Fifth Avenue

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Fragrant ribbons of steam curled from the silver coffeepot and lifted into the stale, smoky air. Lucia De Cicco crossed her legs and looked with annoyance at the uniformed maid as she bent over the table and poured the hot liquid into two porcelain cups.

She wanted to be alone with Mario’s father. She wanted to speak to him in private. She willed this woman to go away.

“Will there be anything else, Mr. De Cicco?”

Antonio De Cicco gave the young lady such a surprisingly suggestive smile, that Lucia immediately became suspicious of their relationship.

“No, Gloria,” he said. “That’s all for now.”

The woman left the room.

De Cicco leaned forward in his seat, chose one of the cups from the silver coffee service and lifted it to his lips. They were in the library of his Todt Hill mansion and the smoke from his ever-present cigar was beginning to make Lucia’s eyes burn.

She looked at the man seated before her. He was amazing, really. Dressed immaculately in a gray suit, his face tanned from hours in the sun, the man was pushing seventy years old-and yet he looked fifty.

Ashamed of his meager beginnings in Sicily-and as vain as any person could be-Antonio De Cicco worked hard to look as professional and as educated as any man hustling on Wall Street. In repose, the illusion worked. But when he spoke, his fifth-grade education became embarrassingly apparent.

“You gonna have coffee?” he asked.

Lucia shook her head. She toyed with the diamond brooch fastened to the lapel of her white jacket and said, “We have to talk.”

“I gathered that the other night when you called and said we needed to talk.”

His humor was not lost on her. She smiled even though she was tense.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t have talked then, but things have been pretty busy around here,” he said. “So, what’s the problem?”

Lucia gauged her words carefully. “It’s Mario,” she said. “He’s sleeping with Leana Redman again. I’m sure of it.”

De Cicco studied her. “Lucia,” he said. “Lucia, where do you get these crazy ideas? Mario’s no fool. He knows I’d kill the broad if he ever pulled that shit. We already talked.”

“I don’t care what he knows,” she said. “It’s the truth. When I called you Friday night, he’d just left to meet her at one of his damned shelters. He admitted it to me, Uncle Tony. He said that if I told you, if any harm came to him or Leana, he’d make me regret it for the rest of my life.”

“Mario said this?”

Lucia nodded. “He frightened me.”

“You got any proof he’s fuckin’ her?”

“No. But I know he is. She calls all the time and he hasn’t touched me in months. I go to bed alone and wake to find him in the guest bedroom. I’m fighting for my marriage and he seems determined to end it. Can you do something?”

De Cicco drew on his cigar. He’d known this woman since she was a child. He loved her as if she were his own daughter. There was a threat against her life and yet she had left the safety of her home and come here to ask him for his help. Although he wasn’t entirely convinced Mario was sleeping with Leana-hadn’t the woman just married Michael Archer? — he would at least consider Lucia’s request.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

Lucia’s eyes darkened. “I want you to kill her,” she said evenly. “I want you to kill her so Mario and I can start over.”

De Cicco didn’t blink. “And how would you want this done?”

“That I’ll leave up to you,” she said. “But I do know this-on Tuesday night, she’ll be at the grand opening of The Hotel Fifth. I’ve been following the story in the Daily News, and she’s almost sure to make a speech. She’s the manager of the hotel.”

De Cicco watched her intently.

“The world will be there,” she said.

“So will a world of security.”

“You can handle security. It’ll be one of her proudest moments.” She knew that would get him. “Perhaps then…?”

The woman who strolled down 12th Street certainly looked like a mother.

Dressed casually in faded jeans and an oversized plaid shirt, her dark hair pulled away from an angular face, she pushed the pink carriage down the sidewalk and cooed to a baby that was non-existent. As she strolled, she carefully avoiding the bumps in the cement-knowing that any sudden, jarring movement could cause herself-and the area surrounding her-to explode into nothingness.

The rain had stopped and she was thankful for that. Spocatti didn’t give her an alternative plan of action. If the sky hadn’t cleared, she wasn’t sure how she would have executed this plan-and yet that was not entirely true. She was a highly trained operational agent and had complete confidence in that training. She would have found a way. Spocatti knew it.

She moved against the breeze, ducking beneath the sun-dappled trees. Her mind was sharp and focused. Her eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.

