Fifth Ave 01 - Fifth Avenue (66 page)

Along the street, several other limousines were parked, their engines idling.
 
Harold checked his watch, squinted to see the time and reached for the briefcase on the seat beside him.
 
He tapped a knuckle against the tinted glass that separated passenger from driver and the glass receded.
 
“I’ll be a while,” he said.
 
“But I want you to wait.
 
I may leave early.”

The driver nodded.

Bracing himself for the rain, Harold fled the car and began racing across the slick pavement.
 
The water splashed at his feet.
 
It drenched his shoes.
 
By the time he reached the building’s entrance, his clothes were soaked and he was out of breath, the nests of veins at his temples beating as rapidly as the wings of small birds.

The door he now stood before was parted slightly, revealing a darkness that was occasionally interrupted by flashes of blue light.
 
Threading through the music that hammered down to him from the floors above, he could hear what sounded like crowds of people.
 
Harold looked behind him, through the tumultuous rain, aware that Louis Ryan might have had him followed again, but not caring.
 
No harm could befall him now. Harold was invincible.

Inside, his briefcase was accepted by a man in a gorilla suit, who then handed it to a naked woman sheathed in plastic wrap, who then placed it on the floor alongside several other briefcases.
 
A man in leather chaps and nothing else checked the contents and nodded at the gorilla.
 

Harold caught the nod and the woman in plastic wrap motioned to the stairs behind him.
 
“There’s a great crowd,” she said, her voice unnaturally deep. “One of the best I’ve seen.”

Harold climbed the stairs as quickly as he could, wanting to put distance between them.
 
He rarely spoke to anyone at these clubs.
 
He usually just chose to watch, sometimes electing to perform.
 
Although he felt sure some of the members recognized him from cocktail parties on Fifth or Park, it was better to assume they didn’t--and remain one of the anonymous shadows that moved along the darkened walls.

Winded, he reached the main floor.
 
As he stepped through an arched doorway and entered the cavernous room, his very essence breathing in the dim surroundings, he joined the line of people removing their clothes at the clothes check.
 

He listened.
 
Executives from Wall Street were talking about which firms to avoid.
 
Somebody was talking about the bargains available now in real estate.
 
A woman in a Dior suit and thigh-high trucker boots was talking about her recent marriage and saying to a friend that her new husband knew nothing of this.
 
“He has his sports, I have my water sports.”
 
They laughed.

Harold heard it all, but none of it really registered.
 
He was removing his shirt when he spotted the young man.

Tall and dark, his body hardened by what must have been ruthless workouts, the man looked twice at Harold as he strolled past him.
 
Harold caught his gaze, held it for an instant, and thought that he was beautiful.

The man leaned against a metal cage.
 
Dark eyes gleaming, penis stiffening, he looked hard at Harold and enticed him with a half-smile.
 
Watching him now and admiring his physique, Harold became painfully aware of his own body--so thin now, such a vague shadow of his former youth--as his clothes dropped from him like dead skin from an aged snake.
 
He gave his clothes to the clothes check, held out the back of his hand, and the number “258” was promptly written on it in black Magic Marker.

“Now have some fun,” the clothes check said with a smile.
 
And yet for her, it was a smile that reflected desperation and loneliness.
 
It was a smile life and drugs had eaten away.

Harold knew that smile and put his own face to it.
 
He thought fleetingly of Celina then, knew that because of his own cowardice she was dead, and he was struck once again by a wave of self-hatred.

Shoving the thought to the back of his mind, determined not to deal with it because, in reality, it would kill his high, he approached the young man leaning against the metal cage.
 
Music pounded through every pore of his body.
 
The young man’s smile broadened as Harold neared him.

And then Harold was being kissed by him.
 
A tongue ran along the curve of his lips, and slipped between them.
 
He felt a hand grasp his hand and lead it to the hardness between the man’s legs.
 
Harold opened his eyes and saw that the young man’s eyes were closed.
 
He could tell he was caught up in the moment and so he kissed him back.
 
He squeezed the man’s cock harder and was delighted by its size.
 
Wrist thick and uncut.
 
Harold dropped to his knees and put it in his mouth.
 

But it was too big.
 
Harold pressed his hands on the man’s thighs and shook his head.
 
He couldn’t breathe.
 
The man was becoming violent in his thrusts.
 
Harold was frightened and turned on at the same time.
 
He was on the verge of passing out when the man stopped and lifted Harold to his feet.

