Fifth Avenue

by Christopher Smith

  And Mario was back in her life.

  He called earlier that morning and asked her to dinner. He said they needed to talk, that it was important they talk and that they must talk soon. Leana agreed, but under the condition that she pay for the meal. Although a part of her wanted much more than a friendship with Mario, Leana was determined to keep their relationship simple. She would not sleep with Mario while he was married.

  But I’ll think about it.

  She continued walking until she came upon a crowded newspaper vending machine. The crowd shifted and she was able to glimpse the front page of The Daily News. A chill went through her. The headline and recent pictures of Eric Parker screamed out at her:

  EX-REDMAN FINANCIAL CHIEF

  BEATEN IN APARTMENT

  Leana stared at the headline, then at the photos of Eric. One showed him being wheeled out of the building on a stretcher. She studied the fine lines of his face and saw that it was broken.

  She remembered the shock of seeing Celina last night. She remembered Mario’s men hurrying her away from the crowd and into a limousine. She remembered the shrill of the ambulance as it raced past them.

  She wondered what Celina was thinking this morning and decided she didn’t care. I didn’t do anything to Eric.

  Sensing someone standing behind her, she turned and faced a rugged-looking man in a dark suit and dark glasses. His hair was black and cut short. He was looking at the headline as well.

  Their eyes met and he shook his head in disgust. “You’re not even safe in your own home anymore,” Vincent Spocatti said.

  The man seemed vaguely familiar to her. She had the feeling that she’d seen him before, but couldn’t place where.

  She shrugged. “Maybe he deserved it.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I happen to know the man,” Leana said. “And I am serious. He deserved it.”

  And she started for the Village, leaving Spocatti intrigued.

  * * *

  She had appointments to see two apartments--one studio and one loft. It was the loft that caught Leana’s eye.

  Overlooking Washington Square, her favorite place in New York, the loft was large and sunny and located on the fifth floor of a prewar building. It had promise, and a few issues that could be fixed--it needed fresh paint, two of its windows were cracked and the carpet was worn and in need of updating. Hardwood would work in here, she thought. Maybe polished concrete.

  Despite its flaws, the loft had character, a sense of style. Her mind began to picture plants, clean ivory walls, paintings. I could make this place my own.

  The owner of the building, a thin woman who hadn’t stopped smiling, was standing in the middle of the living space, making sweeping movements with her arms. Copper bracelets winked and jangled.

  “What furniture’s here is yours,” she said, as if that would tip the balance. “The bed, the desk, the table and chairs--all yours. Some freak artist left them and the smell of cat piss behind. If I hadn’t had the carpets cleaned, you wouldn’t be able to stand it in here.” She wrinkled her nose, sniffed, and looked uncertainly at Leana. “You can’t smell the piss, can you?”

  “I can smell it,” Leana said. And I can smell your desperation.

  She stepped over to a window and watched a group of children run past the empty fountain to a flock of pigeons. The birds took flight in a dizzying cloud of gray and black and white, and the children cheered. Leana thought back to the last day she had been in the park. It was the day the bombs exploded on top of her father’s building.

  It was the day the man had followed and harassed her.

  The woman was standing behind her. “Beautiful view, isn’t it?”

  It was, and Leana said so.

  “There was a time, on a clear day, that you could see to the World Trade Center.” The woman actually stopped and genuflected. She kissed her fingers and closed her eyes, as if to pray.

  Leana was as sensitive as anyone about that day, the people who died there or were otherwise affected by it, but this was overkill. This was a show. Give me a fucking break.

  The woman crossed her arms--jangle, jangle. “So, what do you think? It’s originally $20,000 a month, but you look like a nice girl, one who won’t cause me too many problems, so I’ll let you have it for $18,500--plus deposit.” She snapped a piece of gum and looked up at the ceiling. “That’s $37,000--up front, of course.”

  Leana barely had that in her savings account. She knew her financial situation would improve once she sold her jewelry, but she didn’t want to give any more money to this woman than she had to. “That’s too much,” she said. “Especially since your former tenant couldn’t keep his cats in check. My price is $10,000.”

  “No way,” the woman said.

  “Then let’s get real. You’ve got a problem here--take a whiff. It’s the reason this place isn’t moving. It’s the reason someone like me is going to have to get someone in here and get the smell out. What’s your best price?”

  The woman turned and when she did, she breathed in through her nose. “No less than “$15,000.”

  “Okay,” Leana said. “So, $12,500 and you’ve got yourself a deal right now. I’ll cut you a check for $25,000 and we’re both happy.” Leana looked around the space. “You also need to agree to repair those windows, pay for half the painting costs, and throw in a couple of fans. Ironically, the air in here would kill a cat.”

  The woman tried to look affronted, but Leana saw relief in her eyes.

  “Fans, windows and paint I can handle.”

  “I thought you could.”

  She studied Leana for a moment. “You’re tough. And you’ve got a good business sense, too. I like that in a woman. What did you say your last name was again?”

