Fifth Ave 01 - Fifth Avenue (77 page)

“I still disagree,” Stout said.
 
“If we go ahead with this, Redman International will be put into play.
 
The stock will soar and we’ll wind up paying billions more than we should.”
 
He leaned forward in his seat and looked at each board member.
 
“Do I have to remind everyone in this room that Redman International is still one of the world’s most powerful conglomerates?
 
Yes, Redman made a mistake, but he’s a brilliant man.
 
In time, he’ll rise above this.
 
He’ll make WestTex work--regardless if he’s just lost his daughter and best friend.
 
And who’s to say that he couldn’t sell WestTex to Fondaras?
 
If we go after the company, there’s no question in my mind that Redman will try to take it private.” He looked hard at Louis.
 
“Especially if you go after it.
 
No offense, Louis, but we all know that Redman would rather shit in his hat than let you run his company.”

Louis looked at Stout, but said nothing.
 
He pushed back his chair and stood.

“I’m leaving this in your hands,” he said to the group.
 
“But please consider what I’ve said.
 
Please leave behind your emotions and look at the facts.
 
I know we can make this work.
 
We have Fondaras.
 
We have the means.
 
I’m certain we can get management.
 
And I know this could take Manhattan Enterprises to a new level of power and wealth.
 
While I’m gone, think what a great team our two companies would make.
 
Think of the absolute power we and our shareholders could rise to.”

And he left the room, leaving the board to caucus.

*
 
*
 
*

They were not long in making their decision.

When Louis was summoned back to the boardroom, he looked not at the board, but at Peter Horrigan, who stood while Louis sat, his face coolly impassive, absolutely unreadable.

Suddenly, he was nervous.
 
As Horrigan reclaimed his seat, Louis searched the younger man’s eyes for some sign of triumph, some glimmer of victory, but found nothing.
 
He looked down the length of the table and glanced at each grim face, hesitating when he saw what might have been a smile on Charles Stout’s lips.
 

Could it be that they turned him down?

“Louis,” Florence Holt said, “it’s with regret that I inform you that it’s the strong sense of the board that we’re not prepared to let you go forward with the takeover of Redman International.”

Thunderstruck, his heart stopped.
 
How could they...?

Holt folded her hands on the desk.
 
Her voice was firm when she spoke.
 
“It’s our belief that if we made a bid for Redman International, it would put the company into play regardless of George Redman’s $10 billion error--and the stock would skyrocket, which ultimately would be detrimental to our shareholders should we end up paying top price. As you know, with Redman International at the forefront of the world’s....”

Her voice became thinner and thinner until he heard nothing but his own blood, hot and searing, coursing through his system.

*
 
*
 
*

In his office, he moved toward his desk and the photograph of Anne that sat on top of it.
 
After all these years, she still possessed him, still owned him, her grip as fierce as it had been when they first met on that windy afternoon in March, chasing a group of runaway dogs through downtown Cambridge.
 
Looking at her now, longing for what could have been, he finished the last of his drink and closed his eyes, the years lifting like veils.

He was young again and stumbling blindly down a steep embankment, pushing past groups of horrified onlookers, slipping on the pockmarked snow, stopping just short of a river that no longer was choked with ice, but broken and splintered.

The air was cold and charged with worry and excitement.
 
Snow blazed from the night sky.
 
High above on the ruined bridge, police pointed beams of light down at the boiling water, exposing the large hole in the river’s cracked surface and offering a brief glimpse of what might have been red paint.
 

From where he stood, only a few hundred yards from the bridge and the crater that lay beneath it, Louis could see his wife’s fate, could see the glimmering fender of her car as it slowly dipped beneath the boiling surface.
 

Even then he had the idea that this was no accident.

Now, his mind clear again with resolve, he went to the wall safe that was behind his parents’ wedding picture and entered the code to access it.
 
He opened the metal door to a flash of amber light.

Inside was Anne’s journal, a thin, narrow composition book he found the year following her death.
 
It was in an anonymous tin box she kept nestled behind an antique armoire in their attic.
 
Could it be that their love had been so imperfect?
 
Could it be that she really doubted his love for her?

The book was small and delicate.
 
Its black-and-gray marbled cover was torn and faded with age, its binding was cracked, the pages were threatening to come loose.

Carefully, Louis brought the journal to his desk and opened it to Anne’s final entry. Just seeing her handwriting again was like a pain in his chest.

