Play Dead (29 page)

'You are only a boy,' the dark-skinned beauty said.

'I love you,' the sixteen-year-old Stan insisted.

'Love?' she said, her eyes scalding his heart. 'Who taught you that word? You don't even know what love is.'

'Then show me,' he pleaded.

'There is no such thing,' she flared. 'Love is a word people toss around to fool themselves into believing that they are not alone in the world. It's a lie.'

'But I love you, Concetta. I know I do.'

'Get out of here, Stan. You're just a kid. When you start making some real money, then we'll talk about love.' The sound of the doorbell jarred away the image of Concetta's angry face and left Stan standing alone in the present. He glanced at the clock. Still only three o'clock. Maybe Gloria had come home early from work.

Stan crossed the room and opened the door. His eyes widened when he saw who was standing in his doorway. 'Well, well, isn't this a nice surprise?'

Laura said nothing.

'Your sister isn't here, Laura. She's at the office.'

'I know that. I came to talk to you.'

'How nice.' Stan stepped back. 'Do come in.'

'I feel safer out in the hallway.'

'No trust?'

'None.'

'Well then, Laura, you can stand out there with the door closed in your pretty face. If you want to speak with me, you'll have to come in.'

Laura glared at him and then, hesitantly, she entered. Stan closed the door behind her. 'Would you like to sit down?' he asked.

'No.'

'Something to drink perhaps?'

'No, Stan,' she said impatiently.

'Fine. Then why don't we just get to the point? What can I do for you?'

'I want you to leave my sister alone.'

'I'm shocked,' Stan said sarcastically. 'Why on earth would you want to break up such a happy couple?'

'Stop playing games, Stan,' Laura snapped. 'Gloria is vulnerable. If you have a problem with me, fine, let's settle it. But leave my sister out of it.'

Stan smiled and moved closer to her. 'Do I detect a note of jealousy on your part, Laura?'

She stepped back. 'More like repulsion,' she replied.

'Quick, very quick. I like that. I really do. But your sister and I are in love now, Laura. Can someone place a value on that?'

'I'm sure you can,' Laura said wearily. 'How much?'

'Excuse me?'

'How much do you want?'

'I'm astonished, Laura, truly I am. Are you trying to bribe me?'

'Last time I ask: how much?'

'Oh no, Laura, it's not that easy. I want more than money this time.'

'Oh?'

'I can get all the money I need now. Your sister has plenty of dough. And now that Gloria and I are so close, I just know I can depend on my sweet sister-in-law to loan me a few bucks when I'm in need.'

'Why should I?'

Stan shrugged. 'Because I'm sure you want me to treat your sister kindly. You wouldn't want me to make her feel like a piece of shit. Or beat her. Or get her hooked on drugs again. I can do any of those things, Laura, and you know it. So I'll tell you to pay up and you'll do it.'

Laura looked at him. 'I don't get it, Stan. What do you want?'

'I just told you.'

'But I already offered you money. You can just take it and run. That's always been your style in the past. Why are you taking the chance of hanging around?'

Stan felt rage course through him. His face reddened. 'Don't tempt me into doing something you may regret, Laura. Suppose I did just take off right now. Have you really thought that through? Have you really considered the consequences? What would it do to Gloria? What do you think it would do to her fragile emotional stability?'

Laura locked her eyes onto his. Frightening as it sounded, Stan was right. If he did run away, Gloria would suffer severe, maybe irreparable, emotional damage. But why would he care? Since when did Stan Baskin worry about someone else? No, there had to be another angle she wasn't seeing. Perhaps Stan figured that if he stayed around he could get money whenever he wanted. As long as he held Gloria hostage, so to speak, he could extort money. Weeks, months, whatever. But somehow that did not seem to fit. According to T.C., Stan usually liked to get the money up-front and screw what might be down the line.

'So what do you want, Stan?' Laura demanded. 'What is it going to take to get rid of you?'

Stan's eyes did not waver under her glare. 'You're so sure getting rid of me is the answer, aren't you, Laura? It must be wonderful to always know what to do, to always know what's right. Christ, suppose I told Gloria about our little conversation? How would you like that?'

'You wouldn't dare.'

'I wouldn't?'

'No, Stan, you wouldn't. You wouldn't risk losing your best money supply.'

Stan shook his head slowly. 'You're such a ball-buster, Laura. I sometimes wonder if David didn't take his last swim to get away from you for a little while.'

Laura's eyes blazed in a wrath of fury. 'You son of a bitch!'

'Temper, Laura, temper.'

'You listen to me, Stan, and you listen good. I'll go along with your sick little mind games because I happen to love my sister. I'll do what you say to protect her from your demented desires. But you leave David out of this, do you understand?'

He paused. 'Okay, fair enough. You see, Laura, I'm not unreasonable.'

She pushed her hair back off her face. 'I see, Stan. I see that you're a pig.'

Stan smiled. 'I understand how you feel, Laura, but remember: there's a fine line between love and hate. Between loathing and lust. Someday, you're going to have to stop denying yourself. Someday, you're going to have to face up to your true desires. And then I may not be around anymore. How will you feel then?'

'Blessed.'

He chuckled. 'Goodbye, Laura. For now. Maybe Gloria and I will have you over for dinner some night soon. Are you free this week?'

Laura tried to keep her voice even. 'No.'

Stan opened the door for her. 'What a pity. Where are you going to be?'

'None of your goddamn business,' she said while her true destination floated across her mind: Australia.

Richard Corsel closed his files and locked them in the cabinet. He was getting closer to discovering the truth. A friend of his at the Bank of Geneva in Switzerland had learned that David Baskin's money had been split up into at least two accounts and transferred back to the United States. One was in Massachusetts. With a little luck Corsel could discover where the account was in less than a week.

