Fifth Avenue wst-1

by Christopher Smith

The doctor had no choice but to agree.

  Antonio looked at Leana, saw the pain on her face, the hatred in her eyes and wondered if Lucia was right. He wondered if this Redman bitch was sleeping with Mario.

  “You’re not wanted here,” he said to her. “Go home to your husband.”

  As he walked away, her death came to him.

  He had an image of her standing in the center of a crowd, shining, immaculate, her eyes brilliant and glinting in the torrent of cameras flashing in her face, her voice clear and confident as she gave the speech he had been told about that morning.

  And then he saw her lifting into the air, toward the chandeliers, her face crumpling as it rose into the halo of her own blood, the hail of bullets ripping from the rear of the room and mangling what had once been her head.

  Behind him, her voice was high and thin: “Antonio-”

  But De Cicco already was in his son’s room. The door swung shut behind him. For now, he was through with her.

  Michael stared at the man standing in his entryway, stunned by the drastic change in his appearance, certain he couldn’t have heard him right. “What did you just say?”

  The man, who had flown from L.A. to see Michael, put a finger to his lips and motioned for Michael to follow him out of the apartment and into the hallway. “Hurry,” he whispered. “My plane leaves in an hour and I’m not missing it for you. I’m tired of this bullshit. Your father’s fucking crazy. I’m out of here.”

  Suddenly wary, Michael followed the man to the end of the hall, where there was an illumined wall of elevators, a window that overlooked Manhattan and a tall, potted plant that gleamed as though it had just been waxed.

  The man went to the window, leaned against it and lit a cigarette. He drew deeply on it, the smoke lifting like a veil in front of his face. His name was Bill Jennings and he was Michael’s business manager-a man Michael hadn’t seen or heard from him since the banks foreclosed on him.

  “What’s going on, Bill?” he asked. “You’re not exactly putting me at ease.”

  The man exhaled a cloud of smoke. “We can’t talk in your apartment,” he said. “The fucker probably has it bugged. If I hadn’t shaved off my beard and dyed my hair blond, I wouldn’t be standing here right now.”

  Michael was losing his patience. “What are you talking about? And what’s this about Santiago?”

  The man couldn’t look Michael in the eyes. “He doesn’t exist” he said simply. “There is no Stephano Santiago. Your father made him up to scare you. For the past year, Louis has been making me skim money from your accounts so it would look as if you’d gone broke. He made me suggest that you try gambling at one of his casinos when the banks finally foreclosed. He knew you’d lose and he knew that you’d eventually go running to him once he made you believe the casino was Mafia-controlled.”

  There was a tension in the air, a disturbance in the silence. The man glanced at Michael, saw the disbelief on his face and screwed up his own. “Ah, shit, Michael. Santiago doesn’t own Aura-your father does, at least part of it. He arranged for you to be offered that loan, knowing you’d be scared shitless when you lost it all and had to pay back a man by the name of Stephano Santiago. He’s been planning this from the start.”

  It wasn’t possible.

  Michael thought of the call he received only that morning, the call warning him to do as his father asked and kill George Redman. And then he thought of his dog. “But my dog,” he said to Bill. “Santiago killed him. He left a note saying he’d do the same to me if I didn’t come up with the money.”

  “Your father killed your dog, Michael. I’m telling you, Santiago doesn’t exist.”

  Pieces of a puzzle he never knew existed began falling into place. Michael thought back to the men who chased him out of his apartment-men Santiago supposedly hired-and realized once again what a coincidence it was that Spocatti had been there to help him. But of course there were no coincidences. His father was behind it all.

  “I hate myself for this, Michael,” Jennings said. “More than you know. But your father said he’d kill me if I didn’t go along with it. He promised he’d make me pay if I didn’t make you believe. Now he’s got people watching this building-that’s why I changed my appearance. If they knew I was here, they’d kill us both.”

  Michael shot him a look. “Am I broke?”

  Jennings removed an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Michael. “There's a check in there and instructions. Everything I skimmed was put into another account, under a different name. You have about three million dollars your father said you wouldn’t be needing again.” His last words lingered in the air. Their eyes met and he nodded toward the envelope, now clutched in Michael’s hand. “Everything you need to know is in there.”

  He looked at his watch, saw that he had only an hour to get to La Guardia and swore beneath his breath. He dropped his cigarette into the silver ashtray beside him, pressed the elevator’s down button and said, “I’m not going to the police. I’m leaving that to you. But if you need my help, you can count on it. After what your father’s done, I want that son of a bitch behind bars.”

  The elevator doors slid open and he stepped inside. Michael was about to speak when he heard the faint ringing of a telephone coming from his apartment. The sound echoed hollowly in the empty hallway.

  “Where are you going?” he said.

  Jennings shrugged. In his eyes was a look of fear. “As far away from your father as a plane will take me,” he said. The doors started to close. “I suggest you do the same. Leave New York. Take Leana with you. I don’t know what your father is up to, I don’t know why he’s done this, but I do know he’s dangerous. And I know you’re at risk.”

