Fifth Avenue

by Christopher Smith

  He could help but laugh. Now he would have to walk.

  He left the car where it had died, on the corner of Fifth and 75th Street, and started for The Redman International Building, which was over a mile downtown. He knew his car would get towed, but he didn’t care. Tonight, Jack Douglas had more important things on his mind.

  Tonight might just change the rest of his life.

  He had just passed 61st Street when lightning flashed and thunder rippled across the sky. Jack looked up, felt the rising breeze on his face and quickened his step. It had better not rain, he thought.

  But it did.

  When the rain became wind-swept sheets, panic rose in him and he broke into a run, the rain pelting his lowered head. With each passing motorist, he was sprinkled with the spray that flew off their wheels. He ran seven blocks before The Redman International Building came into sight, and when it did, Jack slowed. If George Redman himself hadn’t sent him an invitation to tonight’s party, he would have passed on this and gone home. But that wasn't happening.

  Last week, when he sold an unprecedented $500 million dollars worth of bonds to a client in France, he had become the financial world’s most revered species--a Big Swinging Dick. The following morning, when the Journal named him Wall Street’s latest financial whiz, every investment firm in Manhattan tried luring him away from Morgan Stanley--but to no avail.

  Jack refused the offers, determined to remain loyal to the firm that gave him his start. And then came the invitation from George Redman, asking him to come to the grand opening of the new Redman International Building. “Congratulations on the Journal article,” George wrote on the invitation. “And I hope you’ll come to the party. I’d like to discuss a few things with you.”

  And that was all it took. Redman International was the world’s leading conglomerate. If Jack was offered a job there, his career would be set. So much for loyalty, he thought.

  As much as he didn’t want to, he stepped into the building and handed the doorman his damp invitation. The band wasn’t playing. There was nothing but the rustle of silk, the light din of those who hadn’t seen him and the titter of those who had. The doorman looked at him, then at the invitation and seemed to hesitate with indecision. But then he smiled and said, “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Douglas.”

  “Right,” Jack said, and moved into the lobby.

  A waiter stopped beside him. “Champagne, sir?”

  “Champagne, sir” was at the end of a ten-foot pole and conveyed the message: “You and your wet clothes and your dirty face are not welcome at this party.”

  Although he preferred beer, Jack accepted a glass and toasted those who were rude enough to stare. “Lovely evening,” he said, and smiled when they turned away. There was a hand on his arm. Jack turned and saw Celina Redman. “You look as if you could use a friend,” she said.

  This morning, she was on the front page of the Times. While Jack always considered her an attractive woman, he was delighted to find that Celina Redman was even prettier in person. “And a shower,” he said after a moment. “I got caught in the rain.” He extended a hand, which Celina shook. “I’m Jack Douglas,” he said. “Glad to meet you.”

  Celina returned the smile. “Celina Redman,” she said. “And that was one hell of a profile the Journal had on you last week. I was impressed. My father invited you personally, didn’t he?”

  Jack nodded. “Afraid so. My big break and look at me. I’m a mop.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Showing up shows you have guts.”

  “I just wish I wasn’t wearing them on my jacket and pants.” He looked around him. “I should probably clean up before I meet your father.”

  Celina looked at the dusting of mud and grime on his face and hands. “I’ll tell you what--my parents have a triplex on the top floor. If you’d like, you can clean up there and borrow something of my father’s. You look to be about his size.” She motioned toward the bank of elevators beside them. “Why don’t you come with me and I’ll see what I can find for you to wear. I’m sure my father has something.”

  When they arrived in the apartment, Jack followed Celina through rooms that looked as though someone had dismantled a museum to furnish them. And yet the overall effect was surprisingly warm. Like her.

  “There’s a bathroom through there,” Celina said as they entered her parents’ bedroom. “I’ll find you something to wear.”

  Jack stepped into the bathroom and removed his wet jacket and damp shirt. “I won’t be long,” he said. “Will you stay?”

  Celina stepped out of her father’s dressing room with a black dinner jacket and pants draped over one arm, a crisp white shirt over the other. “You don’t think I’d miss seeing what you look like dry, do you?” She entered the bathroom and handed him the clothes. There was a moment when they appraised each other. “Of course, I’ll stay.”

  * * *

  In the lobby, Diana Crane, Redman International’s chief corporate attorney, accepted a glass of champagne from one of the barmen, sipped it and then turned back to Eric Parker, Redman International’s chief financial officer. He was still talking about the upcoming takeover of WestTex Incorporated.

  Would he never shut up about it? Could he not have a good time? Would you pay attention to me, please?

  From the first day they’d met, she’d been attracted to him. Eric Parker was tall and dark, his looks classically Greek, his frame muscular, almost sleek. He had a healthy sense of humor, he was capable of holding an intelligent conversation and he had that incredible financial mind.

  For the past two years, Eric Parker also had Celina Redman. And before their recent break-up, there were rumors of marriage.

  Lights flashed and the dance floor was plunged into darkness. A murmur rose over the crowd and the band stopped playing. Diana watched with Eric as a piercing beam of light slashed the darkness and cut through the glistening waterfall, sending ripples of blue light across the crowd’s expectant faces.

