Franklin’s secretary arrived a few minutes later, an envelope in her hand. She was young and attractive and probably never wore anything sold in Samson Stores, despite the inevitable employee discount. He wondered, briefly, what had happened to Samson’s secretary, Felicia Ravensworth. More than likely she was a reminder of the old regime, and had been let go, as they say. “Here you are, Mr. DiGregorio. Mr. Franklin sends his best regards.”
Joe D. took the envelope and had the irrational feeling that he was being bought off. The secretary looked at him a moment, expecting a response. When Joe D. realized this he thanked her, and she turned and left.
He put the envelope in his pocket and headed for the elevators. While waiting he decided to open it. What he found surprised him. He’d been paid one week in advance, so he expected a check for the balance due him, fifteen hundred, plus expenses. Instead he found a check for ten thousand dollars.
Joe D. hurried back to the reception area but didn’t stop to announce himself this time. Instead he walked straight back to Franklin’s office, bypassing his secretary. Franklin was hunched over his big desk, studying a page of dense figures. “This check’s for a lot more than you owe me,” Joe D. said. He could swear it took a second for his voice to reach the end of the room where Franklin sat.
“A bonus for a job well done.”
So it wasn’t a mistake. Joe D. didn’t know why this made him feel uncomfortable. “I don’t feel right taking it,” he said. “Samson’s dead…” Joe D. hesitated. What he was about to say was that a lot of people are just as happy that he is dead, present company included. “Samson’s dead and Estelle Ferguson’s dead and maybe I could have prevented that.” This was the unpleasant idea he couldn’t shake since discovering Samson’s body on Tuesday.
“Samson was a murderer and a fraud and a…” Franklin stopped himself, but Joe D. guessed the next word would refer to his sexuality, which Franklin probably equated with murder and fraud anyway.
“Still…”
“Keep it. Or give it to charity, I don’t care. A ten thousand dollar bonus is nothing to get too excited about, I can assure you. Do you have any idea, the numbers that are involved in Samson’s estate? Hundreds of millions. Your ten thousand is just a footnote to a footnote in the Samson financial statements, rest assured.”
This was hardly comforting to Joe D. He shrugged and tried to thank Franklin, but couldn’t muster the words.
“We often have need of security services, you know,” Franklin said. “I have your number.”
“I appreciate that,” Joe D. said, and turned to leave.
He felt richer but not happier as he headed back to the elevators. He glanced into the big corner office that had once belonged to George Samson, and was surprised to find it occupied. “Hi there,” he said, and again had the sensation of waiting for his voice to reach the other end.
“Good morning,” replied Joanna Freeling. She was seated behind her uncle’s enormous desk, piles of papers overlapping in front of her. As usual she was wearing black, but this time she had on a black jacket over a white blouse. A suit!
“I never expected to find you here.”
“I’m the majority shareholder. Or at least I will be when my aunt is found guilty, which I’m sure she will be. The shares pass to me in the event of her death or incapacity, which apparently includes life imprisonment.”
“Are you here permanently?” Joe D. walked halfway toward Joanna’s desk and stopped.
Joanna shrugged. “Let’s just say indefinitely.”
“How do you like the world of big business?”
She leaned back in the big leather chair, which tilted back with her. “It’s really fascinating, you know. I feel I can make a difference here. I have a lot of ideas about our merchandising strategy, and I’ve already been in touch with the advertising agency that handles our account.”
Our strategy. Our account. How proprietary she’d become. “Have you given up painting?”
“Only for the time being. I have a considerable investment in this company now, and I have to be sure that it’s managed properly. It’s not about money, you know.”
“What’s it about, then?”
“Power. Control. Self-reliance.”
“Have you been in touch with Arthur?”
He saw a cloud fall over her face, and then he saw it lifted. “No. And I hope I never see him again, ever.”
Joe D. couldn’t blame her, though he felt sorry for Rudolph. “Anyway, nice to see you. I think this office becomes you.” He knew he sounded sarcastic and he didn’t care. He turned to leave.
“It’s not about money, you know,” he heard her say behind him.
It never is, he thought to himself as he tucked the check back into his jacket pocket.
Back at the apartment he called Alison at the store, and told her he wanted to celebrate his newfound wealth. The owner of Many Fetes was never one to say no to a celebration. He said he’d pick her up at 6:30.