'Goodnight, Mr Corsel,' his secretary said.

'Goodnight, Eleanor.'

Richard clutched his briefcase tightly and headed out toward the parking lot. It was already dark now. A gentle fall breeze blew through Boston, pushing Richard's hair in the opposite direction from where it had been combed. Never mind. The work day was over. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and sorted through his key ring in search of his car keys. Naomi had asked him to pick up her stuff at the cleaners. She had also reminded him to buy some white socks for the kids. Richard shook his head. He couldn't understand how his six-year-old twins could go through socks so fast. What the hell were they doing with them? Wearing them over their shoes?

With a tired sigh, he unlocked his car door and slid into the front seat. He tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat next to him. There would be traffic on the highways now. Maybe he should use the local roads. He put the key into the ignition . . .

. . . and a gloved hand grabbed the back of his neck.

'Hello, Richie,' a voice whispered in his ear.

Corsel's eyes bulged. 'Who the hell -- ?'

He was silenced by the sight of a large butcher's knife near his throat. 'Shhhh, Richie, not so loud. You wouldn't want to make me nervous, would you? My hand has a tendency to shake.'

As if for emphasis, the hand shook. The blade coarsely caressed the skin on Richard's neck.

'Who -- ?'

'Shhh, Richie, I'm doing the talking right now, okay? Don't turn around and don't try to get a glance of me in the rearview mirror. If you do, I'll kill you. Do you understand?'

The knife now rested quietly against Corsel's throat. He could feel the coldness of the metal. 'Y . . . Yes,' Richard managed. 'My wallet is in my jacket pocket.'

'I know that, Richie, but I'm really not interested in petty cash. I've got plenty of money of my own, you know what I mean?'

Richard swallowed, the knife moving along with his throat. 'Wh . . . What do you want?'

'You see, Richie, that's your problem. You ask a lot of questions, you know? You don't see me asking a lot of questions. I don't ask how Naomi's new job at the boutique is, do I? I don't ask how the twins Roger and Peter are doing at their new school, right? So why are you so interested in other people's business?'

The intruder's warm spittle pricked in Richard's right ear.

'Now the way I look at it, Richie, you can do one of two things. One, you can go about your usual business and keep snooping around into Baskin's money. That's up to you, Richie. I wouldn't want to pressure you. You do what you think is best for your family, but I should warn you: it would make me very unhappy if you continued to snoop, Richie. It's not nice. Do you know what I mean?'

Corsel felt his whole body quiver.

'Now let me give you choice number two. See how you like this one, Richie, and then make up your mind about what you want to do, okay? Choice two: you forget all about Baskin's little transaction with your bank. You can go back to business as usual and not speak to his wife about it anymore. In return, you and your family will live happily ever after. You will never see me again. Sound nice?'

Richard managed a nod.

'But don't decide now, Richie. Think over your two choices for a while before you make up your mind. I'll be able to figure out which option you chose and act accordingly. Any questions?'

Richard shook his head.

'That's it, Richie. You're learning already. I'm going to slip out the back door and disappear now. If you turn and see my face or if you decide to chat with the authorities, well, let's just say it would be an unwise move on your part. It may force me to get to know little Roger and Peter better. Do you understand, Richie?'

Corsel nodded again, tears streaming down his cheeks. He tried to stay calm. He pictured himself sitting at the breakfast table on a typical morning having a nice bowl of Cap'n Crunch with Naomi and Roger and Peter and . . .

. . . and the psycho in the backseat, his knife slashing across their throats. The screams, the sound of the blade ripping skin, blood spraying all over the place, his wife's blood, his children's blood.

Oh God, what do I do now? What do I . . .

Suddenly, the car door opened and the blade was off his throat. Richard was afraid to breathe. He listened to the car door slam closed. He shut his eyes and waited five minutes before opening them again.

When he reached home, Naomi lectured him for forgetting to pick up the laundry at the cleaners and for not buying the kids some white socks. Richard's response was to give all three of them a hug.

Earl's penthouse was something out of Architectural Digest. Literally. So much so that the magazine had devoted a cover story to what they called The High-Rise in the Sky. And it was gorgeous. Everything in the penthouse had been done in white. The walls, the chairs, the sofas, the tables, the carpet. The only smatterings of color were the large and varied assortment of paintings that adorned the walls. But somehow the white scheme worked and, more interesting to Architectural Digest, Earl had designed the penthouse totally by himself.

There were also plenty of windows, all of them offering a fantastic view of Boston. From the gleaming living room, Laura stared out at the lights of the Prudential Building. She moved her glance toward the harbor where occasional lights from boats broke up the blanket of darkness covering the sea. From way up atop this sky-scraper you would never guess how dirty that harbor actually was. But God, she loved Boston. True, she had never really lived anywhere else. Her family had left Chicago and the Midwest when she was just an infant so she really could not make a comparison. But Boston was her city. And David's.

Earl came out of the kitchen, a Celtics apron tied around his waist. 'Dinner is served.'

'Good,' Serita answered, moving toward Laura and putting her arm around her friend's shoulder. 'I'm starved.'

'Well, then sit down and prepare yourself,' Earl said. 'The master chef has created a new masterpiece.'

Laura smiled and sat down. Earl was truly a renaissance man, she thought. Locked into his lanky, seven-foot frame was a man who played pro basketball, who decorated his own penthouse like a master designer, who cooked exotic dishes like a gourmet chef. He was even writing a book on his basketball experiences called Slam Dunk. 'Smells good. What is it?' Laura asked.

'A treat from the Orient. Thailand, to be more exact.' He lifted the silver cover. 'I call it Shrimp Chow Earl.'