  “I didn’t,” Leana said. “But it’s Redman.”

  Something in the woman’s eyes flashed and she lifted her chin. “I thought I recognized you,” she said. “Are you as tough as you father and sister?”

  “I’m tougher.”

  “So, you are.”

  She wrote the woman a check.

  * * *

  Later, at the bank, she followed the assistant manager to a vault that was surrounded by rows of gleaming safe-deposit boxes.

  As the man went to the back of the room and stooped to insert a key into one of the boxes, Leana remained in the doorway, thinking of the seven pieces of jewelry she kept here. Although each was a major piece in its own right, nothing compared to the diamond and Mogok ruby necklace. It was this piece that would fetch the highest price when she sold it later that afternoon.

  It was this piece that would furnish her new apartment and buy her food.

  The manager cleared his throat. Leana looked at him and saw that he was waiting for her to insert her own key. She apologized and crossed to where he was standing. She unlocked her side of the box and carried it to the small table that was at her left. The manager followed.

  “I’d like to be alone,” Leana said. The man’s gaze flicked up to hers. Hesitation crossed his face and she sensed he wanted to stay and see what was inside the box. He didn’t move.

  “Do you mind?” Leana said. The man bowed slightly and left the room.

  Leana watched him go. He went no further than the entrance to the vault, where he crossed his arms and watched her from there.

  She turned her back to him and opened the box.

  Inside were seven black velvet cases of various sizes. Leana chose one of the cases, opened it and was greeted with a brilliant flash of diamonds. She looked into another case and was rewarded with a glimmer of sapphires. In the third was the diamond and Mogok ruby necklace.

  She lifted the necklace from its case and held it to her neck. Its coolness and the sheer weight of the stones warmed her. For awhile, at least, you’re going to give me time to make my mark.

  After checking the other cases and tucking them in her oversized straw handbag, she slid the box back into place, locked it and left the bank wit
h an armed guard at her side.

  The sun was bright and the heat was oppressive--it rising in waves from the street. Three young boys on rollerblades darted through the crowds on the sidewalk, nearly toppling an elderly woman.

  Leana wasted no time leaving. She stepped to the curb, flagged a cab, got one on the fourth try and left for the jeweler on Park.

  To be certain he wouldn’t lose her, Vincent Spocatti, who had been waiting for her outside the bank, did the same.

  * * *

  Quimby et Cie Jewelers was an elegant establishment, with a liveried doorman on the outside and two armed guards on the inside. Some of the wealthiest people in the world bought and sold their jewelry here, and they had to have an appointment to do so.

  Leana was met at the door by Philip Quimby, the owner and her mother’s good friend. He was a small, impeccably dressed man with short graying hair and blue eyes that were just this side of being unnaturally too blue. She noticed the shop was empty, as it should be. “It’s good to see you, Leana,” he said, in a slightly nasal voice. “Let’s go to my office. We’ll have tea there.”

  His office was large and impressive, paneled in dark wood and decorated in quiet good taste. Paintings by the old masters tiled the walls. He offered tea. When Leana declined, he said, “Well, then, at least a martini?”

  “Only if you’re having one.”

  “As if I’m not,” he said.

  He made the drinks, handed one to her and motioned toward the two Queen Anne chairs arranged at the center of the room. They sat. Leana sipped. Few things were better than a cold martini on a hot day.

  “So,” he said. “What do you have for me?”

  Leana put the martini on a side table, opened her handbag and removed the seven velvet cases. She placed them on the table in front of them. “These,” she said. “All were purchased here.”

  “I would hope so.” He had known her since she was a child and winked at her. “I'm sure I'll remember them. They're like children, you know.”

  One by one, Philip Quimby opened the cases. Diamonds and emeralds and rubies blazed. “Goodness!” he said. “Heavens!” He brought a hand to his chest and looked sideways at her. “You expect cash for these? Today?”

  “If it’s possible.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “The banks will be closing soon. All those lazy clerks and vice presidents and stupid little bank managers will be going home. But I’ll see what I can do. Naturally.”

  “If you want them--and if we come to a price--I’ll need the money today. Could you do me a favor and have someone make a call now and let them know a transaction will be forthcoming?”

  “Anything for you.” He lifted a phone and gave the instructions to whoever answered. Then he inserted an eyepiece and removed an enormous canary yellow diamond ring from its case. He held it up to the light and turned it around with his slender fingers.

  “Hmmm,” he said, and reached for the diamond and Mogok ruby necklace. He glanced at Leana and studied the rest. When he finished, his face was slightly flushed.

  “Is something wrong?” Leana asked.

  One magnified eye turned to her. “You purchased these here?”

  “You know I did. You sold them all to me.”

  “Not these, I didn’t.”

  “Excuse me...?”

  “They’re fake,” Philip Quimby said. “Nothing but cut glass and cubic zirconium. Every last one of them. And that's not the world I move in.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “They can't be fake.”

