Fifth Avenue

by Christopher Smith

  “All right,” Louis said. “Just get his attention and pull him over. I want him here, in my office, before the party begins.”

  But the cab was picking up speed. It darted into the center lane, passed a stationary line of traffic and shot right, disappearing behind a bus that was lumbering into traffic.

  Spocatti was incredulous. He was losing him.

  “Shit!” he said aloud. He tossed the phone aside, squinted into the blinding sun, and ignored Louis’ voice as it wavered angrily from the phone. For a moment, he couldn’t tell which cab was Michael’s--there were dozens of them.

  Then, well ahead of him, he saw the cab, saw Michael looking out the rear window--and saw with cold disbelief the triumphant smile on the man’s face.

  He was rapidly approaching a yellow light. Michael’s cab was sailing through a string of green. Betting against the odds, Vincent floored it, cut into the center lane and watched the light turn red.

  Time seemed to stop.

  He glanced at the halted lines of traffic on 48th, saw that they were being held up by a man crossing in a wheelchair. He pushed the van faster. He would make it.

  The U.S. mail truck came out of nowhere.

  He hit the brakes and spun the wheel sharply to the left. Spocatti watched the enormous rig loom toward him, its horn blaring, tires screaming. The city spun in the windows. He lost control of the wheel and felt the van tipping, tipping....

  And then it righted itself.

  He grasped the wheel, jerked it to the right and winced as the mail truck whizzed past him, horn still sounding as its huge, eighteen wheels rumbled across 48th Street. Faintly, he heard someone screaming--and then he realized it was himself. He closed his mouth, sat there grinning madly, his legs tingling, his white-knuckled hands still clutching the leather wheel.

  He felt suddenly euphoric, his whole body surging with a vitality he hadn’t felt in years.

  He looked down the avenue, saw people rushing toward him.

  But there was no sign of Michael. He was gone.

  * * *

  The cab zigzagged through traffic, hurtled down Fifth and twice nearly grazed the side of a car.

  Michael continued looking out the rear window, not turning away until he was convinced they’d lost Spocatti. He looked at the cabbie, a young black woman who seemed perfectly at ease as she lit her third cigarette and busted her third red light. “You were incredible,” he said, reaching into his back pocket and removing his wallet. “Absolutely incredible. Where’d you learn to drive like that?”

  The woman looked over her shoulder at him, smoke jetting from her nose as her eyes widened. “Baby, are you kidding?” she said. “We’re in New York City. Everybody drives like this.”

  Michael laughed. “Not quite,” he said. “But I like your modesty. How much do I owe you for the favor?”

  “How much you got?”

  Enough to get my ass out of this city, Michael thought. And start over someplace else with Leana. “How about a hundred?” he said.

  The woman drew on her cigarette, braked as another cab cut in front of her. “I know who you are,” she said. “I’ve read your books, seen your movies. You were hot in that last one,” she said, gazing at his chest. “You’re probably worth millions. Hundreds of millions. Let’s say you give me three bills and if anyone asks, I’ll say I never saw your fine white ass.”

  Michael couldn’t help a smile. “You got a deal,” he said and handed her the money. He looked once more through the rear window, saw no sign of Spocatti’s van in the torrent of traffic and felt peculiarly, unreasonably safe. “You can let me off here,” he said. “I think we’ve lost him.”

  The woman pulled to the curb, where another fare was waiting to be picked up. Cars whooshed past in a rush of exhaust. “Oh, honey, I know we lost him,” she said as Michael stepped out. “I was watching. Fool was almost hit by a mail truck. Trust me. If he’s anywhere in the vicinity, I’ll pull out my damn weave.”

  * * *

  He pulled out his cell phone and called Leana at her office.

  “It’s me,” he said. “What do you say about a late dinner tonight, after the party? There’s this small French restaurant in the Village that’s open late. The food’s great and so is the house wine. I know it’s late notice, but a little romance might take your mind off things.”

