The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (66 page)

Leana balked.
 
“Louis, I’ll be frank with you.
 
I’ll go to the opening party, as promised, and I’ll mingle with the crowd as you want me to, but I really doubt I’ll have the time or the concentration to write a speech—let alone the energy to deliver one.
 
My sister is dead.
 
Someone is out to destroy my family.”

“The speech already is written,” Louis said.
 
“Zack Anderson wrote it.
 
It’s brief.
 
It stays on point.
 
People will sympathize with you.
 
It strikes just the right tone.
 
I’ve already approved it.
 
Zack is preparing a final copy for your inspection.”

Leana cringed at the idea of having to deal with her assistant, Zack Anderson.
 
One of her first duties as manager would be to fire him.
 
“And if I don’t like it?” she asked.

“Then make whatever changes you want.
 
You’re the manager of this hotel, Leana.
 
The floor is yours.”

“All right,” Leana said.
 
“I’ll do it.
 
But one other thing.
 
I’m going to need security.
 
Can you provide me with that?
 
There’s no telling who will be in that crowd, or who might slip in.
 
I want to be protected.”

“I’ve already taken care of that,” Louis said.
 
“The building will be covered in surveillance.
 
There will be men and women in evening wear who are there to trail you and protect you.
 
You’ll note guards around the room and at all entrances—and so will everyone else.”
 
He paused.
 
“But beyond that, one of my best men has been assigned to you.
  
He will be with you the entire night.”

*
  
*
  
*

When she left Ryan’s office, she stood beneath a canopy on 47th Street, removed her cell phone from her handbag and punched numbers.

Curtains of rain were billowing down the avenue, lashing the cars and the crowds on the sidewalk, striking the buildings with peppered force.
 
Finally, a man answered. “Mario’s,” the voice said.

“This is Leana Archer,” she said.
 
“I need to speak to Mario.”

“Who is this?”

He didn’t recognize her married name.
 
“Leana Redman,” she said, shouting above the howling wind.
 
“I need to speak to Mario.
 
Is he in?”

“Mario’s out,” the man said.
 
“You missed him.”

“This is important,” Leana said.
 
“Do you know where he went?”

But the man knew nothing.

*
  
*
  
*

As the limousine slowed in front of the brick warehouse, Harold Baines finished injecting the last bit of heroin into the exhausted flesh of his left forearm.
 
He removed the needle from the scarred, swollen vein, and noticed that not one drop of blood leaked to stain his wax-like skin.
 
Although the vein was plump, it was as though it had dried up, becoming nothing more than a purplish cord.

It was pouring, the rain literally beating against the roof of the car.
 
As the drug gradually began turning his world into the illusion in which he found peace, Harold looked through the side window and up at the decrepit warehouse.

Glimmering in the rain, it seemed to beckon to him, this building with its rotting bricks and broken facade.
 
Shining, it seemed to offer him some solace within its crumbling walls.

Along the street, several other limousines were parked, their engines idling.
 
Harold checked his watch, squinted to see the time and reached for the briefcase on the seat beside him.
 
He tapped a knuckle against the tinted glass that separated passenger from driver and the glass receded.
 
“I’ll be a while,” he said.
 
“But I want you to wait.
 
I may leave early.”

The driver nodded.

Bracing himself for the rain, Harold fled the car and began racing across the slick pavement.
 
The water splashed at his feet.
 
It drenched his shoes.
 
By the time he reached the building’s entrance, his clothes were soaked and he was out of breath, the nests of veins at his temples beating as rapidly as the wings of small birds.

The door he now stood before was parted slightly, revealing a darkness that was occasionally interrupted by flashes of blue light.
 
Threading through the music that hammered down to him from the floors above, he could hear what sounded like crowds of people.
 
Harold looked behind him, through the tumultuous rain, aware that Louis Ryan might have had him followed again, but not caring.
 
No harm could befall him now. Harold was invincible.

Inside, his briefcase was accepted by a man in a gorilla suit, who then handed it to a naked woman sheathed in plastic wrap, who then placed it on the floor alongside several other briefcases.
 
A man in leather chaps and nothing else checked the contents and nodded at the gorilla.
 

Harold caught the nod and the woman in plastic wrap motioned to the stairs behind him.
 
“There’s a great crowd,” she said, her voice unnaturally deep. “One of the best I’ve seen.”

Harold climbed the stairs as quickly as he could, wanting to put distance between them.
 
He rarely spoke to anyone at these clubs.
 
