Crime & Counterpoint (7 page)

It was a freak thing, this audition. She’d heard about it via a client of her father’s, which should have made her jump in her jalopy and head for the border. But Ronald Hightower III, the Hamptons’ most eligible bachelor over 40, had said daddy wouldn’t have to know. “It can be our little secret. And you’d be doing the owner a big favor, honey.”

Who was the owner?

Another client of daddy’s. Joy to the world. No thanks, Ron.

“But Shelley baby,” Ron crooned in his champagne inflection, “your father himself would insist if I told him.” She doubted that. Very much. The Wall Street playboy mentioned how much the gig would pay, but she didn’t care. What was money anyway if daddy wasn’t happy with her? But with three little words, her resistance died a quick death.

The Purple Gazelle. 

She decided to take the C train – as opposed to the B train. No reason really. It was just where the overpowering throng had shoved her. From her doorman-guarded UWS digs on Columbus Avenue, it had been a short trek to the 86
th
street subway station. Too short. She’d vacillated at the top of the stairs for a while, debating in the surprisingly warm sunshine of this late October day.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket – Daddy. Instant fear electrocuted through her chest. She looked around at the obnoxious news hockers and NYC tour salesmen, and in a quick fit, she sent him to voicemail. For the first time ever. Guilt ricocheted through her temples and chased her into the underground.

But somehow – she blinked and took a breath of recycled air as the train jolted and sped ahead like a bullet – she was on the way to her destination.

Nine minutes. That’s all it took.

The train lurched to a stop. And her heart lurched with it.

She nearly didn’t get off the train. But there was no help for it. Everyone pushed and shoved to get through the doors as fast as possible. She was carried along with the tide.

Before she knew it, she was out in the sunshine again. And in a cloud of complete uncertainty, worrying about what her father would say if he knew, she managed to arrive at the widespread property of the newly-reopened venue. With no skyscrapers in the immediate vicinity, the sun managed to make an appearance and glinted off the club’s elegant glass-façade dome. Standing at the end of the broad, u-shaped driveway, she took in the elaborate water fountain – a small-scale replica of the Trevi in Rome – the surrounding garden on the manicured island, and the original sign from the club’s inception. She felt insignificant and unworthy of the opportunity.

The history of this place impressed itself on her though its decades hardly showed after its recent renovation. It exuded the warm glow and prestige of that golden age of jazz where elite clubs like the Copacabana and the Palladium overflowed with mambo, swing, and bebop. The Purple Gazelle, in particular, had an essentially Ellington panache, boasting a unique architectural flavor which drew her back to a glamorous era of silks, chauffeurs, and smoky refinement. To think, the legends of jazz whom so many tried to emulate had gigged here. Maybe stood exactly where she was standing now. Packing the house, night after night.

Suddenly, she felt a burgeoning of desire leap within her. A fluttering of excitement that jived with the gush of the fountain. The hairs on her arms stood on end, and she realized with shock that regardless of her father’s connections, she actually
wanted
this gig.

Of their own volition, her feet started forward, and she walked tall and erect, head held high with the kind of confidence she once exuded. Buzzing, she reached the Plaza-esque canopied entrance and pulled open one of the gold-framed glass doors with ‘P G’ etched in elaborate filigree. Cool, fragrant air enveloped her and drew her inside like a passionate lover.

The door closed with a quiet hiss, blocking out the noonday traffic. She paused in the marbled foyer to take in the exquisite décor. Everything was a rich shade of gold and purple. She admired the expansive, multi-level layout with all modern furnishings and floor lights in the perimeter.

From the entrance, she walked down three curved steps to proceed onto the main floor, which was depressed a foot and a half below ground-level. A rich, creamy marble with golden flecks spread from the foyer all the way down to the stage. She could tell it was the original flooring, buffed to a mirror shine. In her mind’s eye, she readily saw jazz era swingers caking the dance floor.

For those who desired to sit as far as possible from the crowd or the music, there was a narrow strip along the periphery, protected by a guard rail and level with the foyer. A dozen generously-spaced booths filled this arc. Tall potted palms and flowering plants interspersed the booths, providing exotic color, oxygen, and fragrant privacy.

In addition, a set of carpeted stairs from the foyer provided direct access to the balcony level, which afforded an exalted view of the stage and vast dining floor. Currently, it was cordoned off by a thick, braided rope with a gold sign that proclaimed ‘Reservation Only’.

Buzzing with nostalgia for an era in which she’d never lived, she weaved through the array of round tables, cushioned chairs, and curved booths, absorbing the details as she went. There were several stacks of both black and white linen sitting upon a few chairs; clearly fresh coverings for the naked tables. The black was for concerts, she deducted; less distracting for performers.

