“Sure thing,” he said.
I’d wangled a table in the It Row at Brasserie 8½. The West
Fifty-seventh industry hot spot shared the same building as Chanel headquarters. As I’d hoped, industry bigwigs nodded, waved hello, even paused at our table for small talk. I (gleefully) introduced Carmine then nudged his foot to indicate indispensable power brokers, a power play as delicious as lunch.
Mr C leaned to Carmine. “What I tell you? Until Emma never could we receive this service or respect.” He patted my hand. “Thank you for all you’ve done. For me and such a trooper teaching Carmine and ensuring he leads well once I retire.”
“It’s a pleasure working for someone who cares so for his employees.” We returned to party details and Carmine insisted guests include his outlying reps and officers.
On the home front, Neil and Dale flew in on Spring business and treated Ethan and me to the Met’s Samson et Delilah with Placido Domingo. Ethan formed a cohesive baseball team from his gaggle of players and finished with twice the wins to losses. Coach Paige signed on for another year. An insistent Ashley, he swore was the parent organising the sports banquet, outpaced
Rosalie and Nicole in voicemails.
All Spring my team and I juggled Ciao!Beauty/Kinetic demands with organizational sessions for the fall company celebration. Our decision to salute Nikolas Christopoulos and his fifty years in business revved up the meetings to weekly. Thomas Schuman, now on retainer as house photographer, would capture the event on BRoll video. We booked The Plaza for Friday, October Twelfth, including conference areas, the Ellington Park Suite for Mr C, and blocks of rooms for overnight attendees. Atticus, heading in from LA, and Andrew from Chicago were the ones I looked forward to the most.
And then the second Tuesday in September arrived. The horror of 9/11 solidified us as nothing else could. “We are family,” Mr Christopoulos said. We employees united in our loss of neighbours, friends and family and he returned to the office for the next two weeks.
Closest to home, Neil called to check on Ethan and me. His beloved Beverly Hills associate had been on the plane to LAX, returning from a Boston buying spree. New York phone lines were so jammed it took Maxine two days to reach us. She’d held a packed vigil Tuesday night (even my mother attended), and was to conduct the service for a Brucknerfield Marine killed at the Pentagon. Adam Donavan, our building super and Ethan’s closest friend, lost his Port Authority police officer brother. Should we cancel the employee event just four-and-a-half weeks away? Reps called, reluctant to fly to New York, let alone spend time in the city. With The Empire State Building suddenly the tallest in New York again, were our offices now a target? Fear emptied Manhattan streets. Tourists cancelled in droves.
With the Yankees again in the pennant race, even the World Series was pushed back to the end of October.
Was it disrespectful to hold a celebration? Surely morale would be at an all-time low. Mr C called us together the following Monday. “It is a go,” he said.
“All weekend, ‘Nikos,’ I tell myself, ’You were a Greek teenager when Athens fell in nineteen-forty. You and your family did not give in to treachery then. You and your business family do not give in to it now.” We needed something to rally around and this was it. We quoted him and reservations held. We greeted attendees at our welcome station. and I opened the events at the podium. “Thank you all,” I said. “There’s much to keep us sombre. Comfort each other while you’re here. Everyone in the room had been affected. Support for each other will be part of the agenda.”
I smiled. “You’re here to celebrate, too. The Plaza Hotel and its employees are thrilled you’re here. New York City – Broadway, the museums, every sidewalk vendor—are thrilled you’re here. Every cab driver’s cheering.” I let the laughter die down. “And on behalf of Mr Nikolas Christopoulos, we are thrilled you’ll be part of our seminars and celebrations.”
He delivered a professionally written motivational speech (practiced for weeks) and our event began. Employees attended morning workshops and training sessions, then afternoon marketing programs Dustin created. Isgro Cabinet appointees appeared at some but primarily stayed sequestered with board members and unfamiliar entourages in a private room.
When we reconvened for the evening, Carmine mimicked his uncle’s satisfied expression. We’d met our top-quality goals. Big Band classics wafted through cocktail hour. VIP tables placed our top European clients, Middle East retailers, and surprise Milanese relatives to best advantage. When our competitive sales force’s appreciation awards prompted entertaining but long-winded acceptance speeches, Carmine’s bored expression landed on me. “Hang in there,” I whispered. “Sales people love to brag. Brand perks and company celebrations build envy. We need a good year end. This motivates them to hit projected sales targets.”
“And I asked for your advice?” he hissed.
Mr Christopoulos announced his retirement, we joined the applause, lights dimmed. The screen glowed with my surprise fifty-year timeline video tribute, and our teary-eyed guests’ standing ovation closed the evening.
At midnight I finally excused myself from the impromptu gathering in Jennifer’s suite. Jet-lagged Atticus dozed in the club chair; but Dustin and Andrew still held court with reps as I left. Walking the hallway reminded me of my Plaza evening with Pierre Meysselle, so French, seductive, yet the ultimate gentleman. I turned the corner.
Carmine leaned against the elevator wall, thumb on the up button. “Well, well, the fucking force to be reckoned with.” He whiskey-laced slur stopped me as he stepped forward. “My cabinet calls you the that but I don’t buy your brand of Miss Cheerleader bullshit. Pretending you need to guide me; making fucking nice. I don’t give a damn what promises my uncle’s fed you. Thiza family company; you are not family.” He pressed me against the wall. “Non siete famigilia. Capire?”