He usually just chose to watch, sometimes electing to perform.
 
Although he felt sure some of the members recognized him from cocktail parties on Fifth or Park, it was better to assume they didn’t—and remain one of the anonymous shadows that moved along the darkened walls.

Winded, he reached the main floor.
 
As he stepped through an arched doorway and entered the cavernous room, his very essence breathing in the dim surroundings, he joined the line of people removing their clothes at the clothes check.
 

He listened.
 
Executives from Wall Street were talking about which firms to avoid.
 
Somebody was talking about the bargains available now in real estate.
 
A woman in a Dior suit and thigh-high trucker boots was talking about her recent marriage and saying to a friend that her new husband knew nothing of this.
 
“He has his sports, I have my water sports.”
 
They laughed.

Harold heard it all, but none of it really registered.
 
He was removing his shirt when he spotted the young man.

Tall and dark, his body hardened by what must have been ruthless workouts, the man looked twice at Harold as he strolled past him.
 
Harold caught his gaze, held it for an instant, and thought that he was beautiful.

The man leaned against a metal cage.
 
Dark eyes gleaming, penis stiffening, he looked hard at Harold and enticed him with a half-smile.
 
Watching him now and admiring his physique, Harold became painfully aware of his own body—so thin now, such a vague shadow of his former youth—as his clothes dropped from him like dead skin from an aged snake.
 
He gave his clothes to the clothes check, held out the back of his hand, and the number “258” was promptly written on it in black Magic Marker.

“Now have some fun,” the clothes check said with a smile.
 
And yet for her, it was a smile that reflected desperation and loneliness.
 
It was a smile life and drugs had eaten away.

Harold knew that smile and put his own face to it.
 
He thought fleetingly of Celina then, knew that because of his own cowardice she was dead, and he was struck once again by a wave of self-hatred.

Shoving the thought to the back of his mind, determined not to deal with it because, in reality, it would kill his high, he approached the young man leaning against the metal cage.
 
Music pounded through every pore of his body.
 
The young man’s smile broadened as Harold neared him.

And then Harold was being kissed by him.
 
A tongue ran along the curve of his lips, and slipped between them.
 
He felt a hand grasp his hand and lead it to the hardness between the man’s legs.
 
Harold opened his eyes and saw that the young man’s eyes were closed.
 
He could tell he was caught up in the moment and so he kissed him back.
 
He squeezed the man’s cock harder and was delighted by its size.
 
Wrist thick and uncut.
 
Harold dropped to his knees and put it in his mouth.
 

But it was too big.
 
Harold pressed his hands on the man’s thighs and shook his head.
 
He couldn’t breathe.
 
The man was becoming violent in his thrusts.
 
Harold was frightened and turned on at the same time.
 
He was on the verge of passing out when the man stopped and lifted Harold to his feet.

His face was wet with saliva.
 
The room spun.

“Why don’t we get out of here?” the man said in Harold’s ear.
 
“Why don’t we go to my place, where it’s more private?
 
I have a room filled with toys this place hasn’t even heard of yet.”

*
  
*
  
*

The limousine hurtled through traffic.

As time passed and the city sped by, Harold’s mind became clear.
 
No longer were his senses cushioned by the heroin he injected earlier; no longer was his conscience quieted by the torrent of drugs.

Tomorrow morning, he would be expected to attend his best friend’s daughter’s funeral.
 
Tomorrow afternoon, he would be expected to board a plane that would leave for Iran—a country that, because of him, held no future for Redman International.

How many other funerals would he have to attend in the coming weeks?
 
How many other people would die because he had refused to speak up?

The need struck him then.

He opened the liquor cabinet, removed the black leather satchel and unzipped it, exposing the used syringe, the half-empty vial of heroin.
 
He glanced at the young man seated beside him, looked briefly at that beautiful face and saw a world of promise shining in the liquid blue eyes.
 
What was his name?
 
Derrick?
 

“You want some of this?” he said.
 
“You want—”

The man gripped his arm.
 
“Don’t do it,” he said.
 
“That shit killed a friend of mine.
 
It’ll fuck you up.”

Harold couldn’t help laughing.
 
Did this boy know what he was saying?
 
“I’m already fucked up,” he said.
 
“I’m beyond fucked up.
 
Now, let go of my arm.”

But the man was prying the satchel out of Harold’s hands.
 
He lowered the window beside him and tossed it out.

Horrified, Harold watched it fade into the driving rain.
 
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he shouted, more out of fear than anger.
 
“What’s wrong with you!”