The envelope had a faint odor of ginger, or was it nutmeg? Shanice could never tell them apart. She didn't recognize the return address, but it was about twenty-blocks north of her apartment and way over on Fifth.
Hmmm, east side, overlooking the park. She sniffed again. Definitely ginger. The envelope was postmarked yesterday and its bulk demanded an extra stamp for the journey from the haughty east side of Central Park to her apartment across from John Jay College on the west. She wondered if the envelope was offended.
The flap had been loosely fastened, easily sliding open with the back of her thumb. Tugging the thick, folded paper from its interior, a one-hundred-dollar bill fluttered to the floor, landing on her left foot. "Jeezus," she blurted out, grabbing the bill and holding it up to the light as though a physics professor could discern a counterfeit from a real Franklin. No, she said to herself, but the cops she taught could do that in a heartbeat.
Casey Vogel owed money to everyone from the Battery to the GW Bridge and riverside to riverside. The hundred went in his pocket so quickly that he jabbed his thumb on his keys and screamed out in pain, dropping the envelope, the invitation, his coffee, and the rest of the mail on the tile floor in the lobby. "Son of a bitch!" He bent and retrieved the envelope, using it as a temporary bandage, and scooping up the rest of the mail with his undamaged hand. The coffee was a total loss. With an epithet unsuitable for young children spit from his lips, Casey kicked the now empty cup behind a trashcan.
The less than fortunate bookie kneed the door open to his office on the third floor in the rear and waited a few seconds as he always did to allow the rats to scamper back into their hiding places. They worked better than locks and alarms at keeping thieves at bay, and for the price of some Kraft American singles, they were far less expensive. Sliding his three hundred plus pounds into the creaking chair behind his desk, Casey scanned the engraved invitation, getting only as far as the line that read, "Guests will be naked" before dropping it on the desk and closing his eyes. "So," he sighed, "Tanenbaum is serving another dinner."
"76th and Fifth? Who the hell lives at 76th and Fifth in New York City?" Lucien scratched the back of his head; the only place hair still grew other than his back and the knuckles that had smashed so many faces over his career that they would never be any other color than blood red. Biting into the envelope, Lucien tore it open with his left hand careful not to spill the beer in his right.
"Your presence is requested at a dinner party hosted by Sir Philip Tanenbaum, Thursday, November 22nd at 7pm. While your attire is optional prior to arrival, guests will be naked during the dinner. Your ticket for admission is enclosed along with an unsigned bank check for Five Hundred Thousand Dollars. Please bring both with you. The check will be cashed at the end of the evening." Lucien cocked his head to one side and read the invitation out loud again, laughing until tears flowed down his face before finishing the open beer and reaching for another.
The last piece of mail to arrive in the battered mailbox at the end of his driveway was nearly a year ago. It had taken a great deal of skill and money to slip off the grid. The nearest power line was across a river and a pair of canyons that even the wolves avoided. Fresh water came from a well dug centuries before he'd found the vacant cabin the week after his release. He always kept his pickup truck filled with gas and armed with a loaded shotgun that matched the others he'd placed in strategic locations around his wooden stronghold. In the event of trouble, the Canadian border was only a short drive north through a forest and dirt trail that never had patrols. And as a last resort, the explosive charges he'd hidden around the cabin would erase any record of him ever being there. Five years in prison doesn't make a man crazy, it makes him wary of ever going back.
He read the invitation several times before tossing it into the roaring fireplace.
"Tanenbaum's alive?" He shuddered. "Christ, I hate the city."
***
It was raining. Not so much pouring, but that slow, misty rain that isn't enough to put the wipers on, even with the delay. He had to hit the lever every couple of seconds to clear the windshield without streaking. Just another annoyance. Turning at a gate on Fifth, he stopped at the guardhouse for the building's underground garage. The guard, in a uniform so fresh he could smell the detergent, pointed at the shotgun and asked if it was loaded. "Not much purpose to an unloaded one, is there?" he replied, "but it's locked, so don't worry." The guard nodded and hit a button to open the gate.