He changed into shorts and jogged to the reservoir. It was a warm and sunny day, and Central Park looked especially inviting, not at all the murder-and-mayhem preserve of out-of-towners’ nightmares. He circled the reservoir three times, propelled by an overwhelming sense of relief. The Samson case was behind him, and ahead lay a future that he thought he could finally begin to envision. It looked OK. He ran a fourth lap, for a total of six-plus miles.
He entered the store at exactly 6:30. Alison was wearing a blouse and slacks. “Where are we going? Should I change?”
He told her it was a surprise, but that she should wear something special. He had put on his only suit. Alison flipped through some dresses, pulling out a few, studying them, and then replacing them. Finally she selected a short black sequined dress, and changed into it in the dressing room. Joe D. caught his breath when she emerged. She looked, literally, breathtaking, the glittery black dress a perfect complement to her pale complexion and lustrous black-brown hair.
“Dressy enough?” she asked, spinning around for him.
“You can’t sell that dress, not after tonight. You have to retire it forever.”
She checked the price tag dangling from a sleeve. “We could pay for a winter vacation on what I’d make on this dress.”
“Forget it. The dress is out of circulation.”
The limousine was waiting out front for them when Alison locked up. He helped her lower the heavy metal gates that covered the entire storefront. She looked completely incongruous, wrestling with the gate in that dress.
“I don’t believe this,” she said as she got in the limo. The driver turned around and said “Okay, sir?” to Joe D., who nodded. They glided up Third Avenue and made a left on Seventy-ninth, heading for the park.
“Where are we going?” Alison asked.
“You’ll see. First, let’s drink.” He opened a bottle of good white wine that was cooling in an ice bucket. He’d considered champagne, but neither he nor Alison was crazy about it, though it always seemed festive to pop the cork. He poured them each a glass.
“Hey, the driver’s circling the park again,” Alison said, after he poured her a second glass.
“Per my instructions.”
“Where are we going to eat, then?”
He leaned forward and picked up a bag from the front seat. “All your favorite things. Moo shu pork. Sauteed green beans. General what’s-his-name’s chicken.”
“So we’re just going to drive around the park all night eating take-out?”
He couldn’t tell if she was disappointed. “That was the idea. Nice views, not too many traffic lights.”
She smiled and moved closer to him and began to sing. “‘Heaven, I’m in heaven…’”
They savored the wine and each other. As the limo sped around Central Park, Joe D. felt as if he were leaving behind everything in his life that had held him back. He was moving into his future, their future. He knew, now, that you couldn’t wait for the future to slow down for you, and, worse, that you
couldn’t count on things to work out. You just had to have faith that you’d survive.
“I even brought an appetizer,” he said. He reached into the big bag of Chinese food and brought out a small white carton. He handed it to Alison. “Spring rolls?” she said as she opened it. “No, too cold for spring rolls. Noodles?”
She unfolded the cardboard flaps and looked puzzled at first. Then she looked shocked. Then she began to cry. “I love you so much, Joe D.,” she said, as tears tumbled down her cheeks.
“Well, try it on,” he said. She held out her left hand. “Put it on for me,” she said. And he did, as the big car glided smoothly through the gilded park.
More from Seth Margolis
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Back at college in the '70s, they called themselves "The Madison Seven"—a close circle of friends inseparably linked by trust, loyalty, and love. Then one night, years later, they gathered at Julia Mallet's Manhattan apartment for a "Come-As-You-Were Party" and decided to play a game...
Tough, beautiful and independent, Julia Mallet feels her life is nearly perfect. She holds a high-profile executive position in an important advertising firm. She is raising a beautiful little daughter, Emily, without the inconvenience of a husband. And now "The Madison Seven" have come together once again to celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday...and to bring back a past that should have been left dead and forgotten.
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Losing Isaiah
Three-year-old Isaiah has two mothers: and they both want him.
Margaret Lewin adopted Isaiah as a newborn—and she and her husband, Charles, give the boy all the love a child could want and everything that money can buy. But can even the most loving, caring white family be responsible for raising a black child?
Selma Richards is the boy's birth mother. When Isaiah was born she was illiterate, unemployed, and a crack addict. Giving up her son was the best thing for both of them—at the time. Now Selma has weaned herself off drugs, has a responsible job caring for another couple's child, and is learning to read. She's not rich and she doesn't live in the best neighborhood, but she's healed herself.
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Closing Costs
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As he interweaves these often suspenseful and frequently comical stories, Margolis captures the zeitgeist of a cultural moment, keeping us turning the pages with the rise and fall of his characters' fortunes.
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