I'll Keep You Safe

Chapter Twenty-Nine

It was the first time either of us had been in New York. At the time it felt like the most extraordinary adventure. And of course it was.

It came in the aftermath of that first Lee Blunt collection which rocketed the name of Ranish Tweed to international stardom. It was a name on the lips of fashionistas everywhere, and we were having to pick and choose which orders to accept, because it would have been impossible to fulfil them all.

It was dizzying. There we were, tucked away in an old croft house on the Isle of Lewis, with half a dozen weavers in tin sheds churning out cloth to our own designs, and people in America and Japan, Australia and Europe were clamouring for the stuff.

Ranish had become famous overnight. Magazines like Vogue and Elle and Cosmopolitan were featuring clothes in our tweed. Models we had only read about or seen on TV, or on the covers of Harper’s Bazaar and Vanity Fair, were wearing it on the catwalks of Paris and Milan and New York. Kate Moss, Naomi Campbell, Linda Evangelista.

And to us it all seemed that it was happening to other people somewhere else. Until we got the call from an assistant to the buyer in the tailoring department of Gold’s of 5th Avenue. This was one of the most prestigious tailors in the world. They dressed presidents and movie stars, pop idols and royalty.

The way it worked was clients would get measured up by Gold’s in New York, choose their material and style of suit, then the cloth would be sent off to Yves Saint Laurent, or Armani, or whoever, to have it cut. The suits might cross the Atlantic umpteen times during the course of several fittings, and then the finishing would be done by Gold’s themselves. Their customers paid thousands, sometimes tens of thousands.

And Gold’s wanted to introduce an exclusive line of Ranish Tweed as an option to offer clients. Designer suits in the hottest new tweed on the market. They wanted to fly us to New York, the assistant told us. They wanted us to bring samples and designs, and meet with the head of the tailoring department, Jacob Steiner, to discuss exactly what was going to suit Gold’s needs. They would, she said, reserve us first-class seats on Virgin Atlantic and put us up at the Waldorf Astoria.

I can remember dancing around the room after taking that call, and having trouble finding my breath to tell Ruairidh. The Waldorf Astoria! I had only ever seen or heard about the legendary New York hotel in the movies. And someone was going to pay for us to stay there! And flying first class to New York? Something you could only dream about. Who could afford that? Certainly not us. It seemed no time at all since we had taken the bus down to Lee’s show at London Fashion Week and stayed in the cheapest hotel we could find.

How could this be happening to me and Ruairidh?

But it was, and it did. We arrived in New York on a steamy hot summer’s day in July to be met at the airport by Mr Steiner himself. Immaculately suited, wearing the whitest shirt I had ever seen, and the most delicious plum-red tie, he was the personification of charm. Not a greasy or sleazy or manufactured kind of charm, but a real charisma that genuinely reflected the man himself.

I suppose he must have been in his early sixties at that time. He reeked of expensive aftershave and Cuban cigars (I only found out later they were Cuban when he confessed to having his own illicit supply line from the Caribbean island in contravention of the US ban).

‘Guys,’ he said, and shook both our hands warmly, ‘I cannot tell you what a great pleasure it is to meet you at last. I was blown away by Ranish Tweed the first time I saw it. But when I felt it, actually ran it through my fingers...’ He seemed to run out of words to express his feelings. ‘I can only say there have been very few times in my life that I have genuinely felt I was touching the future. That’s how it was for me when I first handled Ranish Tweed.’

An assistant collected our luggage from the carousel, and Mr Steiner led us out to a waiting stretch limo. He slid into the back and sat opposite us.

‘I want us to have a relationship that is going to make our suits in Ranish Tweed the most expensive and exclusive in the world. Which means we gotta be friends. We need to understand each other, to have a feeling for what each of us is about. That’s why you’re here. I want to get to know you guys, and for you to know what it is that makes me tick.’ He opened a small refrigerator and tossed ice cubes into three glasses, before filling them with whisky and topping them off with a splash of soda. ‘Glenturret,’ he said, handing us our glasses. ‘Oldest distillery in Scotland, I’m told. So it should be good.’ He raised his glass. ‘To Ranish.’

We echoed his toast and sipped from our foaming glasses. I had never tasted whisky and soda before, and was surprised at how good it was. It was to be the first of many.

‘Sit back and enjoy, meine Kinder. First we get to know each other. Then we do business.’

The Waldorf Astoria exceeded all my expectations. The white stone building in Park Avenue seemed to drip gold, a constant procession of limousines and taxis drawing up beneath its extravagant canopy, an enormous Stars and Stripes furling and unfurling in the slow-motion movement of hot air. After the cool brisk summer winds of Lewis, New York City seemed burdened by the weight of its own heat and humidity.

We hurried from the air-conditioned bubble of our stretch limo, through the hot, wet, slap-in-the-face air on the sidewalk, and into the almost chilly atmosphere of the hotel itself. Up steps and into a vast marbled area of lobby and lounge. Our room was huge, but to my mind gently disappointing. It had all the trappings of grandeur. Heavily embroidered curtains, a gold-braided bedspread, antique furniture. And yet there was something tired about it all, careworn. Rotting wooden window frames, tashed wallpaper and worn carpets. But nothing could take the gloss off our excitement.