Shanice was going to walk. Spending all day in a classroom was her norm, and any chance at fresh air before the winter snows battered their way into the city was not to be missed. She hiked across the park dozens of times since moving from Jersey and loved how the smells of the city vanished as soon as her feet touched the grass. Stepping out into the drizzle, she rolled her eyes, and turned south for the subway.
Lucien's car made it as far as the nearest gas station. He hitched a ride with a bunch of college kids heading into New York for a concert. They told him the name of the band three times, but he thought they were talking French and he finally just smiled and turned to look out the window. They dropped him off on Sixth and 62nd, and pointed him in the right direction before heading off in the damp evening.
A taxi disgorged Casey Vogel at the building's main entrance and he waddled from the cab, not waiting for his $1.25 change. He caught his breath in the lobby of the building, telling the guard who he was and that he was here to have dinner with Tanenbaum. The guard nodded and pointed toward the bank of elevators, where Lucien stood, water dripping like tiny Niagras all around his tennis sneakers.
At the moment the elevator doors slid open, Shanice came charging through the lobby doors, cursing the rain and swinging what appeared to be an inside-out, collapsible umbrella. "Hey hold the elevator," she shouted at the two men and, to the guard, "I'm with them!" as she bolted past his desk and jogged through the open doors.
They rode the eighteen floors to the penthouse in silence, but Lucien kept staring at the back of the woman's head, certain her face was familiar. The fog that used to roll in only after serious drinking had been staying around a lot longer lately. He could remember yesterday quite well, but the day before was often a mystery and moments from his past that pushed through the haze were incomplete at best. Lucien knew a few black girls from back in the days when they hung around the boxing arenas, quick to grab a white boy, a rarity in a sport where they rarely fared well. She wasn't one of those, he thought. Though not one hundred percent sure of himself.
He came in through a service entrance after spraying the two security cameras with a chemical that blinded them just long enough for him to slip past. The door took a few minutes to pry open but it eventually yielded to his tool. Leaving the newly bought pry bar and gloves in the garage, he walked slowly up the eighteen flights of stairs to the penthouse. The moment he stepped into the hallway with the .38 automatic cocked and ready to fire, the elevator doors opened and Casey Vogel stumbled out.
"You fat pig. What the hell are you doing here?" He brought the gun up dead center on the massive bookie's chest.
Casey needed only a momentary glance down the hallway at a man he instantly recognized and a voice he hoped never to hear again. He reached for the small pistol he kept in his waistband, shouting the man's name in surprise, "Sampson! Don't shoot! I've got your money!"
Sampson never got the chance to fire. Silently, a black, hard rubber Frisbee flew down the hallway and snapped the gun out of his hands. Lucien, hearing the word "shoot", threw his arms around Shanice and pulled her to the floor of the elevator. The giant human who had tossed the Frisbee with such perfect accuracy stepped from the darkness of a recessed doorway, grabbed the pistol from Casey's hands and in a single motion, shoved him against the wall with the ease that one would close a car door.
His voice matched his size, words booming out of his mouth in an almost deafening monotone, "Gentlemen. Lady. Please to follow me and have your papers ready for collection." It was Slavic with a hint of either Grizzly or Polar Bear. A monster in a three-piece suit. He extended a hand to Shanice, "Please." Turning to the three men, his eyes narrowed, and he looked at them as though he could see through their clothing. "Any more guns?" One at time, they shook their heads. "Good. We go." And with that, he turned, holding Shanice's hand, and walked to the end of the hallway where a pair of double doors slowly swung open as they approached.
The penthouse occupied the entire top floor of the building. They entered into a mirrored foyer large enough to park a pair of Cadillacs, one on each side, and still have room for a picnic table in the middle. Shanice said "damn" several times as they followed the huge man; Lucien whistled. The foyer opened into an even larger dining room with a table that could seat ten people on each side in lounge chairs and still have plenty of room for a waiter to serve between them. Each of the three exterior walls was glass from floor to mirrored ceiling and the illusion of infinity caused the four guests to freeze in the doorway until the giant turned and urged them into the room.