She could see them across the street, standing outside the attractive brownstone, guarding its entrance with their oversized bodies. There were two of them, just as she knew there would be, and both were young, handsome, their guns shielded by long, black raincoats.

They were idiots. They could not harm her. She would crush them.

Ahead was his car.

Parked at the curbside, the black Taurus seemed to call out to her, shining in the late-morning sun. The limousine idling beside it was an unexpected surprise that she welcomed. Its presence would help block their view when she ducked beside Mario’s car, which now was less than twenty yards away.

As she neared it, the men on the steps glanced at one another, said something she couldn’t hear and started watching. Cooing, humming softly to the explosives hidden in the carriage, she looked down the street and saw an elderly couple sitting on a bench at the end of it. Besides herself, these men and the limousine’s chauffeur, they were the only other people in sight.

She pushed forward-aware that the men had moved down the steps and were now watching her. Timing was everything.

As she approached the car, she reached into the carriage as if to adjust a blanket or a bottle, but instead tossed out one of the four stuffed animals that encompassed the pink satin interior, making it look as though a child had done it. The stuffed elephant hit the curb, bounced and rolled to a stop beside the Taurus’ rear right wheel.

The woman stopped and looked crossly into the carriage. “Jillian,” she said, her voice carrying across the street. “That’s twice. If you keep throwing your toys out of the carriage, they’re going to get ruined. Behave or we’re going home.”

One of the men laughed. The woman looked past the Taurus, over the limousine’s shiny black roof and smiled at him. She was beautiful when she smiled.

“My kid is going to wear me out,” she said.

The man mistook that as an invitation. He started across the street, leaving his friend at the base of the stairs. “I love ‘em,” he said. “How old is she?”

Her gun was within reaching distance, hidden beneath the mattress. As with every job she took, she came prepared to die. If she had to, she would fight him to the death-confident that if she lost, her own child, far away from here, would inherit the money Spocatti already had secured for her in a Swiss account.

“Eighteen months,” she said, her smile unwavering. “And it looks as though she’s got her father’s strength.” The man passed the limo and her hand went easily for the gun. If he came much closer, he would see there was no baby in the carriage.

His friend stepped onto the street. He raised his hands and his raincoat parted, exposing the gun nestled closely to his chest.

“Yo!” he said. “Come on, man. What the fuck you doin’? Get your ass over here and leave the lady alone. Mario will be pissed if he catches you over there.”

The man stopped and looked hard at his friend.

“You know Mrs. De Cicco’s gonna be home soon,” his friend said. “You know she’s paranoid about security. She’ll bust your nuts if she sees you talkin’ to that broad. Do yourself a favor and get the hell back over here.”

She could feel the man weighing his decision-lose face and rejoin his friend, or say to hell with it and sneak a look at the kid. Their eyes met. And he shrugged.

“Sorry,” he said. “Maybe some other time, okay?”

When she smiled at him, her smile was lit from within.

As he turned his back to her, she released the gun and gripped the small, magnetized black box from beneath the pink blanket.

It was over in a matter of seconds.

She bent to pick up the elephant, attached the box to the Taurus’ gas tank and flipped the switch that activated it. When De Cicco started the car, the sudden vibration would trigger the explosives.

She stood and looked directly at the men. The elephant had landed in a puddle and was now swollen with dirty water. She held it up for them to see. “Can you believe this?” she called. “I bought it for her yesterday afternoon and now it’s ruined. Kids!”

In his study, Mario stood at the large casement window facing 12th Street, noted a woman moving down the street with a carriage and continued listening to Harold Baines, who was sitting behind him, his words coming in a rush.

Nothing Baines said was a surprise.

He knew that Louis Ryan was somehow behind what was happening to the Redman family. He knew it the moment Leana told him Ryan offered her a job thanks to Harold’s help.

Earlier that morning, Mario learned that World Enterprises was the foreign subsidiary of Manhattan Enterprises. Earlier, he learned that thin scribble was actually Louis Ryan’s name on that $90 million check made out to Eric Parker. The only thing Mario questioned was Ryan’s intent. Why did he want to destroy George Redman and his family? What happened between the two men to spark such rage?

And then Baines told him.

Years ago, George took Louis to court and sued him over a bitter property dispute. Louis won-only to see his wife die two days later under suspicious circumstances. Ryan believed it was Redman who killed his wife, Anne. It was possible, Harold said, that Louis had waited all these years to get his own revenge so George would not suspect him.

