Authors: Hazel Hughes
If the dollar amounts mentioned matched with the numbers on the spreadsheet that Peter had taken the photo of, she thought, that would be gold. Of course, the money trail would disappear after it left the accounting firm in Brighton Beach. That in itself would speak volumes.
“Why are you coming to me?” Sherry asked.
“I don’t just want him behind bars. I want Sergei Antonov’s name dragged through the shit.” Her voice was harsh with anger and disdain.
“I might be able to help you there,” Sherry said with a smile.
“I thought you would. I’ll send the files tonight. Don’t bother tracing them or emailing me back. It’s a dummy account.”
“And what’s in it for you? Why do you have it in for Sergei?”
The woman laughed bitterly. “I just want to see him get what he deserves.”
It seemed all too convenient, getting a call from an anonymous source just when she needed it.
Could it be some kind of trap,
she wondered?
“Look. I understand you wanting to remain anonymous. But I think we at least need to meet. I’m going to be in midtown in a few minutes. Lumière . We could meet there.”
She didn’t get an answer. The line was dead.
Chapter Seventeen
Sherry arrived at Lumière just ten minutes late for her meeting with Ken Wu. It was the kind of place with a model-slash-hostess and a coat check girl, the kind of place where a set of silverware would cover her rent for the month, the kind of place paparazzi lurked across the street from, zoom lenses pointed at the door. In other words, it was the kind of place she avoided like dog-shit on the sidewalk.
The sliver-thin blonde hostess gave her a barely-trying smile. “Reservation?” she asked, as if Sherry wasn’t worth forming a complete sentence for.
“It should be under Ken Wu.” Sherry offered a fake smile of her own.
The girl brightened, looking at Sherry in a new light. “Oh yes, Mr. Wu is here already, at his usual table. Follow me, Ms…”
“Beyoncé,” Sherry said.
The hostess stopped. “Ms. Beyoncé?” She looked at Sherry questioningly.
“Yup.” She didn’t offer any explanation.
“Okay,” the blonde chirped, eyes wide. “Right this way.”
She sashayed through the white-linen draped tables with Sherry behind her. Looking around, Sherry didn’t see any immediately recognizable A-list celebrities, but she spotted the CEO of GE as well as a table of society matrons Kim would have known by name. Something that sounded like Chopin as interpreted by Calvin Harris and Phillip Glass played in the background below the sound of clinking silverware and laughter.
“Mr. Wu,” the hostess said, stopping at a table set for two below a silver spider of a chandelier. “Your guest, um, Ms. Beyoncé, has arrived.”
Ken rose, a surprised smile on his face. “Thanks, Belinda. You’re a star.” His eyes didn’t leave Sherry’s.
It was a nice face, she had to admit. Black eyes twinkled under a head of silky dark hair and full lips stretched into a wide smile around perfect teeth. As he leaned in to kiss her cheek, she put a hand on his shoulder and felt the gym-toned muscles beneath his Italian wool suit jacket.
He was Keanu Reeves circa
Speed
,
she thought. Minus a tick or two on the pretty meter.
“Ms. Beyoncé, so nice of you to take time from your busy touring schedule to have dinner with me,” he said, giving her arm a gentle squeeze.
She sat down. “Yeah, well, even we mega-stars have to eat. And why not with one of the city’s most illustrious immigration lawyers?”
He laughed. “Beyoncé. Classic. Still got that same quirky sense of humor, I see.”
She tilted her head, examining him more closely. “Have we met before?” There was something familiar about him, but she had credited it to his resemblance to the actor.
“A million years ago. I was ten or eleven, I think. At your family’s cottage upstate. You nailed me in the balls with a croquet ball—accidentally, I think—and literally fell down laughing. I spent the rest of the day with a Ziploc full of ice in my pants.”
“Oh, my God, you’re right.” She brought her hand to her mouth to hide the giggle that threatened to emerge.
“And it’s still funny after all these years, apparently.” He raised his eyebrows with an ironic smirk.
“I am so sorry.” She swallowed her laughter but couldn’t hide her smile.
“Don’t worry. I recovered fully. But you’d better believe I never forgot you, Sherry Wilson-Wong.” He smiled, looking at her intently.
She pulled her eyes away with great difficulty, looking down at the menu. “No shit. So, I guess we should order. What’s good here? According to the stick insect hostess, you’re a regular.”