We were in our room only for as long as it took to deposit our luggage and slip the bellboy an extravagant tip, and then it was off again in the limo to Central Park, where Mr Steiner had arranged a horse-and-carriage tour.

‘You wanna get to know me?’ he said. ‘First you gotta get to know my city.’

For the second time in my life I felt like royalty. This time in the kind of open horse-drawn carriage I had seen convey the Queen and visiting heads of government along the Mall on State occasions. Steel-rimmed wagon wheels clattered over the metalled surface of roads that wound through this extraordinary rectangle of greenery in the heart of urban Manhattan. There was something timeless in the clip-clop of our horse’s hooves, and startling in the red-trimmed livery set against the shining chestnut of its flanks.

Mr Steiner told our driver that his spiel was not needed, and he gave us his own running commentary as we rounded the Pond and passed the Wollman Rink, which in winter, he said, would be alive with skaters in scarves and hats, wrapped against a cold which was unimaginable in this heat. Past the carousel and the children’s zoo. Skirting the literary walk, the sun slanting off all the angles of Shakespeare’s bronze. The Angel of the Waters Fountain, Cherry Hill and then, most poignantly, Strawberry Fields. This quiet area of the park dedicated to the memory of John Lennon, fresh flowers laid with love on the black and white circle of stone marquetry with the legend, Imagine, at its heart.

Only two-and-a-half miles long and half a mile wide, wherever you were in the park you could almost always see the skyscrapers pressing in all around its perimeter. And now, here we were, right opposite the distinctive Dakota Building where Lennon had been shot by a deranged fan. I was, I think, only four years old when it happened, but my dad had been a big Beatles fan, and we had watched all the VHS videos of The Beatles’ movies. A Hard Day’s Night, Help!, Yellow Submarine. I knew every song, and had treasured the twinkling-eyed John Lennon like some kind of big brother. I cried when I heard he was dead.

Mr Steiner took us then to Gold’s on Fifth Avenue, in Midtown. I’d had no real sense of what exactly to expect of Gold’s, and found all my preconceptions swept away by the discovery that it was actually a luxury department store. Its various departments occupied seven floors, with galleries that ran around a central well at the heart of the building.

The tailoring department was on the fifth floor, and staff had been expecting us. They lined up inside the door to shake our hands, each one meeting our eyes with such warmth that I have rarely been made to feel so welcome. Mr Steiner took us on a whistle-stop tour of the facilities. ‘We’ll come back tomorrow for the real work,’ he said. ‘But right now we gotta hurry. I’ve got us tickets to a dance musical at the Marquis Theatre on Broadway.’

Neither Ruairidh nor I were affected by the heat or the jet lag. Such was the adrenalin rush of our first day in New York, that we could have stayed up all night. And now we were going to a show on Broadway! I felt like I had just stepped into my own private movie.

The show was called Come Fly Away, an exuberant production starring people I had never heard of. Keith Roberts, John Selya, Ashley Tuttle. The story followed four couples as they searched for love. Amazingly, it was built around a selection of Frank Sinatra songs featuring his actual voice backed live by an orchestra of eighteen instrumentalists. Mr Steiner had reserved us the best seats in the house. Neither of us was a big Sinatra fan, nor particularly interested in dance, and we would never have bought tickets for a show like this, but I was totally spellbound by the spectacle. And when I glanced at Ruairidh I saw that he was, too.

Afterwards, Mr Steiner took us backstage to introduce us to the perspiring performers, radiant and animated, breathless among the flowers that bedecked their dressing rooms after another successful show. They all seemed to know him, and greeted us as if we, too, were stars.

As first days in New York go, this one must have been up there among the best. And it wasn’t finished yet.

After the show it was on to dinner. Torrisi’s was a little Italian restaurant in Mulberry Street at the top of Little Italy. As we got out of the limo Mr Steiner said, ‘This city is full of great and expensive restaurants. But Torrisi’s? For good Italian-American food you can’t beat it. Hard to believe, but it’s a sandwich shop during the day. They do great chicken parm, or turkey hero, and they got some cool beers. Then at night, it transforms itself into this classy little restaurant. Twenty seats. Fixed price. Impossible to reserve a table. You just gotta turn up and hope.’ He grinned. ‘Except that I reserved us a table.’

Inside, booths and tables were set around a red-painted brick wall, with more plain wooden tables and tubular chairs pushed into the centre of the floor. A black-and-white portrait of a young Billy Joel clutching a pair of boxing gloves jostled for wall space with shelves laden with cans of peeled tomatoes and bottles of Manhattan Special espresso soda.

We had just squeezed into our seats beneath Billy Joel, when a voice called a loud greeting from across the room. ‘Hey Jake!’ Mr Steiner turned and looked towards a booth at the far side. Four men wearing expensive haircuts above tanned faces and designer suits that folded neatly over Gucci shoes sat around a table eating pasta and drinking champagne. Amazingly, even though it was dark by now, two of them wore sunglasses and looked like extras from The Godfather.