Mario turned from the window and faced Baines. Although the man was pale, his body frightfully thin beneath his loose-fitting suit, he seemed somewhat relaxed, as if sharing the truth of what he knew was lifting a weight from him.

“Did George kill Louis’ wife?”

“No,” Harold said firmly. “George would never have killed Anne.”

Mario cocked an eyebrow at him. “Why do you say it like that?” he asked. “Did she mean something to him?”

Harold said he wasn’t sure. “For years, I’ve wondered the same thing, but I never knew Anne. George mentioned her in the past, but he’s never elaborated on their relationship.”

Legs unsteady, he stood. “Look,” he said. “I’m tired and I’ve told you everything I know. I assume you’ll see to it that Ryan pays for what he’s done? That you’ll protect Leana and her parents?”

Mario nodded. By the end of the day, Louis Ryan would be dead. “You have my word,” he said.

Satisfied, Harold moved to the door-but then he stopped and turned. “One thing still troubles me,” he said. “For years I did my best to hide who I am. I thought no one ever would find out-and yet you did this morning. How did you know?”

“You sure you want to know?”

“No,” Harold said. “But tell me, anyway.”

“Leana told me two years ago,” he said. “Somebody photographed you at a club, gave Leana a call and approached her with the negatives. She sold a piece of jewelry, met the son of a bitch at a diner and paid a million bucks for them. I later had him quieted. We burned the negatives together. Leana got her money back, Harold. Because of her, you got to keep your secret.”

Harold was barely breathing.

“She’s known for years, Harold. And she’s never stopped loving you. I want you to think about that. That’s how special she is.”

“I know how special she is.”

There was a knock at the door. Startled, Harold stepped away from it just as Joseph Stewart, the Family’s consigliere, walked through. “Got some real interesting news for you, Mario,” he said. “It’s about Leana.” He glanced sideways at Harold. “Mind if he listens?”

Mario said that he didn’t.

Stewart continued. “I’ve done some digging and I’ve learned quite a bit about Leana’s new husband. Seems Michael Archer’s just his pen name. His real name is Michael Ryan, and his father’s name is Louis.”

And there it was.

Mario's mind spun into motion. The blood drained from Harold’s face. “We’re going to have to move fast,” Stewart said. “There’s no telling what he has planned for her.”

“Anyone else know about this?” Mario asked.

“No,” Stewart said. “Just us.”

Mario left his office and moved quickly down the long hallway. His face was leaden and set. He hesitated only briefly when he saw Lucia standing in the entryway, closing the door behind her with a firmness that suggested irritation. “Whose limo is parked out front?” she called to no one in particular. “It’s blocking the street.”

She hadn’t seen him yet and Mario didn’t answer. He had no time for his wife or for her questions. If there was another exit near him, he would have grabbed Stewart and taken off.

The carpet ended and their shoes now clicked on parquet as they entered the foyer. Lucia turned from the mirror she was standing at and she looked at him, her lips parting when she saw the cold determination in his eyes.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

Mario shoved a finger at her. “Stay out of this.”

She took a step forward, blocked his path. “You don’t intimidate me,” she said. “Something’s wrong. Tell me where you’re going.”

There was a moment of complete silence, a moment when neither moved nor even blinked…and then Harold Baines was stepping past them.

Lucia looked at the man, her eyes widening as she recognized him. When it was announced that Leana Redman would be managing Louis Ryan’s new hotel, the Daily News ran several pictures of her. In one of those pictures, her arm was around this man’s shoulders.

She looked at Mario, her eyes like a light turned to his face. “It’s Leana again, isn’t it?” she said.

He walked past her. “We’ll talk later,” he said. “Not now.”

He moved down the narrow brick steps, squinting in the harsh sunlight. He noticed that Harold Baines was gone. His limousine turned at the end of the street and sped onto Fifth. Reaching into his pants pocket, Mario removed his car keys and tossed them to Stewart, who was waiting on the sidewalk, looking behind Mario, toward the open door.

Lucia was standing there. “I’ve been with your father, Mario.” Her voice was low and even and carried across the street. “He knows everything.”

Mario’s pace slowed.

“I told him you’re fucking her,” she said. “He said he’d kill her if you don’t stop.”

Mario looked at Stewart and saw the cool neutrality on his face. “Start the car, Joe,” he said. “I’ll be a minute.”

