The Birthday Girl (24 page)

meeting her in motels at regular intervals for just about the best sex he'd ever had. He smiled as he remembered that it wasn't only motels where they'd met. Twice they'd made love in the Corvette, and while it was cramped and uncomfortable it had given the act an excitement that brought back memories of his high-school days.

Anderson knew that he wasn't the only lover Katherine had taken, and she clearly saw nothing wrong in having affairs behind her husband's back. More often than not it was Katherine who initiated sex. She'd call him at the office and tell him which motel to go to, and she'd be waiting for him with a bottle of champagne on ice. In bed, there wasn't anything she wouldn't do for him, and she seemed to take as much pleasure from the act as he did. But she was always the first to go, often showering while he lay exhausted on the rumpled bed and leaving him to drop off the key. Once she was out of bed she wouldn't even kiss him. There was a coldness about her after they'd made love, a distance that he was never able to bridge. In a way that suited Anderson. His wife was the total opposite. After lovemaking she wanted to lie in his arms and talk, when all he wanted to do was to close his eyes and sleep. He liked the fact that he didn't have to sweet-talk Katherine, that she appreciated that their relationship would never go beyond recreational sex. But it worried his ego somewhat that she seemed so happy with the arrangement. At times he almost felt that it was him who was being taken advantage of.

He turned off the main highway and on to the road that led to his home, a comfortable ranch-house in Towson. The sky was starting to darken and several cars heading in the opposite direction had their headlights on. Anderson yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. It had been a long day in the office and his last hit of cocaine had worn off several hours earlier. He reached absent-mindedly towards the glove compartment and its vial of white powder, but pulled back when he realised what he was doing. Snorting at the wheel wasn't a smart move. Besides, he could wait. He wasn't an addict. A user, yes, but he could go for days without a hit if he wanted to. Well, hours, for sure. He didn't see the point of depriving himself of the high if he didn't have to.

Cocaine helped him work, it made him more sociable, it lifted his thought processes to a higher level. The drug was a problem only if you let it get out of hand. Used sensibly it was safer than cigarettes or alcohol, and as far as Anderson was concerned, the sooner it was legalised the better.

He drummed on the steering wheel, nodding his head in time with the driving beat. He rubbed the bridge of his nose but found it hard to control the Corvette with one hand. He wondered if there was something wrong with the steering. Lately it had seemed that the car tended to drift at high speed, and he made a mental note to get it checked.

The light was on in the porch as Anderson stopped the car in front of the single-storey building. It came on automatically at dusk. His wife had insisted on having the light installed after a spate of burglaries in the area. The upmarket homes of Towson provided rich pickings for the intravenous drug users and sneak thieves of the inner city, and burglar alarm systems and bedside handguns were the norm rather than the exception. Anderson's wife kept a loaded Colt automatic in a cabinet by the bed; there was a shotgun in the closet and a very expensive alarm system.

He took the cocaine from the glove compartment and the pizza from the passenger seat and locked the car before stepping up on to the porch. A red light blinked on the Corvette's dashboard, another necessary security precaution. Car insurance costs were soaring in the suburbs as car thieves realised that the most expensive models were now to be found well outside the city centre. Middle-class professionals like Anderson had fled the city as it had fallen into decay, but by clustering together in suburban havens they'd only served to make themselves easier targets.

He unlocked the front door and walked quickly to the hall closet. Inside was the circuit panel into which he had to tap a four-digit code to deactivate the alarm system within twenty seconds. He fumbled with the pizza, trying not to tilt it as he opened the closet door, but he frowned as he realised that the system had already been switched off. He stood staring at the white-metal wall-mounted box, trying to recall if he'd left the house that morning without turning it on. It wasn't like him.

V 194 STEPHEN LEATHER His wife had drilled it into him how important it was always to have the security system on when they were out. She scoured the local papers for details of robberies and muggings in their area and pinned them to the refrigerator with small fruit-shaped magnets, and even though she was out of town her conditioning meant that Anderson would no more think of leaving the house without activating the system than he would of going out without his trousers. Still, the evidence was there before him. His frown deepened. Maybe there'd been a power failure. No, that wasn't possible because the porch light was on. He shrugged. Maybe it had just slipped his mind.

