“Yeah?”
“Yes. I think Summer Place wants everyone to know it’s alive and in charge.”
“It may be in charge, but it sure as hell is not alive.”
In silence, they turned onto the highway heading for New York.
Thirty-five miles away, every door in Summer Place from the front entrance hall to the attic pull-down, creaked, was thrown, or fell open, and the laughter reached every shadowed corner throughout the house. The only door that remained closed was the double doorway at the end of the third floor hallway.
The sewing room was still and silent.
Lionel Peterson perched on the edge of his desk at the New York office, nearly sliding off the corner but catching his balance just in time. His drink spilled onto his pants but he paid no attention; he was basically covered in alcohol already. In the parking lot a few hours before, Lionel Peterson discovered something about himself that he had hoped never to learn: he was, at heart, a coward. Lionel had failed the one and only test of physical bravery that had ever arisen in his forty-two years, and he hated it. His grip tightened on the glass in his left hand and the phone in his right hand, with the memory of how trapped he had felt inside that car with Feuerstein and Kelly. The two of them had handled the situation far better than he had, especially that damned Delaphoy. Oh, he knew the woman was as scared as he, but she had recovered where he failed to do so. His hand shook as he raised the glass to his lips.
“This better be good,” the voice said on the other end of the phone.
“Yeah?” Peterson slurred the word. “Well, it is.”
“Mr. Peterson, you sound drunk. If this is a social call, let me tell you, I don’t appreciate it,” Wallace Lindemann said from his bedroom across town.
“Social call?” Peterson laughed. “For some reason I don’t think you or I get that many social calls at four in the morning these days. I mean, with you being in financial straits and me being tossed about like a man clinging to a fucking life raft.”
“What is this about? I don’t need commentary on my personal life.”
Peterson drained the whiskey and allowed the empty glass to fall from his fingers to the carpeted floor.
“The matter we discussed this evening, I want you to proceed with it. How soon can you get them out there?”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Peterson swayed and placed his left hand on the desk to steady himself. He closed his eyes until the dizzy spell passed. When he opened them again, he looked around the office. He no longer trusted his senses after the events in the parking garage.
“My guess is that they won’t come until the day after tomorrow.”
“Not good enough. They have to be there in the morning. Pay them what they want — my money — but get them there first thing in the morning.”
“Are you nuts, Peterson? These people are professors at Columbia University; they’re only considering this job because they think Kennedy is a nutcase who makes them all look bad. As much as they despise him, they’ll never come at such short notice. I can get them the morning of the show, and that’s it.”
“Get them there in the morning. The crew is going to be there a day early to set up.”
“That’s not in the contract, I won’t—”
“When are you going to understand, Lindemann, that you don’t have a fucking thing to say about it? Corporate will do what they want, and you can sit and suck on it. If you want that house to sell, you better do as I say, because if this special airs and Kennedy proves that Summer Place is what he says it is, we’re both fucked.”
“What’s happened to change your mind about that ridiculous claim of his?”
Peterson fell silent. He knew he had to stand up before he fell over. As he did, he heard a buzzing. His heart pounded until he realized it was the overnight cleaning man, sweeping by his open door with the floor buffer. He closed his eyes and wanted to cry at his failure to keep his composure.
“Just get the cleaners out to the house. Neither of us needs Summer Place to demonstrate what it’s capable of. I want that television special to be a mundane, boring tour promoting the sale of your house, and that’s it.”
“Okay, but it will cost you. These guys, as much as they hate Kennedy, want to be paid.”
“I’ll write you a check as soon as I can sign my name without shaking. Now get that house straightened out. Kennedy and the others will be there tomorrow afternoon.”
Peterson placed the phone on his desk without hanging it up. He walked to the front of the office and stared out of the large window that looked out onto the street far below. He swiped at a tear that coursed down his cheek, slapping it away far harder than he intended to. He was ashamed, and knew he could be possibly ending his career, but after tonight that was a backseat consideration. He wanted to strike back at Summer Place and take Kelly Delaphoy down with it.
Far below, he watched the quiet streets of Manhattan, and knew he could never look at anything so innocent the same way again.
Summer Place had ruined his life.
George sat in the lobby lounge drinking a glass of milk — an order which had drawn questioning looks from several of the businessmen around him, and a not-so-friendly glance from the large bartender. With his tie down and jacket off, George sipped at the chilled milk and stared at the polished bar top.
The speakers, hidden in the corners of the ostentatious lobby bar, played a muzak version of Dirty Deeds by AC/DC. That irritated George even further. Good society could screw up the simplest of pleasures. Cordero shook his head. It was a good way to assist his departure out of the city.
As he took a drink of his milk, he felt the eyes on him from the back of the room. He knew who it was without turning around, only because he and the man watching him were as close as two men could get in ability. He also sensed the woman with him, so he just waited.
As John Lonetree started into the lobby lounge, Jennifer Tilden stopped him. She gently tugged on his coat and then shook her head when he glanced down. She pointed to her own chest, indicating that she would be the one to talk to George. She pointed John to an empty table and went to ease herself onto the barstool next to George’s.
“Yes, ma’am?” the bartender asked. He looked as though he was expecting another strange request from the tired and worn-looking little woman who had chosen to sit next to the milk drinker.
“Double Wild Turkey, please.” She placed both hands on the bar and laced her fingers together. She looked at the mirror above the bar. George continued to stare into his glass of milk.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” he said, giving her a sideways glance.
“No. Bobby Lee McKinnon didn’t drink. I do.”
“A musician who didn’t drink? That’s a little hard to believe,” George said, turning to face her.
She smiled at the bartender when he placed the crystal glass of Wild Turkey in front of her. Jennifer impressed both George and the server, downing the drink. She placed it on the bar and slid it toward the large man. “Another — with ice this time.”
When the bartender left, Jenny turned and smiled at Cordero. “We want you to stay, George.”
Cordero smiled and then turned away. He raised the glass of milk and paused with it in front of his face. Its pure white seemed to mesmerize him for a moment. Then he suddenly set the glass down.
“Do you know what it’s like to just simply touch someone and know — I mean, really know — what is going to happen to them? To see what was in their past, to know who they are in an instant, far better than anyone’s ever known them before?”