by Jason Starr
FUGITIVE RED
Also by Jason Starr
Thrillers
Cold Caller
Nothing Personal
Fake I.D.
Hard Feelings
Tough Luck
Twisted City
Lights Out
The Follower
Panic Attack
Savage Lane
The Pack Series
The Pack
The Craving
Film and TV Tie-In Novels
Ant-Man: Natural Enemy
Gotham: Dawn of Darkness
Gotham: City of Monsters
Crime Novels Co-Written with Ken Bruen
Bust
Slide
The Max
Pimp
Graphic Novels
The Chill
Punisher Max: Untold Tales
Wolverine Max: Volume 1
Wolverine Max: Volume 2
Wolverine Max: Volume 3
The Returning
FUGITIVE RED
A NOVEL
JASON STARR
Copyright © 2018 by Jason Starr
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-60809-314-4
Cover Design by Christian Fuenfhausen
Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing
Sarasota, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
For Mom
“There is nothing safe about sex. There never will be.”
—NORMAN MAILER
“Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.”
—ALBERT EINSTEIN
FUGITIVE RED
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
IN THE TWO-BEDROOM penthouse on 73rd, near 3rd, Rob McEvoy said, “I like it, man, I like it.” Then, as he went ahead through the short foyer, into the kitchen area, he added, “Breakfast bar, love it. What kind of wood?”
“Teak,” I said.
“Sweet.”
“Installed a few months ago by the owner,” I added. “Countertop’s Blue Louise, that’s top-of-the-line granite, and those’re all new appliances—Sub-Zero, Wolf—with a fully integrated dishwasher.”
Rob was walking away, toward the living room, asking, “Fireplace work?”
“Yep. And you don’t see many apartments with working fireplaces in Manhattan.”
“Living room’s kinda small.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but there’s a separate dining area and an open floor plan with lots of light and two exposures.”
“Southern?”
“Northern and eastern.”
“It’s okay. I get enough sun in L.A.”
He smiled with his shiny, new-looking capped teeth, which seemed even whiter in contrast with his overly tanned skin. He looked so different than he had—Jesus, twenty-four years ago—when we were both struggling musicians, living on the Lower East Side. If we hadn’t reconnected on Facebook, if I’d just ran into him on the street, I probably would’ve walked right by him.
“It’s actually a very bright apartment, especially in the morning,” I said.
“Yeah, and the living room really isn’t so small. Enough room for a big, wide couch, and that’s all that really matters, right?”
He winked at me, then went toward the door to the terrace and said, “Wow, let’s have a look.”
We stepped out onto the terrace that was staged with lounge chairs from Crate & Barrel.
“You won’t find a terrace this size for this price,” I said. “It’s three hundred square feet. Some apartments in Manhattan aren’t three hundred square feet. You can barbecue, throw parties …”
“This is awesome,” Rob said. “Totally what I’ve been looking for. How much is it?”
“The owner’s asking two mil, and I don’t think it’s negotiable. He recently dropped the price and it’s an investment property and he’s not desperate to sell. I mean, you can try to nudge him to one nine and change, but I don’t think he’ll budge. The maintenance is nineteen-sixty, which is actually extremely reasonable, so if you put twenty percent down you’re looking at a nut of—”
“I’m paying cash,” Rob said.
“Oh. Oh, okay.” I knew Rob was doing well—he’d started Music Mania, his own music licensing business, in Hollywood—but I didn’t expect him to fork over two million in cash. “That’s cool,” I added.
“I also want to close on it fast,” he said, “within a month or two.”
“Assuming we can get all the paperwork done, and there are no issues with the board, I don’t see why that should be a problem.”
“Sweet.” Rob lay in one of the lounge chairs. “Gonna be honest with you—I’ve been out with a few other brokers, seen a couple of other places I like, but this is my fave. And all things being equal, I’d rather you get the commish than some stranger.”
Was he saying he wanted to make an offer? Sounded like it, but I wasn’t sure.
I’d been doubting everything lately. My only deal in the last three months had been a one-bedroom, non-doorman rental, and I’d had to split the commission with another broker. Living in Manhattan, on the Upper East Side, wasn’t exactly cheap, and Maria and I had been struggling lately to pay rent, bills, and expenses for our eight-year-old son. We hadn’t gone on a vacation in years.
But selling a two-million-dollar apartment could turn everything around.
“That sounds great,” I said, thinking, Go for the close, go for the close. “If you have any more questions, I’d be happy to answer them, and I can also contact the seller for you, and feel them out on the price, I mean, if you’re thinking about making an offer.”
Gazing out at the view of rooftops, Rob said, “Man, I love this view.”