  She nudged Eric. “What’s this?”

  Eric nodded toward the waterfall. “The money shot. Watch.”

  From behind the waterfall, Elizabeth Redman appeared to walk through it. It was a clever illusion and the crowd cheered. She stood there, elegant in black silk, the diamonds at her neck, wrists and ears winking in the light. George came through the waterfall and was at her side, smiling as the energy in the room began to grow. The spotlight followed them to the center of the dance floor.

  Cameras flashed. Society applauded.

  “She’s beautiful,” Diana said.

  “She is,” Eric agreed. “But not as beautiful as her daughter.” He handed her his empty glass. Diana had it refilled--this time without the ice. When the band began playing “One Moment in Time,” there was another burst of applause from the crowd as George and Elizabeth started to dance. Soon, other couples joined them and the floor became a swirling mass of glittering dresses and black tuxedos.

  Diana reached for Eric’s hand. “Let’s dance."

  Together, they moved about the dance floor, their steps light, graceful. Diana looked up at Eric’s face, saw him smiling down at her and she smiled back. He held her closer and Diana wondered if he knew that she was in love with him and had been for years. He lowered his mouth to her ear. Diana tensed and for a moment thought he was going to kiss her. His words were an invasion when he spoke. “When this gets back to her, do you think it’ll make her jealous?”

  Diana looked up at him, acutely aware of the alcohol on his breath. “What did you say?”

  “When this gets back to Celina,” he said. “You and me dancing. Do you think she’ll be jealous?”

  She was incredulous. “Why don’t you ask her?” she said.

  And the music stopped.

  * * *

  While Jack showered, Celina kicked off her shoes, sat on her parents’ bed and allowed her gaze to wander around the bedroom. It had her mother’s touch, which meant it was just enough without being overwhel
ming. Only one thing caught her eye--the photographs of the family framed in silver on the Chippendale side table.

  She slid off the bed and chose one of the photographs. It was of her and Eric and they were holding hands outside the old Redman International Building on Madison. Celina could remember the day clearly. Only hours after the picture was taken, she and Eric had made love for the first time. Then, Celina was convinced she was giving herself to a man she would spend the rest of her life with. Now, I don’t know what I want.

  She put the picture back onto the table and wondered if Eric was here. She herself had asked him to come. Although they were no longer seeing each other, it seemed pointless that there should be any animosity between them. Celina, in fact, still loved Eric. If he hadn’t pressed so hard for marriage, there wouldn’t have been a separation.

  She wondered why he was in such a hurry. At twenty-nine, she was too young to marry--let alone to have the children Eric wanted. But she would have them and if Eric could learn to be patient, Celina would have them with him. Until that day, Celina planned on living her life--and she'd do it single, whether Eric Parker liked it or not.

  From across the room, the bathroom door opened and Jack Douglas, freshly showered and wearing George’s dinner jacket, stepped into the bedroom. Celina thought how handsome he looked. His sandy hair more tousled than groomed, Jack Douglas had an appealingly athletic build. She guessed him to be somewhere in his early thirties.

  He smoothed his hands down the front of the jacket. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Very sophisticated,” Celina said. “You clean up well. Now let’s go down and find my father. I’m sure he wants to talk to you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Leana Redman moved through the crowd and was amused by how the crowd parted for her.

  There were faces she recognized and most of them were either stoned on whatever drug was circulating, or had been lifted so many times, a strange, permanent smile was on their lips.

  She nodded at a man who made million-dollar-deals during the day and was rumored to frequent sex clubs during the night. She passed a countess who gave hundreds of thousands of dollars to a teenage delinquency fund, and yet was known to steal repeatedly from Bloomingdale’s and Saks. To her right was a sheik who loved his many wives--and how their clothes fit his plump body. And to her left, she heard a woman saying, “Brenda? Getting married? That’s absurd. Let me tell you something about Brenda. She’s so butch, she rolls her own tampons.”

  Leana looked at the woman who said this and wanted to tell her friends that she might as well be talking about herself. It seemed to her that there was more corruption, drug abuse and twisted social values in Fifth Avenue Society than in any other New York social class.

  Across the lobby she could see Harold Baines, Redman International’s VP for International Affairs, speaking at a dimly lit corner table with his wife, Helen. Leana smiled. Finally, someone she not only knew, but adored.

  Harold had been with Redman International ever since she could remember and they always had been close. When she was a child and made one of her rare visits to her father’s old headquarters on Madison, Harold made it a point to spend time with her while everyone else paid attention to Celina--the daughter who showed promise. Leana would always love him for it.

  She started in their direction. The crowd shifted and she saw Harold push back his chair, stand and kiss Helen on the forehead. The lighting above him accented the deep lines on his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes, suggesting an age well past sixty. And yet Harold Baines was fifty-one years old.

  Leana waved to him but Harold didn’t notice and he stepped into a nearby washroom. He seemed thinner, older than when she saw him last and Leana noticed he was carrying himself as if the very act of moving required the coordinating of muscles he didn’t have the strength to control. When the door swung shut behind him, she wondered if something was wrong with him. Was he sick? She was about to walk over and ask Helen when Michael Archer appeared in the crowd. He approached her--and held out a hand. “Dance?” he asked.

