Chasing the Wind (17 page)

"They will." But she averted her eyes, knowing that was false consolation, given Project Black Diamond.

Luke moved in his chair, and Amalise was surprised to find his serious brown eyes fixed on her. He seemed so alone. She turned to Caroline. "Do you know what country he's from?"

"No. He arrived without any paperwork." She glanced at the child and back at Amalise. "We've no background to go on to help him get used to us. When we took him in, the children's home thought he was from South Vietnam, possibly a rural area. But we've got some Vietnamese neighbors, and he doesn't respond to them either." She shrugged. "Ellis bought home a book with Vietnamese words and pictures. He looked at them, but there was no real response."

Amalise stood, walked over to Luke, and stooped before him, folding her arms on her knees. What had the child endured to cause this withdrawal? She gentled her voice. "Hello, little one. I wish we could unlock your secret. Wish we could let you know that we want to help."

Luke's face remained expressionless, but looking back at her, he blinked. For an instant she imagined that he understood. She stood, looking down at the whorl of fine dark hair on the peak of his head. Her heart ached for the child. But remembering Black Diamond, she backed away. This was dangerous territory, getting too involved with a family living in the project's target area. In a matter of minutes she made her excuses and left.

In the office later that morning, she reviewed the last document from a stack that Raymond had left on her desk, checking for errors, flipping each one onto the growing pile beside her as she finished. These she'd take to the conference room when the meeting began a few minutes from now. She glanced at her watch. Quickly she divided the pile into sections—agreements, forms and certificates, and various checklists, all documenting Murdoch's planned destruction of the Marigny. As she worked, Amalise tucked away unwanted thoughts of Caroline and the children, especially Luke.

Luke, a reminder of the shadow children who still haunted her.

As Amalise finished and stood, Rebecca stuck her head into the office. "Lunch later on?"

Amalise looked up at the woman that Jude loved, and her throat went dry. But she forced a smile and shook her head. "No time today," she said. "The Murdoch transaction's taking off." Hugging the documents to her chest, she walked toward the door. "The closing's set for Thanksgiving Eve, only a couple of weeks away."

"Let me know if Doug thinks he needs any help." Rebecca gave a little wave over her shoulder as she walked off down the hallway.

Amalise knew Rebecca would give almost anything to take her place on Murdoch's transaction. Then Caroline's face rose before her. And Luke's. And she suddenly realized that right now she, too, would give almost anything to trade places with Rebecca.

The conference room was crowded, the
air already heavy with smoke. When Bingham had arrived earlier in the morning to find lawyers and bankers already hard at work, he'd been pleased. But he'd burned through the initial exhilaration within a few hours, and now, with things huffing along, he'd grown bored. Here he sat along with everyone else, slogging through agreements line by line, paragraph by paragraph, page by page. No one could make an argument for minutiae like lawyers and bankers with their endless analysis and the surprising differences they could find between the words and and or.

Bingham sighed, wondering how they'd ever meet the closing date at this rate. Examining his fingernails, he estimated the hourly rate of the lawyers and calculated that it was costing well over a thousand dollars each hour that he sat in this chair. Not counting bankers' fees.

But it wasn't his problem. Lawyers' fees, and expenses like hotel suites and the New Orleans cooking he intended to enjoy, would be paid from the proceeds of loans to Lone Ranger after the closing. So this was Robert's concern, not his.

He dropped his hands and, threading his fingers, slid back in the chair until he was resting on his haunches. He leaned back and spread his elbows out, wishing he had the concession selling paper to these law firms. Then he thought of the magnificent trees in the Northwest forests that were fodder for these agreements and retracted the wish.

His eyes roamed over the room as he turned his thoughts to what he'd come to think of as a more purposeful destruction, Project Black Diamond. Smiling to himself, he marveled at the politicians' rationales for demolition of that piece of the Faubourg Marigny. Black Diamond would triple tourism dollars, add jobs, modernize. Dominick Costa had reported to Tom and Robert that the politicians seemed happy, even ecstatic. Dominick, the contractor he'd brought to the project, was the best at what he did.

Well, the analysis was correct so far as it went, assuming no public protests. Assuming word didn't leak to the long-haired preservationists. Assuming Robert and Tom could keep the lid on talk about plans for the casino a few years down the road so as not to rile the anti-gambling crowd. Assuming the closing occurred soon, before interest rates rose and shut the financing down.

Once again he congratulated himself for getting the jump on things. Timing was everything. Tom's investors, who would hold the convertible notes, had the traders jazzed, couldn't wait to cut up their piece of the action once gambling took hold down here. The hotel was just the beginning for them. Forget the cash-flow skim. With a casino at the end of the yellow brick road, they were talking
real
money.

Bingham smiled, thinking of the look on Tom's face that evening at the beach bar on Cayman when he'd first mentioned the plan. He'd made Tom work for it, though, made him dig out the information piece by piece over the week. He dropped his head back against the chair, thinking of those blue waves rolling in, the warm moist air, the cold margarita in his hand. His lids began to droop.

He snapped to and opened his eyes wide. He'd fall asleep if he wasn't careful. He was used to moving around during the day, stretching himself, using his muscles, working his brain. If it were up to him, he'd just sign a note for the banks. With a glance at his watch he swallowed a sigh. He ran a finger around the ring of his collar, wishing it wasn't necessary to sit in these meetings to get the job done.

Bingham reached for the cup of coffee on the table before him and took a sip, hoping the caffeine would jolt him awake. Step by step, he told himself. Patience.