Reaching the middle of the floor, where the sun streamed down from the wide, circular sky light capping the dome, she noticed dainty slivers of light bouncing around. She looked straight up. A gorgeous, tiered chandelier suspended from the apex, roughly fifteen feet off the ground and just above the balcony level. She noted there was no table positioned directly beneath it. However, she was.

Moving on, her focus locked onto the large, shadowy stage. It rose two and a half feet above the dance floor and had a convex-shaped front – curved like everything else here. The wooden surface was honey-stained and polished to gleaming. The tall curtains, drawn to the sides, were velvet purple. She could well-imagine how dazzling it all looked when the racks of spotlights were on, illuminating and glinting off the –

Hold on. What was that?

She floated, as if in a trance, towards a short set of stairs that led up to the platform. The sound of her flats against the wooden floor reverberated through the empty club and then died away as she came to a complete halt. Positioned center stage with its mouth wide open was an 8’11” fully-restored Steinway model D concert grand.

Enchanted, she followed the piano’s gleaming contours with her fingertips.

Unable to resist, she situated herself upon the cushioned, adjustable piano bench. Placing her hands on the smooth, flawless ivory, she depressed just one key. But the moment she heard that first delicious note, she was swept into another world – a world in which her dreams
hadn’t
shattered and hope still flourished. She began playing as she hadn’t in a long time.

The music that ebbed and flowed from her soul permeated every cubic centimeter of the dome, like a heady vapor. Cascades of dark chocolate sound multiplied through the mid-sized atrium, until eventually, it seemed like a whole chorus of Steinways exuded their hauntingly-euphoric melody, blending together like ocean waves.

Several minutes passed before she came to a conclusion, and even after she ceased to depress the keys, the rich tones continued to linger for a full minute, seemingly reluctant to dispel completely.

Shelley allowed the fading sound to float her gently back down to earth. She took a deep sighing breath in total satisfaction. Though it was only for the moment, she felt whole for the first time in a long while.

Suddenly, she became aware that she was not alone. Slowly opening her eyes, she removed her hands from the ivory as a sliver of apprehension stole over her, raising the hairs on her arms.

She turned to her right, looking out across the floor, to face whoever would administer the verdict.

Two men in business attire stood by the foyer watching her, taking notes. One of them spoke with a gravelly voice, cold, unaffected by her passion. “What’s your name, miss?”

“Uh, Shelley,” she replied nervously.

He scribbled it down. Left-handed. A pause and then a glance at her, brows raised, waiting for a last name. He’d be waiting a long time. “Okay. And how do we contact you?”

She gave them her 917 digits. Verizon. The only way to hear a pin drop in the Big Apple.

“And if selected, when are you available to start?”

“Whenever.” She cringed slightly afterwards, hating the eagerness in her answer.

He wrote it down. “And are you by any chance Henri Mitchel’s daughter?”

She choked on her own saliva, and her answer came out in an embarrassing croak. “Yes.”

Surprisingly, they both laughed. “Alright then,” the man said, mirth lingering in his tone. “We’ll be in touch.”

Two weeks later…

Carrie Weston’s slim fingers vacillated over the slightly corroded brass knocker. But the debate was short-lived. Her beefy, unsociable demon of a relation wouldn’t have answered even if she was being held at gunpoint – which she’d already claimed once. Of course, he hadn’t believed her.

So she slipped her hand inside her DK purse and withdrew the key he’d given her for emergencies.

Now was close enough.

Opening the door quietly, the auburn vixen snuck inside the one-bedroom apartment, not surprised at how dark it was. Her sapphire eyes quickly adjusted and located the heavily-scarred brute. It wasn’t hard. She just followed the glow of rage he always effervesced like he’d been dunked in a vat of nuclear waste.

Hmm. Maybe he was
. The thought caused her stomach to quiver in amusement which she forced herself to contain. But there he was, in the back corner of the dusky area he called a living room, beating his fists into a 100-lb punching bag. Shirtless. Sweat cascading down his face and his ridiculously cut upper body.

She tilted her head and watched, leaning against the doorjamb. Even from a first cousin’s perspective, he was good enough to eat, bullet-holes and all – if it wasn’t, you know,
illegal
and um, totally gross. Besides, she had her own platter of delicacies with nice, unmarred doctor’s hands and excellent bedside manners to whom she wasn’t remotely related. She glanced at her left hand, just admiring the platinum three-stone diamond ring which sparkled even in this dull atmosphere. Ugh! Light. This place needed light.

“Hey, Zach!” she greeted brightly, shocking him half to death as she strutted forward, head high, chest out like a show poodle.

He spun around. “Jesus! Carrie!” he growled. “Don’t you know how to knock?”

She grinned. “I would’ve, pumpkin, except I know you too well.” A short lyrical laugh accompanied her words. She sailed to the windows and gave a hard yank to the cord, drawing up the blinds in full. The Lower East Side cityscape appeared in glittering afternoon glory, sun striking the pinnacles of glossy office buildings.

