Spin Move

by David Lender

  He handed her a glass of champagne and held his up. “A toast to what hopefully will be a long and mutually profitable relationship.”

  Katie clinked his glass, sipped, then looked around the room. The furnishings were simple but elegant, with no bookshelves and few horizontal surfaces to cover with the myriad objets d’art and photographs as in his office. The walls served for that instead, sporting photographs of elegant women in vintage dresses, vintage cars and what appeared to be politicians of yesteryear. She recognized Winston Churchill among them, sitting at his desk with a cigar. She said, “I’m surprised at how different your home is from your office.”

  “My decorator was a protégé of the Italian design master Lorenzo Mongiardino. I asked him for a much more relaxed ambience, and I’m very pleased with what he accomplished. Many of the photographs are Cecil Beaton’s, including the famous one of Churchill at his desk at 10 Downing Street. I bought that at auction recently. Some of the others are of women Beaton photographed in vintage dresses I own in my collection.”

  “You collect vintage dresses?”

  “An indulgence. I’ve one of the largest vintage dress collections in Europe. I had to lease warehouse space to contain it, in fact. I also collect vintage automobiles. The 1962 Bentley S2 Cloud that Franz picked you up in is one of mine. An extravagance I sometimes wish I’d never yielded to, but there’s nothing better than motoring around town in a 1936 Bentley Drophead Coupe with the top down and a beautiful woman at my side.”

  His comment surprised Katie, since she’d gradually begun to think Ducasse was gay. And yet there was something in the way he looked at her now that showed his interest went beyond cultivating their business relationship.

  They had just finished the bottle of champagne when Ducasse got to his feet. “I’d love to show you my most recent acquisition, one of Cecil Beaton’s early designs for the Liza Doolittle character in My Fair Lady. In fact I’d love to dress you for the evening. You have amazing shoulders, and you’re not afraid to stand erect to show them off. You’d look stunning in this dress, complemented by a string of pearls. It’s very unusual, with balloon sleeves, similar to what Karl Lagerfeld created for his 1985 collection.”

  Katie said, “Oh!” and looked down at her simple black dress.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, please, you look terrific. I was only suggesting a little diversion as part of the evening fun.”

  Katie agreed. Fifteen minutes later they descended his front steps into Ducasse’s Bentley, Katie in Beaton’s cream-colored silk creation, adorned with an opera-length strand of pearls.

  The nature of Ducasse’s interest in her was constantly on her mind throughout the quiet dinner they shared at a small restaurant in Old Town. The waitstaff obviously knew Ducasse, and left Katie and him to themselves in the corner of a private room off the main dining room, as if they knew his modus operandi. She half expected him to be more overt about making a pass at her, realizing she was a little disappointed as they got up to leave when he hadn’t.

  In the car on the way back from dinner, Ducasse began asking Katie about her background and she immediately raised her guard; she didn’t know enough about Angela Conklin to be confident she wouldn’t say something that would give herself away. She offered merely, “I married Walter when I was very young. That all fell apart with his scandal and flight from the country.”

  It only took one question from her about his education to send him off on a ten-minute tear talking about himself, which she’d begun to realize was one of his favorite subjects. He related his miserable boarding school years in Switzerland, then his matriculation to St. John’s College, Cambridge, where he was gleefully happy reading for a History of Art Tripos. He was fortunate enough to have been chosen to sing in the famous Choir and never missed a May Ball. He leaned over and confessed in a conspiratorial whisper that he had, unfortunately, never eaten a swan or seen a ghost. Katie had no idea what he was talking about but laughed as if he was as funny as he seemed to think he was. Then he told her of his efforts after graduation from St. John’s to work in the art world and the subsequent tension with Father, who wanted to draw him into the family business; the French woman he’d been engaged to when he was 22 who broke it off once she saw that Father was dead set against the marriage; and then his subsequent apprenticeship at Banque d’affaires Ducasse, leading to his discovery that he not only enjoyed the business but was good at it. And then his rise to his current position of managing the firm on a day-to-day basis. By that time Katie was convinced he had no romantic interest in her. But when his driver pulled the Bentley up to the front of the Hotel du Rhone, he leaned over and she didn’t resist as he kissed her on the lips.

  “It was special to spend time with you,” he said. “I hope our business relationship flourishes, and who knows what else?”

  Katie was surprised that she felt a slight thrill, and a tickle of anticipation.

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

  “My pleasure. And please, keep the dress. No one else could do it justice, and I can’t imagine leaving it orphaned on a hanger in a warehouse. If you wouldn’t mind, you can leave the pearls with the concierge. He knows me.”

  “Here, I’ll give them to you now.”

  “Don’t. It would spoil the image.”

  Katie climbed out of the Bentley and started toward the door, thinking, The man’s a mystery. One minute he’s a bore, the next he’s charming.

  The next morning Ducasse sat at his desk, his face buried in the first draft of the firm’s annual financial statements. The outside auditors would descend on them in 30 days. He wanted to make sure he was current with the state of the firm’s finances, and could anticipate any of the auditors’ due diligence questions. He’d just finished reading the chief financial officer’s report when he heard a knock.

