Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) (52 page)

“Do you have a
publisher?”

“Oh, no,” Fitzy
said.
 
“Well, not in the traditional
sense.
 
Those snotty publishing
bastards would ruin my words.
 
They’d want total control, which I won’t tolerate.
 
They’d fear the pending lawsuits and
strip my memoir of its essence.
 
It’s
essence!
 
I’m going to be the
publisher.
 
A posthumous
publisher.
 
I’m going straight to
that Amazon Kindle thingy.
 
My
lawyer has strict orders to publish the book the week following my
passing.
 
It’ll be a smash, but I’ll
never see it.
 
Too bad, I
guess.
 
I would have loved another
flash of attention, but I’ve already had my share of it, so be it.
 
It doesn’t matter at this point.
 
I’ve had a great life, and what I’ve
learned since I’m facing the end is that everything has narrowed.
 
Some things come into focus, but other
things I once considered critical have just faded away.
 
I need to have the book finished so it
can be out there when I’m gone.
 
My
friends at the
Times
and at other newspapers have promised that they
will make certain it receives the attention it deserves.
 
That will happen.
 
Everyone knows me.
 
People regard me.
 
And when they read what I have to say
about all of those people—important, well-known people who still matter,
and who once spilled their secrets to me while under the influence—the
world will suck the juices from the book like an infant attached to a mother’s
tit.”

“You do have a way with
words,” Marty said.

“Wait until you read the
book.
 
You have
no
idea.”
 
He scrutinized Marty’s
face.
 
“Why do you want to know
about that cunt, Piggy French?”

“Cunt?”

“That’s right.
 
She was called that several times by her
ex-husbands.
 
Those stories will
forever live in infamy, and for good reason.
 
She’s one of the nastiest hags I ever
had the misfortune of meeting.
 
Regardless of her recent demise, I cut her throat in the book.
 
I stick that pig so often that she
bleeds on every page.
 
The chapter
devoted to her was not only a delight to write because she deserved it, but
also necessary.
 
People need to
understand the mean-spirited, pill-popping drunk Piggy was.”

“It sounds as if it might
be a best-seller.”

“Oh, it’ll be a
best-seller.”

“Profits going to
charity, I assume?”

“Of course.
 
The lot of it.”

“Which charity?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“You’re so impressive,
Fitzy.”

“It’s been said by
priests and by cardinals.”

“I have a feeling it’s
being said somewhere right now.”

“You’re very kind.
 
But you’re probably right.”

“Fitzy,” Marty said, “I
was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

“Of course.
 
That’s why you’re here.”

“Recently, a host of
people beyond Piggy French and all connected to one man, died.”

“Which man?”

“I’ll get to that”

“So, it’s a mystery.
 
At least for now.
 
I devour mysteries.
 
Who are these people?”

“The Baron and Baroness
of Dorchester, Piggy French, Peter Horrigan, Charles Stout, Florence Holt, and
Rowena Clark.”

“I know everyone but that
last person.
 
Why don’t I know that
last person?
 
How can it be that I
don’t know that last person?
 
I know
everyone.”

“I’m assuming it’s
because she was a middle-class housewife who lived in Brooklyn.”

“Did you just say ‘middle
class’ in my home on Park Avenue?”

“I did.”

“Goodness.
 
Did you also say....”
 
He paused, and when he did, his lips
drooped into a frown of distaste.
 
“Did you also say, uh, Brooklyn?”

“That’s right.”

Fitzy rolled his
eyes.
 
“Then I wouldn’t know
her.
 
Unless she was a maid, or
something.
 
Otherwise, no chance.
 
But the others, I knew.
 
Especially the baron and baroness,
obviously Piggy, Charles Stout and Florence Holt, and I met Horrigan at a few
dinner parties.
 
All of them died
recently.
 
I’m aware of that.”
 
He gestured around the room.
 
“As you can see, I read the papers.”

“I do see.
 
You read so much.”

“Information is key.”

“Did you ever meet Louis
Ryan?”

“Oh,” Fitzy said.
 
“Is that what this is about?
 
That abhorrent little troglodyte?
 
Yes, between us, I suppose I met him
once.
 
At that party where that cunt
Piggy French let him have it.
 
What
she said to him became famous.
 
How
she called him out in front of everyone.
 
It was in the
Post
.
 
You might be aware of it.”

“I am.”

“What does Louis Ryan
have to do with any of this?”

Marty already knew the
answer to his question before he asked it.
 
“Would you find it strange if Ryan included them in his will as his
beneficiaries?
 
And that he left
each five million dollars upon his death?”

“He what?”

“He left them five
million dollars.”

“He left them what?”

“Five million
dollars.
 
Each.”

“I heard you the first
time, I just can’t believe you.”

“He did.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’ve read his will.”

“Who is the executor?”

“James Cullen.”

“Cullen?
 
You’re joking.”

“They went to Yale
together.
 
