to his knees and put it in his mouth.
But it was too big. Harold pressed his hands on the man’s thighs and shook his head. He couldn’t breathe. The man was becoming violent in his thrusts. Harold was frightened and turned on at the same time. He was on the verge of passing out when the man stopped and lifted Harold to his feet.
His face was wet with saliva. The room spun.
“Why don’t we get out of here?” the man said in Harold’s ear. “Why don’t we go to my place, where it’s more private? I have a room filled with toys this place hasn’t even heard of yet.”
The limousine hurtled through traffic.
As time passed and the city sped by, Harold’s mind became clear. No longer were his senses cushioned by the heroin he injected earlier; no longer was his conscience quieted by the torrent of drugs.
Tomorrow morning, he would be expected to attend his best friend’s daughter’s funeral. Tomorrow afternoon, he would be expected to board a plane that would leave for Iran-a country that, because of him, held no future for Redman International.
How many other funerals would he have to attend in the coming weeks? How many other people would die because he had refused to speak up?
The need struck him then.
He opened the liquor cabinet, removed the black leather satchel and unzipped it, exposing the used syringe, the half-empty vial of heroin. He glanced at the young man seated beside him, looked briefly at that beautiful face and saw a world of promise shining in the liquid blue eyes. What was his name? Derrick?
“You want some of this?” he said. “You want-”
The man gripped his arm. “Don’t do it,” he said. “That shit killed a friend of mine. It’ll fuck you up.”
Harold couldn’t help laughing. Did this boy know what he was saying? “I’m already fucked up,” he said. “I'm beyond fucked up. Now, let go of my arm.”
But the man was prying the satchel out of Harold’s hands. He lowered the window beside him and tossed it out.
Horrified, Harold watched it fade into the driving rain. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he shouted, more out of fear than anger. “What’s wrong with you!”
The man bent to his knees and unzipped Harold’s fly. “Let me give you a real high.”
They arrived at a modest-looking brownstone on 12th Street.
As the car came to a stop at the curbside, Derrick lifted his head from Harold’s lap and looked out a side window. “We’re here,” he said to Harold. “Come on. We’ll be more comfortable inside.”
Harold looked at the brownstone in surprise-it was beautiful. Although it was still raining, the sun had broken through the clouds and it now shined against the building’s narrow brick facade. “You live here?” he said.
“That’s right.”
“What do you do for work?”
There was an uncomfortable silence. “Look,” the man said. “I like to be discreet. You don’t know me and I don’t know you. We’ll have a good time-that I can promise-but that’s as far as it’s ever going to go. Is that cool?”
Harold wanted him. He nodded.
They left the car.
Inside, the house was large and warm and smelled of roses in their prime. His interest piqued, Harold stepped further into the spacious foyer and saw vases filled with flowers, side tables by Chippendale, paintings tiling the walls.
He knew something was wrong even before Derrick locked the door behind them. This man could never afford such opulence, could never afford an original Matisse.
Turning, about to protest, Harold heard the sound of a door being shut behind him and footsteps clicking on parquet.
“Nice work, Derrick,” he heard a man say. “Is he clean?”
“He’s clean,” Derrick said. “I tossed out the heroin myself.”
“Excellent. See Nicky on your way out and he’ll give you the money we agreed upon.”
A chill enveloped Harold’s heart. Knowing he had been set up, he looked quickly behind him and came face to face with Mario De Cicco.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Fragrant ribbons of steam curled from the silver coffeepot and lifted into the stale, smoky air. Lucia De Cicco crossed her legs and looked with annoyance at the uniformed maid as she bent over the table and poured the hot liquid into two porcelain cups.
She wanted to be alone with Mario’s father. She wanted to speak to him in private. She willed this woman to go away.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. De Cicco?”
Antonio De Cicco gave the young lady such a surprisingly suggestive smile, that Lucia immediately became suspicious of their relationship.
“No, Gloria,” he said. “That’s all for now.”
The woman left the room.
De Cicco leaned forward in his seat, chose one of the cups from the silver coffee service and lifted it to his lips. They were in the library of his Todt Hill mansion and the smoke from his ever-present cigar was beginning to make Lucia’s eyes burn.
She looked at the man seated before her. He was amazing, really. Dressed immaculately in a gray suit, his face tanned from hours in the sun, the man was pushing seventy years old-and yet he looked fifty.
Ashamed of his meager beginnings in Sicily-and as vain as any person could be-Antonio De Cicco worked hard to look as professional and as educated as any man hustling on Wall Street. In repose, the illusion worked. But when he spoke, his fifth-grade education became embarrassingly apparent.
“You gonna have coffee?” he asked.
Lucia shook her head. She toyed with the diamond brooch fastened to the lapel of her white jacket and said, “We have to talk.”
“I gathered that the other night when you called and said we needed to talk.”
His humor was not lost on her. She smiled even though she was tense.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t have talked then, but things have been pretty busy around here,” he said. “So, what’s the problem?”
Lucia gauged her words carefully. “It’s Mario,” she said. “He’s sleeping with Leana Redman again. I’m sure of it.”
De Cicco studied her. “Lucia,” he said. “Lucia, where do you get these crazy ideas? Mario’s no fool. He knows I’d kill the broad if he ever pulled that shit. We already talked.”
“I don’t care what he knows,” she said. “It’s the truth. When I called you Friday night, he’d just left to meet her at one of his damned shelters. He admitted it to me, Uncle Tony. He said that if I told you, if any harm came to him or Leana, he’d make me regret it for the rest of my life.”
“Mario said this?”
Lucia nodded. “He frightened me.”
“You got any proof he’s fuckin’ her?”
“No. But I know he is. She calls all the time and he hasn’t touched me in months. I go to bed alone and wake to find him in the guest bedroom. I’m fighting for my marriage and he seems determined to end it. Can you do something?”
