Bingham pulled on the black pants and snapped his suspenders up over the shirt, thinking he wouldn't mind wearing a tuxedo every night. This was the good life. High polish on the black wingtips. He held up the shoes and sniffed the new leather. You can always tell an expensive shoe by the smell of the leather, he thought. And you can tell the quality of a man by the shine on his shoes.
There was a large mirror over the chest of drawers. Leaning close, he stretched the bow tie around his collar and snapped it. Last time he'd worn these clothes was for dinner at Le Cirque in Manhattan with Tom. That was his introduction to the other investors. Eat, drink, and be merry. The meal had cost him plenty, but it was a good investment.
Shaking his head, Bingham stepped back from the mirror. He was glad to be through with that part of the deal. He pulled on the jacket, adjusting the shoulders and sleeves, and regarded himself. He turned, checking himself from one angle, then another. Tom's tailor had done a good job. Facing the mirror again, he stood straight, studying his tall, thin frame and patted his flat stomach. Not bad for an old ace. He leaned forward and rubbed the skin on his cheeks, glad to be rid of the beard, then saluted himself and walked to the door.
Hah, he thought as he opened the door and closed it behind him, most people would've thought it couldn't be done.
Chapter Seven
The air was crisp and cool when Amalise left work that October evening. The six o'clock bells of the Jesuit church across from the Roosevelt Hotel were ringing as she stood on the corner outside the First Merchant Bank building. The fruit stand down the street was still open for business, so she crossed Common and strolled down Baronne to chat with the old lady who tended the cart. She said hello, checked out the satsumas. The sweet, pungent fragrance of the citrus fruit made her mouth water. She bought a half dozen. The old lady placed them in a brown paper bag, and Amalise, clutching the bag along with her briefcase and purse, strolled back to the parking lot on Common.
Walking into the yellow glow of the garage, she waved to Mr. Picou in the ticket booth and the security guard on duty. Once in the elevator, she pulled a satsuma from the bag, peeled it, and popped a section into her mouth, savoring the tangy burst of flavor. Jude was right: She'd take things as they came and enjoy each one.
Thinking of the small two-room suite she'd rented in a boutique hotel in the Quarter, she started the car and began the slow descent to the exit. Her place was on Chartres Street, not far from where she'd lived while attending law school. Feeling a little lonely, she reminded herself that this was only temporary, just until she located an apartment or—she smiled at the prospect—maybe even a house. Something small, uptown. She had the money to buy. Phillip's last surprise had been a large life insurance policy.
Unintentionally he'd left her well off when he'd purchased the mutual policies. One hundred thousand dollars sat uninvested in her bank account. Her face contorted at the thought. She'd use some of it to buy a home somewhere safe; Phillip owed her that much. But the rest? Blood money sitting in her bank account. She couldn't stand to even think of it.
Resolved to put memories of Phillip behind her, Amalise planted her hands on the wheel and headed for the Quarter. As she turned onto Chartres, the narrow, well-lit street stretched ahead of her like a brightly colored ribbon running toward Jackson Square. A lone violinist played on the corner, and she rolled her window down, listening to the music and the sounds of the Quarter. She smiled, and on a whim she drove on past the hotel down to Esplanade at the downriver edge of the Vieux Carré and entered the Faubourg Marigny. She turned north on Frenchmen and drove slowly past the cafés, bars, restaurants, some of the best jazz bistros in the world.
Music permeated the entire area. On this balmy evening, locals lounged around sidewalk tables, many with their dogs. Amalise drove past homes where friends and families hunkered on stoops. They glanced up with friendly looks as she passed.
As she cruised through the old neighborhood, it slowly sunk in that all of this was marked for destruction by Murdoch's project and that she was a part of that destruction. Her hands tightened on the wheel. She told herself that it was just her job, that the world would continue to turn as it always does. She told herself that change was inevitable, that Black Diamond would provide jobs and badly needed tourist dollars.
Many streets beginning in the French Quarter crossed into the Marigny—Royal, Burgundy, Dauphine. She crossed Royal and found herself at Washington Square Park, a pretty, grassy area with spreading trees, enclosed by black iron fencing. The park occupied a small city block bordering Elysian Fields. Green iron plants and ginger clumped along the fence, forming dense, shadowy places where children like to play and hide. Secret places. The park was empty in the twilight, and shadows deepened beyond the amber glow thrown by the old street lamps.
Was this park included in Murdoch's project area? She didn't recall.
On Kerlerec Street, half a block from Frenchmen, she slowed in front of a large two-storied house where children played in the fenced front yard. The home was pleasant looking, even though the porch and window sills sagged a bit and the paint had washed out over the years to a mere impression of green.
Watching the children, she let the engine idle, smiling, feeling again that freedom a child senses at dusk when light no longer marks time and dew forms on the grass. A pretty little girl sitting on a rope swinging from a live oak tree in the yard looked up, caught her eye, and waved. Amalise waved back. The tree was an old-growth treasure, its girth wide enough to mark several hundred years. She wondered if Murdoch would let it live.