Mr Steiner excused himself and stood up to hurry over and shake their hands. He almost bowed as the one to whom all the others deferred stood up to shake his hand and slap his shoulder. He was an older man, dyed hair receding, belly expanding into his waistcoat. But no shades. After a few words, Mr Steiner turned and waved us over. It was only as we got nearer that I saw that all their suits were cut from one of the darker and more conservative weaves of Ranish Tweed. Mr Steiner said, ‘Mr Capaldi, meet Niamh and Ruairidh. These are the good folks that made the cloth you’re wearing. In fact, as I understand it, Ruairidh himself might well have woven the very stuff you got on your back.’

Capaldi shook our hands vigorously. ‘Well that just doubles the pleasure in meeting you,’ he said. He felt the cloth at the cuff of his jacket between thumb and forefinger. ‘This is just the most amazing material I’ve ever worn. Like silk with balls. It’s got class. When we was ordering our suits, Jake here suggested we try it. And hey...’ He spread his arms wide. ‘Look at me now. Best-dressed man in New York City. This calls for more champagne.’ He waved a hand in the air, and somehow, as if by magic, fresh chairs appeared and we found ourselves wedged in around their table.

Glasses foamed, and we drank toasts. To Ranish. To Scotland. To Jake Steiner. ‘One day I gotta get to Scotland,’ Capaldi said. ‘But I hear the weather ain’t so good.’

I said, ‘Well, if you ever got too hot, which is most unlikely, you could always cool yourself down with some Capaldi’s ice cream.’

There was a strange and immediate silence around the table. Mr Steiner looked uncomfortable, and Ruairidh jumped in quickly to explain. ‘You’ve heard of the Scottish actor Peter Capaldi?’

‘Sure,’ Capaldi said uncertainly.

‘Well his grandfather came from Italy. Bought a ticket to New York but somehow ended up in Glasgow, where he set up an ice-cream company.’

I held my breath, feeling that in some way I had managed to put my foot in it. Then to my relief Capaldi burst out laughing. ‘Made a big mistake then, didn’t he? Should have come to New York as he planned. Then maybe he woulda ended up wearing a jacket like this instead of peddling the cold stuff like some back-street nobody.’ And he tugged at his lapel.

‘There’s a big Italian community in Scotland,’ I said, but it was clear that Capaldi had already lost interest.

‘Is that so?’

Mr Steiner got to his feet, all smiles. ‘Well, we should leave you good folk to it.’ And he shook Capaldi’s hand. ‘It was a pleasure to see you again, Tony, as always.’

We thanked him for the champagne and retreated with Mr Steiner to our table, where a waiter immediately delivered warm mozzarella on garlic toast, sprinkled with salt and drizzled with olive oil beneath a garnish of sun-dried tomato. Mr Steiner ordered red wine, and when the waiter had gone he leaned confidentially into the table, lowering his voice. ‘You know who that is?’ he said, tipping his head discreetly in the direction of the Capaldi table. That’s Antonio Capaldi. Otherwise known as Tony C. Just about the most notorious mafia crime boss in New York City.’ He pulled a little smile. ‘We make suits for all sorts at Gold’s.’

‘He seemed nice,’ I said.

‘Yeah.’ Mr Steiner raised one eyebrow. ‘Nice.’

We had only just finished our pasta dish when a rammy at the door drew our eyes from our plates. Two men who had just been told that the restaurant was full pushed the maître d’ aside and split up as they weaved among the tables towards Capaldi’s booth. I suddenly realized what it was about them that seemed so out of place. They were wearing coats. In this heat.

The men at Capaldi’s table started to get up as they arrived. But as if by magic, handguns, barrels extended by silencers, appeared from beneath the coats. A flurry of strangely muted shots left all four men at Capaldi’s table blood-spattered and dead. Their assassins turned and walked out of the door as if nothing had happened.

Chaos broke out as soon as the shots were fired, tables overturned, diners diving for cover on the floor. Screams filled the air, even as the killers disappeared out into the night.

Me and Ruairidh and Mr Steiner were left stunned in our booth, food half-eaten on the table. One glass of red wine overturned and dripping on to the floor like blood.

At first I could barely process what it was I had just witnessed. Like a scene from a movie. Lurid and unreal. As if I half expected the director to call, ‘Cut, let’s go again,’ with everyone dusting themselves down and retaking their places. But as the truth of it dawned on me, I began to understand that had these assassins arrived just ten minutes earlier, we would have been sitting at that table with Capaldi and his associates, and would almost certainly have been shot too, lying dead on the floor or spreadeagled across the table.

Screams still filled the restaurant, and somewhere far off in the night I could hear a police siren. I glanced at Mr Steiner. His face was pale but his eyes were shining. ‘You realize,’ he said in a small voice, ‘that the biggest mafia boss in New York has just been shot dead wearing Ranish Tweed.’ He pushed his eyebrows up to wrinkle his forehead. ‘That’s a rare distinction.’