Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

She hadn’t seen him yet and Mario didn’t answer. He had no time for his wife or for her questions. If there was another exit near him, he would have grabbed Stewart and taken off.

The carpet ended and their shoes now clicked on parquet as they entered the foyer. Lucia turned from the mirror she was standing at and she looked at him, her lips parting when she saw the cold determination in his eyes.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

Mario shoved a finger at her. “Stay out of this.”

She took a step forward, blocked his path. “You don’t intimidate me,” she said. “Something’s wrong. Tell me where you’re going.”

There was a moment of complete silence, a moment when neither moved nor even blinked…and then Harold Baines was stepping past them.

Lucia looked at the man, her eyes widening as she recognized him. When it was announced that Leana Redman would be managing Louis Ryan’s new hotel, the Daily News ran several pictures of her. In one of those pictures, her arm was around this man’s shoulders.

She looked at Mario, her eyes like a light turned to his face. “It’s Leana again, isn’t it?” she said.

He walked past her. “We’ll talk later,” he said. “Not now.”

He moved down the narrow brick steps, squinting in the harsh sunlight. He noticed that Harold Baines was gone. His limousine turned at the end of the street and sped onto Fifth. Reaching into his pants pocket, Mario removed his car keys and tossed them to Stewart, who was waiting on the sidewalk, looking behind Mario, toward the open door.

Lucia was standing there. “I’ve been with your father, Mario.” Her voice was low and even and carried across the street. “He knows everything.”

Mario’s pace slowed.

“I told him you’re fucking her,” she said. “He said he’d kill her if you don’t stop.”

Mario looked at Stewart and saw the cool neutrality on his face. “Start the car, Joe,” he said. “I’ll be a minute.”

Lucia came down the stairs. “No, you won’t, Mario,” she said. “Because neither of you is going anywhere. If Joe gets into that car, I’ll see to it that he winds up in the Hudson. That’s a promise. Now, come back inside.”

Stewart’s mouth tightened into a splinter of hate. He looked at Mario.

“You work for me now, Joe,” Mario said. “Start the car.”

Relishing the moment because he never liked this Lucia bitch, Stewart crossed the street, opened the Taurus’ heavy black door and stepped inside.

And then Lucia was suddenly running toward him, sprinting across the street, plunging her hands through the open car window, grabbing hold of his arm with a fierceness that was surprising in its strength. Her long red fingernails dug into his flesh.

“Get out of the car!” she screamed. “Get out of fucking car or I’ll kill you myself!”

Stewart jerked his arm free, the fabric of his gray blazer tearing. He looked across the street at Mario, who was running a hand through his hair. “Let it go, Lucia,” Stewart said. “It’s over.”

He stuck the key into the ignition.

Lucia slapped his face. She clawed at it and drew blood. He tried to push her off and heard Mario shout her name.

And then he started the car.

The explosion catapulted the Taurus twenty feet into the air, blowing off its doors and tires and fenders, causing it to flip in a violent somersault and destroy everything in its fiery path before it landed beside Mario, whose chest had been struck by the flying debris.

At the subway terminal on West 4th Street, Harold waited for his limousine to fade from sight before he joined the crush of people hurrying down the terminal’s seemingly endless steps.

He tried to keep up with them, clutching the handrail for support, but he nearly fell when a group of teenagers darted past him. It was difficult and it was exhausting, but it would be worth it.

By the time he reached the lower level, he was winded and perspiring, his heart beating dangerously fast. The train hadn’t arrived. Groups of people were either leaning against the tiled columns or waiting impatiently along the cement precipice. It was insufferably hot. The air was unmoving. He hadn’t taken the subway in years. He’d forgotten how ruthless it was in the summer.

He found an opening in the crowd, moved toward it and looked down at the grimy track. His stomach clenched when he saw a rat. Its tail flicking nervously, its ears quivering, the rat was eating the remains of a what appeared to be another rat.

Harold looked away. He wouldn’t miss this city. He wouldn’t miss this filth.

He closed his eyes and thought of Leana. She had known. All these years and she had known, her love for him never faltering. The idea that she had seen photographs of him made him want to cry in humiliation. How many times had she seen him and thought of those pictures? How many times had she held him and felt pity?

There was a sudden stir in the humid air. The cement floor vibrated and the people leaning against the columns became alert and moved forward.

Harold glanced down at the track and watched the rat disappear beneath a wooden tie, its grayish tail slipping from sight.

He thought of Louis Ryan then and wondered what would happen to the man once Mario De Cicco got hold of him. I hope he cuts his throat, Harold thought. I hope he rips out his heart, crushes it in his hands…

He trusted De Cicco in a way that surprised him.

Harold knew the Redmans would be safe in De Cicco’s hands. He knew that Mario would protect them in a way that he hadn’t. A part of him almost wished he would be here to witness tomorrow morning’s headlines.

There was a rush of wind as the train charged into the tunnel. Looming into view, it bore down hard on the crowd.

Harold watched the train storm toward him and welcomed its presence with a certain bitterness. Three days ago he had tested positive for HIV. His heroin and cocaine addiction was out of control. He knew that even if Ryan died, the tape the man blackmailed him with would somehow resurface and fall into the hands of the press, thus embarrassing himself even further while destroying his family.

It was better this way. There was nothing left for him in this world.

The train was close.

He thought of Helen and his children, but mostly he thought of Leana. He loved her. He would miss her most. In his will, he had left her half of everything.

Just as the train was about to pass him, he welcomed its presence and jumped.

And in that moment before the train struck, Harold heard the stunned, primal cries of a society that had refused to let him be himself-a group of hypocrites taking a collective breath and then letting loose one monstrous scream. The bastards wanted him to live!

Furious, Harold wanted to scream at them, tell them what an outrage it was that he had to live a life of lies, that he had never been given the chance they took for granted-that chance to be who he was without ridicule or fear, without pain or humiliation.

But when the train struck and rolled over him, severing him, his voice was crushed, silenced like so many before him, becoming nothing more than a wet, clotted gasp as his body was sliced into quarters.

Jack Douglas kept himself in check, but his anger was rising, becoming paramount, consuming him in waves.

He was on a sofa. Diana was at his side. He looked at the man seated opposite them. He had murdered Celina and now he would probably murder them. Jack wished, just wished that he could have the chance to show this son of a bitch what real fear was.

“It’s remarkable, really,” the man said. Earlier, he had introduced himself as Spocatti, merely Spocatti, and now he was sipping a drink he had Diana fix for him at the bar. In his other hand was a gun. It was pointed at Jack. “I mean, the way you pieced everything together.” He cocked his head at Diana. “If I hadn’t wired your apartment, I wouldn’t have known what you two were up to today. Louis Ryan and I probably would be in jail.”