“It’s pretty awesome, isn’t it? I mean, it’s hard to get an unobstructed view in Manhattan these days. Or you think you have a great view then a building goes up and blocks it. But you don’t have to worry about that here. Those are all multimillion-dollar town-houses and they’re not going anywhere.”
“I like that it’s private,” he said. “You could fuck somebody here in the middle of the day and no one would see you.”
I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, but I smiled, said, “Ha, yes, that’s true. That’s very true … So, do you think your wife will like it?”
He looked at me like I’d said something offensive.
“My wife?
”
“Yeah,” I said. “You guys are gonna use it as a pied-a-terre when you’re in the city, I guess, right?”
I knew he’d mentioned his wife in a couple of the emails we’d exchanged, and his Facebook status was “Married.” I glanced at his ring finger, at his thick gold wedding band.
“No, I’m gonna use it as a pied-a-terre when I’m in the city,” he said, showing off his fake smile. “My wife? She’s never gonna even know about it. You know it’s like what they say—what you don’t know can’t hurt you.”
He walked by me, back into the apartment. I followed him.
He said, “Yeah, if I take this place, first thing I’ll do is get a decorator in here. iHome the fuck out of it, get some hip furniture, a bar, the right lighting, a kick-ass sound system. And a great bed. That’s the most important thing, right?”
I smiled along with Rob, not wanting to judge. I needed this sale.
“Well, I think you’ll really enjoy yourself here,” I said.
“Oh, I’ll enjoy myself, I guarantee you that.”
I forced another smile. Then, when he looked away, I rolled my eyes.
As we rode the elevator down to the lobby, I gave Rob more basics about the building and the neighborhood.
“If you have any questions, just let me know,” I said. “I don’t want to put any pressure on you, but I know other brokers are showing this apartment, and there’s been some serious interest and I don’t think it’ll last.”
Actually, I had no idea if other brokers were actively showing it or if there had been any interest at all. But from experience, I knew I had to do whatever I could to get him off the fence. If what he’d told me was true, and he was considering other apartments, I needed him to make a decision as soon as possible.
“Don’t worry, I won’t fuck you over,” Rob said. “I’ll turn this around fast, I promise.”
I didn’t want to let him go without making an offer, but there was a limit to how hard I could press.
“Gotchya,” I said.
I was looking forward to getting back to my office and, well, away from Rob, when he said, “Hey, you want to grab some lunch?”
“Love to,” I lied, “but I have some stuff to take care of at the office.”
“Come on, man,” he said, “lemme buy. It’s not like we see each other more than once every, what, twenty years? We have a lot of catching up to do.”
I knew this was a bad idea. When you’re trying to close a deal, it’s always a mistake to hang out with the potential client—nothing good comes from closeness.
On the other hand, I didn’t want him to think I was blowing him off.
“Yeah, okay, cool,” I said. “I guess I can catch a quick bite. I mean, what the hell, right?”
CHAPTER TWO
ROB HAD AN Uber drop us at Le Veau D’Or, an upscale French restaurant on East 60th that I’d passed many times but had never gone into. Rob was in a black sport jacket over a designer black tee shirt—the big-shot music mogul look? I felt way underdressed in jeans, sneakers, and a plain gray button-down.
“Um, maybe we should go someplace a little more casual,” I said.
“Chill, my brother,” Rob said. “You look great. A little low budg, yeah, but you’re Jack Harper—you’re a rock ’n’ roll guy, you’re hip. You think Bono gives a fuck how he looks when he goes out to lunch?”
I was going to say, Yeah, I think he probably does, but we were in the restaurant already, so I figured we might as well just get seated.
As the hostess, an attractive, leggy blond, was leading us to our table, I saw Rob’s gaze zeroing in on her ass, then he looked at me and in an exaggerated way mouthed the words, Holy fucking shit.
I was already regretting my decision to have lunch with him. Would schmoozing with him really increase the odds of closing the sale? If he sensed how jerky I thought he was, it could actually hurt my chances. Sometimes less is more.
At our table, Rob said to the hostess, “Actress or model?”
His voice boomed—a few people were looking over—but I didn’t get the impression he was accidentally loud; no, he wanted people to hear. The hostess, probably used to getting hit on by sleazy businessmen, seemed unfazed.
“Actress,” she said.
“Fifty-fifty shot, right?” Rob was fake smiling. Then he shifted to an intense, focused expression that was just as fake. “You have beautiful eyes. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen that shade of blue, except when I was sailing in the Aegean.”
I tasted vomit.
“Thank you,” she said. “Enjoy your meals, guys.”
As she headed back toward the front of the restaurant, Rob turned to check her out.
“I’d give her the best two minutes of her life,” he said. “Who’m I kidding? Twenty seconds.”