Lucia came down the stairs. “No, you won’t, Mario,” she said. “Because neither of you is going anywhere. If Joe gets into that car, I’ll see to it that he winds up in the Hudson. That’s a promise. Now, come back inside.”

Stewart’s mouth tightened into a splinter of hate. He looked at Mario.

“You work for me now, Joe,” Mario said. “Start the car.”

Relishing the moment because he never liked this Lucia bitch, Stewart crossed the street, opened the Taurus’ heavy black door and stepped inside.

And then Lucia was suddenly running toward him, sprinting across the street, plunging her hands through the open car window, grabbing hold of his arm with a fierceness that was surprising in its strength. Her long red fingernails dug into his flesh.

“Get out of the car!” she screamed. “Get out of fucking car or I’ll kill you myself!”

Stewart jerked his arm free, the fabric of his gray blazer tearing. He looked across the street at Mario, who was running a hand through his hair. “Let it go, Lucia,” Stewart said. “It’s over.”

He stuck the key into the ignition.

Lucia slapped his face. She clawed at it and drew blood. He tried to push her off and heard Mario shout her name.

And then he started the car.

The explosion catapulted the Taurus twenty feet into the air, blowing off its doors and tires and fenders, causing it to flip in a violent somersault and destroy everything in its fiery path before it landed beside Mario, whose chest had been struck by the flying debris.

At the subway terminal on West 4th Street, Harold waited for his limousine to fade from sight before he joined the crush of people hurrying down the terminal’s seemingly endless steps.

He tried to keep up with them, clutching the handrail for support, but he nearly fell when a group of teenagers darted past him. It was difficult and it was exhausting, but it would be worth it.

By the time he reached the lower level, he was winded and perspiring, his heart beating dangerously fast. The train hadn’t arrived. Groups of people were either leaning against the tiled columns or waiting impatiently along the cement precipice. It was insufferably hot. The air was unmoving. He hadn’t taken the subway in years. He’d forgotten how ruthless it was in the summer.

He found an opening in the crowd, moved toward it and looked down at the grimy track. His stomach clenched when he saw a rat. Its tail flicking nervously, its ears quivering, the rat was eating the remains of a what appeared to be another rat.

Harold looked away. He wouldn’t miss this city. He wouldn’t miss this filth.

He closed his eyes and thought of Leana. She had known. All these years and she had known, her love for him never faltering. The idea that she had seen photographs of him made him want to cry in humiliation. How many times had she seen him and thought of those pictures? How many times had she held him and felt pity?

There was a sudden stir in the humid air. The cement floor vibrated and the people leaning against the columns became alert and moved forward.

Harold glanced down at the track and watched the rat disappear beneath a wooden tie, its grayish tail slipping from sight.

He thought of Louis Ryan then and wondered what would happen to the man once Mario De Cicco got hold of him. I hope he cuts his throat, Harold thought. I hope he rips out his heart, crushes it in his hands…

He trusted De Cicco in a way that surprised him.

Harold knew the Redmans would be safe in De Cicco’s hands. He knew that Mario would protect them in a way that he hadn’t. A part of him almost wished he would be here to witness tomorrow morning’s headlines.

There was a rush of wind as the train charged into the tunnel. Looming into view, it bore down hard on the crowd.

Harold watched the train storm toward him and welcomed its presence with a certain bitterness. Three days ago he had tested positive for HIV. His heroin and cocaine addiction was out of control. He knew that even if Ryan died, the tape the man blackmailed him with would somehow resurface and fall into the hands of the press, thus embarrassing himself even further while destroying his family.

It was better this way. There was nothing left for him in this world.

The train was close.

He thought of Helen and his children, but mostly he thought of Leana. He loved her. He would miss her most. In his will, he had left her half of everything.

Just as the train was about to pass him, he welcomed its presence and jumped.

And in that moment before the train struck, Harold heard the stunned, primal cries of a society that had refused to let him be himself-a group of hypocrites taking a collective breath and then letting loose one monstrous scream. The bastards wanted him to live!

Furious, Harold wanted to scream at them, tell them what an outrage it was that he had to live a life of lies, that he had never been given the chance they took for granted-that chance to be who he was without ridicule or fear, without pain or humiliation.

But when the train struck and rolled over him, severing him, his voice was crushed, silenced like so many before him, becoming nothing more than a wet, clotted gasp as his body was sliced into quarters.