  The band was playing “I’ll Be Seeing You.” As they danced with the other couples on the dance floor, Leana looked up at Michael and decided to ask a question that was certain to catch him off guard. “So, tell me,” she said. “Why did you really spend $100,000 to come here?”

  The question took Michael by surprise. “I thought I already explained that,” he said carefully. “I wanted to help your mother raise money this evening for HIV.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that,” Leana said. “That’s an explanation my mother would believe, not me.”

  Michael felt a start, but stilled it. She couldn’t know why he was really here. That was impossible. Still, he was wary. She seemed to be looking straight through him. “A lot of my time is spent with the creative community,” he said. “Some of my friends have the disease, which no longer gets any attention in the press. It’s great what your mother’s doing. She’ll put HIV back on the front page.”

  Leana studied his face. “All right,” she said. “I’ll buy that. But you’re here for some other reason. No one gives $100,000 to charity without having some other motivation than mere kindness. Kindness went belly up in the ‘40s.” She looked around her. “Is there somebody here you wanted to meet? A producer, perhaps? A publisher?”

  His arm tightened around her waist. “I’ve got those covered,” he said.

  “Then why are you really here?”

  “Why do I have to be here for any particular reason? Can’t I just be a nice guy?”

  “No one is nice anymore, Mr. Archer. Look around you. See that man over there, the one with the cigar? Next to him is his wife, who knows that lit cigar goes other places. Now, what’s the reason?”

  He saw the humor in her eyes and he softened. This is a game to her, he thought. She knows I’m lying and is just having fun with it. Relax. “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you--but on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “You have to tell me something you’re not proud of. Quid pro quo. Deal?”

  “Deal. Now, what is it?”

  “I don’t like giving money to the government,” he said, the idea still fresh. “When I learned your mother was raising money this evening for children with HIV, I saw a chance to write off a hundred grand from my taxes. Better to help children than to hand it over to adults who behave like children, wouldn’t you say?”

  Leana nodded. “Now, that I believe.” She accidentally brushed up against the woman dancing behind her. Both turned and smiled their apologies.

  “Your turn,” Michael said.

  “I don’t think you can handle it.”

  “Try me.”

  Her eyes challenged his. “I’m an addict. I don’t use anymore, but I’m still an addict--that’s the label they give you when you leave rehab. Always and forever an addict. And, my, how I used to love cocaine. Still do, really, but I just can’t use it or things tend to...collapse.”

  Suddenly, his game of quid pro quo had lost its appeal. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was none of my business.”

  “Oh, everyone knows,” Leana said. “It’s just another way I’ve been an embarrassment to my family.” She touched his cheek with the back of her hand. “Don’t look so glum, chum. It happened while I was at school in Switzerland. I haven’t been near the stuff in years.”

  As they danced, Michael wondered again why his father sent him here tonight. Why was it so important that he meet Leana Redman?

  A hand descended onto his shoulder. Michael turned and saw Harold Baines. “May I?” Harold asked.

  Michael reluctantly handed Leana over.

  “It was nice meeting you,” he said.

  Leana smiled. “And you. Maybe you can dip me inappropriately later? Center of the dance floor? Thirty minutes?”

  “What do you mean by inappropriately?” he as
ked.

  “It means I’m not wearing any underwear. It means a long, slow dip for the tabloids.”

  Michael held up his hands and backed away. “Okay,” he said. “Thirty minutes. But think about the repercussions in the meantime.” He was surprised to find that he liked her.

  As Leana watched him leave the dance floor and move into the crowd, she found herself wishing they hadn’t been interrupted.

  “Do you always put the screws to everyone you meet?” Harold asked.

  “Just the cute ones.”

  “You’re wearing no underwear?”

  “Of course, I am. That was just to hook him.”

  “You’re amazing,” he said. “But I will say that seems like a nice enough young man. Should I recognize him?”

  “He’s Michael Archer.”

  “The writer?”

  “And movie star. I prefer his books.”

  “By the look on your face, his looks, as well.” He held out a hand. “Dance.”

  The band was playing an upbeat tune and, as they moved with the other couples, Leana thought Harold seemed different from the man she was concerned about earlier. The lines on his face weren’t nearly so deep and he was carrying himself with a greater sense of control. His brown hair gleamed as if he’d wet it down.

  “You’re looking better,” she said.

  “Better?”

  “When I saw you earlier, you looked a little rough."

  “That’s kind of you,” he said. “And when was that?”

  “Twenty minutes ago? You stepped into a washroom before I could get your attention.”

  Harold grasped her by the hand and whirled her about the dance floor. Leana’s white sequined dress fanned out and she laughed.

  “I think you might need glasses,” Harold said. “I’ve never felt better.”

  “I’m glad,” Leana said. “You had me worried.” She looked around her. “Where’s Aunt Helen?”

  He gave her a look. “Do you really have to ask? She’s with your mother, gossiping. Sometimes I can’t pull those two apart.” He squeezed her hand. “Let’s go and have a drink. I haven’t seen or talked to you in days--and I want one of your martinis.”