Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) (25 page)

“Of course.”

He swept out of the room,
returned with a pair of rubber cleaning gloves and watched Spocatti strain the
tea into the carafe.
 
Then, when it
was time, he watched Spocatti fill a cup.
 
“You’ll want to sweeten it,” Spocatti said.
 
“I’d recommend the honey.”

“
J’adore
honey.”

“That’s right,” Spocatti
said, watching Marvin drizzle the honey into the cup.
 
“Just enough.
 
You’re so good, Marvin.
 
I couldn’t have done it better.
 
Now.
 
Tell me how it tastes.”

Marvin lifted the cup and
took a sip.
 
He cocked his head to
the side and then shook it.
 
“It is
bitter,” he said.
 
“But not awful.
 
I’ve tasted worse.
 
Especially back in the seventies, when I
was one of the young stars at Studio 54 and did it all.
 
And I mean,
all
.”

“I had no idea,
Marvin.
 
You’ve come a long
way.
 
Drink up and we’ll go to Piggy
and give her hers.”

In one big gulp, Marvin
downed the tea.
 
Spocatti watched
him lick his lips and put the cup on the counter.
 
He seemed unaffected by the fact that he
had just taken a lethal dose of poison.
 
Spocatti waited for the dramatic death throes Carmen promised, but none
came.
 
They stared at each other,
and none came.
 
It was unusual for
Spocatti to feel this way, but for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do.
 
Marvin was looking at him.
 
Waiting.
 
His was a look that said, “Why aren’t we
serving Piggy her tea?”
 

“How do you feel?” Spocatti
asked.

Marvin furrowed his
brow.
 
“I should feel something?”

“Sometimes there’s a
warmth.”

“I felt that, but I
assumed that was from the hot water.”

“A tingling?”

“No tingling.”

“Isn’t that curious?”
Spocatti said.
 
He kept his eyes
transfixed on Marvin’s.
 
They
appeared clear.
 
Focused.
 
Spocatti was confused, but hardly
without hope.
 
He was, after all,
carrying his gun.

“We probably should bring
Piggy hers,” Marvin said.
 
And
Spocatti noticed, at that moment that a bit of spittle had appeared at the
corner of Marvin’s mouth.
 
“I’d hate
it if she started to, well, you know...”
 
He mouthed, but did not say the words,
...Have her orgasms.
 
“I don’t know how much longer the pills
will hold.
 
I don’t—oh,
goodness, what is this?”

Spocatti watched him wipe
the corner of his mouth and look at the yellowish foam that had collected
there.
 
“In spite of the tea, or
because of it, my mouth must be dry.
 
How embarrassing.
 
Excuse
me.”

He picked up a napkin
from the tea service and wiped his mouth with it.
 
When he did, he coughed into the napkin
and then opened it to look to see what was inside.
 
“Well, that’s not right,” he said.
 
“That’s not right at all.”

“Are you OK, Marvin?”

“I seem to be foaming at
the mouth,” Marvin said.
 
“Is that a
side-effect of the tea?”

“It certainly shouldn’t
be.”

“I think I should sit
down,” he said.
 
“I think I’m having
a reaction.”

“An erection?”

“No, a reaction.”

“Because the tea can also
cause an erection.”

“Dear God.”

“It’s probably best to
stand,” Spocatti said.
 
“Get your bearings.”

“I’m feeling a little
light headed.
 
And hot.”
 
A rush of foam bubbled up from his
throat and dripped down his chin.
 
Horrified, he looked down at his previously pristine suit and saw that
it was spotted with a blotch of yellow mucus.
 
He looked at Spocatti and sagged back
against the counter.

“What’s happening to me?”

From the parlor, Piggy
French started to moan.

“That’s Piggy,” Marvin
said.
 
“They’re starting again.
 
I need to sit.
 
I don’t feel well at all.
 
What did you say was in that tea?”

“Holistic herbs.”

The man started to
sputter.
 
He looked at Spocatti in
alarm.
 
He reached for his throat
and managed to ask for help while Spocatti stood there, sensing the man’s
throat swelling shut.
 
This was more
fascinating than he’d expected.
 
He’d need to thank Carmen.
 

“Help me,” Marvin
managed.

But Spocatti didn’t.

Marvin’s face turned blue
and his eyes bulged.
 
He pressed
back hard against the chair he was sitting in and fell to the floor.
 
Then, came the promised theatrical death
throes that involved squirming, heaving and his bloated purple tongue leaching
out of the side of his mouth, where it remained for the final moments of
life.
 
Finally, his eyes became
unseeing, dilated pools of liquid black.
 

And
Marvin was dead.

CHAPTER
THIRTY

“Where’s Marvin?” Piggy
French said as Spocatti hurried into the room from the kitchen with the tea
service.
 
“And what was that sound I
heard?
 
That banging?
 
Where is he?
 
I become hysterical when I have my
little rushes and he’s not here.
 
Where’s Marvin?
 
Have you
seen him?
 
Have you....
 
Oooooohhhh....”

She was writhing on the
fainting couch.
 