Roomed together and
struck up a friendship together.
 
Now,
Cullen is the chief shareholder of Manhattan Enterprises.”

“Everything always has
worked out for that son of a bitch, with the exception of his bum leg, which he
hauls around as if it’s a cement cylinder.
 
I can’t even look at him when he walks.
 
Or when he tries to walk, rather.
 
It’s embarrassing.
 
He drags that thing around like an
annoying toddler at parties, always reminding everyone that he lost it to
cancer, as if anyone gives a Goddamn.
 
So, now he’s wealthy beyond comprehension.
 
Great.
 
Now, he’s going to be even more of a
nightmare to deal with.
 
Just
watch.
 
He’ll start demanding the
best seating placements; then we’re all screwed.
 
Because of him, I’ll probably be made to
sit next to that awful Tootie Staunton-Miller and her recently scandalized
horse-hung gay husband, Addy, who got a blowjob at one of Fondaras’ recent
parties.
 
Or it could be worse.
 
If she’s still on the list—which I
have to question at this point even if she does have his old
millions—some of us might have to sit next to that ridiculous Epifania
Zapopa, the worrisome whore Charles Stout married.
 
She had been his maid, but after his
wife caught them having sex doggy-style on her great-grandfather’s priceless
Aubusson rug, he divorced his wife and married her.
 
God, I can’t stand her.
 
She always sounds to me like she wants
to sell me a taco.
 
Or a bean
burrito.
 
Or a chalupa.
 
Or whatever her kind eats.
 
Probably refried beans.”
 
He lowered his voice.
 
“Or maybe even dog.
 
You know how her kind is.
 
They’re not even above road kill.”

In the face of such
racism, Marty only said, “That’s quite a commentary.”

“It’s all in the
memoir.
 
It’s why people will flock
to it.”

“Do you know if Ryan was
friends with any of them?
 
Obviously, he wasn’t with Piggy French.
 
But what of the others?
 
Do you know if any of them were close
with Ryan?”

“Are you serious?
 
Not one of them could stand Louis Ryan,
which is why I still can’t believe—or understand, for that
matter—why he left them five million dollars each.
 
They were horrible to him.
 
Awful.
 
Not that he didn’t deserve it, that
little upstart pisher.
 
He tried to
force himself upon all of us.
 
He
used Cullen time and again to get himself into the baron and baroness’ infamous
dinner parties, but he was blacklisted from them.
 
No one would have anything to do with
him.
 
Stout and Holt sat on his
board only for the money.
 
In
private, they said the worst things about him, which generally delighted me.
 
I like that kind of gossip, especially
when it has to do with someone as reprehensible as Louis Ryan.
 
And that plot he had against the
Redmans?” Fitzy said, now so fully worked up that his caftan was fluttering as
he moved his arms.
 
“Unbelievable.
 
I don’t like George Redman, though I
thought his daughter, Celina, was pleasant enough before Ryan had her
murdered.
 
Same for his wife,
Elizabeth, before it was revealed that she was a cold-blooded killer—she
came off well in public.
 
I never
met their other daughter—whatshername—but I hear she’s about to
open a big hotel on Park with Harold Baines’ money.”

Fitzy leaned forward and
lowered his voice to a hush.
 
“Baines was a compulsive cocksucker, you know?
 
Married, sure—but he was a closet
queen of the highest order.
 
Running
around town haunting his favorite sex clubs.
 
I heard he was into fisting, and by
that, I mean that he was on the receiving end of it.
 
Can you imagine?
 
Taking a fist?
 
It makes me want to blush just saying
it, but it’s the truth.
 
God only
knows what else he did.”
 
He winked
at Marty.
 
“Unless, of course, you
read my memoir.”

“I plan on reading it,
though hopefully not too soon.”

Fitzy smiled at that.

Marty went in for the
kill.
 
“If you were in my position,
what would you make of all this?”

“Simple.
 
None of it makes sense.”

“I interviewed James
Cullen.
 
He also wasn’t sure why
Ryan left them the money, though he presumed that at some point, they might
have gone into business ventures with him.”

“No way.”

“How do you know?”

“Because these are the
things of which I know.
 
It’s why
your ex-wife sent you to me.
 
It’s
why I think so much of Gloria—she may not be an insider, but she gets it
and she knows her place.
 
I admire
her for that.
 
There’s nothing I
don’t know about our set, Mr. Spellman, and that’s why I can confidently say
that there is no way that any of the men and women who have recently died were
involved on any level with Ryan.
 
Leaving out Clark, whom I didn’t know for obvious reasons, and with the
exceptions of Horrigan and Holt, no one else would have had their names attached
to him, privately or publicly, because eventually word would have gotten
out.
 
Holt and Horrigan were known
and well liked in our circle, even if they weren’t in the book.
 
My set was kind to them because they
knew their place.
 
They didn’t try
to become one of us, because they knew they couldn’t.
 
