of course, it isn’t over.
 
First, the spotlights explode, then my sister is murdered.
 
Someone is out to hurt my family.
 
Are my parents next?
 
Is it me?
 
Nobody’s been caught.
 
Which one of us is next?”

Michael could say nothing.

Leana reached for the oversized handbag that was at her feet.
 
“Look,” she said.
 
“I didn’t mean to snap at you.
 
I’m sorry for getting upset.”

“You have every reason to be upset.”

“It’s just that I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”
 
She started to leave.
 
“Can we go home now?
 
It’s late and I’m tired.
 
I want to get up early tomorrow morning and see my parents.”

*
 
*
 
*

For Michael and Leana, home now was a new apartment located at the top of a Fifth Avenue high rise.

As their limousine neared the glittering tower, Michael thought back to the phone conversation he had in Monte Carlo with his father.
 
The man thought of everything.
 
Not only did he know his son would need a new place to live, but he also knew that that place would have to reflect the kind of wealth and power his new bride would be expecting.

He wondered if his father intentionally chose an apartment on Fifth Avenue.
 
If Louis had, Michael wouldn’t be surprised.
 
Only yesterday morning, his manuscript by the same name had been burned.

The car hit a string of green lights, sailed up Madison and turned onto 59th Street, where it crossed over to Fifth.
 
As it began moving down the avenue, Michael looked at the people on the sidewalk, at the illumined store windows and remembered what Spocatti told him in the restroom.
 
The doorman’s name is Joseph.
 
He’s tall, dark hair, thick mustache.
 
He’s expecting you.
 
When you see him, act as if you already know each other.

 
The car pulled to the curb.

Michael looked out the window and saw a liveried doorman hurrying in their direction.
 
For a moment, his heart seemed to stop.
 
The man coming toward them was short and bald.

He looked past the man, toward the twin gilt doors, and saw one other doorman standing at the entrance--but he was young and blond.

His door swung open.
 
“Mr. Archer,” the man said.
 
“It’s a pleasure to have you back with us.”

Michael had no choice but to go with it.
 
He stepped out of the car.

“And you must be Mrs. Archer,” the man said, looking past Michael.
 
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

As Leana alighted from the limousine, the man flashed Michael an intimate, knowing smile. “She’s every bit as beautiful as you said she would be, Mr. Archer.”

Michael managed a smile of his own, hating Spocatti more now than he had before. “Where is Joseph?” he asked.
 
“I thought he’d be working tonight.”

“Flu,” the man said.
 
“We’re hoping he’ll be back tomorrow.
 
Let me help you with your bags.”

They took an elevator to the fiftieth floor.
 
When Michael entered the apartment, he found it as sumptuous as Spocatti said it would be.
 
It was filled with items similar to those that he lost to the bank only a few short weeks ago.

As he looked around, it came to him that the apartment somehow seemed lived in, even though Spocatti said it had been furnished only that morning.

Leana dropped her handbag onto a side table.
 
She moved toward the center of the foyer and appraised the room with a sweeping glance.
 
“So, this is where you live,” she said.

Michael held out his hands.
 
I guess so
, he thought.

*
 
*
 
*

When he joined Leana in bed that night, sleep wouldn’t come.
 
There were so many thoughts crowding Michael’s head, he knew he would go mad if he gave into them.

Instead, he allowed his thoughts to drift to his mother.
 
Sometimes, Michael thought if he could just see her again and talk to her, he could feel the rage his father had felt for years and go on with this, knowing that what his father swore was right.

But his mother had died when he was three.
 
What few memories he had of her were only fragments tarnished by time.

Some things he did remember--the way she smiled, the toys she showered him with, the pretty cotton dresses she wore.
 
He wished he could remember more, but he couldn’t.
 
It was his father who dominated his childhood memories.

Michael closed his eyes and let his mind slip into the dark.

He remembered....

He was a child and his father was moving toward him, loosening his belt, saying in his whiskey-stained voice that he wished Michael hadn’t been born.

He remembered....

It was a late, snowy February evening and he could hear his father’s drunken weeping in the next room, saying his wife’s name over and over, almost as if it would bring her back.

He remembered....

He was eighteen years old and on a bus headed for Hollywood.
 
Michael would never forget that day, the stale smoky air, the countless hours on the road.
 
Every bit of it was better than the prison his father had confined him to.
 
When the bus left Grand Central, he became Michael Archer and he swore to himself that his father would never again control his life.

He wondered now how he could have let that happen.

He imagined....

Leaving his father and New York, catching a plane with Leana, flying to some remote part of the world, starting over in a land where no one knew them.
 
But he knew he could do none of that.
 
If he did, his father or Santiago would find them and kill them.

Michael’s eyes opened.

Or would they?

CHAPTER FORTY

On Sunday morning, George went through the rituals of death.

In his office at Redman International, he made phone calls.
 
From the undertaker, he ordered an ornate mahogany casket with the initials CER engraved on each side.
 
He phoned his daughter's favorite florist, ordered dozens of roses to fill the church and, later, the area surrounding her grave.

He phoned close friends and relatives, telling them the time and the place of the private wake and burial.
 
And he spent time alone, still trying to accept the unacceptable.
 
Not since his parents' death had George dealt with something so entirely personal.
 
He felt numb, not vacant, but absent, as if he were standing outside himself, watching this hell happen to another man--even though he knew it was happening to himself.

Although the board was pushing to sign the final papers with WestTex and Iran on Tuesday, he shoved the takeover from his mind, not wanting or willing to deal with it until the day came and he had no other choice.

He left for her office.

When he stepped inside, it was like moving into a room where Celina still came to each morning.
 
It was having her here that made him most proud.
 
His office was next to hers.
 
If a deal was going particularly well or sour, it wasn't unusual for them to communicate by yelling to each other through the wall.
 
George's throat thickened at the thought.

He went to her desk.
 

Like himself, his daughter wasn't the neatest person.
 
Her desk was cluttered with a litany of used Styrofoam cups and empty food containers.
 
There were files pertaining to the takeover of WestTex and on the corner of the desk was a photo of them both framed in silver.
 
They were standing in front of the new Redman International Building, father and daughter, smiling because this was their greatest moment.
 
Together, they were invincible.
 
Together, they had accomplished so much.

Who was he without her?
 

There was a knock at the office door.
 
George turned to find Elizabeth standing in the doorway.
 
She wore a simple black dress.
 
Her mouth was a solemn line.
 
She seemed like a ghost to him, as if this were still unreal, not happening.

Posture perfect, eyes dead, his wife lifted her head.
 
"I'm ready," she said.

*
 
*
 
*

Walking into their daughter's apartment was perhaps the hardest thing George and Elizabeth had ever done.
 
Looking around, it was as if she had just left for the weekend and would soon be returning.
 
As they walked from room to room, each attaching a memory to objects Celina once held dear to her, they wondered how they would ever get through life without her.