Madman's Thirst (6 page)

CHAPTER 8 – CANDY IS DANDY

Emerald Shields returned the wave
of an investment banker dividing his charm between two women at the bar. The
women – who turned to look her way with undisguised envy – were drinking
Cosmos. They were attractive enough, and were probably mid-level publishing or
fashion industry vice presidents. Or perhaps college administrators at N.Y.U.
or Cardozo. Emma, too honest to pretend she wasn’t beautiful, knew that in her
they recognized the real deal, which in addition to looks, included money and
breeding. The man picked up a beer. Probably non-alcoholic, she thought
dismissively. She mentally braced for the inevitable approach. Emma was
becoming a hot property among the Wall Street set, which was, she supposed, a
good thing. But she was hoping for a quiet lunch at the Gotham Bar & Grill,
or at least a private one. She sipped her Gibson and studied the menu. Maybe
that would keep the man at bay until her luncheon companion showed up.

Emma rarely drank anything
stronger than wine at lunch, but she was a bit nervous. A recent complication
in her romantic life added a new dimension to this particular lunch. Not that
it changed her plans – or hopes, she would have said – for the afternoon. She’d
probably have another Gibson. A couple of strong drinks seemed to make things
go smoother. Candy is dandy and all that. She smiled, recalling the better
line:
I love a martini, but two at the most. Three I’m under the table; four
I’m under the host
. Gibsons were martinis by another name after all, and
she didn’t think Dorothy Parker would mind. She glanced up from the menu. Damn!
Mr. Wall Street was headed her way.

Emma Shields was rising rapidly in
the ranks of the Shields organization, having just negotiated a $600 million
infusion of outside capital into the 80-year-old media giant. The family was
forced to relinquish 40 percent of its privately-held stock to an investor
group, but maintained managerial and editorial control of its magazines,
Internet sites, and television and radio properties. The fact that Emma had
come up with the idea, lined up the financing and then actually convinced her
father and brothers to go along, thus ensuring that all the Shields heirs would
stay very rich despite troubling times in the media industry, was an eye opener
to Wall Street.

Randolph “Randy” Shields, as the
tabloids had dubbed him for his sexual peccadilloes, had expected one of his
sons to eventually take over the company. Now it looked as if his youngest
child might be the one. As a man who never underestimated any woman, especially
a beautiful one, Randolph harbored no prejudice against the idea (unlike the
heads of other prominent New York dynasties, who favored sons – and even
sons-in-law – over daughters). He had always suspected that Emma, for all her
childhood sweetness and current glamour, was a tough cookie, and perhaps the
brightest of his brood. After all, she had survived the cancer death of a husband
and the murders of a favorite cousin and uncle  by rogue billionaire Victor
Ballantrae, all in short order, and still kept her wits about her. Not only
that, but she had overseen the coverage of the collapse of the criminal Ballantrae
empire – coverage that had won the Shields organization numerous journalism
awards. The rumors surrounding the mysterious disappearance of Ballantrae and his
chief of staff, the beautiful Alana Loeb, didn’t hurt. With other media empires
reeling from scandals, the Shields family was given credit for settling
accounts with criminals who thought themselves beyond the law. It was credit
not fully deserved, Randolph and Emma knew. The man who deserved most of it –
the man responsible for the deaths of Ballantrae and Loeb – had just walked in
the Gotham’s door.

As Jake Scarne walked over to her
table, Emma Shields wondered if he still loved Alana Loeb, a woman he’d shot
through the heart.     

***

“It looks like I got here just in
the nick of time,” Scarne said as he sat down. “A shark is heading up the chum
line.”

 Emma, who was sitting with her
back to the window overlooking 12
^th
Street, smiled indulgently, and
watched the approaching investment banker hesitate, take a long look at Scarne
and swim back to the bar.

 “Pungent, but apropos. But how do
you know it wasn’t ‘Mr. Right.’”

“More likely, ‘Mr. Write Me a
Check.’ Now that you are known for more than your beauty, you will have to
question the motives of every man who comes sniffing around.”

“Including yours?”

