Fifth Ave 01 - Fifth Avenue (20 page)

“He’d better,” Louis said.
 
“Because if he becomes more involved than he already is, he’s going down with the rest of them.”

There was a knock at the office door.
 
Michael.
 
Louis called for him to come in.
 
The door swung open and Michael stepped inside.
 
He hesitated in the doorway and looked across the room at Spocatti, then at his father.
 
By the expression on Michael's face, he obviously thought they’d be alone.
 
Louis wondered how Michael would react if he knew that it was Spocatti who butchered his dog.
 
Probably not pleasantly.

He made introductions.
 
“Michael, Vincent Spocatti.
 
He’ll be working with us.”

Spocatti took a few steps forward and shook Michael’s hand.
 
“It’s a pleasure,” he said.
 
“I’ve read most of your books.”
 
And then his smile faded into a grimace.
 
“Sorry to hear what happened to your dog.
 
Your father told me.
 
Terrible thing.”

Louis caught Michael’s glance and motioned toward the chair opposite his desk. Later, he’d tell Spocatti to keep his mouth shut.
 
“Why don’t you sit down, Michael?” he said.
 
“This won’t take long.”

“Was it bad?” Spocatti asked.
 
“I mean, about the dog?”

Michael turned to leave.
 
Louis glared at Spocatti and called Michael back.

“Please,” he said.
 
“Vincent is just concerned.
 
He has a dog of his own.
 
I promise this won’t take long.
 
I know you have other things to do.
 
Would you like coffee?”

Michael would have loved coffee--but not from this man.
 
He shook his head and sat reluctantly in the leather chair.

Louis turned to Spocatti.
 
“How about you?
 
Do you want coffee?”

“I’d love some.”

“I thought so.”
 
He pressed a button and spoke into an intercom.
 
“Judy, would you bring us two black coffees?”

“I take cream and sugar in mine,” Spocatti said.

“Today you don’t.”

Louis sat at his desk and looked up when Judy arrived with the coffee.
 
She was wearing a crisp white suit that accented her trim figure, and the new diamond bracelet he gave her that morning.
 
As she poured, Louis could smell the faint, lingering scent of her perfume.
 
It reminded him of the perfume Anne used to wear.

When she left, Louis looked across the desk at Michael.
 
The resemblance to his mother was uncanny.
 
From the dark hair to the blue eyes to the square jaw line--it was all the same.
 

“I telephoned Santiago earlier this morning,” he said to Michael. “We’ve worked out a deal.”

Michael straightened. “What kind of deal?
 
What did he say?”

Louis gauged his words carefully.
 
“Among other things, he said he had nothing to do with your dog.”

“And you believe that?”

“No,” Louis said.
 
“I’m sure Santiago is responsible.
 
I’m also sure it would have been you lying dead on that floor if you hadn’t been here talking with me.
 
We can all be thankful for that.”

Michael dismissed his father’s concern.
 
“What’s the deal?”

“In exchange for my word that he’ll get his money, he’s willing to let you live...for a while, at least.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I haven’t given him my word that he’ll get his money--at least not yet. Right now, you’re living on borrowed time.
 
A little less than three weeks to be exact.
 
But I wouldn’t count on even that much, Michael.
 
After what happened to your dog, I think its safe to assume that Santiago can’t be trusted.”

“Can you?
 
If I do what you ask, will you give him the money?”

“Of course.”

“How come I doubt that?”

“Probably for the same reason I doubt whether you’ll complete your end of the bargain.
 
We’ve been apart too long, Michael.
 
We don’t know each other.”

“This is some way to get to know each other.”

A shadow of anger crossed Louis’ face.
 
“I never asked you to leave, Michael.
 
Until your first novel came out, I didn’t know where you were living, how you were, or if you were even alive.
 
You dropped me for sixteen years, you changed your name and now, after all this time, you come asking me for help.
 
Don’t think you’re going to get it without helping me.
 
It doesn’t work that way.”

Of course, it doesn’t.
 
“Tell me what you want from me.”

“You already know what I expect you to do to George Redman.”

Michael said nothing.

“But before that happens, there’s something else I want you to do.”

“And what is that?”

Louis locked eyes with his son.

“I want you to marry Leana Redman.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“If you won’t stay here permanently, then, for God’s sake, Leana, at least let me give you some money. You’ll never find a decent apartment in this city with what little you’ve managed to save over the years.
 