The table was a single piece of clear glass with smooth, rounded edges. On the far side of the table, with its back to the widest exterior wall was a large chair covered in white terrycloth. Facing it, on the opposite side of the table, were three more chairs also covered in pure white terrycloth. Since the backs of those chairs were visible to anyone walking into the room, Casey pointed at the stitched logo on the cover and sneered. "T for Tanenbaum. Yep. We're in the right place."
Clear glass dishes were piled in front of each chair. From the salad plate down to the charger there was nothing to see until you hit the tiled floor. The silverware was plentiful with the notable exception of knives. And a collection of glassware stood proudly by each setting, ready to accommodate whatever beverage the guest desired. Other than the white napkins and the salt and pepper, visible through their clear shakers, nothing else lent color to the picture.
The giant gave them a minute to take it all in and then cleared his throat as loud as possible, "Behind you are rooms. One for each." He walked over to the group and held out a hand as large as a dinner plate. "Your papers, please." One at a time, they handed over the one-hundred-dollar bill and the unsigned bank check. Casey was the last to let the documents go.
"This shit is for real, right?" He held the bank check close to his chest. "No scam, right?"
The huge man shook his head. "Mister Tanenbaum said you would be asshole. Right?" He reached over and snatched the check from the fat man's hand. "Now, please to go into room and disrobe. When you come out, please take correct seat at table." He looked over his shoulder at the table. "Nameplate will show where you sit."
Sampson turned toward the table. "There's only four chairs. Where's his lordship?"
"He will come. Now. Please to disrobe. Dinner is waiting."
Shanice was the first to the table. Hers was the seat that faced the wall of rooms with her back to the widest of the outside walls. So, I'm on display here? This shit is getting kinky, but half a million dollars? Shit, I'd sit here naked with the Police Commissioner for half that amount and walk away smiling. Goodbye student loans and that shitty apartment. She looked at her body in the mirrored ceiling and smiled. Bring on the white boys. Let 'em look all they want.
Sampson came out next and walked over to his seat in the middle facing her. He wasn't seated for more than a minute or two before Shanice pointed at his growing erection and smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment."
He grinned and said, "Happens all the time with a pretty woman." Leaning closer, he asked softly, "How do you know Sir Philip?"
"Tanenbaum?" She shrugged. "Only what I read in the papers. Guy's as rich as they come. Invested a load in technology back before anyone could spell it correctly."
Lucien backed out of the room and literally shuffled backward until his bare behind smacked into the glass-topped table. Unfortunately for him, the nameplate at that end had Casey's name on it, and he had to spin and sidestep around Sampson to get to his seat. He sat with his hands in his lap until Sampson turned to him and said, "You're going to need them to eat dinner unless it comes in a bowl with a straw."
With his tongue pressing into his cheek as though he had the world's worst toothache, the ancient fighter turned to Sampson and shook his head back and forth a couple of times. Finally, with a sharp nod, he brought his hands up from his lap, still clasped, and slammed them on the table.
Casey came into the room with his boxer shorts still on and it didn't take more than a few seconds before the giant came in from the foyer with his arms crossed over his chest. "Asshole, right?"
"Fine." The rotund bookie, still thinking that this was the worst possible scam he could have let himself be tricked into, reached down and stepped out of the boxers, one leg at a time and as slowly as his fat frame would allow. He smiled at the big man. "Happy?"
The giant said nothing and left the room.
An awkward silence filled the room for a few minutes, the men occasionally clearing their throats, Lucien shifting in his chair as though his hemorrhoids were acting up again. Sampson spoke first, "So this is weird. I know Tanenbaum from way in the past. Actually, I thought he was dead." He frowned. "Okay, hoped he was dead." Leaning over toward Casey, he grunted, "This asshole stiffed me fifty grand on fight a bunch of years ago. I'd a cut his balls off a long time ago," Sampson pointed at the bookie, "but it looks like someone beat me to the punch."
Casey spun around in his chair. "If you had boxed instead of shoving cocaine up your nostrils, that fifty grand would look like pocket change now."
Lucien's ears locked onto the conversation. "You were a boxer?" he asked Sampson.
