Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

But then, suddenly, a team of seven dogs rushed around the street corner he was standing at, nearly toppling him as they hurried toward downtown Cambridge. Louis turned and watched them run, their expensive leather leashes whipping and writhing behind them.

And then he saw her.

“For God’s sake!” the young woman shouted as she shot around the corner. “Help me catch them!”

Louis ran after her. She was out of breath, her face flushed, her long black hair swinging. Louis was about to ask how they got free when she stopped and her hands flew to her mouth. There was a screech of tires. Undaunted, the dog joined his friends and trotted on-only this time a bit slower as the group weaved through traffic and moved toward the center of town.

“Hurry!” she said.

They began running again, faster this time. Louis’s mind raced. “Are they all joined by one leash?” he asked.

“Yes!”

He was running alongside her now. She’s pretty, he thought. “I’m going to cross the street and head them off. You lure them to me.”

Her eyes widened. “How?”

“I don’t know-get in front of them, chase them in my direction. When they’re close enough, I’ll grab their leash and they’ll be yours again.” He looked across the street and pointed to a cluster of trees. “I’ll be over there.”

“It won’t be that easy.”

“It will be,” he said. “Go.”

He started across the street. “I don’t even know your name,” he said. “I’m Louis Ryan.”

“Anne Roberts,” she said, starting to run again. “And I promise if we get these dogs back, you won’t regret it!”

It was over dinner that evening that Anne told Louis she walked the dogs to earn extra money for college. Now, remembering that day and those that followed, almost made her death seem as if it hadn’t happened, as if George Redman had never fouled their lives. But then, as always, Louis remembered that snowy February evening, just days after George lost his final appeal in court, and the first memory shattered.

He leaned forward in his chair and lifted Anne’s picture from his desk. When his mother died, he had been powerless to help her. He accepted her death as he accepted his own fate. But his wife’s man-made death could be fought. This time he didn’t have to accept the unacceptable.

For years, Louis fantasized about killing George Redman’s wife. For years, he imagined how sweet it would be to take from the man what he assumed was his greatest love. But as time passed and he learned more about his wife’s murderer, Louis realized that while Redman loved his wife deeply, he was just as passionate about Redman International and his daughter, Celina.

They were his life’s accomplishments. They hadn’t failed him. It was then, as Redman’s daughter and his conglomerate matured, that Louis had his awakening. In order to make Redman feel the pain he had felt for years, Louis would take everything from the man, not stopping until his own thirst for revenge was satisfied.

There was a knock at his office door. It was only seven-thirty. Michael wasn’t supposed to be here for another half-hour. “Yes?” he said.

The door swung open and his secretary, Judy, stepped into the room. When she saw that he had been studying his wife’s picture, she hesitated, remembering a time years ago when she walked in unannounced and saw tears in his eyes while he held it. She turned to leave. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just coming in to catch up on some work. Jim told me you were here.”

She held the current edition of the New York Times in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. “I was going to give you these.”

Louis replaced Anne’s picture and managed a smile. “Remind me to give you a raise,” he said. “Those are exactly what I need right now. Come in.”

“I think you might find the paper interesting,” Judy said as she crossed the room to his desk. She was an attractive woman in her middle forties, with short blonde hair and a nose that was just saved from being too wide. She had worked for Louis for nearly twenty years and had become rich because of her ability to keep secrets. “Especially the front page and the business section.”

Louis looked up at her, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Judy placed the coffee down beside him. “This,” she said while handing him the paper. There, on the front page, was a picture of the new Redman

International Building-complete with a close-up of one of the destroyed spotlights. The banner headline read: EXPLOSIVE DAY FOR GEORGE REDMAN

Before Louis could react, Judy was saying, “And here,” as she opened the paper to the business section. There, the headline read:

REDMAN STOCK CONTINUES PLUNGE; PLANS TO TAKE OVER WESTTEX CONFIRMED

Louis skimmed the article that ran beneath the headline before turning to the front page and reading about the three spotlights he had Vincent Spocatti rig with explosives. When he was finished, he looked up at Judy. “And I thought today was going to be a bad day,” he said.

Michael Archer awoke to the sharp crack of gunfire and the shrill screams of people on the street.

Startled, he sat up in bed and came face to face with his best friend of nearly fourteen years, Rufus, the golden retriever who sat beside him. There was a gnawed plastic dish in his jaws.

Michael slumped back against the mattress and closed his eyes. Already, the morning was warm and muggy. He turned onto his side and looked at what had become his only home-an over-priced one-room apartment on Avenue B that smelled like shit and now was filled with boxes sent from around the world.

Rufus nudged his arm and Michael got up, looking tentatively out the window as he passed it. Down below on the sidewalk, a small crowd of people were gathering around a woman who was face down on the street. Blood was pooling around her head. People were on cell phones, some were taking photos. Welcome to fucking New York, he thought.

Michael took the dish from Rufus’ mouth and filled it with dry dog food. He watched a cockroach scatter across the countertop and the irony that he now was living in this dump was not lost on him.

At thirty-four, he was among the most powerful men in Hollywood. His movies made millions at the box office, he had written six blockbuster novels and he had adapted four of them for the screen-all of which he had starred in and produced. To the public, he not only was a fine actor and writer, but also a respected businessman. Through his novels and movies, he led his fans into another world and gave them the escape they desired. He was their king, their shining star. He was invincible.

They were dead wrong.

The public knew only what Michael Archer allowed them to know. And because of this, they couldn’t know that this was now his life-and it was in danger.

The warnings began as small reminders. After a major purchase, his manager and accountants would call and suggest he curb his spending. “You’re not the government, Michael,” they would say. “Remember, even you have financial limits.”

Michael would nod and listen, but soon he would forget their words and instead remember his beginnings in Hollywood-a time when money was so scarce, he was lucky to eat one meal a day. Then, he hadn’t owned a villa in Italy, a brownstone in Boston, an estate in Beverly Hills. Then, Michael had known nothing but the struggle of day to day life and his seedy apartment in West L.A.

To escape from those days, Michael surrounded himself with luxury, often spending more money in a week than many people made in a year. Never did he think his bank accounts would run dry. Until they did.

He had been two weeks in Cairo, vacationing at a high-end resort, when his business manager phoned to tell him that his bank was about to foreclose on each of his three homes. Going as well were the Ferrari, the Lamborghini, both yachts.