Zach threw up a wrapped fist to shield his face, grimacing and scowling like each flare was a stab to his side. “What’re you doing?”

She flicked a hand towards him. “Don’t mind me. You keep going. I’ll just state my business and then leave.”

Grudgingly, he sighed and went to his room to grab a shirt.

“Oh, don’t get dressed on my account,” Carrie teased in far too good of a mood. She perched on the back of his beaten leather sofa while she waited for him, letting her feet dangle. She looked around. No dishes in the sink. Multiple rings on the coffee table. Dusty mantle. Smeared windows. Everything grey, black, or brown. Ugh!

She craned her neck around. There were folders and papers strewn in a callous mess, dribbling from the seat cushions down to the floor. She picked up one sheet, scanning it without processing the profile of the criminal. His face was unappealing. So she tossed it and called out: “Hey, do you have your Heisman on hand, by any chance?”

Zach returned in a heather grey NYPD T-shirt with navy lettering and scowled at her as he strode across the wooden floor. “No. I don’t.” He got in position again and resumed throwing power-packed blows at the inanimate Everlast bag. “Thanks for the reminder though.”

“You didn’t, like, get rid of it, did you?” she pressed, now digging out her cell phone.

“Why the hell would I get rid of something that’s basically catching dust in a storage unit?”

Carrie’s slight shoulders lowered with a huff. “Oh, my God,” she moaned. “It’s a freaking Heisman. There’s like” – she lifted her hands – “I don’t know, sixty guys in the whole country that have one.”

He wasn’t about to give her the exact number though he knew it. “Why are you so damn interested all of a sudden? You never cared before.”

“Because digging up history in the family is taboo or something, and I’ve been in Stanford the last decade. But Jared brought it up with the guys, and he was, like, I don’t know,
proud
that you’re going to be in his family.”

“I’m not marrying him.”

She clenched her fist, the one containing her smartphone. “Grrr. You are so frustrating!” she exclaimed, sliding off and marched over to him. “I’m trying to connect with you, and you’re” – she hit the bag fitfully – “more interested in this stupid thing!” She shook out her now-throbbing hand.

Directing his agitation towards the inanimate object, he said, “Is this what you came to do? Annoy me?”

She stomped her foot childishly, her blue eyes which were a happier variant of his, flashed in displeasure. “Okay. I’ll get to it since you’re sooo busy. I scheduled a fitting for you at Bloomingdale’s tomorrow at ten.”

“I already have a suit.”

She tipped her mouth sardonically. “I know you do, honey child, but I really need to make sure you look as good as possible because” – she looked to the ceiling, pretending to think – “hmm, why again?” She glared at him: “Oh yeah! It’s
my wedding
!”

He flinched a little but didn’t stop exercising his volatilities, sweat trickling down the bridge of his nose and clumping his hair. Even his shirt started to catch the fever, tacking to his torso already. “Bloomingdale’s. 10 a.m. Can you go now?”

“Gee! You’re just so charming,” she said derisively. “No, no, no,
please
. Don’t stop. I’ll just crawl back the way I came.” She started backing towards the door. “But I’ll see you at the club tonight.”

He threw a brutal punch and then swung incredulous eyes to her. “What club?”

“I sent you a text.” She had a naughty smile playing on her face as she stood her ground, back against the door, holding out her phone to him.

Stalking to her, he grabbed the device and read the message thread. A vein in his neck bulged. She was right. “I can’t. I’ve got too much going on.” He thrust the cell back to her.

Her jaw dropped open, angrily. “Doing what?!” she retorted. “I went through the trouble of making sure your dad wouldn’t be there. So you have no excuses.”

While she railed, he went to his vastly-empty fridge and pulled out a frosty green Heineken. Popping off the cover, he took a long drink, not in the least guilt-ridden. “Hasn’t that place been booked solid since it opened?”

“Oh, so you do know about it. Well, Jared’s family got a personal invitation from the owner who – get this – knows who you are!”

Zach eyes sharpened. “What does that mean?”

“Football. Duh.” Pouting, she watched him lumber back to the living area. “Come on, please. Just this one time can you do something for me?” No response. She readied her phone, thumb hovering over the screen daringly. “I didn’t want to do this, but if you don’t go, I’m calling Grandma right now.”

He gritted his teeth and applied the cold bottle to his overheated forehead. He sighed in surrender. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

Gratified, she smiled. “Great! Make sure you wear your tux. The reservation’s for nine so don’t be late.” She grabbed the tarnished handle and swung out, throwing him a flying kiss. “Bye, sugar bear!”

Biting down, he threw one more punch, just enough to release the pressure, and then went back to his beer. Tipping back the Heineken, he drained the whole thing, wondering how many of these he’d need to get through tonight.