The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set

by Christopher Smith

  He wished his parents could have witnessed his success. In the fall of 1968, Nick Ryan had been killed while on duty in Vietnam. On the day Louis learned of his father’s fate, he quickly learned his own. At the age of thirteen, he was thrust into the position of provider and nothing was the same for him after that. While his mother took in laundry and became a seamstress on the side, Louis worked forty hours a week washing dishes at Cappuccilli’s, the Italian restaurant at the end of their block. He pulled straight A’s in school. He and his mother planned budgets together and managed to put something aside for a future they were hesitant to face.

  As a team, they were invincible. It was in his eighteenth year, only days after Harvard offered him a full scholarship, that his mother became ill. She was tired all the time. There were lumps in her neck and groin. Her joints ached. “I’ve lost a lot of weight, Louis. There’s blood in my stool.”

  He brought her to the hospital. The doctor was crass, frank and cold. After examining Katherine Ryan, he took her son aside. “There are holes in your mother’s bones,” he said. “She has cancer. It’s beyond treatment. She’ll need to be hospitalized, if only to keep her comfortable. That will be expensive. Do you have insurance?”

  Louis looked the man hard in his eyes. “We don’t,” he said. “But we have money, so you treat her right just the same.”

  His private hell began then. Times were hard and the hospital was overcrowded. His mother was placed in a room with three other women—each struggling to hang on to lives that were leaving them. Louis wouldn’t forget the days that followed—working three jobs so he could afford bills that were scarcely affordable; going without sleep so he could spend time with a woman who no longer resembled his mother; holding her hand because he knew that she was frightened and missing her husband.

  He remembered the never-ending stream of specialists injecting poison after poison into a body that was manufacturing poisons of its own. He watched his mother slowly slip away from him. Her skin gradually becoming too large for her body. The experience hardened Louis. Made him see things differently.

  At the end of her first week’s stay, Katherine, so weakened by the toxins in her system, reached out a hand and gripped Louis’ knee. Her voice unusually strong, resolve still burning in her eyes, she spoke calmly and clearly. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But you won’t drop out of school. I won’t hear of it.”

  “Mom—”

  “You listen to me, Louis. My life will have been for nothing if you don’t succeed. God gave you that scholarship and God gave me this cancer. He’ll take me, but He won’t take that scholarship. You go to school in the fall. You become a success.”

  “But the bills—”

  “—will take care of themselves.” Her face softened. Drugs had clouded her eyes and they now were as gray as the four walls surrounding them. “Don’t you see?” she said, squeezing his knee. “Don’t you see what you’re going to become?”

  She died three weeks before he started Harvard. On the night before her death, she said to him in a whisper, “I want to be cremated. If I’m going to die, this cancer is dying with me. I’m not going to let it feed off my body any longer. I’m going to burn it up. I’m going to have the last say.”

  He granted her wish and scattered her ashes in the park she and his father used to bring him to in upstate New York. It was then that he made a vow—no matter what the costs, he would conquer the business world. He would become the best of the world’s best.

  His focus wasn’t broken until his Junior year at Harvard, when he met Anne.

  He had been walking home one afternoon when he heard what sounded like a woman shouting and several barking dogs. Curious, Louis stopped to listen. For a moment, he thought he was hearing things—there now was nothing but the buzz of traffic and the sound of leafless trees clicking in the stiff March wind.

  But then, suddenly, a team of seven dogs rushed around the street corner he was standing at, nearly toppling him as they hurried toward downtown Cambridge. Louis turned and watched them run, their expensive leather leashes whipping and writhing behind them.

  And then he saw her.

  “For God’s sake!” the young woman shouted as she shot around the corner. “Help me catch them!”

  Louis ran after her. She was out of breath, her face flushed, her long black hair swinging. Louis was about to ask how they got free when she stopped and her hands flew to her mouth. There was a screech of tires. Undaunted, the dog joined his friends and trotted on—only this time a bit slower as the group weaved through traffic and moved toward the center of town.

  “Hurry!” she said.

  They began running again, faster this time. Louis’s mind raced. “Are they all joined by one leash?” he asked.

  “Yes!”

  He was running alongside her now. She’s pretty, he thought. “I’m going to cross the street and head them off. You lure them to me.”

  Her eyes widened. “How?”

  “I don’t know—get in front of them, chase them in my direction. When they’re close enough, I’ll grab their leash and they’ll be yours again.” He looked across the street and pointed to a cluster of trees. “I’ll be over there.”

  “It won’t be that easy.”

  “It will be,” he said. “Go.”

  He started across the street. “I don’t even know your name,” he said. “I’m Louis Ryan.”

  “Anne Roberts,” she said, starting to run again. “And I promise if we get these dogs back, you won’t regret it!”

  It was over dinner that evening that Anne told Louis she walked the dogs to earn extra money for college. Now, remembering that day and those that followed, almost made her death seem as if it hadn’t happened, as if George Redman had never fouled their lives. But then, as always, Louis remembered that snowy February evening, just days after George lost his final appeal in court, and the first memory shattered.

