“OK,
Deadly,” Scarne said with a resignation that was nevertheless tinged with
intrigue. “But you’re buying dinner.”
“What’s
new? Look on the bright side. It’s a goddamn miracle that we even have the
chance to do something. If the scumbag hadn’t gotten cancer... If he didn’t go
to Jarecki…. If Jerry didn’t call me…. If I didn’t know Ronnie…. Coincidence?
Serendipity? Whatever. It’s meant to be. The bastards who did this don’t know
we’re coming. Now let’s eat. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Bobo order
Lugar’s porterhouse for two, just for himself.”
CHAPTER
8 – CANDY IS DANDY
Emerald
Shields returned the wave of an investment banker dividing his charm between
two women at the bar. The women – who turned to look her way with undisguised
envy – were drinking Cosmos. They were attractive enough, and were probably
mid-level publishing or fashion industry vice presidents. Or perhaps college
administrators at N.Y.U. or Cardozo. Emma, too honest to pretend she wasn’t
beautiful, knew that in her they recognized the real deal, which in addition to
looks, included money and breeding. The man picked up a beer. Probably
non-alcoholic, she thought dismissively. She mentally braced for the inevitable
approach. Emma was becoming a hot property among the Wall Street set, which
was, she supposed, a good thing. But she was hoping for a quiet lunch at the
Gotham Bar & Grill, or at least a private one. She sipped her Gibson and
studied the menu. Maybe that would keep the man at bay until her luncheon
companion showed up.
Emma
rarely drank anything stronger than wine at lunch, but she was a bit nervous. A
recent complication in her romantic life added a new dimension to this
particular lunch. Not that it changed her plans – or hopes, she would have said
– for the afternoon. She’d probably have another Gibson. A couple of strong
drinks seemed to make things go smoother. Candy is dandy and all that. She
smiled, recalling the better line:
I love a martini, but two at the most.
Three I’m under the table; four I’m under the host
. Gibsons were martinis
by another name after all, and she didn’t think Dorothy Parker would mind. She
glanced up from the menu. Damn! Mr. Wall Street was headed her way.
Emma
Shields was rising rapidly in the ranks of the Shields organization, having
just negotiated a $600 million infusion of outside capital into the 80-year-old
media giant. The family was forced to relinquish 40 percent of its
privately-held stock to an investor group, but maintained managerial and
editorial control of its magazines, Internet sites, and television and radio
properties. The fact that Emma had come up with the idea, lined up the
financing and then actually convinced her father and brothers to go along, thus
ensuring that all the Shields heirs would stay very rich despite troubling
times in the media industry, was an eye opener to Wall Street.
Randolph
“Randy” Shields, as the tabloids had dubbed him for his sexual peccadilloes,
had expected one of his sons to eventually take over the company. Now it looked
as if his youngest child might be the one. As a man who never underestimated
any woman, especially a beautiful one, Randolph harbored no prejudice against
the idea (unlike the heads of other prominent New York dynasties, who favored
sons – and even sons-in-law – over daughters). He had always suspected that Emma,
for all her childhood sweetness and current glamour, was a tough cookie, and
perhaps the brightest of his brood. After all, she had survived the cancer
death of a husband and the murders of a favorite cousin and uncle by rogue
billionaire Victor Ballantrae, all in short order, and still kept her wits
about her. Not only that, but she had overseen the coverage of the collapse of
the criminal Ballantrae empire – coverage that had won the Shields organization
numerous journalism awards. The rumors surrounding the mysterious disappearance
of Ballantrae and his chief of staff, the beautiful Alana Loeb, didn’t hurt.
With other media empires reeling from scandals, the Shields family was given
credit for settling accounts with criminals who thought themselves beyond the
law. It was credit not fully deserved, Randolph and Emma knew. The man who
deserved most of it – the man responsible for the deaths of Ballantrae and Loeb
– had just walked in the Gotham’s door.
As
Jake Scarne walked over to her table, Emma Shields wondered if he still loved
Alana Loeb, a woman he’d shot through the heart.
***
“It
looks like I got here just in the nick of time,” Scarne said as he sat down. “A
shark is heading up the chum line.”