“Listen to your cabinet. I am trying to keep us solvent.”
“There is no us.” Carmine slid his free hand down my back to my butt. I flattened against the wall crushing his fingers.
The elevator dinged, he stepped back and two couples exited. I entered and glared. “Don’t even think about getting in, you degenerate asshole.”
Carmine Isgro was hardly the first degenerate asshole in my life. My childhood prepared me for the resulting nothing-happened atmosphere. I gritted my teeth, played pleasant and tried not to obsess over Mr C’s absence, a hole neither Carmine nor his recruits filled. I focused on holiday sales and pushed the team hard to make year’s end planned P&L. Fraternity house replaced Big Band era. Carmine added a bar in the kitchen, and basketball net in the conference room. January staff meetings barely addressed 2002 strategies, yet his team outvoted my every suggestion over structure.
When a colleague contacted me about a high-profile celebrity fragrance license deal coming in the new year, Carmine or no, I met with Cam Hampton, the Brit heading the project. I added this international contact to my own network over drinks at The Jockey Club. Cam laid out projections and stats from players gathering intel on the North American market. He quoted twenty to thirty million dollars as the upfront requirement. Pointless to consider without the Christopoulos influence, but I asked to be kept in the loop.
“Carmine’s half-assed directives for Kinetic distort everything his uncle dreamed of for Ciao!Beauty,” I whined to Ethan. “I swear Mr C’s completely in the dark. His goal to leave it in solid management hands is going down the tubes.”
During the chaotic days of 9//11 and its aftermath I occasionally saw a backpack delivery arrive at the front desk. By December I realised the messenger handed the satchel to assistant Bernie every Tuesday and Thursday. Contraband? Gambling? Maybe nothing but trusting my gut had never failed me. Ethan’s devotion to team stats rivalled Las Vegas sports bookies. He was now home 24/7 so I developed a wifely interest in running numbers. I didn’t dare tell him what I suspected, so I played Twenty Questions.
“I’m analytical,” he told me, “You’ve watched me for years, Babe. No emotional aspect. Some weeks I do trials, say five bucks on the games to see how my formula works with their stats and odds makers’ predictions. Depending on how my picks come in, I up the ante the next week. It’s important to watch your back. Due diligence, of course. Now money goes right into the bank.”
“Or out to someone else’s.”
“True, but electronics makes bookkeeping clean and uncomplicated, except for the old guys who need the feel of cold hard cash.” That gut of mine tightened.
On a January Tuesday, I crossed paths with Mr Backpack and Bernie as I returned from lunch. Due diligence and what if, what if, what if, destroyed my concentration. I stewed all afternoon. By the time I finished the day’s requirements, the office had emptied. Now, I told myself, before the cleaning crew arrives. I shut my computer down and hot-footed down the hall.
Carmine’s locked (Clue Number 1) office required my self-taught lock-picking skills. I got in, stood stock still, and perused every inch of the room without disturbing anything. To be honest, I didn’t know what to disturb. Should I search for the backpack itself? For its unknown contents? For related skull duggery?
The interior wall bookcase featured five by sevens of Carmine—grinning from a golf cart, teeing off with a foursome, posing for Thomas at Mr C’s annual October event. All were interspersed among gold-plated tchotchkes, and rows of leather-bound law books. Nothing to be smuggled in a backpack.
I swivelled in Carmine’s executive chair and stared at a Coney Island souvenir ashtray of paperclips, red rubber bands, a few screws, and pieces of candy cane. Rifle the file drawer for something nefarious? Skim the paperwork on his desk? Fire up his computer? The heating units under each window rumbled and hissed, startling me into reality. Skulking around like Nancy Drew was nuts, not to mention grounds for immediate dismissal sans severance package.
I leaned on the register for a final look at the last of Midtown’s holiday lights. Lo and behold, the cold metal cover shifted under my sweaty palms. Only the unit to my right was on. The loose cover of this one lifted without prying. I looked over my shoulder at the screws in the astray, (Clue Number 2), and back at the now-exposed radiator, complete with wedged backpack. (Clue Number 3)
“Bloody hell.” I knelt and unzipped it as carefully as if it were packed with explosives. Maybe it was packed with explosives. Nope. Bundled cash. Wads of bills secured in red rubber bands, mixed among a few hand-sized Soir de Provence, one hundred millilitres/3.4-ounce fragrance packages. I pulled two out.
The signature lavender packaging seemed slightly off, closer to blue. I rotated it under Carmine’s desk lamp but needn’t have bothered. Folded paper turned out to be Excel ledger listings, proof of shipping totals to various countries. Bloody hell. Bloody hell. Carmine wasn’t gambling; Carmine was counterfeiting our products.
Chapter Fourteen
My heart knocked against my ribs. As I snooped, the bastard could be pressing 27 in the skyscraper elevator; an accomplice could be disguised as cleaning help; The Cabinet Guys could be organised god-only-knew what. Ethan Paige would go ballistic.
A hot, clammy wave of impending anxiety attack roiled. Before I lost my nerve I slid the perfume back in the bundled cash, but removed one of several ledger sheets. I needed collateral. The terrifying Carmine-as-crook scenarios already slammed around in my head. I replaced the screw-less register cover, remembered to lock the door behind me, got the hell out of the Empire State Building, then hightailed it home.