  As Michael stood looking at himself in the division of the elevator’s brushed steel doors, he thought he looked like an apparition, a ghost hovering between two separate realities, two worlds of lightness and darkness.

  His father had been manipulating him from the start, playing on his fears and his love for his mother. Although Michael never fully trusted Louis in the weeks that had passed since their reunion, he was starting to do so and it was this that sparked his rage now.

  How could he have allowed himself to be drawn in by the very man who once said he wished it was his son who died all those years ago, and not his wife, Anne?

  Why had he believed in him? Had he been so hungry for the man’s acceptance that he would believe and do anything? Marry a woman he barely knew? Agree to kill a man responsible for his mother’s death? And what if that, too, was a lie?

  The telephone rang again.

  Michael considered ignoring it, but realized it might be his father and so he left for his apartment to answer it.

  “Yes?” he said sharply.

  “Mr. Archer?”

  It was the front desk. Michael closed his eyes, willed himself to relax. “What is it, Jonathan?”

  “You have a visitor, sir.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s George Redman. Shall I show him up?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The knock came almost at once.

  Michael stopped pacing and looked across the foyer to the door. It was in shadow. A narrow beam of interrupted light shined beneath it.

  George Redman was beyond that door. The man accused of murdering his mother was about to enter his apartment. Michael wondered again why Redman was here and then realized it really didn’t matter-he was glad he was here. Though they’d met only briefly at the opening of the Redman International Building, he now had the chance to stand face-to-face with the man. Alone.

  As he went to the door, it occurred to him that if this apartment was indeed wired, his father would eventually hear every word about to be spoken. And that thrilled him.

  He opened the door and the two men stared at each other.

  Although Redman was well over six feet and had a broad, rugged build, he was somehow different from the man Michael remembered. He seemed smaller, less t
hreatening. His resemblance to Leana was striking.

  An awkward silence passed. Michael could hear one of his neighbors playing a piano. Then Redman extended his hand, which Michael shook. “Thanks for seeing me,” George said.

  Michael stepped aside and asked him to come in. George went to the center of the foyer and looked around.

  “Is Leana here?” he asked.

  “She’s at the hospital.”

  “Then she knows?”

  “We saw it on the news. I tried telling her there wasn’t anything she could do, but she wouldn’t listen and went to the hospital, anyway.”

  George looked disappointed. He wanted to break the news to Leana himself. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “That man meant the world to Leana. She loved him fiercely.”

  While Michael knew that Leana once had an affair with Mario De Cicco, she never elaborated just how deeply those feelings went and he was surprised now by the jealousy it sparked within him. Given De Cicco’s notorious lifestyle, it also seemed odd that her father understood it.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a drink, would you?” George asked. “I’m still a little shaken, myself.”

  Shaken about De Cicco?

  They moved into the large room with its tall windows and red curtains, its paneled mahogany walls and illumined paintings and leather-bound books. Michael motioned toward the rosewood chairs arranged in the center of the room and asked George to have a seat. “What can I get you?”

  “Scotch, if you have it,” George said.

  Michael stood at the unfamiliar bar, his gaze sweeping over rows of glinting bottles, deeply etched Faberge glasses, a shining, empty ice bucket. He had used this bar only once since he and Leana moved in and it was a moment before he found the appropriate bottle, which was half-full, its label scratched, as if it had been used. You’re a clever son of a bitch, aren’t you, Dad? As he poured, he wondered where in this room the microphones were hidden. Who was listening to them now? Spocatti? His father? Both?

  Drinks in hand, he came across the room and noticed that Redman was watching him. His gaze was almost scrutinizing, as if he was looking at someone he hadn’t seen in years.

  Michael handed him his drink. “Is there something wrong?” he asked.

  George shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry. You just remind me of someone I knew some time ago.”

  Michael took the chair opposite him, his interest rising. “Who was that?”

  “Her name was Anne,” George said. “She looked a lot like you.”

  Michael tried to still his emotions. He couldn’t believe this man had just mentioned his mother. All his life he had longed for information about her. He wanted to know things that only people close to her could know, but his father rarely spoke about her. He thought of the films he watched that morning and knew that while they offered a bridge to the past in fleeting scenes that encouraged memories, they never could convey what a person’s personal memories could. And so he pressed on.

  “Were you friends?” he asked.

  The sadness on George Redman’s face was unmistakable. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose Anne and I were friends. There was a time when we were even close. But things changed and I never saw her again. That was years ago.”

  Michael’s heart was pounding. He was conflicted. If what his father said was true, George Redman murdered his mother. He’d taken a shotgun, blown out her tires and sent her over that bridge to her death. But he also knew that George couldn’t understand the complexity of what was unfolding here. And since George might tell him more about his mother than his own father would, he decided to take this as far as he could, regardless of the repercussions.

  “What was she like?”

  “We don’t need to talk about this.”

  “Leana could be hours,” he said. “I’m interested.”

  “There are other subjects to discuss, like your marriage to my daughter.”