  Leana was silent for a moment, thoughtful. Michael looked down the busy street, his gaze sweeping the crowds on the sidewalk, the traffic on Fifth. And then he saw Spocatti’s van, black as the night, moving slowly down the avenue.

  Absolutely unmoving, Michael watched the van until it faded from sight. Leana said, “Have I told you recently how terrific you are?”

  “As a matter of fact, you haven’t. But you can tonight. Should I take that as a ‘yes’?”

  “You can take that as a definite yes. Dinner sounds great. I’ll see you later. It’s a madhouse here.”

  * * *

  He took a cab to a travel agency on Third Avenue.

  “I need two tickets to Madrid,” he said to the agent. “Leaving tonight, on the red eye.”

  The agent, a middle-aged woman with dyed red hair and impossibly long eyelashes, started typing information into her computer. “It’s going to be expensive,” she said. “And tough to get seats. The airlines might be booked....”

  “I don’t care about the cost,” Michael said. “And it doesn’t have to be Madrid. It can be anywhere in Europe, but the flight must leave tonight--after midnight.”

  “After midnight,” the woman repeated. “Right. Gimme a second....”

  He looked through the agency’s great expanse of windows, saw tourists and businessmen hurrying by on the sidewalk, well-dressed women carrying shopping bags, a homeless man pushing a rusty shopping cart. There was no sign of Spocatti.

  “Madrid’s out,” the agent said. “So is London and Paris. Have you ever been to Milan?”

  “Several times,” Michael said. “And I love it there, especially in the summer. Why don’t you give it a try?”

  Her fingers danced over the keys. Michael looked back out the window--and this time saw a woman, standing at the curbside, leaning against a mailbox, flipping through a newspaper. She seemed familiar to him, as if he had seen her somewhere before. He couldn’t remember where.

  “Bingo,” the agent said. “I can reserve two first-class seats for you to Milan.” Michael’s brow furrowed. He leaned forward in his seat and continued looking at the woman on the street. “Leaving when?” he asked.

  “12:34 this morning.”

  Michael reached for his wallet. The woman on the street tossed her newspaper into a metal wastebasket and now was using her cell phone. She started punching numbers. She looked over at him. Their eyes met and she looked casually away.

  Michael gave a start--he knew that face. Earlier, when he and Leana left their apartment to flag a cab, this woman had been walking toward them, a newspaper tucked beneath her arm. She had glanced at him as she passed.

  At the time, Michael thought how striking she was, her dark good looks classically European. Now, he sensed with a cold needle of fear that she worked for Spocatti.

  He looked at the agent, his heart pounding. “How much are the tickets?” he asked. “I’m in a hurry.”

  The woman told him. “I’ll need your name,” she said. “Along with the name of the person you’re traveling with.”

  “I’m traveling with my wife,” Michael said, handing her the cash. “Mr. and Mrs. Michael Ryan.” He looked back out the window and saw with a start that the woman was gone. He left his seat, went to the windows and searched the crowds on the street.

  But there was no sign of her. It was as if she had disappeared.

  “Is something wrong, sir?”

  Michael felt heavy with dread. He turned away from the windows, faced the puzzled agent and saw that she had placed a receipt for their E-tickets in an envelope.

  “As a matter of fact, something is wrong,” he said.
He crossed to her desk, pocketed the tickets and removed his wallet, handing her a hundred dollar bill.

  “If there’s another way out of here,” he said, “that’s yours.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Leana moved swiftly across the busy lobby, checking each table as she passed it, Zack Anderson at her side. “It’s getting late,” she said. “Why haven’t the flowers been delivered?”

  “Good question,” Anderson said. “I called the florist an hour ago, gave them hell and was told that they’re on their way.”

  “On their way?” Leana said. “Where is this florist located?”

  “On Third and Forty-fifth.”