He closed the closet door with his shoulder and carried the pizza through to the kitchen. He dropped it down on the kitchen table and took the vial of cocaine out of his shirt pocket. Pizza or cocaine? It took less than a second to make up his mind. He could always reheat the pizza.

He headed for the guest bedroom. That was where he normally snorted the drug, away from his wife's prying eyes. Even though she wasn't around, he still felt safer taking the drug behind closed doors. As he walked by the sitting room, someone spoke his name. Anderson jumped backwards. The vial spun from his hand and shattered on the wooden floor. His eyes were wide and his whole body was shaking. Disparate thoughts ran through his mind: was he being robbed, were they armed, could he reach his shotgun, how had they got into the house, would he be able to get the spilled cocaine off the floor? He backed into the kitchen. He couldn't see the man who'd spoken; he must have been in the shadows. There were two doorways leading off the sitting room, the one he had gone through and another that opened into the hallway. All his senses seemed intensified. He could hear his feet scrape along the floor and he could smell an aftershave he didn't recognise, sweet and sickly. He realised with a jolt that he was standing with the kitchen light behind him and that anyone in the sitting room would see him in silhouette. He'd be a perfect target. He ducked involuntarily and scuttled towards the back door, scrabbling for the key which was already in the lock. As he turned it he remembered that the last time he'd seen the key it had been hanging on a hook by the refrigerator.

He yanked the door open. There were two men standing there. Big men with hard faces. Anderson turned, but before he could run a massive hand clamped down on his shoulder and gripped like a vice.

'Maury, what the fuck are you doing?' called the voice from the sitting room. This time Anderson recognised the voice, but the recognition didn't make him any the less terrified.

The two heavies stepped into the kitchen. The one who was gripping his shoulder had bad acne, his skin pockmarked and rippled as if the flesh had been dragged along an asphalt road some time in the past. He grinned at Anderson, and it wasn't a pleasant expression. 'After you,' he said, and pushed Anderson forward.

Sabatino was sitting in a winged chair by the window. On the table next to him was a large framed photograph of Anderson and his wife, taken on their wedding day. When he'd left the house the photograph had been in its usual place, above the fireplace. His heart began to race like an over-exerted engine. Sabatino stood up and held out his hands like an old man welcoming a nephew. 'Maury, I'm sorry that we've come to your house uninvited.' He looked across at the wedding photograph. 'I suppose we should be grateful that at least we haven't had to disturb your wife, huh?'

'What do you want?' Anderson asked, all too well aware of how shaky his voice sounded.

'A chat. Just a chat.'

'Why here? Why now?'

The two heavyweights moved to stand either side of Anderson, like huge bookends. He hadn't seen them with Sabatino before. The man always had bodyguards close by, but never ones as big or as mean-looking as the two standing at his shoulders. 'We wanted a private chat, that's why.'

He became aware of another man in the room, standing in the opposite corner to Sabatino. He was taller than the Italian and thinner, with the gaunt look of a man who had trouble sleeping. As Anderson's eyes became used to the gloom he could make out a hooked, bird-like nose and hollow cheeks below dark spaces where he supposed the man's eyes were. He was standing like an 196 STEPHEN LEATHER undertaker overseeing a funeral, his back ramrod straight and his hands clasped behind him.

'My brother,' Sabatino explained. 'Bzuchar Utsyev.'

'Bzuchar?' Anderson repeated. The name didn\sound in the least bit Italian. Nor did the man's surname. And n>hey were brothers, how come they had different names? None of th^'s made any sense.

'Don't worry about it,' said the man in the corner, obviously sensing his confusion. He stepped forward and switched on a table lamp. In its yellow glow Anderson could see that the man's hair was close-cropped and grey, emphasising the skull-like appearance of his head. 'I'm Gilani's brother, and his business partner.'

Anderson shook his head, confused. As far as he knew, Sabatino's first name was Sal, not Gilani. 'Pleased to meet you,' he said.

Utsyev smiled cruelly as if he knew exactly how pleased Anderson was to have him in his home. 'Why don't you sit down?' he said. 'This won't take long.'

'How did you get into my house?' Anderson asked.

