A Bridge to Treachery From Extortion to Terror (10 page)

“How do you do?” Lou said to her. “Please, have a seat, and I’ll be off the phone in a minute.” He draped his jacket over the back of his chair, punched the squawk box, and stood looking out through the wall of glass.

“Darren, how are you? Listen, let me cut straight to the chase with you on this one, okay? We’re positive out to the end of the year on rates. You won’t regret parking in intermediate term treasuries ’til then. Last week in December, we’ll have a clearer picture. Meanwhile, you sit on six percent. My bond man’s never wrong, Darren. Okay, leave it to me.”

He walked to the door of the office.

“Mutch! Stick Darren Golden in the bonds. Yeah, intermediates.”

“Tell me about the beach house,” he said to Dolly, leaning well back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.

“We’ve reserved a nearly brand new cedar and glass, five-suite house, right on the beach.”

“There are going to be ten couples,” Lou said.

“Our history with these parties is that at least half, and probably more, of the attendees will elect not to stay the night,” Dolly said.

“How many times have you done this?”

“This is the eighth year for me.”

“Well, I want it to be the biggest and best goddamned...”

“Open bar, party gifts, hors ’d’oeuvres, choice of lobster or filet mignon, four female facilitators, taped music?”

“A band. We have to have a band.”

“We’ve never had a live band, Mr. Christopher. It’s really more a stand up, drinking and mixing kind of evening. The invitees have traditionally considered it a command performance and would never let their hair down enough to actually dance. Taped music is better. How about sixties soft rock, seventies romance, and a little country?”

“We’ll have a band. A loud, live band,” Lou said.

* * *

On the second Saturday in September, Lou and Mag celebrated Oliver and his wife Stacey’s fifth wedding anniversary with dinner at the
Beau Rivage
overlooking the Hudson. When they arrived back in Glen Rock late in the day, Lou spotted his two “Amazing Pinks” in full bloom, and they all gathered to admire them.

“I knew they’d come in together, Vigaro be damned,” Lou said, caressing a blossom. “You have it or you don’t. The genuine article will deliver as advertised. Period.”

“Darling, what in heaven’s name are you talking about?” Mag asked.

He was comfortable in this skin of his. He had moved right into the Westover account, the Westchester Country Club golf outing, and a glass office in the Paramus branch as if they were his birthright. He was born to wear a Brooks Brothers suit, a blue shirt with a white collar, and a wide, red tie.

Lou, you old son of a bitch, it was just a matter of bloom time
.

That night, he hatched the Mantoloking Plan. He’d been steadily working on Sherm Wellington; arm wrestling him for the check every time they went out together as couples for dinner and the movies; surprising him with an invitation to go hit baseballs at the new batting cage in Milford with ten minutes’ notice. Now, he was ready for the
coup de grace
. Spontaneity topped everything, in Sherm’s book. But nothing really worthwhile could be pulled together on the fly. Executive Privilege was working like the devil on the details of the Big Tuna. Now, the frosting on the cake was to make Sherm’s invitation seem like a wild thought that had hatched overnight; like a passing fancy that had materialized with a snap of the fingers into a truly smashing surprise bash.

As Lou pulled the Lexus into the driveway after work on Big Tuna D-Day minus one, October twentieth, still cooking up the exact quirky details of Sherm’s “spur of the moment” invitation, the voice on the radio said: “Hurricane Fiona is tracking only seventeen miles off Cape Hatteras, and with a low sitting over Newark, there’s an eighty percent chance that it will roll up the coast toward Atlantic City.”

“Sherm, listen. I want you and Virg to join a bunch of us for a hurricane party. Come on. It’s going to be good. Tomorrow, right after work. And Sherm, put the dog in the kennel. Yeah, I mean it. Put her in the kennel.”

Fact is, Mag had to sign off on putting Trude in the kennel, too.

Executive Privilege contracted for three silver stretch limos to fetch the Big Tuna bashers at their homes across Bergen County; to get them started at the inboard bars; and to whisk them fifty miles down the Garden State Parkway to the Jersey Shore. The limos flashed through the sodden night, the air crackling with their lispy car-phone banter. As the limos arrived at the beach house, one after another, the couples literally fell out of the cars to the sandy driveway and filed across the wooden bridge leading to the front door, the wind-driven rain plastering their clothes to their bodies.

When they walked in the door, an Executive Privilege hostess handed each guest a kit: a complete toiletries case, a giant beach towel, and a bright, yellow slicker and Gloucester fisherman’s hat combo. Young women with trays maneuvered through couples offering a canapé here, a double scotch on the rocks there. The floor-to-ceiling cathedral windows facing the ocean were soon awash in light, reflecting couples dancing to the frenetic combo of electric guitar, keyboard, drums, and bass thundering through a decent imitation of the Doors’
Light My Fire
.

The roar of the surf pulled the rain-gear-clad guests outside onto a huge deck situated high above the flat stretch of beach, where eight- and ten-foot breakers spent themselves at the pilings below. It was in the pandemonium of Hurricane Fiona, with rain beating against their faces, that Sherman Wellington grabbed Lou by the shoulders and screamed drunkenly:

“Lou, you old sonofabitch, this tops ’em all! It’s the greatest goddamned spur-of-the-moment crash bash I ever saw in my whole goddamn life.”