“My motives and sniffs have always
been discernible and dishonorable, and you know it. But enough friendly chit
chat, I’m thirsty and starving.” As if on cue, a waiter appeared and greeted
them by name. Scarne smiled up at him. “Frankie, get Ms. Shields another Gibson
and if they’ve got any of that Cruzan Estate rum left I’ll take it in a
snifter.”

 They were at their “regular”
table at the Gotham, famous in Manhattan for its prix fixed lunch, which cost
whatever the year was. Scarne had been lunching there frequently ever since it
went for $19.97. He figured it would still be a steal in the year 4000. Of
course, he wouldn’t be prix fixing today. Lunch with Emma, while not a rarity
for Scarne, was always a special occasion. She looked particularly fetching, he
thought, in a blue silk herringbone shirt dress, buttoned down the front and
tied with a fabric belt, and was easily the most attractive woman in the place,
despite stiff competition from some other women whose features were more
conventionally classic. Funny how that worked. Some women had it, and some
didn’t. Emma had it. Her thick auburn hair flowed to her shoulders. Her color
was high. Probably the Gibson, which he noted, was a good sign. Suddenly
feeling churlish, he asked after her daughter.

“Rebecca’s fine. She’s made a new
friend at school, her ‘best ever’ she says. She’s going over to the girl’s
apartment right after school and staying the night. It’s her first sleepover
and she’s too excited for words. I’m bereft, of course, but it will be nice not
to have to pick her up after school. I know the family. The girl’s mother is
Fanny Van Stolk, a financial writer at the
Times
. Had a baby a few
months ago and is on maternity leave, though I think she works from home. Becky
can’t wait to play with the baby. Better than a doll. ”

 Emma mentioned the sleepover with
a studied casualness not lost on Scarne, who forgot all about being churlish.

“And how’s your father?”

He always asked after the old
bastard, partly out of politeness and partly because he liked to get a rise out
of her. Smiling sweetly, Emma didn’t take the bait.

“Dad’s fine. In fact, just this
morning he was asking for you. Wanted to know how you were getting along.”

“He must have fallen off his horse
and hit his head.”

 “I’ll ask you to keep a civil tongue
about Dad.” But she laughed when she said it. “Besides, he doesn’t ride,
anymore.” She added wickedly, “horses, anyway.”

Their drinks arrived. Emma quickly
finished the dregs of her first Gibson and clinked her new glass with Scarne.
Both took serious swallows.

“What’s with the rum? Feeling
piratical?”

“A lot of people don’t know it,
but this stuff is as good as the finest bourbon or brandy. Went to a golf
outing with the Teamsters Union out of Newark Airport a few years back and they
had cases of the stuff. I presume it fell off the back of a truck, but it made
for a hell of an after-dinner drink. Got a taste for it now, before, during and
after dinner.”

“Why do I suspect Mr. Mack may
have been involved, although he doesn’t strike me as the golfing type.”

Scarne laughed.

“Dudley ran the thing. He’s a hell
of a golfer, by the way. Funny thing, it’s the only outing I know where
everyone turns in an honest card.”

“Probably because cheaters know
they’d wind up in the Meadowlands.”

Their waiter reappeared and they
ordered.

“Tell me about the deal you just
cut to ‘save the Shields empire,’ as
Business Week
and
Fortune
so
uncharitably put it.”

“Fuck them,” Emma said, leaning forward
so that only he could hear her. “They’re just jealous. Now we’re really going to
clean their clocks. Only
Forbes
got it right, because they’re a family
business as well.”

 Might be the Gibsons, Scarne
thought. But perhaps not. He had leaned not to sell her short, in any respect.
She sat back and resumed a more conversational tone, and for the next ten
minutes explained her coup in clear, concise financial terms. She declined
another Gibson, opting for a glass of the house Sauvignon Blanc. Scarne joined
her. In this house it would be excellent.

The waiter arrived with their
food. After he left, she cut a substantial portion of her squab, speared a
piece of asparagus, and put both in her mouth. Scarne was always amazed by her
appetite. With Emma, lunch was no polite
tête
a
tête
over a small salad. She was likely to order a steak. And
the basket of rolls was not safe either. For all that, she remained pleasantly,
if not Darfur-like, slim. Scarne, who had opted for the charred sea bass, was
debating how to deconstruct the tower of fish, potatoes and greens on his
plate. Alfred Portale, the bistro’s famous chef, was noted not only for the
quality of his food, but also for its presentation. If the stacked entrée in
front of Scarne was any higher, he’d have to call Emma on her cell phone to
continue their conversation.