Her black hat with
its black veil now sat on the parquet floor, so, for the first time, her face
and shock of white hair were revealed to him.
 
Bloated from too much alcohol and
exhausted-looking from too many orgasms, Piggy’s face was as red as her chipped
fingernails, which one of Percy’s assistants once likely attended to.

“Piggy,” he said.

“No,” she managed.

“Piggy,” he said again.

“It’s Ms. French,” she
said.
 
“I told you never to call me
Piggy.
 
You don’t know me.
 
You’re just a man peppered with spells
and voodoo.
 
Where’s Marvin?”
 
She cupped her breasts in her hands,
pinched her nipples, and rolled her head to the side.
 
“Oh, my God!”

“Ms. French....”

“Where’s my Marvin?”

Spocatti ignored her
question and poured her a cup of the lethal tea.
 
“Sit up,” he said.
 
“Quickly.
 
This will give you immediate relief.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Yes, it will.
 
You need to sit up and drink.
 
I’ve prepared it with honey for
you.
 
It will still be bitter, but
what’s worse?
 
A bitter taste or
your bitter little rushes?”

Drunken and unsteady, she
pushed herself up and looked at the tea service.
 
“I want vodka,” she said.
 
“I want the Goose.
 
Why are you bringing me tea?”

“Do you want me to call
James Cullen, Ms. French?
 
Do you
want me to get him on the phone and talk to you?
 
Frankly, you’re wasting my time.
 
Drink the tea or suffer your
orgasms.
 
You’ve been rude to
me.
 
You’ve been caustic and
appalling.
 
I’m only here to help,
but I’m no shill.
 
I work with
better-behaved ladies on Fifth and Park—women who appreciate what I’ve
done for them—and I’m having none of your attitude.
 
I’m beginning to care less what happens
to you.
 
I’m beginning to see why
your ex-husbands called you that word.
 
Drink the tea, or I’m gone.”

She looked up at him,
startled by his speaking to her like that.
 
Anger filled her eyes, followed by a lingering moment of desire as she
was clutched by another orgasm.
 
When she collected herself, she said, “Who do you—?”

“Do you want me to call
James?
 
He’s a friend of yours.
 
He sent me here to help you.
 
Do you want what’s happening to you to
be leaked?
 
Because James is
prepared to leak it to your people if you don’t fall into line.
 
Don’t look surprised.
 
Everyone is sick of your behavior, Ms.
French.
 
James told me so.
 
This is an intervention.
 
I can help you, but if you don’t drink this
tea now, I’m leaving and I won’t be back.
 
Is that understood?”

“I—”

“Is that understood?”

And Piggy French of the
French lineage, who had publicly cut Louis Ryan to the core on several
occasions and who had been called a cunt by each of her two ex-husbands, which
still stung to this day, leaned forward, reached for the cup with her shaking
right hand and drank the tea just as she entered into a final orgasm.

“It’s awful,” she said.

“The orgasm?”

“The tea!”
 

“Drink all of it.
 
Now.”

She did, and then her
eyes widened.
 
“What is that you’re
pulling from your pocket?
 
Is that a
camera?
 
Are you taking photos of
me?
 
Filming me?
 
What is this?
 
Why are you smiling?
 
What is this?
 
Where is Marvin?
 
Who are you?
 
The paparazzi?”

A bit of spittle formed
along the curve of her bottom lip.

“The paparazzi,
Piggy?
 
Really?
 
You think you’re so important that
they’re outside waiting for a glimpse of you?
 
That they have any interest in you?”

She wiped her mouth and
looked at the back of her hand, which was trembling and now stained with yellow
mucus.
 
Repelled by the sight, she
looked up at him and stood.

Tried to stand.

Whether it was from the
alcohol or from the tea—or a mix of both—her knees buckled, she
fell to the floor, and her face connected hard with it.
 
She rolled over onto her back and
Spocatti saw that she was bleeding profusely from her smashed nose.
 
She put her hands on either side of it,
touched it gingerly and jolted from the pain.
 

Her hands slipped across
her face, smearing it with blood.
 
Her left leg started to twitch.
 
She turned to him in cold terror.
 
“Who are you?” she managed.

“Death,” Spocatti
said.
 

She started to cough, and
the cough was thick and clotted.
 
Foam bubbled up from her throat and spattered onto her black shirt.
 
She tried to breathe, but it was
becoming impossible.

“Death by way of Louis
Ryan, actually.
 
You remember Ryan,
don’t you, Piggy?
 
How you humiliated
him over the years.
 
He’s speaking
to you right now.
 
Straight from the
grave.”

Her hands went to her
throat.
 
Her legs kicked out and she
started to twist and convulse like a beetle on its back.
 
Did she hear what he said about Ryan?
 
He doubted it.
 
He watched her flail and fight until,
little by little, her body gave up hope.
 
She flopped onto her stomach, exhaled a rush of air, and then went
still.

“Good
night, Piggy,” Spocatti said.
 
He
turned off the tiny, handheld video recorder, and left.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

When Leana returned home,
she called out Mario’s name and waited for an answer, but none came.