The entry was dated just two days before her death.
 
It was the day George Redman lost his last appeal in court.
 
As Louis reread it, her damning words ignited like a fire in his gut, a dark rage overcame him, he saw what would be and he ripped the page free.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Spocatti’s cell phone rang as Leana alighted from the cab.
 
She had a glittering black dress draped over her shoulder, a pair of black silk pumps dangling from her hand.
 
It was early afternoon and the sun was as hot as she apparently planned on looking later this evening.

He looked at the phone, considered ignoring it but then reached for it and clicked it on.
 
“What is it Louis?”

“It’s Michael,” he said.
 
“He’s not answering the phone and the doorman says he’s not in his apartment.
 
I told you to keep an eye on him.
 
Where is he?”

Spocatti waited for Leana to enter the hotel before he pulled away from the curb and followed the cab down Fifth.
 
“Everything’s under control, Louis.”

“Everything isn’t under control.
 
I told Michael yesterday not to leave his apartment until he heard from me.
 
Now, he’s gone and I want to know where he is.”

Spocatti’s jaw tightened--the man was losing it.

“Well?” Louis said.
 
“Where is he?”

“He’s in front of me.”

“In front of you?” Louis said.
 
“What do you mean he’s in front of you? Are you with him?”

“No,” Spocatti said in an agitated voice.
 
“I’m following him.
 
He just dropped Leana off at the hotel and now he’s sitting in the back of a cab.
 
Would you like to know what he’s wearing, Louis?
 
Would that ease your mind?
 
Would you like to know what he had for breakfast, whether he showered, when he took his last shit?
 
Jesus, you’re beginning to annoy me.”

“I gave you $15 million for this job.
 
I’ll annoy you all I want.”

Something in the rearview mirror caught Spocatti’s eye and he jerked the wheel to the left, pressed hard on the gas and nearly struck the Lincoln limousine that had been trying to pass him.
 
He busted a red light and lurched into the center lane--but not before two other cars swerved in front of him, for an instant severing his view of Michael, who was now three cars ahead of him.

“All right,” Louis said.
 
“Just get his attention and pull him over.
 
I want him here, in my office, before the party begins.”

But the cab was picking up speed.
 
It darted into the center lane, passed a stationary line of traffic and shot right, disappearing behind a bus that was lumbering into traffic.

Spocatti was incredulous.
 
He was losing him.

“Shit!” he said aloud.
 
He tossed the phone aside, squinted into the blinding sun, and ignored Louis’ voice as it wavered angrily from the phone.
 
For a moment, he couldn’t tell which cab was Michael’s--there were dozens of them.
 

Then, well ahead of him, he saw the cab, saw Michael looking out the rear window--and saw with cold disbelief the triumphant smile on the man’s face.

He was rapidly approaching a yellow light.
 
Michael’s cab was sailing through a string of green.
 
Betting against the odds, Vincent floored it, cut into the center lane and watched the light turn red.

Time seemed to stop.
 

He glanced at the halted lines of traffic on 48th, saw that they were being held up by a man crossing in a wheelchair.
 
He pushed the van faster.
 
He would make it.

The U.S. mail truck came out of nowhere.

He hit the brakes and spun the wheel sharply to the left.
 
Spocatti watched the enormous rig loom toward him, its horn blaring, tires screaming.
 
The city spun in the windows.
 
He lost control of the wheel and felt the van tipping, tipping....

And then it righted itself.

He grasped the wheel, jerked it to the right and winced as the mail truck whizzed past him, horn still sounding as its huge, eighteen wheels rumbled across 48th Street.
 
Faintly, he heard someone screaming--and then he realized it was himself.
 
He closed his mouth, sat there grinning madly, his legs tingling, his white-knuckled hands still clutching the leather wheel.

He felt suddenly euphoric, his whole body surging with a vitality he hadn’t felt in years.

He looked down the avenue, saw people rushing toward him.

But there was no sign of Michael.
 
He was gone.

*
 
*
 
*

The cab zigzagged through traffic, hurtled down Fifth and twice nearly grazed the side of a car.

Michael continued looking out the rear window, not turning away until he was convinced they’d lost Spocatti.
 
He looked at the cabbie, a young black woman who seemed perfectly at ease as she lit her third cigarette and busted her third red light. “You were incredible,” he said, reaching into his back pocket and removing his wallet. “Absolutely incredible.
 
Where’d you learn to drive like that?”