  Leana shook her head. “That’s a ten-minute drive from here. Give them a call and tell them if they want our account, they’ll have those flowers here within those ten minutes. No excuses.”

  “Right.”

  “What about security?” she asked. “Shouldn’t they be here by now?”

  “They are here,” he said. “They arrived shortly after you.”

  Leana looked around the lobby. At first she noticed only the staff of decorators who had been there for days, fussing over details she herself would never have considered. The lobby now held three hundred tables for six, four ornate bars flown in from Hong Kong, a sophisticated sound system that would amplify her voice to hundreds of people.

  And then, to her right, she noted a tall, rugged man in a black dinner jacket. He was speaking into his lapel as he stepped behind the waterfall. High above on the third level, she noticed another man inspecting one of the alarm systems. And behind her, the wait staff was listening closely to a group of five identically dressed men.

  “How many are they?”

  “Thirty,” Zack said.

  “Not enough. Talk to whoever’s in charge and tell them I want at least twenty more brought in. In a few hours, this place is going to be filled with some of the most influential people in the world. I want them safe.”

  Anderson nodded and as Leana watched him walk away, she wondered if their scene the other day had worked. He was a different person now--not judgmental, willing to take direction, polite. Without his help, she knew none of this would be going so smoothly.

  With a last look around, she took an elevator to her office and phoned Louis Ryan at Manhattan Enterprises.

  “It’s Leana,” she said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Of course you’re not disturbing me,” he said. “I was just about to call you. Did you receive my flowers?”

  Leana admired the enormous spray of roses on her desk. “Of course, I did,” she said. “How could I miss them? They’re take up the room--and they’re beautiful. Thank you.”

  A thought occurred to her and she laughed. “You know,” she said. “I might have to use them in the lobby.”

  “Having trouble with the florist?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Something always goes wrong at the last minute and then it rights itself. The florist will show and things will be fine. Are you having trouble with anything else?”

  “No,” she said. “Everything is going smoothly.”

  “Then what can I do for you? Need a Xanax?”

  Leana smiled. “Actually, I’m not nervous at all. I was calling to ask if you’ve made any progress in finding the man who murdered my sister.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I was about to call you.”

  Leana was suddenly alert. “Have you found him?”

  “No,” Louis said. “But I’ve hired a man who will. His name is Vincent Spocatti, he’s one of the world’s best private investigators and he’s certain he can find the man who killed Celina. Tonight, after the party, I want you to meet him.”

  She thought fleetingly of her dinner date with Michael. He’d understand. This was important.

  “Of course, I will,” she said. “And thank you, Louis. This means a lot to me--more than you know.”

  She replaced the receiver and went to the windows behind her--she would bring Michael to the meeting and they could have dinner later. She had a sudden impulse to call Harold, to tell him the good news, but then she realized--once again--that he was gone. Why? she wondered. You could have come to me. Didn’t you trust me enough to know that I wouldn’t care if you were gay or straight, fat or thin?

  It occurred to her that maybe he hadn’t known and that maybe she should have approached him about what she knew. The idea that he might be alive now if she had intervened was too overwhelming for her to consider.

  She reached for the note cards on her desk. Neatly typed on them was the speech she’d rewritten and memorized that morning. As Leana flipped through them, reading aloud as she paced before the windows, she noticed a tiny pinpoint of red light dart across her sleeve and spiral across her hand before slipping from sight.

  She stopped before the windows.

  She looked across 53rd Street to the neighboring building, saw nothing unusual, then heard the faint sound of an engine and looked up at the helicopter that was soaring above the city. Sunlight struck its glinting blades and cast rainbows of light across her face and body. She winced from the sudden light and lifted a hand to shield her eyes.

  The helicopter seemed to be circling the hotel. Its door was open and she saw someone leaning out--there was a video camera on his shoulder. Obviously, the news was going to cover the event by air. Leana wondered about that pinpoint of red light, looked at the helicopter and decided it must have been the source.