“Everything’s amazing. I tend to go with the special.”
Eying the prices beside the entrees, Sherry had to stop herself from commenting. She hoped the special wasn’t as expensive. Since she had asked for his help, it was only fair that she foot the bill. “Sounds good.” She closed her menu with a snap as a waiter with a pencil mustache and an obsequious smile approached.
“Two of whatever Chef Andre’s got going on today, Blake,” Ken said. “And a bottle of Veuve.” He looked at Sherry. “I’m assuming you like bubbles.”
Sherry gulped, imagining the markup on a bottle of champagne. “Well, I’m more of a Perrier girl. Still drying out.”
Ken looked shocked, but tried to cover it up with a smile. “Okay, Perrier it is.”
Blake the waiter gave a pained smile indicating Perrier was so 1989. “St. Germaine okay?”
“Perfect,” Ken said. The waiter left, and he turned back to her, concerned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. About the…”
“It was a joke.” Sherry unfolded her napkin in her lap. “More of my excellent humor.”
“Oh, ha.” Ken looked distinctly uncomfortable. “So should I get Blake back?”
“Not for me. But if you want it, go for it,” she said, silently praying for him not to. Her credit card would be pushed to the limit with the cost of the meal as it was.
“No. I’m good,” he said. Sherry could almost see him pushing the reset button in his brain. “Present company is intoxicating enough.” He showed off his perfect teeth again. “That was a bit much, wasn’t it?”
“Not time for the cheese course yet,” she said, with a smirk.
He laughed. “Okay. I’ll forget the alcoholic joke if you forget that comment.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Deal?”
She smiled. “Deal.”
He folded his hands in front of him. “So, Sherry,” he said. “What have you been doing for the past sixteen, seventeen years? I mean, I know you write for the
Sun
. I’m more of a
Times
kind of guy, but I’ve been following your work. I really liked your last piece. On the dancer.”
“You read that?” she asked. “I wouldn’t think ballet was on your radar.”
“Only because you wrote it,” he admitted. He gave her a look. Sherry wasn’t sure what it meant, but somewhere in her psyche a warning bell was sounding.
She cleared her throat. “Uh, actually, that’s why I wanted to meet you tonight. I’m working on a story and I’m afraid one of my sources might be mixed up with some, er, questionable activity.”
Ken’s expression became serious. His lawyer face, she guessed. “This source is an immigrant?”
“On a work visa.”
“And you want to know what?”
“I want to know what will happen to him. I mean, if the story is printed and he is somehow implicated.”
Ken nodded thoughtful, bending his elbows and resting his chin on his folded hands. “Well, if he’s found guilty, it’s a no-brainer. He’ll face whatever the justice system sees fit to mete out. Jail time, fines, whatever the case may be. Then he’ll be deported. And, depending on the offence, he might not be able to return to the US again.”
She let out a long breath, barely registering the presence of the waiter pouring their over-priced European mineral water. That didn’t look good for Alexi. Not good at all.
“But,” Ken continued, “it’s a little more complicated than that. See, even if he isn’t found guilty, even if he is only arrested and released, his employer may decide to cancel his visa.”
“What?” She looked up from her glass, incredulous. “Even if he’s innocent, they can cancel his visa?”
He nodded. “It’s completely at their discretion. In fact, he doesn’t have to be implicated in criminal activity for that to happen. He’s late for work one too many times, he doesn’t perform according to expectations, his boss doesn’t like the way he smells, whatever.”
She thought of Sergei. He had the ability to revoke Alexi’s visa at any time. Another reason for Alexi to feel he had to do whatever Sergei told him, even if it was legally questionable. She felt a little surge of pride in him for standing up to Sergei despite the power the choreographer held over him.
“Of course, he can appeal the decision. That’s what people like me are for.” He smiled. “If your source needs a lawyer, I’m your man.” His smile widened as his gaze roamed over her face. “Wow. Sherry Wilson-Wong. You know, despite the fact you almost rendered me infertile, I had a wicked crush on you.”
“Really?” She remembered her eleven-year-old self, a tangle-haired tomboy with teeth too big for her face, and found it hard to believe.
He leaned forward. “I’m assuming the business portion of the evening is over and I can tell you how long I’ve been pushing my mom to set me up with you.”