'Sit down,' Utsyev ordered, pointing to a sofa.

The two heavies tensed and Anderson knew that Utsyev wouldn't ask again. He did as he was told, sitting as far away from Utsyev as he could get.

It was clear that Utsyev was running the show. Anderson looked over at Sabatino for guidance. The Italian had always played fair with him. They'd built up a good working relationship over the previous three years and had always been on the best of terms. Sabatino avoided his gaze. Anderson's stomach churned. What he needed was a cocaine hit and the confidence that the drug gave him. He sat with his hands in his lap, all too aware of how sweaty his palms were. He wiped them on his trousers. The two heavyweights moved to stand at either end of the sofa, their hands swinging freely at their sides. They were wearing black leather gloves. Anderson shuddered. Utsyev walked over to the side table next to Sabatino and picked up the wedding photograph. He looked at it, smiled thinly, then put it down again. 'Your wife is a very pretty woman,' he mused.

'Thank you,' Anderson said.

'No children?'

Anderson shook his head. 'No. No children.'

'I've never married,' Utsyev said. 'Never found a woman I wanted to marry.'

'Ah,' Anderson responded, as if that explained everything.

'So here we are,' Utsyev said.

'What do you want from me?' Anderson asked.

Utsyev sat down on a chair, smoothing the creases of his trousers. 'We are substantial investors in your company. But of course you know that, right?'

Anderson nodded. 'Right.'

'We have a sizeable stake in CRW. We'd like to increase that holding.'

Anderson looked across at Sabatino. 'I know that. Mr Sabatino's already told me what your plans are.' Still Sabatino wouldn't look him in the eye.

'No. Now we want complete ownership of the company.'

Anderson's mouth dropped. 'Say what?'

'We intend to take over CRW. Lock, stock and barrel.'

'Wait a minute,' Anderson said. He leaned forward, his whole upper body tense. 'This is a private firm. We have shareholders, sure, but we're not a listed company. You can't launch a takeover bid just like that.'

Utsyev smiled without warmth. 'We don't plan to launch a takeover bid,' he said. 'We will simply buy out the major shareholders.'

'You just don't get it,' Anderson said, shaking his head sadly. 'It's a family business. Katherine Freeman is the daughter of the founder. She'll never sell the company.'

'It's up to you to persuade her,' Utsyev said.

Anderson turned towards Sabatino. 'Will you explain to your brother that.. .?'

The slap was almost hard enough to knock Anderson off the sofa. He was so shocked by the blow that he didn't feel any pain. He looked up to see Utsyev standing over him. Utsyev backhanded him across the face again. Anderson fell back, his hands up to defend himself from further attacks. Utsyev glared at 198 STEPHEN LEATHER him, his forehead furrowed and his lips as thin as razors. 'You're talking to me, not my brother,' he hissed.

Anderson touched his face gingerly. He pressed his lips and his fingers came away covered in blood. Tm bleeding,' he a*i? Utsyev pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and handed it to him with a flourish. Anderson took it but didn't use it. He sat staring at the linen square, a look of amazement on his face. 'You hit me,' he said in disbelief.

Utsyev went back to his chair and sat down again, taking care to straighten the creases of his trousers. 'We are taking over the company, and you're going to help us. We're prepared to offer two million dollars in cash, and we'll take on the company's debts.'

'The company's worth more than that,' Anderson whispered. 'We're not talking about a fair market value,' Utsyev said. 'We're talking about what we're prepared to pay for it.'

'But...'

Utsyev held up a warning hand. 'I don't want to hear anything that starts with the word 'but', okay?'

Anderson nodded. 'Katherine won't sell. She and her husband know what the company's worth. They're on the board, they have access to the accounts. Besides, the bank won't allow it.'

Utsyev snorted quietly. 'We've already taken care of the nigger.'

'What?' Anderson said.

'The nigger. What was his name?'

'Nelson,' Sabatino said.

'Yeah, Nelson. We've already taken care of Nelson.'

Anderson was stunned. He looked at Sabatino, then back to Utsyev. 'You killed Nelson?'

Utsyev shrugged. 'I had it done. I can do that, Maury. As easy as breathing.'