  She stepped away from the windows and returned to her notes.

  * * *

  The afternoon sun slid through the canted blinds and striped the narrow hospital bed where Mario De Cicco lay. His body was sheathed in perspiration.

  Antonio looked away from the monitors that surrounded the bed and turned to face his two youngest sons, Miko and Tony. “Tonight,” he said, “while she’s on camera, we take her for the world to see.”

  The two brothers came to the bed.

  “I did some callin’ around,” Antonio said. “Sal’s boy, Rubio, knows a couple guys tending bar at the opening. As a favor to me, he said he could get you two into that party, promised it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  One of the monitors beeped and Antonio swung around to look at Mario, who was lying pale and motionless in the bed. His breathing was deep and measured. Antonio looked at the monitor, then down again at his son, hoping to see some flicker of life in his face. There was none and Antonio wondered if Mario would never wake.

  He turned back to Miko and Tony, for the first time looking every one of his sixty-nine years. “All you have to do is clean a few glasses and wait for her to take the stage,” he said. “When she’s in the middle of her speech, while everyone’s watching her, that’s when you make your move and blow her to hell. If you move fast and if you stay near the rear doors, you shouldn’t have a problem getting out of there.”

  “What about security?” Miko said. “That place will be crawling with cops--not to mention the press. Some might recognize us. What’s the back-up plan?”

  Antonio leveled his son with a look. “Since when do you give a shit about security?” he said. “Or about the press? If somebody gets in your way, blow their fuckin’ head off. Once you fire that first shot, there’s going to be so much goddamned commotion, nobody is going to get in your way. Then you seek out Leana Redman, snuff her and get out of there.”

  He nodded toward Nicky Corrao, who was sitting across the room in the blue vinyl chair, listening to their plans. “Nicky’s driving,” he said. “He’ll be at the 53rd Street entrance, ready to bolt when you two come out.”

  He looked over at Mario. “I want her out of his life,” he said. “When he wakes, I want her obituary to be the first thing he sees. If it isn’t, if any of you let me down, I’ll never forget it. Is that understood?”

  Perfectly.

  “Then I suggest you get moving,” Antonio said. “Call Rubio now and
find out what he wants you to wear and where he wants you to meet him. Nicky, you stay here. When Pauly comes, tell him to keep an eye on Mario. If he wakes, I want to know about it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Nicky,” Antonio said, a slight edge to his voice. “You make sure you’re parked at that entrance tonight. If you’re not, if Miko and Tony don’t get out safe, you’ll wind up as cold as Leana Redman.”

  Nicky watched the men step out of the room. He was thinking what a bastard De Cicco could be when one of the monitors beeped again.

  He looked at Mario, then up at the monitor--a green jagged line was racing across the screen. Curious, he stepped to Mario’s side and looked down with naked wonderment at the web of tubes and wires that netted his body.

  He had always respected Mario--the man was fair, had class. When Nicky earned his bones, it was Mario who was first to congratulate him, Mario who took him out that night and got them both drunk. Nicky wanted him to live. He squeezed Mario’s shoulder, and was about to say his name when Mario’s eyes snapped open.

  They stared at one another. Mario’s eyes crinkled and he managed a tentative smile. “Are they gone?” he asked.

  Nicky’s lips parted. He looked quickly toward the door and was about to speak when Mario grasped his hand. “No,” he said. “I don’t want to talk to them. I only want to talk to you. Now, come here. Come closer. And just listen to me, Nicky. I’m about to make you a very wealthy man.”

  * * *

  Spocatti pushed through the revolving brass doors of The Manhattan Enterprises Building and left the searing heat of midtown behind.

  He moved quickly across the crowded lobby, took the last hit off his cigarette and tossed it still burning onto the floor. He stopped at a bank of elevators, pressed the already glowing button and smiled at the woman who had moved beside him. She was beautiful, her long, dark hair tumbling down her back in thick waves.