"Yeah, a long, long time ago." Sampson pointed at Casey and said, "When this fat pig could actually climb a flight of stairs without wheezing." He shrugged, "I fought seven times. Undefeated. You?"
"Twenty-nine wins, all by knockouts. Three losses. But I retired with a win."
Shanice twirled a fork in her fingers. "Well, so this is old home week for the boxing crowd. Two has-beens and an overweight bookie. Wonderful. Someone want to tell me what I'm doing here in my birthday suit besides collecting a wad of cash?"
Before anyone could answer, the giant marched back into the dining room, pushing a gleaming steel cart that was loaded with several covered serving platters, a small array of wine bottles, and pitcher of lemonade. He filled the largest glass in front of Shanice from the pitcher before placing it on the table within her reach. "Please to help yourself. I make fresh from real lemons." He came around the table and filled the same glass in front of each of the men from a bottle of red wine. "French. 1972. You will like." He smiled at the men before leaving the room with the cart parked at the far end of the table.
Lucien lifted his glass and looked over at Shanice. "You don't drink?"
"No. You don't look this good at forty if you hit the bottle." She winked at him. "I hope to still look like this when I'm your age."
Casey brought his glass up from the table. "Well, let's get this over with. Happy Thanksgiving."
He was about to take a long drink of the wine when the lights dimmed. Above the table, a flat plane of light began to form from a large glass rectangle across from Shanice. It was as though a printer was printing an image in midair and with each pass the plane became thicker and more distinct. A naked body, starting at the feet, was created one slice at time until the entire reclining shape of Sir Philip Tanenbaum was floating horizontally two feet over the table. It appeared as though he was suspended on a dark gray liquid, but there were no visible walls to hold it.
"I see you've all accepted my invitation to dinner." He smiled. "I am pleased. Miss Dickenson, a pleasure to finally meet you. Your photos in the Journal of Modern Physics do you no justice."
Shanice reached over and put her hand through the image. "A hologram. A really good hologram. Jeezus, that's the projector?" She looked over at the glowing glass rectangle on the table and tapped it with a spoon, which made the image bounce and flicker. "Where are the wires?" she asked and then bent down to scan under the table, a move she immediately regretted.
"You'll read about it next year," said Tanenbaum. "But, we're not here to discuss physics my dear. It's Thanksgiving and you're my guests for dinner. Please, drink up." With that he reached for a nearby tube and sucked what looked like water for a few seconds.
Sampson drained his glass and reached for the bottle. "Sir Philip, pardon my saying so, but you look like shit."
The floating image fluttered for a second. "I can't even pronounce the name of the disease, but its primary effect is that I can't touch anything or have anything touch any part of my body without extreme pain." Tanenbaum swung his arms around weightlessly. "This hyperbaric chamber has a solution that's mostly saltwater instilled with a numbing agent supporting me. I live on pain killers and whatever is coming out of this tube." He took another drink for emphasis. "The doctors tell me that I won't make Christmas."
Casey let half the glass of wine swish around in his mouth before he swallowed. "I was wondering why I hadn't seen you in so long."
Spinning a spoon on the top plate to get attention, Shanice slid the chair back from the table and started to stand. "Okay, this is bullshit. I don't know what you weirdoes have planned but I'm outta here, money or not."
"Do sit Miss Dickenson. I promise this will all be worth your while." Sir Philip took another sip and rolled slightly to one side, wincing in pain as he moved. "Sampson, do you remember a fight in June 1988 at the Armory in Newark?"
"June '88? No. Wait. Newark?" Sampson scratched his head.
"You were fighting in the light heavyweight division. Your opponent was an older fighter, and he was going to fade in the second and go down early in the third."
"Nope. Doesn't ring a bell," said Sampson with a shrug.
"I'll refresh your memory then." Sir Philip seemed to sit up a bit and floated closer to Sampson. "Mr. Vogel was going to pay you fifty thousand for the fight. You were supposed to knock the guy down in the third and he wasn't going to get back up. Instead, you connected with a group of Columbian cocaine smugglers and were arrested in Hoboken as the buy happened with enough cocaine that you spent five years in prison. But the morning of the fight, you at least fell into a responsible moment and found another fighter to go into the ring in your place."