  “I’m afraid so, Leana.”

  “But there’s more than a million dollars’ worth of jewelry there.”

  He plucked a white envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Your father sent this to me,” he said. “He called and told me not to open it unless for some reason I should see you. Now, look. I don’t know what’s going on here and I don’t care to know. It’s none of my business. But something tells me you’ll find the answers to your questions in that envelope.”

  Leana tore into it. Inside was a note.

  Leana:

  I told you if you wanted to make it on your own, you’d have to do it on your own and not with my money. The originals, along with the rest of your jewelry, are at home where they--and you--belong. Why don’t you stop this foolishness and come home? You’ve taken this far enough.

  --Dad

  Leana read the note twice before folding it in half and putting it in her handbag. Her father was convinced she couldn’t make it on her own. Convinced. She felt the beginnings of a spear sinking into her heart. What was it about her that made him think she was such a failure?

  She lifted one of the necklaces. “Are these worth anything?”

  Quimby’s eyes sparkled with renewed interest.

  “They’re excellent counterfeits,” he said. “Only an experienced eye like mine could tell they’re fake. I would have no problem selling them to the Hollywood set. You think what they're wearing on the red carpet is real? Get real. They wear these.”

  “How much are you offering?”

  He sat poised and ready on the edge of the Queen Anne chair. “Twenty thousand.”

  “Make it thirty and you’ve got a deal.”

  * * *

  She ended up with twenty-five.

  When Leana returned to Harold’s townhouse later that afternoon, she found him seated alone in his study, leaning back in a chair, flipping through a file on WestTex. She managed a smile when he looked up at her. “I need someone to talk to,” she said. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Of course.”

  He motioned toward the sofa that was in the corner of the room and asked her to sit down. “Tell me everything,” he said, sitting beside her. “Tell me why you’re upset.”

  Leana rested her head on his shoulder and told him what had happened.

  “But how did George get a key to your safe-deposit box?”

  “My father doesn’t need a key, Harold. He’s George Redman.”

  “But it’s illegal.”

  “He’s George Redman.”

  “And you think one of the bank’s assistant manager’s helped him?”

  “He probably paid off their mortgage for their trouble.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What can I do?”

  “Go and ask your father for the originals. They are yours, after all.”

  “And give him the pleasure of seeing me grovel? Forget it. I’ll make my own money.”

  “How?”

  “This morning you mentioned something about finding me a job. That sounds like a good place to start making money to me.”

  “I’ve been having seconds thoughts about that job,” Harold said.

  Leana pulled away from him. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure it’s right for you.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” she said. “Harold, please, if you’ve found something, anything, you have to let me know what it is. I have to be given a chance.”

  “You really are determined to make it, aren’t you?”

  “If I accomplish nothing else, I want the world to know that George Redman has another daughter--one who is smarter, tougher and more successful than Celina ever could become.”

  “That’s going to be quite an accomplishment,” he said. “You realize that don’t you?”

  “I do,” Leana said. “I know Celina’s good. In a way, I almost admire her--she had the chance to learn from Dad. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. It doesn’t mean that she’s smarter than me.”

  “No,” Harold said. “It certainly doesn’t.” He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a card with an address on it. He handed it to Leana. “If you want the job, be at this address by four this afternoon.”

  * * *

  She was fifteen minutes early for the appointment.

  When Leana arrived at the towering office building, she took an elevator to the sixty-seventh floor, gave
the secretary her name and was escorted to a reception area that was quiet, cool and sparsely decorated. The walls were steel gray. The long array of windows behind her looked out at Manhattan.

  Knowing the impression she gave was critical, she chose a fitted black Dior suit. She wore just enough make-up to cover what was left of the bruising, her hair was pulled away from her face and she wore no perfume.

  She felt like a fraud.

  From her seat at the rear of the reception area, Leana watched the steady stream of activity in the enormous room beyond. At a desk piled high with papers, one man was typing frantically into a computer while a woman impatiently directed him. Behind them, two secretaries were digging through file cabinets in search of something that seemingly couldn’t be found. At still another table, someone stopped yelling into a phone only long enough to shout, “Quiet!” to a group of people who could care less.

  Leana found herself envying them.

  At five minutes to four, filled with nervous tension, feelings of insecurity and thoughts of pending failure, she went to the ladies’ room that was across the hall. Each of the three stalls was occupied. As she turned to wash her hands in the marble vanity, she glimpsed herself in the mirror before her. She was very much a young woman whose appearance gave the cool impression of professionalism, but whose eyes revealed a hint of intimidation and fear.

  Although Leana hated to admit it, she wished she was at Redman International now and working with her father.

  She left the bathroom and returned to her seat in the reception area. At precisely four o’clock, the secretary came for her. “We’re ready, Miss Redman.”

  Leana left her seat. Her shoes clicked on the marble-tiled floor as she followed the woman down a long corridor. This isn’t going to work. He’s going to see right through me.