Fifth Avenue

by Christopher Smith

  And her thoughts deepened. She wondered if he was seeing anyone.

  She began to imagine the kind of woman he was interested in. She would be pretty, of course, but not so pretty that she didn't want to get her hands dirty. Somehow, she sensed that looks were less important to him than intelligence. And he would want someone who had a sense of humor; someone witty like himself, but not cruel or cutting. As the days passed, she imagined endless possibilities--but then, on the eve of their dinner date, she put an end to it.

  This is crazy, she thought. Not only have I just ended a relationship, but once WestTex and the deal with Iran is secured, there will be more problems, more responsibilities and less time for me. This man should be furthest from my mind.

  She was thinking this as she slipped into the black silk dress she purchased earlier that morning at Saks. Besides, it isn’t as though we’re going to be alone at dinner. Harold will be there. I’m simply a businesswoman attending a business dinner with my business colleagues.

  She stepped in front of the bedroom mirror. The dress was short and chic and clung to her body, exposing her tanned shoulders, accenting her long legs. Studying herself, she wondered what had happened to the businesswoman, wondered what Jack Douglas would think if she arrived at the restaurant looking like this.

  She reached into her closet and removed a black Chanel jacket. She put it on and turned before the mirror, inspecting the more conservative version. “That’s more like it,” she said.

  But when she left her apartment, it was without the jacket.

  * * *

  When she arrived at the restaurant, she was led by the captain into a room filled with bouquets of fresh flowers, people dining at elegantly appointed tables, a man playing piano in the center of the warmly lit room. Jack Douglas was already seated at their table and he stood as she approached.

  “You look terrific,” he said.

  Celina thanked him and, as the captain pulled out her chair and she sat down, she noted the expensive navy blue suit Jack wore, his recently trimmed hair. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said. “Harold’s not with you?”

  Jack shook his head. “I thought he’d be with you.” He looked at the captain, who was standing beside them, and asked Celina what she would like to drink. “A bottle of champagne?”

  Celina regarded him with a smile--this man did not drink champagne. Although he seemed perfectly at ease at this restaurant, she sensed he would rather be dining at a Village cafe, cutting into a thick steak, drinking a cold beer. “I was thinking more on the line of having a beer,” she said. “Does that sound all right with you?”

  Delighted, Jack grinned. “Sounds fine to me,” he said. “But I drink from the bottle.”

  “Oh," she said, smiling. "I was hoping for a chilled glass."

  And it was that simple.

  The beers came and they began to talk.

  “Why’d you leave Morgan?” Celina asked. “You made a name for yourself. Things were happening. Why leave?”

  Jack shrugged. “The pressure wasn’t worth the money and the money wasn’t worth the hassle of putting up with a room full of bond traders--most of whom would kill their mother if they thought her life would cut a better deal.”

  He look a long pull from his beer. “Besides, there’s a lot going down that nobody knows about. A lot of inside deals. I’ve been offered an obscene amount of money for a whisper of information, but I don’t want any part of it. These people haven’t learned. When Wall Street collapses again--and it will, before you know it, really--I didn’t want to be anywhere near the place when the concrete begins to fall.”

  He straightened. “So tell me about yourself,” he said. “When did you decide that working at Redman International was for you?”

  “You’re assuming I had a choice,” Celina said. “When I was a kid, my father used to bring me to each month’s board meeting. I’d sit in a special corner chair while he hammered out deal after deal. He was mesmerizing. The board loved him. At night, I’d pretend I was him. I’d stand in front of my bedroom mirror and mimic the way he stood before the board--arms crossed, feet spaced firmly apart--pretending I was the one in charge. Believe me, I know it sounds cheesy, but at the time I was enthralled. My father was my hero.”

  “Is he now?”

  Although she said, “Yes, of course,” Celina wasn’t sure. After the incident with Eric Parker and her father’s reaction to it, her feelings had shifted toward George in ways she couldn’t quite describe.

  The conversation turned and they laughed and joked about how they met and how Jack was planning on buying a new car. They talked with ease, as if they were old friends catching up over dinner. From time to time, Jack would touch Celina’s hand to make a point. From time to time, Celina would do the same.

  When the waiter brought the second round of beers, Celina excused herself and left to use her cell phone. She called Harold at home. It was his wife, Helen, who answered.

  “He should be there, Celina,” the woman said. “He left over an hour ago.” A silence followed. Celina could hear the sudden whistling of a tea kettle coming from Helen’s kitchen. “Maybe he’s at the office,” Helen said. “He did mention stopping by there.”

  But Harold wasn’t in his office. And he wasn’t with her father.

  “How long have you been waiting?” George asked.

  “An hour,” Celina said. “And I’m getting tired of waiting. Where do you think he is?”

  George didn’t know.

  “If this wasn’t becoming a habit of his, Dad, I’d be worried. But it is becoming a habit. First he decides not to show for two board meetings, and now this. What’s going on with him? Harold’s never acted like this before. That man used to be on time for everything.”

