Page 94 of Savage Roses
“I… I was told to leave this for you… if… our conversation didn’t go well. G-goodbye, Ernest.”
He sniffles, turning and waddling away.
I’m seething on the spot to the point I do nothing but glare after him, watching him go. The unmitigated gall of him to turn up in my office and seek my assistance for his wretched after-hours activities!
A level of anger pumps through me that’s rare during my workday. I’m not a hothead and I don’t let most people get to me. Even when they do, I take the strategic approach. Always calm and collected, I form a full-proof plan on how to address whatever the situation is.
Anger and rage—hot, quick tempers—are for intellectually lazy people.
It’s much smarter to bide your time, formulate a strategy, and strike at the most opportune moment.
That’s how you deal with anger. That’s how you seekrevenge.
Yet, in the wake of Bernstein’s departure, I’m fuming harder than a chimney. If it were physiologically possible, I’d be emitting smoke too.
I force a calming breath through my lungs and turn to the coffee Agnes made me. He’s not going to ruin my morning—it’sChristmas Eve, for god’s sake.
A couple of swallows of Peruvian roast later, I’m regaining my senses. Silly of me to allow Bernstein to rile me up to such an extent, but he knew what he was doing coming by with such a request. If there’s one thing I would never condone, it’s preying on innocent children.
My gaze lands on the photo frames arranged along the outer edges of my desk. One is a family photo of Leontine, the kids, and I during our last summer vacation at Montbec Island. We went up and stayed at our beach house for a week (the longest vacation I’ve taken in years). The second photo is of our wedding day. The last, a candid polaroid taken at home of Marcel and Delphine this past Halloween—he was a Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtle and she was a kitty cat. I put this one on my desk along with the others, because of its ability to make me smile.
I’ll do anything for the kids. Anything for Leontine.
The black envelope just beyond the photo frames comes into focus. The sense of ease the Halloween photo brings me dissipates as I stare at the envelope Bernstein left before I kicked him out. He’d mentioned he was told to leave it if our conversation didn’t go well.
I believe in ripping off bandaids in instances like this. The unknown irks me.
Why wait to find out whatever the hell he’s put in the envelope when I can know right this instant?
I tear it open and pluck out what’s inside.
Whereas moments ago sheer anger flamed through me, the sensation I’m left with now is the cold trickle of dread.
It pours over me like a bucket of ice water, robbing me of my next breath. My next thought.
I can only gape at the photograph in my hands.
With time, the film and stock quality have declined, but there’s no mistaking it’s realness—three men in tuxedos at a social event that’s decadent even for the early 1970s timeline. Some gala for the elite, hosted by the Neptune Society.
All three I recognize.
One, Cornelius Starch, former well-renown Mayor of Northam when I was a teenager. The other is Leandro Crotone, Don of the most powerful crime family the city’s ever known.
The last is Huxley Adams.
My father.
They smoke cigars and share in animated conversation by the looks of it. Three powerful men in their own right. Three elites. All basking in their status.
My desk phone rings. It’s such a stark contrast to the heavy silence in the room, I flinch. Then feel foolish for being an easy mark. Snatching the phone off its base, I snarl at whoever is on the other end.
“Ernest Adams,” comes a digitized voice. “The rooftop of the Northam Bank building. Seven-thirty. Bring the photo.”
“No,” I snap. “You pieces of garbage think you’ll blackmail me like the others? I’m incorruptible! So my father was part of your stupid club? I’ll never be!”
“Northam Bank building. Be on the rooftop at seven-thirty. Bring the photo.”
Click.