Sampson squinted at the floating image, trying to recall the incident. He remembered the bust-stupid Columbians-and the eighty-four-month sentence that got reduced to sixty for good behavior and some cash from an old girlfriend.
"The young boxer you convinced to take your place was a heavyweight, a good eighteen pounds and three inches taller than the old fighter that was going to hit the canvas in the third." Sir Philip shook his head. "But you forgot to tell him, and the young heavyweight, all full of piss and vinegar, jumped into the ring and promptly destroyed the old man."
"Destroyed?" asked Sampson.
"Yes. He killed him."
Casey jumped up from his chair. "Wait a damn minute. I remember that fight." He pointed at Tanenbaum. "You paid for the fix. It was your money that got that old guy killed."
"No one was supposed to die, Mr. Vogel. Your fighter was supposed to tap the guy in the cheek and he'd fall like a lump of lead."
Lucien, now on his third glass of wine, had been watching this exchange with a puzzled look on his face. Suddenly, the mist cleared, and he shouted at the group, "I fought at the Newark Armory in June 1988. I remember it now. It was a little black guy. I wondered what the hell I was doing fighting someone that small. He was in the wrong weight class. Shit, I knocked him out pretty early in the fight."
Sir Philip let the words roll softly off his tongue, "No Lucien. You killed him."
Tears welled up in Lucien's eyes and he dropped his head to the table, sobbing loudly. "He went down hard. I saw his head bounce. But his eyes were open." He started to shake. "His eyes were open, and he was staring back at me, so I got up and went to my corner." The shaking intensified, and the giant came around the table to stand behind Lucien with his hands on the old boxer's shoulders. "There was a little girl standing at the edge of the ring and she kept reaching in toward the guy." He lifted his head and looked across the table at Shanice. "It was you. Oh my god, it was you."
Taking another sip, Sir Philip continued, "Mr. Vogel, you knew that Sampson had switched fighters. The Columbians were your friends. They told you one of your boxers was doing a deal with them and that they needed more money than he could supply and you gave it to them. Your money was in Sampson's hands when the DEA broke into the hotel room in Hoboken. You knew everything that was happening. You could have saved the little girl's father. All you had to do was tell Lucien about the fix and none of this would ever have happened."
Shanice hardened into a block of cold marble, sliding back in her chair until her spine was frozen against the terrycloth. In front of her sat her father's killer and the two men who caused his death. Every muscle in her body tightened in unison. Her breathing became fast and shallow as the anger rose in her guts. She could feel tears building in her eyes and quickly wiped them away so as not to show any sign of weakness to these people who had taken her father from her.
"I was ten years old," she hissed at them. "Do you know what it's like to see your father killed? Do you?"
The giant came around the table, stopping at the far end where he lifted a small covered serving platter from the cart, walked over to Shanice and placed it front of her without saying a word.
Tanenbaum rolled towards her, coughed hard for a few minutes and then caught his breath. "Yes, my dear. I do. I did. And that's why you're here."
In a single motion worthy of a seasoned restaurant server, the giant lifted the lid revealing a matte black 9mm Glock automatic on the plate. He took the gun, released the safety, and chambered a round. Placing the gun on the salad plate in front of Shanice, he turned it so the barrel faced away from her and then went to stand next to the cart at the end of the table.
"For revenge?" she shouted at the floating image, "You want me to be your instrument of destruction? You want me to kill them so you can die with a clear conscience? You're not only sick, you're insane."
"Perhaps. But your father's death is already blood on my hands and I'd rather not get any more." Tanenbaum nodded toward the giant. "We've reached that point in the evening where choice is no longer yours. The gun is untraceable. The walls are soundproof."
Each of the men pushed back from the table as if to run, but the giant pulled an identical Glock from a shoulder holster and pointed it at them. "No. Stay."
Tanenbaum shook his head. "No gentlemen. All of you must pay for this indiscretion."