Closer to the fence, two small boys played around the tree's bulky roots, engrossed in a grid of sticks and miniature cars. There was a fourth child on the porch, a small boy standing alone at the top of the steps. Leaning against a wooden column, he stood and watched the other children play.
Murdoch's nameless agents would purchase this house, along with all the others on this street. Bulldozers would tear down the swing and level the place where the children played in the dirt under the tree. She ducked her head, suddenly stricken by the personal impact of Project Black Diamond. She shouldn't have come here, she realized.
Seven o'clock bells chimed from St. Francis Seelos, St. Mary's, and the Cathedral of St. Louis at Jackson Square. Suddenly light flooded the yard. A woman appeared on the porch, calling for the children to come inside.
Amalise drove on. Eyes straight ahead, she told herself that Bingham Murdoch's hotel was good for the firm, good for the city, and good for her own career. The plight of that family was not her problem to solve. If she'd learned one thing from her marriage to Phillip, it was that attempts to fix other people's problems generally prove futile. Besides, the project had already taken on a life of its own. The opinions of a second-year associate were irrelevant.
Reaching her hotel, she parked the car and carried her briefcase, purse, and the bag of satsumas through the empty, high-ceilinged foyer, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. She would not think any more about the Marigny. She would not allow herself to wonder whether Bingham Murdoch intended to destroy those beautiful old oak trees or anything else in the city.
A small voice inside pointed out the public outrage that would erupt when word of Bingham Murdoch's plans got out. There would be protest marches and fiery editorials in the newspapers. But confidentiality would protect the project until it was too late—that was the key to the success of Bingham Murdoch's plans. And Amalise was bound ethically, morally, and in every other way to keep that secret.
Chapter Eight
Amalise had found a house for sale uptown she thought she'd like. She'd called Jude and asked him to come along to see it. He had said sure, and she'd made an appointment to visit the place with a real estate agent. So here he was on a Saturday afternoon, driving Amalise down
St. Charles Avenue to look at a house.
He could feel her watching him.
Folding her arms and cocking her head to one side, she said, "That transaction I told you about the other night is moving fast. Doug and Preston are giving me more substantive work." She settled back and looked ahead at the traffic. "We're past the drone stage at the firm now, Rebecca and I. We're on our way."
Jude smiled and nodded, only half listening as he concentrated on the traffic. They were in a hurry because she had to get back to work. She was in the office most Saturdays, but then work was Amalise's idea of entertainment.
He glanced her way, smoothing the furrows between his eyes before they formed. She'd been staying at a hotel down in the Quarter but wanted to find a real place. The apartment she'd shared with Phillip before his death wasn't an option. He'd offered to let her have the apartment on the other side of his duplex on State Street rent free and was chagrined when she'd turned him down flat.
She'd found a perfect little cottage on Broadway near the universities. She wanted a home of her own, and with the insurance money she'd received, she'd pay cash for the right one. He pondered the irony: Phillip Sharp, who'd have sucked the very life from Amalise if he could, was now financing her freedom.
So here she was, racing off in direct contradiction to his plans, as usual. But he loved that about Amalise, that determination of hers. Even with all the questions in her mind about life and purpose and meaning, about suffering in the world and those problems that were too big for one person to do anything about, still she was complete in and of herself.
And where did that leave him? He stifled a sigh. Well, he'd broach that subject soon. But he'd come to realize since the accident and all the subsequent changes in Amalise—her craving for independence, the desire to understand the purpose of her life—love, when it came to Amalise, would be the icing on the cake.
But not the cake itself.
So he kept his foot on the gas pedal and his eyes straight ahead because, again, he knew this wasn't the time or place to discuss the nature of their relationship. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and smiled, happy for her in spite of himself. She was free of Phillip and working again.
She went on talking about that deal of hers while he concentrated on negotiating the three lanes of traffic on the two-lane avenue. Suddenly she turned to face him again, and the movement brought the scent of soap and roses wafting his way, a fragrance he'd associated with Amalise since she was a little girl. But today that scent roused emotions that had nothing to do with their childhood friendship.
"Jude, are you listening?" She leaned in close and tucked her hair behind one ear, as she always did. "I think I'm talking to myself here."
Too close. He dropped his elbow between them and tightened his hand on the wheel, covering his discomfort with a grin. "I'm listening." A battle-green streetcar rumbled by on his left, and he looked that way, creating distance between himself and Amalise.
"Just checking." She smiled and repositioned herself. "I want to talk to you about something. This new project I'm on? It's, ah . . . ," she looked off, "a development, of sorts. In an older neighborhood."
"Where?"
"I can't tell you."
He raised his brows.
"It's confidential." She sat back and folded her hands in her lap. "But it's bothering me some. Can I tell you about it, without going into detail?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
After a pause, she threw back her head, gazing at the interior roof. "All right. Picture a charming area, partly residential. Part commercial, but lots of small businesses around, like cafés, shops."
"That could be any place in New Orleans."
Her voice dropped a key. "But here's the thing. The place will be destroyed by this transaction."
"What do you mean by 'destroyed'?"