  Father.

  The door opened and the man entered.

  Ducasse pushed his chair back to stand.

  “Don’t get up,” Father said. “I just wanted to know how it went with Mrs. Conklin last night.”

  “She’s no movie star, but she’s an attractive, stylish and fascinating young woman.”

  “That isn’t what I meant.”

  “I didn’t press her over hors d’oeuvres or dinner. I felt it was better to use a soft sell. You know the old saying, ‘You can catch more with honey than vinegar.’ ”

  “I always found the direct approach worked better for me.”

  “I find that modern women need more cultivation.” Ducasse leaned back in his chair. “I’m doing a methodical job of developing her.”

  Father said, “Not the way it was in my day. If you see it’s there, close the deal. How much is she thinking of committing to?”

  “She’s still at $15 to $20 million, but I think I can talk her up to $30 million.”

  “But isn’t she flying home today?”

  “She’s stopping for a few days in Paris first. She needs time to think about it.”

  “You’ll lose her if—”

  “Father, I know what I’m doing. Leave Mrs. Conklin to me.”

  Father continued to stand in front of the door. Ducasse said, “Anything else?”

  “Yes. What about Mrs. Stoltz?”

  “Hesitating.”

  “I thought she was almost there for $25 million.”

  “She was, but now she’s having second thoughts.”

  “But didn’t we finally hire her niece as an intern?”

  “Yes, but it hasn’t seemed to quite turn the trick.”

  Father raised his eyebrows. “Do you want me to—”

  “No, Father.”

  “You haven’t even let me finish my question.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. You’re a bit, shall we say, ‘mature’ for Mrs. Stoltz. Please let me handle it. Besides, we’ve a young man
here in accounting who I understand has already cozied up to the niece. Perhaps he can give us some insight into what the niece knows of Mrs. Stoltz’s thinking.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Rudiger was in the living room on the lower level of his house, seated in front of the coffee table with the Wall Street Journal spread out on top of it. A cup of tea sat on the end table next to him, an envelope with a pile of $20 Eastern Caribbean bills sitting next to the teacup. He’d just buzzed Charisse on the intercom and was waiting for her to arrive. He looked up at the Caribbean, a sight he never tired of, particularly from this room, three walls of glass suspended from the cliff that made it seem like there was nothing between him and the sea. He could hear the waves lapping on the rocks beneath him, frigate birds calling out as they circled the water for fish and young turtles. The air smelled like the morning rainstorm that had blown in, then out, about ten minutes earlier.

  He heard Charisse enter. He picked up the envelope and stood as she approached. “I understand you’re going to your sister’s again this weekend and I wanted to give you a little something for her kids.”

  Charisse said, “Oh no, Mr. John, you don’t have to.”

  “Come on. I insist.” He handed her the envelope. It was their little routine, Charisse always affecting reluctance, Rudiger insisting, and finally Charisse showing her gratitude. It had been going on for about five years, after he learned that Charisse was giving EC $100 a month to help out her older sister, Marjorie, who now had five children.

  “How are the kids doing?”

  Charisse’s face lit up. “Oh, marvelous. And the new baby, he’s a fat one.” Her smile broadened.

  Rudiger knew a fat baby was a status symbol on the island, where most children were underfed. He also knew it was a great source of pride to Charisse. Without children of her own, Marjorie’s kids took up a big space in her life.

  Charisse thanked Rudiger three or four more times and went back upstairs.

  In a way, she was the only family he had down here. He remembered how she’d shown up at the Blue Moon Hotel almost nine years ago, when the builders were just finishing construction on his house. He’d been sitting at his table at the Beach Grill Restaurant when he looked up to see a bone-thin island girl of maybe 17 walk across the patio with confident strides, her chin high. She stopped in front of his table.

  “Are you Mr. John? Mr. John Rudiger?”

  He smiled. “Yes, can I help you?”

  She glanced over to the end of the bay at his house, then back at him. “I see you are almost finished building your house. I am Charisse Jamison. I have come to apply for a position as housekeeper. I’m a good worker, and educated. I just finished high school in Saint John’s Parish in the advanced students’ program with almost all top marks.” While she spoke she reached into her purse and pulled out a paper. “This is my high school diploma.” She placed it on the table facing him. “I am trained in housekeeping and I’m a good cook. I raised my three younger sisters while my momma and my older sister worked. I cooked for the family, cleaned the house, things I know well and could do for you. I’m a good girl. I don’t use tobacco or alcohol and I would not presume to bring boys to your household. I would respect your privacy because I know you have many women friends—”

  Rudiger started laughing. “Please, sit down, you’re making me uncomfortable.”

  Charisse pulled the chair out and sat down but kept right on talking “—I could live at your house all week, take the bus home to my momma’s house for weekends and be back in time to prepare your breakfast on Monday mornings.”

  Rudiger held up his hand to stop her. “What did you say your name is?”

  “Charisse Jamison, seventh-generation Antiguan.”