Sampson was about to say something when Lucien stood and put his hand on the man's shoulder. "No. I killed him. It was my hands, not any of yours." He looked at Shanice and bowed his head. "I could apologize, but it would be meaningless. At the moment of the fight, when I was smashing his face, hearing the sounds of his bones crushing in his cheeks, his nose, all I wanted to do was win. I didn't care how hard I hit him. I just wanted to win." Lucien lifted his head and looked into her eyes as he spoke, "All of us deserve to die, but only one of us is a killer."
The word she screamed was as sharp as razor blade, "NO!" Shanice grabbed the heavy Glock and went into a combat stance, the same way she'd done it at the police range over and over again. She raised the gun, releasing her breath as the weapon came up, centered on the giant's face. He never had the time to lift his gun toward her before she put three rounds center mass into the giant's head, blowing pieces of it into the window behind him. The enormous body trembled for a few seconds and then fell forward, smashing into the glass table.
She was about to put a bullet into the holographic projector and send Sir Philip Tanenbaum to whatever ethereal death awaited him, but his laughter stopped her short. "Thank you, my dear. I was going to have to pay some serious coin to get rid of that oaf."
Sampson held his arms out toward Shanice. "Good shot. Let me have that gun and we'll get the hell outta here."
"No. I don't think so," said Tanenbaum, shaking his head slowly. "You've also run out of time and you just don't know it."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Casey, who had turned his chair so as not to look at the corpse, shoved the smaller plates off the largest plate and held it like a shield in front of his face.
"It was a nice wine. French 1972, one of my favorites when I could still drink." Tanenbaum guzzled the tube before continuing, his breath coming short and fast between words, "The poison is a more recent vintage. Tasteless and odorless, it takes just under thirty minutes to work, even with someone your size."
Lucien opened his mouth to speak, but the words froze on his lips. A tiny stream of white, frothy drool dribbled down one side of his face as he clutched at his throat. Swaying sideways, he tried to walk, but collapsed a few feet away from the table and was still.
Moments later, an odd wheeze came from Casey's lips. He was trying to breathe, but his chest wouldn't move. Sampson turned to look at him and spit several times, small drops of blood spattering the white napkin on his lap. And then, without another word, he ducked under the table and found the giant's gun. He skidded out from under it and came up behind the bookie with the gun pointed at the fat man's head. "No one is taking this joy away from me." He squeezed the trigger and Casey Vogel passed into eternity. With the next round, he destroyed the projector and stopped with his weapon aimed at Shanice. "Last chance, sweetheart."
She decided for him, slamming two bullets into the middle of his chest. Sampson's eyes froze, locked onto hers, never to see again. He crumpled and fell backwards, out of her view. Shanice took a couple of deep breaths, blowing them out slowly, and then placed the gun on the serving tray.
It was an hour or two later, Shanice hadn't looked at a clock since leaving Tanenbaum's penthouse. She knew she'd spent at least an hour making certain her fingerprints and DNA were nowhere to be found in the weird dining room, foyer, or the room where she undressed. The four one-hundred-dollar bills were in her pocket and the unsigned checks had been shredded and flushed. She had field stripped both Glocks after wiping them clean, dropping the pieces down random sewers on the walk back to her neighborhood. Once home, she burnt the envelope and invitation, blowing the ashes out her bedroom window to the wind. Her cop friends had long ago vanquished the legend of the perfect crime, but they also revealed how every criminal had screwed up. She was leaving nothing to chance.
For several minutes, she thought about dialing 911 and sending the sector cars to investigate, but why make extra work for the street cops? They'd find a bunch of bodies, no weapons, no clues, nothing but hours and hours of paperwork. Why not wait until the bodies began to rot? Wait until someone in the building smelled the stench of death? Let the detectives handle it. Shit, that's what they were paid for, right?
She stopped at a liquor store down the block from her apartment and used nearly half the four-hundred dollars on a bottle of wine, her first in many years, and a corkscrew. Standing in her kitchen, once again naked, she yanked the cork from the bottle and filled her best water glass halfway. It was an odd taste, sweet in the beginning, but a bit sour on the end. She looked at the words on the label, but beyond the year-1972-it was all French to her.
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