His face was wet with saliva.
 
The room spun.

“Why don’t we get out of here?” the man said in Harold’s ear.
 
“Why don’t we go to my place, where it’s more private?
 
I have a room filled with toys this place hasn’t even heard of yet.”

*
 
*
 
*

The limousine hurtled through traffic.

As time passed and the city sped by, Harold’s mind became clear.
 
No longer were his senses cushioned by the heroin he injected earlier; no longer was his conscience quieted by the torrent of drugs.

Tomorrow morning, he would be expected to attend his best friend’s daughter’s funeral.
 
Tomorrow afternoon, he would be expected to board a plane that would leave for Iran--a country that, because of him, held no future for Redman International.

How many other funerals would he have to attend in the coming weeks?
 
How many other people would die because he had refused to speak up?

The need struck him then.

He opened the liquor cabinet, removed the black leather satchel and unzipped it, exposing the used syringe, the half-empty vial of heroin.
 
He glanced at the young man seated beside him, looked briefly at that beautiful face and saw a world of promise shining in the liquid blue eyes.
 
What was his name?
 
Derrick?
 

“You want some of this?” he said.
 
“You want--”

The man gripped his arm.
 
“Don’t do it,” he said.
 
“That shit killed a friend of mine.
 
It’ll fuck you up.”

Harold couldn’t help laughing.
 
Did this boy know what he was saying?
 
“I’m already fucked up,” he said.
 
“I'm beyond fucked up.
 
Now, let go of my arm.”

But the man was prying the satchel out of Harold’s hands.
 
He lowered the window beside him and tossed it out.

Horrified, Harold watched it fade into the driving rain.
 
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he shouted, more out of fear than anger.
 
“What’s wrong with you!”

The man bent to his knees and unzipped Harold’s fly.
 
“Let me give you a real high.”

*
 
*
 
*

They arrived at a modest-looking brownstone on 12th Street.

As the car came to a stop at the curbside, Derrick lifted his head from Harold’s lap and looked out a side window.
 
“We’re here,” he said to Harold.
 
“Come on.
 
We’ll be more comfortable inside.”

Harold looked at the brownstone in surprise--it was beautiful.
 
Although it was still raining, the sun had broken through the clouds and it now shined against the building’s narrow brick facade.
 
“You live here?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“What do you do for work?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.
 
“Look,” the man said.
 
“I like to be discreet.
 
You don’t know me and I don’t know you.
 
We’ll have a good time--that I can promise--but that’s as far as it’s ever going to go.
 
Is that cool?”

Harold wanted him.
 
He nodded.

They left the car.
 

Inside, the house was large and warm and smelled of roses in their prime.
 
His interest piqued, Harold stepped further into the spacious foyer and saw vases filled with flowers, side tables by Chippendale, paintings tiling the walls.

He knew something was wrong even before Derrick locked the door behind them. This man could never afford such opulence, could never afford an original Matisse.

Turning, about to protest, Harold heard the sound of a door being shut behind him and footsteps clicking on parquet.

“Nice work, Derrick,” he heard a man say.
 
“Is he clean?”

“He’s clean,” Derrick said.
 
“I tossed out the heroin myself.”

“Excellent.
 
See Nicky on your way out and he’ll give you the money we agreed upon.”

A chill enveloped Harold’s heart.
 
Knowing he had been set up, he looked quickly behind him and came face to face with Mario De Cicco.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Fragrant ribbons of steam curled from the silver coffeepot and lifted into the stale, smoky air.
 
Lucia De Cicco crossed her legs and looked with annoyance at the uniformed maid as she bent over the table and poured the hot liquid into two porcelain cups.

She wanted to be alone with Mario’s father.
 
She wanted to speak to him in private.
 
She willed this woman to go away.

“Will there be anything else, Mr. De Cicco?”

Antonio De Cicco gave the young lady such a surprisingly suggestive smile, that Lucia immediately became suspicious of their relationship.

“No, Gloria,” he said.
 
“That’s all for now.”

The woman left the room.

De Cicco leaned forward in his seat, chose one of the cups from the silver coffee service and lifted it to his lips.
 
They were in the library of his Todt Hill mansion and the smoke from his ever-present cigar was beginning to make Lucia’s eyes burn.

She looked at the man seated before her.
 
He was amazing, really.
 
Dressed immaculately in a gray suit, his face tanned from hours in the sun, the man was pushing seventy years old--and yet he looked fifty.