  “He may have just forgotten, Celina. The deals with WestTex and Iran have doubled his workload. He’s not as young as you.”

  “True,” she said. “But my workload has tripled and you don’t see me missing a business dinner.”

  “I’m not going to defend him.”

  “I don’t expect you to. You know how I feel about Harold. But I do expect you to talk to him. Somebody has to.”

  She severed the connection and forced herself to relax. She was damned if Harold’s absence was going to ruin this evening.

  She returned to the table. Jack looked up at her as she approached. “We might as well eat,” she said. “It looks as though he won’t be coming.”

  “Did you find out where he is?”

  “No,” she said. “And at this point, I really don’t care. I’d rather have dinner alone with you, anyway.” She picked up the menu and flipped through it, aware that Jack was looking at her intently. “The filet mignon here is wonderful,” she said. “It's so rare, I think they merely walk a cow past a stove. I’m having that.”

  * * *

  Later, after dessert and coffee, Celina said, “It’s still early. Would you like to come back to my apartment for a nightcap? We can continue the conversation there.”

  Jack said he would like that very much.

  * * *

  The evening was so warm, they decided to walk.

  “You haven’t mentioned your family,” Celina said. “What do your parents do?”

  They were walking up Fifth, stopping from time to time to glance at the illumined store windows. Jack reached out and held Celina’s hand. “They’re retired,” he said. “Dad worked forty years at a Pittsburgh steel mill before he sold the house and moved to West Palm with my mother. They live in this little house near the ocean. My mother calls once a week to tell me that Dad is driving her crazy. My father calls twice a week threatening divorce’“

  “So, they’re happy?” Celina said.

  “Excessively.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “One sister,” Jack said. “Her name is Lisa. She’s a nurse.”

  When they passed 59th Street and her apartment complex came into sight, the first thing Celina noticed
were the flashing red and blue lights surrounding it. As they drew nearer, she counted six police cars and one ambulance. A crowd had gathered outside Redman Place and traffic was lined up the street. Sirens gave chill to the warm night air.

  “What’s going on?” Jack asked.

  Celina said she didn’t know. She immediately thought back to the bombs that exploded on top of Redman International and couldn’t still a twinge of fear. The police still hadn’t learned who rigged the spotlights with explosives.

  They hurried up the avenue. Car horns were sounding and people were talking excitedly, their voices rising. Celina tried to grasp what they were saying, tried to make sense of it, but it was impossible in the confusion.

  The ambulance was parked in front of the building--lights flashing, sirens now quiet. A team of ten officers kept the crowd at bay. Jack led Celina toward the building’s entrance. His grip was strong, firm, and she was thankful for it.

  When they reached the front of the crowd, they were in time to see two paramedics wheeling a man out on a stretcher. Celina knew it was a man by the arm that dangled to one side. It was muscular, bloody, bruised. An IV dripped life into it.

  As the paramedics neared them, her stomach tensed and she squeezed Jack’s hand harder. She leaned forward but couldn't see the man’s face as he passed. It was partly covered by a bloody sheet.

  She noticed that one of the man’s legs was quivering. She also noticed that the other leg was twisted horribly beneath the sheet.

  Celina knew almost everyone in this building. It was here that many of Redman International’s senior executives lived. She turned to one of the officers and was about to ask who had been hurt when, from inside the building, a woman shouted, “Wait!”

  To her surprise, Celina watched Diana Crane rush from the building.

  There was a bandage on her forehead. One eye was slightly swollen. Celina heard Diana say, “I’m going with him.” She watched in disbelief as the woman climbed into the back of the ambulance. No one objected.

  The paramedics were lifting the stretcher. Celina knew it was Eric lying there even before the sheet fell to one side and revealed his broken face.

  For a moment, she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move or react. Her mind began making connections. She remembered her father calling a week ago and saying, “Leana’s been beaten, Celina. Eric did it the night of the party--probably not long after you left the room. If I had known that earlier this morning, Eric would be in the hospital now, instead of just looking for a job.”

  She knew her father was responsible for this. She was sure of it.

  Why else would he have asked Elizabeth and her to leave the room before making that call?

  The ambulance’s doors slammed shut. The sound broke Celina’s reverie and she saw that the vehicle was preparing to leave. She was about to run forward and ask what hospital they were taking him to when she caught sight of her sister in the crowd.

  For a moment, Celina could only stare.

  Arms crossed, face grim, Leana was standing across from her, sandwiched between two tall, muscular men. She was wearing dark glasses, a black pant suit, no jewelry. Her hair was pulled away from her face.

  Celina called out her name.

  Alarmed, Leana turned in her direction. Their eyes met. Leana took a step back.

  Celina called out her name again.

  Leana ignored her. She spoke to the men beside her, they looked at Celina and quickly led Leana away.

  She was gone at the same moment the ambulance screamed to life.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The first thing Mario noticed when he arrived at the modest-looking brownstone on l2th Street was his father’s black Lincoln limousine shimmering in the light of a streetlamp. Instinctively, he looked across the street at his home and saw the three men standing guard at the brick entrance.