* * *

At five in the morning, with everyone snoring and the storm outside gone north, Maggie slipped on a heavy sweater and boots, slid out onto the deck, and down to the sandy beach. A quarter moon hung in the cloudless gray sky. She picked her way through clumps of seaweed, pieces of lumber, and pools of seawater on the shore. She bent to pick up a Frisbee and sent it skimming into the exhausted waves.

The expanse of sand was smooth, wet, and hard. Her boots barely dented it. The water swelled and retreated soundlessly beneath air that was pregnant with the salty aroma of kelp. Mag turned to look at the towering beach house and saw the moon gazing back at her from above the half-circle window at the roof line. Then she saw someone descending the deck stairs, but couldn’t make out who it was until the figure was within five feet of her. It was Virg.

“I thought it was you,” Virg said, her wild red hair swirling in all directions. “Could you use a little company?”

“Of course. Couldn’t sleep. Too much gin. Too much to think about,” Maggie said, as they both ambled along the water’s edge.

“Lou’s feeling good.”

“No kidding. This is the craziest thing he’s ever done, Virg, bar none.”

“It’s unlike him, Mag, but it doesn’t hurt anything.”

“I guess not. I’ve never seen this kind of...desperation in him before, though. Oh, sure, he lets go sometimes. You have to go along with it when he blows off steam from time to time. But this. This was in outer space somewhere.”

“Wilder than most of Sherm’s schemes.”

“He’s not Sherm, and he shouldn’t try to be.”

“You can’t fix everything, Mag. You’re a marvelous organizer. A fantastic, get-it-done girl. But some things you just have to stand by and watch. They’re phenomena that are just going to be, no matter what you do. You just climb aboard and enjoy the ride, the best you can.”

“Is that experience talking?”

“You know it.”

“I don’t know if you’ve been clued in on what’s been happening with Lou at work, Virg. He’s probably confided it all to Sherm.”

“I know he’s getting his due, finally, Maggie. And I know how good that can make a man feel. I’m doing my little thing with the newspaper, no real competition for Sherm. So, it’s win-win. But you, you’re out there in the world, leading the charge on everything, it seems: the Y fund-raising campaign, the Arbor Committee… Nothing really sets you back for long. Just like your father, from what you’ve told me about him. Lou’s seen that. It’s affected him. Challenged him. Now that he has something coming his way at last, let him slosh around in it for a while. Life is short.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“Are you scared, Mag? Sometimes good things come calling in gorilla suits.”

“I am scared. Scared that there was nothing he did to get this.”

“Don’t borrow trouble, baby. It’s always been good advice.”

“Well, if all hell breaks loose, I’ll come knocking, Virg, darling. You’ve got a wonderful shoulder to cry on.”

They had worked their way along the beach and back. Now, they turned and hurried to beat the sun through the kitchen door.

* * *

Monday, as Lou shuffled in the door of the office, Westover was already on the phone to give him a whopping order: all in municipal bonds out of the Blue Book. As over-the-counter trades where Pierson Browne’s Trading Department in New York could deal out of its own account using branch brokers like Lou as the conduit to individual investors, they carried whopping commissions.
When you’re hot, you’re hot
.

Rain started about noon. Other than the Westover call, business was dead. Lou was wasted from the gig and stood staring out the window, remembering the spectacular streaks of lightning that had lit up their night. But, with fatigue, Maggie’s tinge of worry began to settle like a familiar, damp cloth over his enthusiasm. It reminded him of Germany again, a summer night, before the baby—that is, before she told him there was going to be a baby—and they, just married, were as free as the clouds overhead, together on leave and exuberant.

They had spent the day driving along the Rhine and tramping around the castles and vineyards near Mainz. It was pure joy, but Mag had gotten tired before they even arrived at the town of Rudesheim. People of all kinds had crowded the streets: girls tripping by, giggling in German, French, or English; broad-bodied men, shouldering their way through the throng; housewives, jostling with overstuffed, mesh bags of bread and sausage. As Lou and Mag had passed beside the plaster and brick buildings, they could see into the windows that gaped open, splattering light over the streets.

They’d darted for a narrow alley to free themselves from the crowd. But around the corner, they were caught again and propelled into a pub where they were grateful to find a place to sit. A raucous band blared close by. Great pitchers of beer overflowed on the tables and onto the floor and the scent of beer drifted in the air between layers of smoke. Lou was dizzy with exhilaration, but Mag had looked ashen and hot, and a little panicky.

“I think...” she’d shouted.

“What?”

“I think we should go back to the hotel.”

“Back to Mainz?”

“Yes.”

“We just got here, Maggie.”

“I want to go back.”

“Relax! The night is just beginning!” he’d shouted, waving for more beer.

The faces from outside were all around them, poking through the windows, couples bounding by the table like a terrifying flock of geese. A platoon of dancers cavorted just below them. When he yelled for to her to come and dance, Mag resisted, and so he pulled her to her feet. He had to wait for an opportunity to jump into the swirling polka. He clamped her close to him. And when he pressed to kiss her, she fought him hard and broke loose and ran.

“Maggie, goddammit, what the hell’s wrong,” he’d kept shouting. But she couldn’t hear him. When he found her by the car, she was yanking on the door handle, gasping.

“You’re too rough. You... you hurt me. And I hate it. I hate this whole rotten place!” He couldn’t come up with anything to say. When he’d instinctively brought his hand up to comfort her, she flinched like she expected him to slap her.

* * *

Now, at the end of the day in Paramus, as he hunched over his stock charts, Lou felt Suzy, the secretary, at his side.

“There are a couple of men in the front looking for you,” she said.