Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) (11 page)

She hung up the phone.

“That last part was lie,” she said to Spocatti.
 
“I barely have one drink.
 
But it’ll get him here faster.
 
He
hates
it when I get
sloppy.
 
But when he take me to
parties like this and leaves me alone because he’s embarrassed to be with me,
guess what Epifania does?
 
That’s
right—Epifania drink martinis.
 
Lots of them.
 
God, I’m
bored.
 
I’m so fuckin’ bored.
 
I can’t wait to divorce that prick.”

You won’t have to
, Spocatti thought.

“Just last week, he had no choice but to take me to Spinny
Ogtag’s birthday party for Addy Miller.
 
My name was on the invitation list, which never happen, so Chuckie
couldn’t get out of it.”
 
She took a
sip of her drink.
 
“Spinny good
guy.
 
I think he likes me because
he’s gay and game for whatever I bring to the table, which is plenty if I’m in
one of my moods.
 
He call me the
loose cannon of Park Avenue, the only one who don’t shoot blanks.
 
How about that?
 
Epifania a loose cannon
and
she
live on Park.
 
Epifania fuckin’ made
it.”

“We all leave our marks.”

“I left mine on a rug and on some pricey sheets.
 
Here come Chuckie now.
 
God, he ugly.
 
Limp dick, too.”
 
She noticeably downed her drink and took
an awkward step backwards, as if her legs were unsteady due to too much
alcohol.
 
She winked at
Spocatti.
 
“That’ll get him.”

“Epifania,” Stout said as he came through the crowd and
placed his hand on her back.
 
“I’m
sorry, darling.
 
People tend to
sweep me away at events such as these.”
 
He kissed her near her diamond choker, which he likely gave to her and
which Spocatti thought was a clever move on his part.
 
The undercurrent was clear:
 
Remember the necklace, my dear.
 
And everything else you have because of
me.
 
So, cut the bullshit.
 
Now.

He looked at Spocatti and held out his hand, which Spocatti
shook.

“That Antonio Benedetti,” Epifania said.
 
“He want talk business.
 
He heard you great consultant or
something.
 
I offered to hook you up
so, you know, if anyone make money, Epifania get part of the deal.”

Stout laughed lightly and pulled her in close to him.
 
“I’d love to talk, but I’m afraid that
would be impossible here.”
 
He
grimaced and shook his head.
  
“The music, the noise.
 
Is
there a way I can reach you, Mr. Benedetti?
 
Do you have a card, perhaps?”

“Actually,” Spocatti said, “I’m leaving for Madrid in a few
minutes.
 
I promise this will be
brief.
 
If we could step outside for
a moment, I could tell you what I have in mind and you can let me know if
you’re interested.
 
I don’t think
you’ll be disappointed in what I’m offering, Mr. Stout.
 
It could turn out that I’m about to
become your biggest client.”

“It’s just that the timing—”

“I won’t ask twice, Mr. Stout.”
 
Spocatti waved his hand in front of
him.
 
“Shall we?”
 
He looked at Epifania.
 
“I’ll have him back in ten minutes.”

“Take twenny,” she said.
 
“That guy over there has his eye on me.
 
Epifania chat him up.
 
Epifania rock his world.”

Reluctantly, Stout followed Spocatti through the crowd and
off the ship.
 
Spocatti was more
aware than ever of the heightened security.
 
Less discreetly than before, Fondaras’
men were milling about, looking at each face that passed them, including
his.
 

Since he was with Stout, a man everyone knew and revered,
nobody paid much attention to either of them.
 
They left the ship and were moving down
the boardwalk when a shriek was unleashed behind them.
 

Stout and Spocatti turned.
 

It was Victoire Poisson, Florence Holt’s eccentric, longtime
lover, who rolled her own cigarettes and who wore white tuxedos.
 
She was with Fondaras and his men, who
were trying to help her into another room while she continued to shriek before
collapsing to her knees.
 
She was
inconsolable.
 
In spite of the
starch in her tuxedo, she appeared as limber as a rag doll.

Spocatti saw Mario De Cicco hurry in front of them and stop
at the door where his fiancé, Leana Redman, was being held.
 
One of Fondaras’ men opened it for him
and then remained outside after he closed it.

“What on Earth?” Stout said.
 
“I’ve known Poisson for years.
 
She’s a little off with those weird
tuxedoes she insists on wearing and I hate it when she rolls her own cigarettes
in public because they always end up looking like a joint, but otherwise she’s
not melodramatic.
 
And I don’t see
Florence anywhere.
 
Has something
happened to Florence?”

“Mr. Stout,” Spocatti said.
 
“I need to catch my plane.
 
It would be helpful if I could have your
attention.”

“Of course.”

A few people left the ship and stepped onto the
boardwalk.
 
Spocatti and Stout were
well ahead of them, but still, he didn’t have much time.
 
Just ahead of them were two ships
anchored side-by-side.
 
Each was
dark, as if they were vacant.
 
Spocatti moved toward them.
 
There would be a dock between them and the harbor at the end of it.

“How can I help you, Mr. Benedetti?”

Spocatti kept his face neutral as Victoire Poisson continued
to scream her piercing scream.
 