“Watch your food, Jake. It’s
beginning to tilt.”

Scarne’s tower of fish was indeed
swaying. He tried to right it, but overcompensated. The entire concoction
collapsed in a heap across his plate.

“The hell with it,” he said as he
stuck a fork into the nearest edible portion. “Alfred’s food is as good
horizontal as it is vertical.” Scarne picked up a strange looking vegetable.
“What do you think this is?”

“No idea. Just eat it. Maybe it
was in the chum line.”

They talked respective shops until
they finished eating. Scarne didn’t have to ask about dessert. Emma never
looked at the card the waiter handed them.

“I’ll have the flowerless
chocolate cake,” she said. “And perhaps you can add a little extra scoop of
vanilla ice cream.”

Scarne, who was now on a bit of a
health kick, passed on dessert, and they both ordered coffee. There was a tap
on the window behind Emma. She turned to return a wave from two women who had
been walking by. They were attractive, in that 40-ish, nip-and-tuck Hamptons
way that Scarne always found faintly annoying. Neither could hold a candle to
Emerald Shields, who was un-nipped and un-tucked. The women took long languid
looks at Scarne and crossed the street to the Strip House.

“Recognize the blonde? She drove
her BMW through the front door of that bar in Sag Harbor last summer. Did her
community service in a soup kitchen on the North Fork.”

“They have soup kitchens in the
North Fork?” Scarne made a show of reaching for his cell phone. “I want to call
my broker. This recession is more serious than I thought.”   

Emma laughed.

“Don’t be an ass. She was serving
the migrant workers. Probably the only time she’s been near a kitchen in her
life. Now she wants to start a non-profit to help the disadvantaged.”

Scarne snared a piece of chocolate
cake from Emma’s plate.

“Somebody should start a
non-profit for the poor bastards who are funding their lunches at the Strip
House.”

“Don’t be such a cynic. I know
their husbands. They will never be poor. Now, what have you been up to?”

Scarne knew it was a loaded
question. Like all his friends, Emma had been worried about Scarne’s mental
equilibrium after the Ballantrae affair.

 He told her about the Pearsall
case, leaving nothing out. It didn’t take long, mainly, he realized, because he
was discouragingly short on facts, clues and ideas.

“Jake, that’s terrible. What are
you going to do?”

They were almost finished with
their coffee. There was one piece of cake left. Emerald Shields put it on her
fork and lifted it to her mouth. Jake feigned indifference, but was not
surprised when the fork stopped short of her delectable mouth and moved across
the table and she fed him the cake.

“It’s obvious that I’m going to
have to look into the NASCAR thing. It doesn’t make any sense now, and probably
never did. But it’s the only string I have to pull.”

“Perhaps I can help with that,”
Emma said. “Do you know Aristotle Arachne?”

“The mini-Trump?”

“Oh, God. You’d better never say
that in his presence. He’s very sensitive about The Donald. Anyway, we’ve
become quite good friends.”

“Yes, I know. I read Page Six.”

Scarne’s reference to the
New
York Post
gossip page was made with a casualness that didn’t quite hide
another agenda. Emma Shields did not miss the undercurrent. She smiled.

“Don’t believe everything you
read. Ari is married.”

“Three times, I believe.”

“Who’s counting,” she said.
“Anyway, he’s a regular on the yacht. He advertises with us and we carry his celebrity
reality show on some of our networks.”

“The one where they eat
cockroaches from his hotel rooms?”

“No, you ass. The one where he
hires…oh, why do I bother with you! Stop laughing! Ari might be able to help
you with the NASCAR people. He likes to race Formula 1, like Paul Newman did,
and has contacts in NASCAR. Remember when all the big drivers brought their
cars to Times Square for that photo shoot when the Staten Island project was
announced. I think they stayed at one of his hotels. He’s hosting a charity
thing at the Met Saturday night. Shields took a table. You can be my date.
We’ll probably all go back to Ari’s place afterwards and you can get to know
him.” She paused. “He’s a fascinating man. You’ll like him.”