  But despite anything Rudiger tried to do to stop her, she kept on talking. He finally landed on the strategy of insisting she have lunch with him, figuring that putting food in her mouth would shut her up. It didn’t work. After lunch he hired her to start two weeks later and she’d been with him ever since.

  He smiled, thinking about her, then went back to his Wall Street Journal.

  By 12:30 p.m. he was sitting at his table at the Beach Grill Restaurant, eating his usual lunch, local seafood over salad greens, watching the activity in and around the pool. Four women he didn’t know were sitting on chaise lounges. One was a petite blonde who was a possibility. She had a sharp tongue that kept her friends laughing. Her attitude reminded him of Katie’s.

  That threw him into a whole series of other thoughts. Katie had crept into his mind a lot lately, since he’d started thinking about Cape Verde again, his $30 million and her.

  He kept seeing her in that blue bathing suit, her smart-ass smirk. Katie sitting across from him when they first met, coming straight at him, even pushing her chest out. In that moment he realized that he really didn’t have anybody here, and the person he was closest to was his housekeeper. Pathetic. The constant stream of flight attendants was something most men would kill for, both an opportunity and a challenge. Sometimes it was as easy as shooting fish in a barrel, sometimes the thrill of a tense race against time because of deadlines imposed by flights back to wherever. Then there were the regulars, too. Those he’d known for years.

  But it was getting old after more than a decade, and what stood out most in his mind now was that leaving Antigua wouldn’t be so bad, and maybe, just maybe he’d see Katie again.

  Rudiger looked up from his lunch to see Senior Sgt. Carlen Isaacs coming toward him across the pool apron, walking fast.

  Just what I needed.

  When Isaacs was within earshot, Rudiger said, “One of the drawbacks of being a creature of habit is that people know where to find you.”

  “ ‘Creature of habit.’ You Americans and you funny expressions.”

  When Isaacs sat down across from him, Rudiger said, “This better be important.”

  Isaacs stared back at him with those dead eyes. “A problem. We need to talk.”

  “What?”

  “It’s you friend, Charles Holden, U.S. Attorney from New York again.”

  “We already took care of that.”

  Isaacs shook his head. “Now Holden, he tired of getting no place with Commissioner Benjamin. Now he call Minister of National Security Dr. Winston James.”

  Rudiger felt a jolt but forced himself not to show any reaction. Not on the payroll.

  “So?” Rudiger said.

  “So Commissioner Benjamin, he get call from Minister James and I get call from Commissioner Benjamin. Minister James very upset. Commissioner Benjamin even more upset.”

  “I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s no different than any other time. I have all my documents in place and if Minister James wants to get really curious, he can investigate and he’ll find everything in order. Plus, I’m paying all of you to make sure it goes that way. Now are we finished here?”

  Isaacs leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, his tough-guy move.

  Here we go.

  Isaacs said, his voice low and menacing, “You need to do something big, and fast, or this all come down. And not just on you.”

  “So what are we talking about? Do I need to get to this Minister James?”

  “You don’t understand. Minister James, he crusader. And politician. He love to work with big shot like Charles Holden, bring in big fish, advance his own career, help him run for higher office, maybe.”

  “So how much for Minister James?”

  Isaacs let out a sigh, shook his head and sat back in his chair. “Maybe you not just playing dumb. Maybe you dumb. Maybe Carlen Isaacs got to draw you map, like you Americans say. Minister James not for sale. And so all of us you paying, particularly Carlen Isaacs, we exposed now.”

  There’s always a price tag.

  “You rich man, and you got reasons to stay here, so you got to share some of those
riches.”

  “What do you think I’m doing now?”

  “Carlen Isaacs not talking about monthly payments. Carlen Isaacs taking heat. You in Carlen Isaacs’ jurisdiction. Carlen Isaacs need good-bye money in case he gotta run from Antigua, from Minister James. Run from mess John Rudiger make.” Isaacs had a wild look in his eyes Rudiger had never seen before.

  Rudiger didn’t respond, waiting, his forearms tense.

  “Carlen Isaacs need $2 million.”

  Rudiger couldn’t restrain a laugh. “That’s absurd. I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “How many millions you leave New York with? How many more you get with this Katie girl? How many millions you make investing that money? You got plenty.”

  “In the first place, you guys have been bleeding me dry for 11 years. The annual payments are north of $500,000 now. My house cost 5 million bucks to build, and the insurance on it alone is over 100 grand a year. And despite what you might have heard, over a decade ago I didn’t leave New York with very much money. And my recent trip up there with Katie? She scammed me. Yeah, we got some money, but she took it all. So now I’m down here trying to live my life and you guys are getting rich off me.” Now it was Rudiger’s turn to lean forward on the table. “I’m running on fumes, you hear me?”

  Isaacs’ face curled up in confusion. “What?”

  “I thought you were big on American expressions. ‘Running on fumes.’ It means I’m out of gas. Going broke.”

  Isaacs looked perplexed for the first time. He glanced to the side. He apparently hadn’t figured on this. After a few moments he turned his head to look at Rudiger’s house. He said, “You say insurance. You say you built you house for $5 million. How much it worth now?”

  Rudiger knew where he was going. He didn’t answer.