Emma,
who was sitting with her back to the window overlooking 12
th
Street,
smiled indulgently, and watched the approaching investment banker hesitate,
take a long look at Scarne and swim back to the bar.
“Pungent,
but apropos. But how do you know it wasn’t ‘Mr. Right.’”
“More
likely, ‘Mr. Write Me a Check.’ Now that you are known for more than your
beauty, you will have to question the motives of every man who comes sniffing
around.”
“Including
yours?”
“My
motives and sniffs have always been discernible and dishonorable, and you know
it. But enough friendly chit chat, I’m thirsty and starving.” As if on cue, a
waiter appeared and greeted them by name. Scarne smiled up at him. “Frankie,
get Ms. Shields another Gibson and if they’ve got any of that Cruzan Estate rum
left I’ll take it in a snifter.”
They
were at their “regular” table at the Gotham, famous in Manhattan for its prix
fixed lunch, which cost whatever the year was. Scarne had been lunching there
frequently ever since it went for $19.97. He figured it would still be a steal
in the year 4000. Of course, he wouldn’t be prix fixing today. Lunch with Emma,
while not a rarity for Scarne, was always a special occasion. She looked
particularly fetching, he thought, in a blue silk herringbone shirt dress,
buttoned down the front and tied with a fabric belt, and was easily the most
attractive woman in the place, despite stiff competition from some other women
whose features were more conventionally classic. Funny how that worked. Some
women had it, and some didn’t. Emma had it. Her thick auburn hair flowed to her
shoulders. Her color was high. Probably the Gibson, which he noted, was a good
sign. Suddenly feeling churlish, he asked after her daughter.
“Rebecca’s
fine. She’s made a new friend at school, her ‘best ever’ she says. She’s going
over to the girl’s apartment right after school and staying the night. It’s her
first sleepover and she’s too excited for words. I’m bereft, of course, but it
will be nice not to have to pick her up after school. I know the family. The
girl’s mother is Fanny Van Stolk, a financial writer at the
Times
. Had a
baby a few months ago and is on maternity leave, though I think she works from
home. Becky can’t wait to play with the baby. Better than a doll. ”
Emma
mentioned the sleepover with a studied casualness not lost on Scarne, who
forgot all about being churlish.
“And
how’s your father?”
He
always asked after the old bastard, partly out of politeness and partly because
he liked to get a rise out of her. Smiling sweetly, Emma didn’t take the bait.
“Dad’s
fine. In fact, just this morning he was asking for you. Wanted to know how you
were getting along.”
“He
must have fallen off his horse and hit his head.”
“I’ll
ask you to keep a civil tongue about Dad.” But she laughed when she said it.
“Besides, he doesn’t ride, anymore.” She added wickedly, “horses, anyway.”
Their
drinks arrived. Emma quickly finished the dregs of her first Gibson and clinked
her new glass with Scarne. Both took serious swallows.
“What’s
with the rum? Feeling piratical?”
“A
lot of people don’t know it, but this stuff is as good as the finest bourbon or
brandy. Went to a golf outing with the Teamsters Union out of Newark Airport a
few years back and they had cases of the stuff. I presume it fell off the back
of a truck, but it made for a hell of an after-dinner drink. Got a taste for it
now, before, during and after dinner.”
“Why
do I suspect Mr. Mack may have been involved, although he doesn’t strike me as
the golfing type.”
Scarne
laughed.
“Dudley
ran the thing. He’s a hell of a golfer, by the way. Funny thing, it’s the only
outing I know where everyone turns in an honest card.”
“Probably
because cheaters know they’d wind up in the Meadowlands.”
Their
waiter reappeared and they ordered.
“Tell
me about the deal you just cut to ‘save the Shields empire,’ as
Business Week
and
Fortune
so uncharitably put it.”
“Fuck
them,” Emma said, leaning forward so that only he could hear her. “They’re just
jealous. Now we’re really going to clean their clocks. Only
Forbes
got
it right, because they’re a family business as well.”
Might
be the Gibsons, Scarne thought. But perhaps not. He had leaned not to sell her
short, in any respect. She sat back and resumed a more conversational tone, and
for the next ten minutes explained her coup in clear, concise financial terms.