  “Leana and I agreed that we’d discuss that with you and Elizabeth together.” He held out his hands. “What can I say?” he said. “You’ve made me curious about her.”

  George seemed to understand that and so he acquiesced. “She was beautiful,” he said. “I didn’t know her long and I only saw her on occasion, but there were times when I would have done anything for her.”

  “Were you two involved?”

  The boldness of the question caught George off guard. He saw the rapt attention on Michael’s face and finished his drink. “Anne was married when I met her and I respected that,” he said. “I wanted to remain friends with her but her husband decided against that. We didn’t get along.” He lifted his empty glass. “Would you mind?”

  Michael went to the bar and fixed him another drink. He replaced the bottle and listened to Redman shift in his seat. “Are they still married?”

  “Anne’s dead, Michael.”

  And there it was. Michael stood at the bar, a thousand questions tumbling through his mind, but he chose to ask only one because only one mattered-and Redman’s reaction to it was almost as important as his answer.

  He came across the room and handed George his drink. He saw the discomfort on his face and what might have been grief in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “How did she die?”

  It was as if those words dropped an invisible veil. George straightened in his chair. He collected himself. Whatever world he had allowed himself to travel to was gone. “Let’s talk about something else,” he said. “Today has been difficult enough.”

  “Of course.”

  The phone rang.

  “That might be Leana,” George said.

  Michael excused himself and left for the foyer, not wanting to talk in the library. He had a feeling it was his father calling and he was right.

  “What are you doing, Michael?” Louis said. “Why are you with him?”

  Michael looked back into the library and saw that Redman had left his seat. He now was standing in front of the Vermeer, in which a woman was holding a balance. And Michael thought, Did you kill my mother?

  “Answer me, Michael. Why is he there?”

  There was a sudden jangling of keys beyond the locked door and Michael turned as Leana stepped into the apartment. Their eyes met and Michael immediately sensed by the expression on her face that things had not gone well at the hospital. His father’s voice was a sharp jolt on the phone. “Get him out of that apartment, Michael. Get him out now or I’ll pay Santiago nothing.”

  With a firm hand, Michael replaced the receiver and walked over to where Leana stood. He put his arms around her and held her tightly. “Are you all right?”

  Leana pressed her face into the warmth of his chest. She didn’t answer.

  Michael rested his chin on the top of her head. He could feel her trying to keep herself under control and his heart went out to her. “How is he?” he asked.

  “Not good,” she said. “It was awful. I fought with the doctor and Mario’s father wouldn’t let me see him.”

  “Is he going to be all right?”

  “I don’t know. Three of his ribs were crushed. He lost a lot of blood. The doctor says we have to wait.”

  Michael pulled back and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. He had fallen in love with her. He didn’t know how or when it had happened, but the feeling was there and he realized that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” he said. “I promise. But right now you have to pull yourself together.” He nodded toward the library. “Your father’s here.”

  Leana’s eyes widened. She looked behind her and came face to face with her father, who had stepped away from the painting and now was standing in the center of the library, near an ormolu writing table, his hands at his sides.

  He smiled at her and it was one of the saddest smiles she had ever seen. “I wanted you to hear it from me,” he said. “But I guess I was too late. Are you all right?”

  Leana was confused. Her fat
her hadn’t come here to tell her about Mario-George hated the man. Years ago, he had forbidden that she see him. Something else was wrong. “What are we talking about?” she said, alarmed. “Is Mom all right?”

  George was unmoving. “Your mother’s fine.” He looked at Michael. “I thought you said she knew?”

  Michael was as bewildered as George. “She does know,” he said. “She just came from the hospital. We saw what happened to De Cicco on the news.” But Michael saw by the change in Redman’s expression that his coming here had nothing to do with Mario De Cicco or with the explosion that nearly cost the man his life.

  He looked at Leana, saw the cold fear on her face, the uncertainty in her eyes, and thought, What has my father done now…

  The next few moments passed in a haze.

  George came into the foyer, told Leana about the death of their best friend, a man he thought he had known but never truly had. He caught his daughter when her knees buckled and she began to cry in a shrill of grief. Over and over again, she asked why Harold had done it. George said he didn’t know. He remained at her side, comforting her, his arms enveloping her in a way they hadn’t since she was a child.

  He pressed his face against hers and closed his eyes. When he did, he once again saw the haunting image of a train hurtling into a shadowy tunnel, bearing down hard toward an impatient crowd and then Harold inexplicably leaping from the platform and jumping to his death.

  The helicopter soared over the city and moved slowly down Fifth, its spotlight shining along the mirrored facades of tall buildings, illuminating their interiors with quick bursts of light.

  In the dark silence of Louis Ryan’s office, Spocatti watched the machine, watched it glide steadily toward them, its multi-colored lights blinking, steel blades flashing, chopping the heavy air with a smooth, measured fierceness.

  Ryan was sitting opposite him, glass of Scotch in hand, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He had not spoken since Michael severed the connection and, in a sense, blatantly told Louis to go to hell.