Do you want to live in a dump?”

“If I have to, yes.”

Harold Baines made a face and turned away from the window at which he was standing.
 
The early afternoon sun cast a warm glow against his graying hair, the checked shirt he wore, the khaki pants.
 
He sighed.
 
“This new-found pride and determination of yours is wearing me out.
 
Do you want a drink?”

“Too early for me.”

“Not for me.
 
I’m going to recreate one of your martinis.
 
Sure you won’t join me?”

Leana said she was sure and watched her father’s best friend cross to the bar at the opposite end of the library.
 
He seemed thinner to her.
 
At the opening of The Redman International Building, he looked exhausted one moment, vibrant the next.
 
She wondered again if he was ill or if the strain of acquiring WestTex was just taking its toll on him.
 
She was going to bring it up but then thought better of it and allowed her gaze to sweep the library.
 
This was, by far, her favorite room in this house.

Its great length of floor-to-ceiling windows looked out across Fifth to the entire Met, which was jammed with people on the wide expanse of steps, now golden in the sun.
 
Turning, she noted the many photographs in silver frames that rested on the table beside her.
 
Besides the pictures of his own family, two photographs were of her--one as a child, the other taken last summer at a Paris cafe.
 
It had been just her and Harold on that trip, a long weekend in their favorite city.
 

Next to the photo was the Degas sculpture she had purchased for him at auction in London.
 
It was of a ballerina, her feet in the fifth position, her hands cupped behind her back, the original pink ribbon in her hair.
 
A week before the auction, Harold remarked that he would love to own that particular sculpture because it reminded him of her when she studied ballet as a child.
 
Now, as Harold took the seat opposite her, Leana realized again just how much he meant to her, and how she felt more at home here than in her own home.

“I want you to see a doctor,” Harold said.

“I could ask the same of you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t look well.
 
I told you that the night of the party.”

“And I remember telling you I was fine.”

“Then explain your weight loss.”

“I was getting fat,” he said.
 
“And don’t tell me you didn’t notice.
 
I’m cutting back on everything but martinis and olives.
 
And then there’s the deal with WestTex, which has us all pushed against the wall.
 
Who has time to eat?”

She decided she could believe that and backed off.
 
“I just worry,” she said.

“And I’m glad you do, but now it’s my turn to worry about you.
 
You’re my main concern right now.
 
I want you to see a doctor.”

“He didn't break anything--they’re just bruises.
 
They’ll fade in a week or so.”

He shook his head in frustration.
 
“Are you a robot?” he asked.
 
“Has somebody clipped the wires in your brain?
 
I can’t believe how you’re taking this.
 
The man beats the hell out of you with a belt and you sit there like Little Miss Sunshine telling me the bruises will fade in a week or so.
 
It’s unbelievable.
 
Aren’t you angry?”

The question was ridiculous.

“He tried raping you,” Harold persisted.
 
“Probably would have killed you if you had given him the chance.”

“He also threatened to have a contract put out on me.
 
Do you need to be reminded of that?”

Harold waved a hand.
 
“Eric Parker doesn’t have the balls to do something like that.”

“And what if he did?
 
You weren’t there, Harold.
 
I saw his face.
 
He meant it.”

“Bullshit,” he said.
 
“That little prick's a pussy.”

“Okay,” she said.
 
“You’ve mentioned balls, prick and pussy over the course of ten seconds.
 
Could you pick more agreeable body parts?”

He knew she was trying to lighten the mood, but Harold was having none of it.
 
He stood and fixed himself another drink, even though he hadn’t finished his first.

Leana looked out a window.
 
Why couldn’t he understand?
 
She was trying her best to deal with this.
 
She was trying to do what she thought was right.
 
Harold should be proud of her, not angry.
 
“Eric will pay for what he did to me,” she said.
 
“Celina will see to that.
 
And if she doesn’t, one day I will.
 
But you made a promise and I expect you to keep it.
 
No one, especially my father, is to know what happened to me.”

Harold sat back down.
 
“Your father isn’t a fool, Leana--he saw you.
 
He already knows.
 
But if he asks me if I know anything, you have my word--I’ll play dumb.”
 
He changed the subject.
 
“Tell me about your financial situation.”