Sherry almost spit out her water. “Wait. What? I thought that was all my mom’s idea.”
He picked up his knife and examined it, as if he was looking for spots. “Nah. All me. I mean, I’ve seen my fair share of women. I even almost got engaged a couple of years ago. Man, the pressure, and not just from her. My mom just won’t let up. It must be the same for you.”
“Worse,” she said, nodding. “I’m a girl. Old now, according to my mother. You know, past the twenty-fifth, nobody wants it.”
He put down his knife and reached for her hands. “I happen to have a thing for Christmas cake, however old.” He gave her fingertips a squeeze.
Sherry’s jaw dropped. She knew she should pull her hands back, but she was frozen by the certainty in his eyes.
“Do you believe in love at first sight, Sherry?” he said, his voice low and warm as honey.
A picture of Alexi standing at the barre in his gray tights flashed through her mind. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Me, too.” He slid his fingers between hers, linking their hands together. “The reason you sent that croquette ball spinning into my nuts was the fact that I was gaping at you like a dead fish, paralyzed. I didn’t even see the ball, I was so stunned by the force that was you.”
“Uh,” Sherry started. She was feeling a bit stunned herself.
“Sorry to interrupt,” a voice at her shoulder said. She turned to see Blake the waiter, two oversized white plates in his hands.
“No problem,” she said. Grateful for the interruption, she extricated her hands from Ken’s.
The waiter placed the plates which held something that looked more like abstract sculpture than anything edible in front of them. “Your Pike Meunier with hand-raised baby vegetable medley in an Aperol reduction.” He folded his hands together and smiled at them as if he expected applause. Another waiter appeared beside him, holding two champagne glasses and a bottle.
“Now, I know you said you didn’t want the Veuve, but the gentleman at the bar with the white hair insisted we bring it with his compliments.” Blake gestured to the bottle.
“Nice!” Ken said, craning his neck to see.
“White hair?” Sherry asked, but the sudden dryness in her mouth and the ratcheting up of her heart-rate told her she knew exactly who it was. Sergei. And he had seen her holding hands with Ken.
Blake turned and gestured toward the bar. “He’s right over there … oh, he’s gone.”
Sherry stood up, looking toward the door, where she saw him, arm in arm with a willowy blonde whose back was to her. There was something about the blonde. Sherry had seen her before. But where? Tugging on the arm of the woman with him, Sergei glanced over at her, an evil smirk on his lips, and then the pair was gone, swallowed by the crowds on Park Avenue.
“Sherry?” Ken asked. He was standing too. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry, Ken. I’ve got to go.” She handed her napkin to Blake, who, along with the other waiter, hadn’t moved, confused smiles on their faces. “I … thanks for the advice, but … I’ll call you.” She shrugged, already heading for the door. Maybe she could catch up with Sergei before it was too late.
Once she was on the street, she knew it was hopeless. Broadway was thick with people who had just gotten out of the theater, talking and laughing and moving slower than rush hour traffic in the East River tunnel. She didn’t know what she would have said to him anyhow. He saw what he saw and was happy to believe what he believed. The important thing, she realized, perhaps too late, was getting hold of Alexi before he did.
All the taxis crawling past her were full, of course, so she headed for the nearest subway station. As she pushed her way through clumps of tourists and theater-goers, she dialed Alexi’s number again and again. Each time she was sent automatically to voice mail. Pausing at the top of the subway stairs, she sent him a text.
It’s not what you think. I will explain everything.
As she walked to the train, the image of Sergei and the willowy blonde flashed through her mind. Then it hit her. She was the same woman who was dancing on stage at the fundraiser. The same woman who had been in the studio with Alexi and Sergei the day she’d first met them. Katerina O’Gorman. The voice on the phone. Her source.
Sitting on the train, she tucked her hands under her thighs and gritted her teeth. The urge to bite her fingernails was so strong, she could almost feel them in her mouth, the satisfying crunch of enamel on keratin, the flood of relief that would wash over her on the first nibble, the need to do it again. Clenching her hands into fists under her, she tried to focus. She had told Alexi that she would explain everything, and she would. But first she needed to nail down her source.
Sherry scrolled through her list of contacts, grateful she had gotten Kat’s number from ABC’s receptionist in the off-chance she could provide more than publicity shots.
“Hi, Kat, this is Sherry Wilson-Wong, from the
Sun
?”