Fifth Avenue

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“You look a little piqued, Harold. Seem a little tense. Want a drink before we begin?”

Harold Baines turned from the window he was standing at and looked across the office at Louis Ryan, who was pouring vodka into a glass of crackling ice. “It’s a full bar,” he said. “I can’t imagine there isn’t something here that wouldn’t appeal to you.”

He put the bottle of vodka down and took a sip of the cold Absolut. “Or maybe beer’s more your style,” he said. “Isn’t that what they serve at those sex clubs you go to? Isn’t beer the choice of drink while someone’s pissing on you or shoving their fist up your ass? If it is, and if that’s what you prefer, then I’m afraid I can offer you none here.”

“Go to hell, Ryan.”

“I’m already there, Harold,” Louis said, and pointed to the chair opposite his desk. “Sit down. What I have to say won’t take long.”

Harold sat. Through the windows before him, he could see The Redman International Building towering amid the Manhattan skyline. He thought of the meeting he had just had with George Redman, of the friendship he had betrayed, and looked away, his guilt and self-hate overwhelming.

He listened as Ryan stepped behind him.

“I want you to tell me everything you know about the takeover of WestTex Incorporated.”

Harold turned in his chair, perhaps too quickly because he became dizzy. It was a moment before he could focus on Louis-and when he did, when the room finally righted itself, he saw that the man was standing beside a large television.

“I want you to start from the beginning,” Louis said. “I want dates, facts, figures. I want to know the terms of the deal, and I want to know everyone’s part in it-that includes yourself, George, Celina, Jack Douglas, the entire board. But most of all, I want you to tell me why Redman is doing it. I want to know why he’s taking over a company whose profits have plummeted since the Middle East went to hell. I want to know why he’s willing to pay twice what WestTex is worth when he knows goddamned well their profits are down-way down-and can’t possibly support the $10 billion he’s willing to pay for it. It must be something good for him to risk everything he’s ever worked for, and I want to know what it is-now-because time is running out.”

The two men stared at each other. Louis tipped back his drink and sipped, a confident man moving in for the kill.

And then Harold stood. He couldn’t do this to George. He couldn’t allow this to go any further than it already had. He walked to the doors that were across the room.

Tried to walk.

His limbs became oddly weak, the muscles in his legs unable to hold him. Another wave of dizziness overcame him, he listed slightly to the right and reached out a hand to steady himself on a Chippendale table.

Tried to reach.

The world blurred and he collapsed to the floor.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Harold closed his eyes, the pressure inside his head building. He tried to shake off a wave of nausea, failed and put a hand over his mouth. He began vomiting through his fingers, vomiting onto his clothes, vomiting onto Louis’ priceless Aubusson rug.

Ryan took a hesitant step forward, not sure what to do. Harold studied his vomit-stained hand as though it were an object that had materialized from another place, another time. The smell reached his nose, his stomach clenched and he doubled over again, making a gagging sound.

And Louis knew.

“You’re addicted to it, aren’t you, Harold?” he said. “You’re addicted to whatever the hell drug you’re on. How long has it been since you had your last fix?”

Harold didn’t hear him. The roaring in his head was too loud. He fished a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and wiped his mouth and hands. His throat was burning, his heartbeat and breathing were erratic. Dazed and disoriented, he pushed himself into a seated position and looked around the room.

For a moment, he didn’t know who or where he was. For a moment, he knew nothing.

But as he sat there, the color gradually returned to his face.

“Pull yourself together,” Louis said, still slightly shaken. He took a step back, wanting to put distance between them. “This isn’t going to work with me.”

Again, Harold looked around the room, recognition reflecting in his eyes only after Louis came into focus. He struggled to his feet, tried to regain his composure, and walked the few steps to a suede-upholstered sofa, where he sat, exhausted.

Time passed. When the man’s breathing returned to normal, Louis said, “Talk.”

Hostility radiated from Harold like summer heat from a city street. “Give me some water.”

“Not until you tell me what you know about WestTex.”

The universe of rage welling within Harold eclipsed whatever nausea he felt. In a controlled voice, he said, “Either you give me a glass of fucking water or I’ll end this now, call the police and tell them what I know.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Louis said. He stepped to the television that was behind him, turned it on and pushed play on a DVD player. The screen flickered to life.

Motionless, Harold sat watching and what he saw was himself. Naked. A young man was kneeling in front of him and sucking his cock. He recognized the scene, remembered the room.

Somehow, he had been taped sleeping with the waiter on Anastassios Fondaras’ yacht. Somehow, he had been taped shooting heroin into his left arm. Somehow, he had been taped hurrying into his clothes after Jack Douglas entered the room and took him by surprise.

“Anastassios is a friend of mine,” Louis said, watching the screen. “Like me, he has an interest in George Redman-only for different reasons. When I told him there was a way to obtain information on the takeover of WestTex Incorporated-not to mention why Redman is doing it-he said he’d gladly help me get that information, so long as it was made available to him. You, Harold, were kind enough to accept that young waiter’s advances and follow him into the stateroom filled with the concealed video equipment. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have had anything tangible to nail you with.”

He clicked off the television.

Harold continued staring at a picture that was no longer there.

Ryan went to the bar, poured water into a tall glass of ice, grabbed a small towel and handed each to the man who had aged thirty years on his sofa.

“Clean yourself up,” he said. “You’ve got vomit on your jacket. And have your drink. When you’re finished, you’re going to tell me everything you know about WestTex, starting from the beginning, or a copy of that DVD goes to your wife, your children, George and Elizabeth, the press. It’ll destroy you.”

He went to his desk, where there was a digital voice recorder. He pointed it toward Harold and pressed record.

“Start talking,” he said. “Now.”

Later that evening, when he was alone, Louis stared into the dark silence of his office. He was numb. If what Harold Baines had just told him was true, Redman’s plan was nothing short of brilliant.

If he took over WestTex under these circumstances, the man’s power would soar. If he took over WestTex under different circumstances, the man’s power could plummet.

That is, of course, if what Harold Baines just told him was true.

He left his chair and went to the bank of windows to the right of him. He looked hard at the Redman International Building and felt the familiar coil of hatred unwind in his stomach. As much as he wanted to believe Baines, he knew he couldn’t. The man was George Redman’s best friend.

He needed someone who could get the information verified, someone who worked at Redman International and wanted to see Redman burn every bit as much as he did. But who? He stood in thought, his mind whirling with possibilities.

And then he knew exactly who could get the information he needed.