She declined another Gibson, opting for a glass of the house Sauvignon Blanc.
Scarne joined her. In this house it would be excellent.
The
waiter arrived with their food. After he left, she cut a substantial portion of
her squab, speared a piece of asparagus, and put both in her mouth. Scarne was
always amazed by her appetite. With Emma, lunch was no polite
tête
a
tête
over a small
salad. She was likely to order a steak. And the basket of rolls was not safe
either. For all that, she remained pleasantly, if not Darfur-like, slim.
Scarne, who had opted for the charred sea bass, was debating how to deconstruct
the tower of fish, potatoes and greens on his plate. Alfred Portale, the
bistro’s famous chef, was noted not only for the quality of his food, but also
for its presentation. If the stacked entrée in front of Scarne was any higher,
he’d have to call Emma on her cell phone to continue their conversation.
“Watch
your food, Jake. It’s beginning to tilt.”
Scarne’s
tower of fish was indeed swaying. He tried to right it, but overcompensated.
The entire concoction collapsed in a heap across his plate.
“The
hell with it,” he said as he stuck a fork into the nearest edible portion.
“Alfred’s food is as good horizontal as it is vertical.” Scarne picked up a
strange looking vegetable. “What do you think this is?”
“No
idea. Just eat it. Maybe it was in the chum line.”
They
talked respective shops until they finished eating. Scarne didn’t have to ask
about dessert. Emma never looked at the card the waiter handed them.
“I’ll
have the flowerless chocolate cake,” she said. “And perhaps you can add a
little extra scoop of vanilla ice cream.”
Scarne,
who was now on a bit of a health kick, passed on dessert, and they both ordered
coffee. There was a tap on the window behind Emma. She turned to return a wave
from two women who had been walking by. They were attractive, in that 40-ish,
nip-and-tuck Hamptons way that Scarne always found faintly annoying. Neither
could hold a candle to Emerald Shields, who was un-nipped and un-tucked. The
women took long languid looks at Scarne and crossed the street to the Strip
House.
“Recognize
the blonde? She drove her BMW through the front door of that bar in Sag Harbor
last summer. Did her community service in a soup kitchen on the North Fork.”
“They
have soup kitchens in the North Fork?” Scarne made a show of reaching for his
cell phone. “I want to call my broker. This recession is more serious than I
thought.”
Emma
laughed.
“Don’t
be an ass. She was serving the migrant workers. Probably the only time she’s
been near a kitchen in her life. Now she wants to start a non-profit to help
the disadvantaged.”
Scarne
snared a piece of chocolate cake from Emma’s plate.
“Somebody
should start a non-profit for the poor bastards who are funding their lunches
at the Strip House.”
“Don’t
be such a cynic. I know their husbands. They will never be poor. Now, what have
you been up to?”
Scarne
knew it was a loaded question. Like all his friends, Emma had been worried
about Scarne’s mental equilibrium after the Ballantrae affair.
He
told her about the Pearsall case, leaving nothing out. It didn’t take long,
mainly, he realized, because he was discouragingly short on facts, clues and
ideas.
“Jake,
that’s terrible. What are you going to do?”
They
were almost finished with their coffee. There was one piece of cake left.
Emerald Shields put it on her fork and lifted it to her mouth. Jake feigned
indifference, but was not surprised when the fork stopped short of her
delectable mouth and moved across the table and she fed him the cake.
“It’s
obvious that I’m going to have to look into the NASCAR thing. It doesn’t make
any sense now, and probably never did. But it’s the only string I have to
pull.”
“Perhaps
I can help with that,” Emma said. “Do you know Aristotle Arachne?”
“The
mini-Trump?”
“Oh,
God. You’d better never say that in his presence. He’s very sensitive about The
Donald. Anyway, we’ve become quite good friends.”
“Yes,
I know. I read Page Six.”
Scarne’s
reference to the
New York Post
gossip page was made with a casualness
that didn’t quite hide another agenda. Emma Shields did not miss the
undercurrent. She smiled.
“Don’t
believe everything you read. Ari is married.”