  He leaned forward in his chair and lifted Anne’s picture from his desk. When his mother died, he had been powerless to help her. He accepted her death as he accepted his own fate. But his wife’s man-made death could be fought. This time he didn’t have to accept the unacceptable.

  For years, Louis fantasized about killing George Redman’s wife. For years, he imagined how sweet it would be to take from the man what he assumed was his greatest love. But as time passed and he learned more about his wife’s murderer, Louis realized that while Redman loved his wife deeply, he was just as passionate about Redman International and his daughter, Celina.

  They were his life’s accomplishments. They hadn’t failed him. It was then, as Redman’s daughter and his conglomerate matured, that Louis had his awakening. In order to make Redman feel the pain he had felt for years, Louis would take everything from the man, not stopping until his own thirst for revenge was satisfied.

  There was a knock at his office door. It was only seven-thirty. Michael wasn’t supposed to be here for another half-hour. “Yes?” he said.

  The door swung open and his secretary, Judy, stepped into the room. When she saw that he had been studying his wife’s picture, she hesitated, remembering a time years ago when she walked in unannounced and saw tears in his eyes while he held it. She turned to leave. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just coming in to catch up on some work. Jim told me you were here.”

  She held the current edition of the New York Times in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. “I was going to give you these.”

  Louis replaced Anne’s picture and managed a smile. “Remind me to give you a raise,” he said. “Those are exactly what I need right now. Come in.”

  “I think you might find the paper interesting,” Judy said as she crossed the room to his desk. She was an attractive woman in her middle forties, with short blonde hair and a nose that was just saved from being too wide. She had worked for Louis for nearly twenty years and had become rich because of her ability to keep secrets. “Especially the front page and th
e business section.”

  Louis looked up at her, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  Judy placed the coffee down beside him. “This,” she said while handing him the paper. There, on the front page, was a picture of the new Redman International Building—complete with a close-up of one of the destroyed spotlights. The banner headline read:

  EXPLOSIVE DAY FOR GEORGE REDMAN

  Before Louis could react, Judy was saying, “And here,” as she opened the paper to the business section. There, the headline read:

  REDMAN STOCK CONTINUES PLUNGE;

  PLANS TO TAKE OVER WESTTEX CONFIRMED

  Louis skimmed the article that ran beneath the headline before turning to the front page and reading about the three spotlights he had Vincent Spocatti rig with explosives. When he was finished, he looked up at Judy. “And I thought today was going to be a bad day,” he said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Michael Archer awoke to the sharp crack of gunfire and the shrill screams of people on the street.

  Startled, he sat up in bed and came face to face with his best friend of nearly fourteen years, Rufus, the golden retriever who sat beside him. There was a gnawed plastic dish in his jaws.

  Michael slumped back against the mattress and closed his eyes. Already, the morning was warm and muggy. He turned onto his side and looked at what had become his only home—an over-priced one-room apartment on Avenue B that smelled like shit and now was filled with boxes sent from around the world.

  Rufus nudged his arm and Michael got up, looking tentatively out the window as he passed it. Down below on the sidewalk, a small crowd of people were gathering around a woman who was face down on the street. Blood was pooling around her head. People were on cell phones, some were taking photos. Welcome to fucking New York, he thought.

  Michael took the dish from Rufus’ mouth and filled it with dry dog food. He watched a cockroach scatter across the countertop and the irony that he now was living in this dump was not lost on him.

  At thirty-four, he was among the most powerful men in Hollywood. His movies made millions at the box office, he had written six blockbuster novels and he had adapted four of them for the screen—all of which he had starred in and produced. To the public, he not only was a fine actor and writer, but also a respected businessman. Through his novels and movies, he led his fans into another world and gave them the escape they desired. He was their king, their shining star. He was invincible.

  They were dead wrong.

  The public knew only what Michael Archer allowed them to know. And because of this, they couldn’t know that this was now his life—and it was in danger.

  The warnings began as small reminders. After a major purchase, his manager and accountants would call and suggest he curb his spending. “You’re not the government, Michael,” they would say. “Remember, even you have financial limits.”

  Michael would nod and listen, but soon he would forget their words and instead remember his beginnings in Hollywood—a time when money was so scarce, he was lucky to eat one meal a day. Then, he hadn’t owned a villa in Italy, a brownstone in Boston, an estate in Beverly Hills. Then, Michael had known nothing but the struggle of day to day life and his seedy apartment in West L.A.

  To escape from those days, Michael surrounded himself with luxury, often spending more money in a week than many people made in a year. Never did he think his bank accounts would run dry. Until they did.

  He had been two weeks in Cairo, vacationing at a high-end resort, when his business manager phoned to tell him that his bank was about to foreclose on each of his three homes. Going as well were the Ferrari, the Lamborghini, both yachts.

  He was incredulous.

  “If you don’t have a minimum of $2 million to cover your debts by this Friday, everything will be taken from you.”

  “Friday?” Michael said. “That’s three days away.”

  “We’ve been warning you, Michael. This isn’t a surprise.”

  “What are my options?”

  “At this point? You’ve got two.”

  “What are they?”

  “You could go to your father.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “Or you could gamble.”