Again his voice had boomed and the older woman at the next table shot me a look. My response was a helplessly embarrassed shrug, as if saying, It’s not me, it’s him.
“And you know she’d be into it,” he continued. “Nine times out of ten a girl her age meets an older guy, of course she’s gonna fall for him, know why? Because her boyfriend’s probably some twenty-two-year-old jackass—never compliments her, always puts her down, doesn’t respect her. That’s the key—respect. We know how to respect women, we know how to be … what’s that word I’m looking for? The old-fashioned word, Knights and King Arthur and shit?”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Chivalrous,” he said, “that’s it, thank you. Remember when we were twenty-two? We didn’t know jack about how to treat women back then, but now that we’re older guys, we have what younger women want—respect, intelligence, worldliness—class, I’m talking about class.”
The waitress came to our table. She was Asian, young, attractive. Rob gave her a smarmy, “Heyyy,” but spared her a lame pickup line.
“Can I get you some drinks to start?”
“Vodka gimlet,” Rob said.
“Water’s fine,” I said.
Rob looked at me like I’d caught fire. “You sure, bro?”
“Yeah, positive.”
The waitress smiled and left.
“Come on, you can have one drink,” Rob said. “I mean, we have to celebrate getting back in touch after twenty-two years. It’s a beautiful thing.”
“Actually, I’m in the program,” I said.
He gave me a look like he thought I was joking. When he realized I wasn’t, he asked, “Since when?”
“Been sober six years, five months.”
“That’s great,” he said. “I mean, it’s great you have that kind of discipline. God knows, I don’t. So what prompted it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Going cold turkey. I mean, I remember the old days, you went out drinking every night.”
“That’s what prompted it.”
He smiled, then said, “I hear you, bro. I mean, half of L.A. are friends of Bill W. I’m just surprised you are, too.”
“Yeah, well, a lot of shit has happened in twenty-two years,” I said, purposely leaving it vague, not wanting to get into a whole discussion about my alcoholism and the other mistakes I’d made. I added, “It was just time to deal with shit so I dealt with it, you know?”
“That’s cool,” he said. “So how’s the music going?”
Speaking of topics I didn’t want to discuss.
I reached for the glass of water, then realized the waitress hadn’t brought it yet.
“Actually, I haven’t touched a guitar in ages.”
“You?” Rob said. “You’re kidding me. Music was your life—that’s all you ever wanted to do. When you weren’t playing, you were writing songs, or talking about music, or checking out bands. I know music can be a rough career, you gotta pay bills, but how could you just give it all up?”
“Life got in the way. I had a kid, new responsibilities. How ’bout you? Still playing?”
I wanted to steer the conversation away from
an uncomfortable subject—me.
“Seven days a week,” he said. “Actually I’m thinking of putting together a band in L.A. Nothing serious, just to mess around, but already booked some gigs at this bar in West Hollywood. Hey, I have an idea. Next time we’re in town, we should get together and jam.”
“Maybe,” I said, but I had no intention of playing with Rob, or ever holding a guitar again.
The waitress brought my water and Rob’s gimlet and took our lunch order: seafood casserole for me, poached salmon—“sauce on the side”—for Mr. L.A.
As the waitress walked away, Rob turned to look at her ass.
“So do your kids play any sports? Soccer or anything?”
We talked about our kids for a while—I told him about how my son, Jonah, was taking karate and chess classes this year and how he loved Pokémon.
“My son’s into Pokémon, too,” Rob said. “Big Golisopod fan—huge. See, I’m a good dad, I keep up with this shit.” Then, after taking a long sip of his gimlet, Rob asked, “So how’re the mothers at the school? Any hot ones?”
Rob may have been forty-four, but his brain age was sixteen.
“I’m just curious,” I said. “Aren’t you worried about your wife finding out?”
“Finding out?”
“You know, about your … lifestyle. Aren’t you worried about your life turning into a huge train wreck?”
He made a face like I’d suggested something ridiculous, some impossibility.
Then he said, “Come on, I told you, I’m not a moron. That’s who gets caught—the dummies. I’m not gonna have some obsessed woman calling the house; I’m not gonna rub it in my wife’s face. I have my life at home and I have my other life and I never let the two lives meet.”
The way he was talking to me about it so openly—and loudly—I doubted he was very careful.
“Don’t you feel guilty?” I asked.
“You kidding?” he said. “Cheating saved my marriage. If I didn’t cheat, Julianne and I would’ve gotten divorced years ago. When my youngest was a year old and she went through this whole crisis and shit with her father dying, we would’ve split for sure. A lot of guys in my position would have taken off. But I’m a good father, a good husband, too. Thank God that I was fooling around, that I had that outlet.”