  Something was wrong. His father only visited on Saturdays.

  He parked the Taurus behind his father’s car, stepped out and slammed the door shut. He crossed the street and nodded at the men as he approached. “What’s up, Nicky?” he said. “Why’s my father here?”

  The man shrugged, even though Mario sensed he knew exactly why Antonio De Cicco had taken the time and trouble to drive all the way into the city from his Todt Hill mansion on Staten Island. “Didn’t say. He don’t look too happy, though. Wants to see you inside.”

  Mario entered the house. It was his wife who met him at the door. Tall and slender with fiery red hair, the years had almost been as kind to Lucia De Cicco as her plastic surgeon had.

  She greeted him with a smile and a slap across the face. Mario’s head snapped to the side and his cheek burned. When he turned back to look at her, Lucia’s smile had dissolved into a look of hate.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he said.

  She raised a hand to hit him again, but Mario grasped her arms and held them at her sides. She writhed beneath his touch. Her eyes blazed. “Let go of me!”

  “Why did you hit me?”

  She nodded toward the library, which was to her right. A lock of her carefully dyed hair fell into her face. “Your father’s in there. I’ll let him tell you.”

  She wrenched her arms free and hurried up the staircase that led to their bedroom. Mario watched her go, realizing that this was the first time she had stood up to him.

  He went to the library. The large mahogany door creaked when he entered the room. In the fluorescent glow of an enormous saltwater aquarium, he saw the faint but familiar images of paintings, furniture and urns. He looked for his father and found him sitting beside the aquarium in a leather chair.

  Blue light rippled in waves across his tanned face, making him look oddly like a living corpse. A cloud of cigar smoke hung in the air above his bald head.

  His voice came unexpectedly. “Close the door and sit down. This won’t take long.”

  Mario did as he was told and shut the door, feeling contempt for this man he never loved--but also fear. He sat opposite his father and noticed that while Antonio was shorter, he seemed to be sitting slightly higher.

  De Cicco leaned back in the leather wingback and began tapping his knuckles against the side of the aquarium. The fish jumped, skidded away. Mario looked at his father and knew now why he was here.

  “You’ve disappointed me, Mario,” De Cicco said. “You’re not thinkin’ with your head, anymore.” His knuckles struck the aquarium harder. Water sloshed. “You’re thinkin’ with your cock.”

  Mario glanced at the aquarium. Of the seventy-six fish filling the tank, one alone was worth twenty thousand dollars. It was so rare, it had taken him nearly eight months to obtain it. The others were almost as rare.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “It’s exactly what I think. You’re bangin’ that Redman cunt again.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “You call having lunch with that whore in your Family’s own restaurant not seeing her?”

  “She’s not a whore. And that restaurant belongs to me.”

  “Bought with Family money.”

  “Bought with my money--for the Family.”

  The shadow of what looked like a small grey shark crossed Antonio De Cicco’s face. He cracked a knuckle against the aquarium and the fish darted away.

  “I told you two years ago what would happen if you started seeing her again," he said. "I warned you. You’ve disgraced Lucia for the last time. You know how I feel about that girl. She’s like a daughter to me--her father is my best friend--and I’ll be damned if you’re going to hurt her just because you like the way that Redman bitch sucks your cock.”

  “You’ve got it wrong,” Mario said firmly. “I haven’t seen Leana since we broke it off two years ago. She came to me. She’s in trouble. She asked a favor of me. That’s the extent of our relationship.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It isn’t bullshit. It’s the truth. Do you really believe I’d bring Leana to the restaurant if I was sleepi
ng with her? Aunt Rosa waited on us, for God’s sake. Do you think I’m that stupid? Listen to yourself. You know me better than that. What you’re saying doesn’t make sense.”

  De Cicco was silent a moment. When he rose from his chair, he looked at the aquarium, considered it for a moment, then stepped away from it and Mario, his hands in his pockets.

  “I’m gonna talk with Lucia,” he said after a moment. “Calm her down, tell her everything’s all right.”

  He faced his son. “But if I find out that you’ve been lyin’ to me, that you been fucking that little shit slut behind your wife’s back, I’ll kill her myself. I promised you that years ago and I mean it as much now as I did then. You will not hurt Lucia. You will not embarrass your children--my grandchildren. Because if you do, you might as well have loaded the gun and murdered Leana Redman yourself.”

  BOOK TWO

  SECOND WEEK

  FIFTH AYENUE

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Swinging out through the big brass and glass doors of Harold’s townhouse on 81st Street, Leana looked up at the buttery morning sun, felt the warmth on her face and decided she would walk to most of her appointments instead of taking a cab. There were a few apartments in the Village she wanted to look at and she had to sell her jewelry to her mother’s jeweler on Park.

  She was beginning to feel better about herself. Not only had the bruises on her face faded and the cut on her lip healed, but she was full of resolve and a measure of hope. For the first time in her life, she was doing something productive. Soon, she would have an apartment of her own and enough money to furnish it comfortably. At breakfast, Harold mentioned something about finding her a job.