"Destroyed." She spread her hands. "As in, demolished."
He gave her a sideways look. "I'm assuming it's not in the Quarter."
"No."
He turned his eyes to the road again. Wheeling down St. Charles, he closed in on the University area and Broadway, tunneling beneath the canopy of live oak trees that lined the boulevard.
Her voice hardened. "They're going to level the place, Jude."
"Maybe the residents will fight it."
She shook her head. "They won't know it's happening until it's too late. That's the way it works." She looked to the right, rubbing her arms, as if comforting herself. "I've tried not to think too much about it because there's nothing I can do. But I keep imagining all those wonderful old houses, pieces of history, crushed into rubble. Old-growth trees destroyed."
He shot her a look. It wasn't easy to knock down an old house in the city of New Orleans, much less a tree. Oak trees in Louisiana even had their own club, the Live Oak Society. Trees with a certain measure of girth were members, and the only human allowed was the chairman. Certain trees were designated the president and vice president, and even Martha Washington, a member of the society, resided in Audubon Park.
"Maybe you're worrying for nothing," he said. "If the area's as you describe, there will be too many obstacles. The developers will stumble, and the city will find an excuse to halt it. City hall won't let it happen, and neither will the residents."
"No." She sounded dejected. "The groundwork's a done deal. All but the financing, and when that's completed, they'll start purchasing the properties in the target area." Blowing out her cheeks, she swiveled her head toward him. "I shouldn't be telling you any of this. You can't mention it to anyone."
"I won't. I don't even know where you're talking about. But you can trust me, you know that."
"I know."
He swerved as a car pulled out of a driveway on his right. "This city isn't fond of change. Remember that expressway proposal a few years ago? There was such a commotion, they finally gave it up. Protests, lawsuits. They stood up to the mayor, city council, congressmen, senators, federal regulators, commissions under Presidents Johnson and Nixon." He laughed. "They even beat back the real powers, the sewage and water board and the levee board."
"That was the French Quarter. This isn't." The look she gave him was reflective. "And that project was public, this isn't. Not even the press has gotten wind of this. It's big, but it isn't a highway or a bridge—the kind of thing where voters get to choose."
"Huh. Now I'm curious."
"And the permits have been issued, already approved." She sighed and looked to her right. "It's a huge project that will be announced one day after all the key properties have been purchased and demolition's begun."
He didn't say anything.
"The whole thing will happen without anyone realizing, one purchase at a time. The buyers will be agents of the developer, so they won't have a clue. And the first to sell will get prices they never dreamed of. So in that first phase, sellers will keep it quiet—that's part of the deal."
"Is this legitimate?"
"Sure. But there'll be huge pressure on the current owners to accept."
"What kind of pressure?"
She turned her eyes back to the road. "The pressure's in the money and the tactics. The agents will move fast, right after the closing of the financing. Purchases will be all cash, as is, no questions asked. Existing liens will be paid off." She shrugged. "Deals too good to pass up. And then, after those first properties are in, word will spread that the neighborhood's gone, though no one will understand why. And that's when prices will drop."
"What if they decide to fight then?"
Amalise shrugged. "What's left at that point will be mostly residential—individuals with average incomes, people who can't afford to go to court. And if they do try to fight it, they'll only be offered more." She pushed back a stray lock of hair. "At the end, the holdouts will realize there's nothing left to win in a lawsuit anyway. Who wants to live next door to a parking lot?"
Jude whistled. "Sound
s like there's big money involved."
"Yes, there is. But the thing that makes it all work is that in the long run it'll be good for the city. The project will bring in tourist dollars and jobs." She turned to him with a confused look. "It's not supposed to be like this, Jude. I love my job, but I hate what we're doing here." She gave a helpless shrug and settled back. "I almost wish Rebecca had been picked for this instead of me."
Rebecca would no doubt agree.
Amalise sank back against the car door, facing him. She pulled up one leg and folded it under her, looking at Jude. "Where am I going wrong?"
Traffic slowed and he leaned back, one elbow propped on the window. "Well, I'll assume it's all legal. But is it moral?"
"I don't know. Are moral and right the same thing? Maybe. But either way, this is wrong." Amalise heaved a long sigh. "I grew up watching Dad dispensing justice. He made decisions in his courtroom based on principles that everyone understood. Right and wrong, good and bad, the rules made sense. If you broke a law, you went to jail. Bust the speed limit, you got a ticket. Hurt someone, you paid the price." She rapped her knuckles against the window beside her in a distracted way. "Everything was black and white in Dad's courtroom. Not shades of gray, like this."
He stopped for the light at State Street and automatically looked to his left, toward his house. That's where they should be going right now. He wanted to keep Amalise close by and safe.
Seconds passed. The light turned green, and he stepped on the gas. He looked her way and grimaced. "It doesn't sound like you have much choice, chère."
"Not really. I could leave the firm, of course. But that's not an option."
He knew that wouldn't happen. She'd worked for years to get where she was.
"Besides, Rebecca or someone else would take my place, and the deal would still go forward."
Chasing the Wind Page 6