They were smart that way.
 
They respected it.
 
Ryan never did.
 
He felt that his billions alone allowed
him entree.
 
But it didn’t.
 
He felt betrayed by us.”

“That’s a strong word.”

“Betrayed is the right
word.”

“What do you know about
Cullen?”

“Enough to know that the
man is a snake in the grass.
 
But I
could say that about any number of people in our set, especially that
duplicitous Tootie Staunton-Miller.
 
Still, despite how he presents, I’ve learned never to trust him.”

“You have a history
together?”

“I wouldn’t go that
far.
 
But there was a time, long
ago, when we were friendly.
 
Once, I
needed his assistance to get out of a pickle, which he helped to dig me out of.
 
But after he did, he told everyone how
crunchy that pickle was.
 
For a
while, he ruined my reputation, but I fought to bring it back.
 
In the end, he didn’t win, and I could
tell how much that disappointed him.”

“When I spoke to him, he
said he was afraid for his life.”

“What would you say if
you were somehow involved in this?
 
If he is, he could be afraid that you’ve come sniffing around.
 
Maybe he’s just trying to throw you
off.”
 
He shrugged.
 
“On the other hand, he might not be
involved at all.
 
He could be
telling you the truth, regardless of how suspicious it sounds.”

Marty rose to leave.
 

“I can’t thank you enough
for your time.”

“You’re leaving?
 
Have I helped?”

“More than you know,”
Marty said.
 
“No need to get
up.
 
I’ll find my own way out.
 
Thank you, Fitzy.”

Fitzy shook Marty’s hand,
and slowly released it.
 
When he
did, he looked Marty in the eyes, then looked at his chest, and finally at his
crotch.
 
“Tell Gloria for me that
she has good taste in men.”

*
 
*
 
*

When he was on the
street, Marty pulled out his cell and called his old friend, Detective Mike
Hines, who was assigned to the murders of Florence Holt and Charles Stout on
Anastassios Fondaras’ yacht.

“Mike,” Marty said when
the man answered.

“What’s up, buddy?
 
How was Vegas?”

He had no time for small
talk.
 
“Good, good.
 
Listen, I’ve got some information that
could help you.”

“With what?”

“Holt and Stout.”

“I’m listening.”

Marty told him everything
he knew.
 
He told him about his
conversations with James Cullen and Fitzy Fertzbergen, and about the
beneficiaries listed in Louis Ryan’s will, and how all of them were recently
dead.

“Sound suspicious?”

“Sounds loaded.
 
You said the executor of Ryan’s will is
who again?”

“James Cullen.”

“Where can I find him?”

“At Manhattan
Enterprises.”

“Isn’t that—?”

“That’s right.
 
Louis left him all his shares.
 
He has an office there.
 
Sits on the board.
 
He and Louis were very close.”

“How close?”

“After looking into this
and thinking about it?
 
I’d say
closer than anyone knew.
 
You’ll
talk to him?”

“I need to be in court
today.
 
I’ll call him tomorrow.”

“Work fast, Mike.
 
I have a feeling that others will die
soon.”

CHAPTER
SEVENTY-THREE

The next day, Anastassios
Fondaras sat in his office on his yacht, troubled by what was happening to him
and what eventually would happen to Leana because of him.
 
He felt a start when the phone dedicated
only to Sean Scott buzzed to life beside him.
 
It was a satellite phone and couldn’t be
traced or tapped.
 
He answered it.

“Sean.”

“Mr. Fondaras.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Pepper Redman.”

“What about her?”

“You remember the
photographs I had taken of her going into that building on Fifth?”

“I remember.
 
She went in with a briefcase, and came
out without one. I believe she told Leana that she went to see her doctor that
day.
 
Did she?”

“She may have.
 
We learned that doctors do have offices
there, but there is someone else in that building she likely saw instead.”

“Who?”

“Gordon Elling.”

“I don’t know the name.”

“He’s a businessman.”

“What sort of business?”

“He hires out assassins
for people who need them.”

Fondaras turned in his
chair and faced the windows behind him.
 
Outside, the river gleamed bright, but to him, it might as well have
been gray.
 
“So, you know of him?”

“I do.”

“Do you know him
personally?”

“I met him once.
 
He courted me when I left the
Marines.
 
I told him I don’t kill
people for a living—I protect them.
 
That’s when I started my own business.”

“Sean, I’m sorry I’ve put
you in this position.
 
I know it
goes against everything you’re about.”

“I’ve come to like Leana
very much.”

“She’s like a daughter to
me.
 
I’ve never cowered to anyone,
but how else am I supposed to handle the situation I’ve been given?
 
I’ve tried to work through the
angles.
 
I’ve looked for a way out.
 
But you know what he did to my
daughter.
 
She nearly died because
of what he did to her.
 
You also
know that De Cicco will go through with his threat.
 
He’s that powerful.”