“I’m
beginning a new business venture,” Spocatti said.
 
“With Steve Jobs gone, Apple’s stock has
dropped and it remains vulnerable without its visionary.
 
A group of tech investors from Japan
have agreed to back a unique new device I’ve designed that bests anything Apple
has created.”

“You want to take on Apple?”

“I plan on taking on Apple and winning.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Benedetti, but too many have tried that and
failed.”

“Let’s not forget that Apple wasn’t always on top.
 
Let’s also not forget the reason their
competitors lost.
 
They were
essentially competing with copy-cat devices Apple already had conceived and
branded to the mainstream.”

“And you have your own device?”

“I do.”

“What is it?”

“Are you discreet?”

“Of course, I am.”

“I need to count on that.”

“You have my word.”

They were nearly upon the two darkened ships.
 
Spocatti glanced behind him and took
Stout’s arm.
 
He lowered his
voice.
 
“Everyone is leaving.
 
If we could go just around the corner,
I’d feel more secure about telling you what I have in mind.”

“Is that necessary?
 
People look agitated, probably because Victoire has turned into a
banshee.
 
I hardly think they’ll be
listening to us.”

But Spocatti urged him around the corner and they started to
walk down the dock that separated the two ships.
 
The water lapped against the boats.
 
Tall lampposts on either side of them
cast an amber glow in the humid air.
 
Spocatti could sense Stout’s hesitation.
 
They were mid-way down the dock when
Stout stopped.

“You can tell me here,” he said.

But here wasn’t perfect.
 
Spocatti looked into the man’s eyes and dipped his hand into his pocket,
where the knife was.
 
He gripped it
just as one of Fondaras’ guards shined a flashlight down the length of the dock
where they were standing.
 
He
started to come toward them.

“Who’s there?” the man called.

“It’s Charles Stout,” Stout said in a bored voice.
 
“And a friend of mine.
 
Mr. Antonio Benedetti.”

“I’ll need to see your ID’s.”

The man, who was young and buff and likely in his
mid-thirties, came forward with swift intent.
 

“Our ID’s?” Stout said.
 
“Nick, you know very well who I am.
 
That’s insulting.”

“There’s been a situation on the ship, Mr. Stout.
 
Of course, I know who you are.
 
I mean no disrespect.
 
I’ve been ordered to check as many ID’s
as possible.
 
It’s for everyone’s
safety.”

“Safety from what?”

“I can’t say, sir.”

“Certainly, you can, especially if my own safety is at
risk.
 
We deserve to know what’s
happening.
 
Now, what is it?”

“Florence Holt was found in a bathroom with her face blown
off.”

“She was what?”

“Someone shot her at such close range, it looked like
somebody poured a can of Manwich on her face.”

“What’s Manwich?”

“Like spaghetti sauce, only thicker and you add meat and a
bun.”

“I can’t believe this,” Stout said.
 
“She can’t be dead.
 
She just won her public battle with
Bell’s palsy.”

The man blinked at him.

“Bell’s palsy.
 
You know.
 
It caused her to
have a droopy eye,” Stout explained.
 
“For months, the whole right side of her face sagged as if it was warm
vanilla pudding.
 
The disease turned
her into a monster and she removed herself from all social circles because of
it.
 
Tonight was her return.”

He looked at Spocatti.
 
“Of course, the rumor mill has other notions.
 
Some say that it wasn’t Bell’s palsy at
all but a bad Botox injection that hit a nerve.
 
I never believed that because everyone
knew that Florence was a die-hard organic vegan who was wholly against
chemicals.
 
People missed her while
she was away.
 
She was fun at
parties, even if she was saddled with that weird partner of hers who rolls her
own cigarettes and smokes them as if they’re joints.
 
Then Florence rallied and
triumphed.
 
Tonight, we finally got
her back, and now this.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Was it a tea bagger?” he asked.

“Was it a what?

“You know, one of those tea-party people.
 
They hate lesbians.
 
They want to pray the gay away, as if
that’s worked for any of them.
 
Did
they shoot her square in the face?”

“I have no idea.”

“I bet it
was
a tea bagger,” Stout said.
 
“Awful people.
 
I think I saw one on the ship
tonight.
 
They have a certain
hypocritical look about them, like they just spoke to God after secretly fucking
the hell out of somebody’s son or daughter.
 
Some of them claim they eschew sex, but
that’s all you can smell on them.”

Spocatti looked behind them.
 
In the distance, people were walking
by.
 
Not many, but enough to cause
alarm.
 
Soon there would be others,
people who might turn this way and look down at the three men standing near the
dock.
 
With Florence Holt’s body
found, he knew the party was finished and soon, hundreds of shaken people would
start to pass by.

Carmen came through tonight and made her kill.
 
Given their competitive history, there
was no way he was going to lose face and fail.

While Stout reached for his wallet and started to pull out
his ID, Spocatti made the same motions, only he was making certain the sharp
end of the knife was in the correct position for his needs.
 
It was.

He looked at the two men and noticed that the guard was
staring hard at him.
 
“Do you have
your ID, Mr. Benedetti?”