With new resolve he sat up straight, put down the coffee cup, and squinted, looking down the table. Every seat was occupied by expensive lawyers on the clock. He had to stay sharp, alert, on the ball. Robert Black would do his job all right, but Bingham would keep his eye on all of them. Including Robert.

An hour passed before Doug announced they'd take a break. Except for young Ms. Catoir, who was working alone, the bankers and lawyers dispersed into huddles. Tom and Robert's attorney, Adam Grayson, sat beside him. Adam lit up a cigarette and unrolled Dominick's blueprint, spreading it out across Bingham's end of the long table. Robert and Doug were discussing a provision in the draft of the construction agreement. Bingham looked down the table, watching as Amalise flipped pages, taking notes. Just then she glanced up and caught his eye.

He winked.

She blinked, gave him a confused smile, and returned to her work.

Bingham pulled a pack of Raleigh cigarettes from his shirt pocket, tamped it against the table, and picked one out. Holding it between his fingers, he reached for a lighter, hesitated and stuck it back in, setting the whole pack down on the table. There was enough smoke in this room already. He took a deep breath and choked as thick smoke tunneled down his windpipe.

Coughing, Bingham nudged Adam. A gray stream curled from the ashtray at his elbow. "Get rid of the cigarette," Bingham said.

Bingham saw panic rising in the young man's eyes. He figured it would take maybe a minute for Adam to find an excuse to leave the room. As Adam stubbed out the butt, Bingham glanced at his watch. Yawning, he pushed back his chair, rose, and strolled down to the far end of the table where Amalise sat.

"Sorry about that wink." He lowered his voice as he sat down beside her, looking at the notes she'd been scribbling. "I'm just not used to lawyers wearing lipstick." He nudged his chin toward her notes. "What's all this?"

"I'm double-checking the list of items we need for closing."

"Don't forget to include the money."

"We'll need account numbers and wire transfer numbers."

He watched as she scanned a couple of pages and pointed out the section covering money transfers. Bingham leaned over, studying it. The largest funding would come from Tom's investors in New York—twenty million for the demolition and construction. "Here it is," she said when he asked, pointing to the middle of the page. Something in her voice made him give her a quick look.

Ignoring him, Amalise reached for the Lone Ranger subsidiary's certificate of organization from Grand Cayman. Bingham peered at it.

"Why Lone Ranger?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Because I am, I suppose."

She gave him a sideways look. He smiled.

"Where do you call home?" She ducked her head as she went back to making notes in the margins of the list.

"I have an apartment in Manhattan."

"So why did you choose Marigny for the hotel?"

He smiled. "Isn't that obvious?" He leaned back and crossed his arms. "It's close to the French Quarter. We'll have a nice view of the river." As he spoke, he envisioned the eastern shoreline of the Mississippi River from the wharves at Marigny, moving past the Quarter, crossing Canal Street into the dark warehouse district. "At the other end of the Quarter, there are too many established nuisances to contend with—the ferries, the trade center, the customs house, busier warehouse areas. Each one has its own government regulator." He spread his hands flat on the table before him. "That's expensive. Slows things down."

She nodded.

"It's easier all around to deal with small properties. Anyway, Marigny's a slum."

Amalise raised her eyes to his. "It's not."

"Not what?" The energy of her words surprised him.

"The Marigny is not a slum."

He gave her a hard look.

She arched one brow. "Have you driven through there?"

"Of course." Well, he'd driven around the Marigny once, a year ago when lightning first struck.

She tapped the pencil on the pad, and something in her expression put him on guard. "It's an old neighborhood," she went on. Was he imagining a spark of anger in her voice? "Families have lived there for generations. It's historic."

"Not designated as such."

"No. But it should be." She was doodling on the page now. Nervous? He resolved to keep an eye on her as he watched her sketch a raised square. The square became a house with a steep, shingled roof. "The architecture in Marigny is unique. Some of the cottages are hundreds of years old, but go look at the fresh paint on them. And the gardens, the children playing in the yards. Look at the old-growth trees." A porch appeared across the front of the house as she sketched. Windows across the front. She glanced at him and put down the pencil.

He shook his head. "Charm has its limits."

"People there know their neighbors. They look out for each other. They've been shopping at the same small grocery stores for years, frequenting the same cafes, attending the same churches for generations. Then there are the blues bars and the restaurants. And Washington Square Park."

"The park isn't included in our project," he said. "We're buying the land adjacent for parking. But like I told you, we'll do a little landscaping, separate the two, clean it up some."

She looked at him. "The park will change when the surroundings change, when the people are gone.
People
live in that neighborhood. They're a part of the city's soul."

He looked at her and knew he was looking at trouble. "Souls?" he snorted. "We're talking about real estate, not souls."

Instantly he saw it in her eyes: She knew she'd gone too far. Small muscles contracted at the corners of her mouth, and she turned away. Picking up the pencil, she tore off the page with the sketch and went back to her list. Bingham noted with interest the dark imprint of lead on the paper as she pressed down. Yes, something was troubling Miss Catoir.

With an abrupt but silent laugh, he looked through the windows at the cloudless sky, considering the irony of being lectured by a young associate—an associate who, by the way, was a woman, and a woman charging hundreds of dollars an hour for her time at that.

He crossed his arms, watching her write. "I'm worrying about a multimillion dollar loan, property lines, and dealing with owners who'll jack up their prices if they get even a hint that we're buying for a project." He could almost feel her hackles rising as he spoke. Good. "I'm worrying about dirt and tractors, levee restrictions, politicians, the press," he went on. Not to mention the possibility of populist revolts. He gave her a careful look. "And you're talking about souls?"