  “I have no money,” he said. “Remember?”

  “You could borrow it,” the man said. “A friend of mine runs Aura in Vegas. As a favor to you, I could call and tell him you’re coming for a weekend that you’re a good risk for a loan.”

  “And what if I lose and can’t pay back the loan?”

  “Then you’ll be in trouble. This is only a suggestion, Michael, and not one that should be taken lightly. You should go to your father. I recommend that—not the gambling.”

  But Michael went with the latter.

  As promised, borrowing the money was no problem. Paying it back, however, became one. Michael stayed at one of the casino’s black jack tables for hours until he lost it all. Now, he owed Stephano Santiago, owner of the casino and capo di capi of Europe’s most powerful Syndicate, over $900,000. It was blood money and Michael knew that, if he didn’t pay Santiago soon, the man would have him murdered.

  A day passed before he received a threatening phone call from one of Santiago’s men. Another day passed and he was on a plane headed East toward Manhattan, where he met with his father for the first time in nearly sixteen years.

  Seeing his father after all those years was a shock. Louis was older, grayer, heavier than that day Michael left home—and yet he still was a force. Seated at his desk, immaculate in a black silk suit, Louis looked across the room at his son, his eyes as dark and as judgmental as Michael remembered them to be. It didn’t take long for Michael to feel uncomfortable. Louis always had been able to make him feel inferior just by looking at him.

  Reluctantly, he told his father the predicament he was in. And while Louis said he’d take care of everything, there was that tone in his voice, that calm tone his father used whenever he wanted something.

  Now, Michael knew it had to do with the photographs he was given of Leana Redman and the appearance he made last night at George Redman’s party. There was a reason his father demanded he meet her and it worried him. His father had a motive behind everything.

  He checked his watch and decided he had time to unpack a few more things before meeting with his father. He sat beside Rufus, who knocked his arm with his nose, and reached for a box marked PERSONAL. The first item he pulled from the box was, ironically, his first novel and best-seller.

  Michael ran his hand over the faded dust jacket and thought back to when he started the novel. He was eighteen years old, on a bus headed for Hollywood and running away from his father. They had fought the night before and Michael decided then that no matter how hard he tried, he and Louis would never get along. And so he left.

  Even now, all these years later, Michael could remember how the fight ended. Louis told Michael that he didn’t love him and never had. He said that he wished it was Michael who died, not his mother.

  Michael tossed the book aside and dug deeper into the box. When he grasped the next object, there was a light tinkling of glass. His heart sank. He knew what it was before he pulled it through the many strands of torn newspaper and held it in his hands. It was a framed photograph of his mother, Anne, something he had cherished since he was three years old. The glass had pierced her face.

  Michael was staring at it when a knock came at the door. He put the picture down and glanced at his watch. Puzzled, he looked at Rufus, who now was facing the door, his head cocked in such a way that suggested he too knew they weren’t expecting anyone. There was another knock, this one sharper, more urgent, and then the sound of footsteps swiftly moving away.

  Michael moved quickly through the maze of boxes and unlocked the door. He opened it wide, stepped into the hall and nearly stumbled over the brilliantly wrapped basket at his feet.

  The hallway was cloaked in a network of shadows and for a moment, he heard nothing but his neighbors, who were shout
ing again at their child. He could sense a presence, knew he was being watched. He stepped back into the safety of his apartment, bolted the door and waited.

  Time seemed to stop. His neighbors continued to shout. And then, from the end of the hallway, came a clatter of metal striking metal as the gate to the freight elevator crashed open and someone stepped inside.

  The gate slammed shut and the car hesitated only briefly before it began its noisy, sluggish descent.

  Michael opened the door and ran down the hall, eager to see who was inside. But by the time he reached the elevator and gripped the metal bars, the car already was a lost cage of rattling iron shadows.

  For a moment, he stood there, listening to the faint wail of police sirens. Just now, they were coming for the woman who was shot earlier. He wondered if his death would mirror hers. Would a stranger take him by surprise, draw a gun and silence him with a well-placed bullet?

  Or did they have something else planned for him?

  He returned to his apartment and brought the basket inside. It was cocooned so tightly in sheets of red cellophane that he couldn’t see its contents. Rufus nudged his leg and Michael patted his back, reassuring him that everything was all right—even though he knew it wasn’t.

  Steeling himself, Michael removed the crimson shield and tossed it aside.

  The stench was sudden and overwhelming. Michael covered his nose and mouth with the back of his hand and took a step back, the haze of fruit flies lifting in front of him as if they were wavering veils of ash. The basket was filled with rotten plums, peaches that were soft and brown and dimpled with mold, apples that had been gnawed to the core, bananas that were black and alive with maggots.

  Michael knew who had sent it even before he reached inside and removed the envelope taped to the wicker handle. Inside was a note, precise and neatly typed: “Three weeks, Mr. Archer. That’s how old this fruit is, and that’s how much longer we’re giving you to come up with our money. By then, the sum will be one million dollars. Please have the money by then. If you don’t, our generosity will have run out and you’ll be giving your mother some unexpected company.”