The Doll Brokers (4 page)

Patrick pulled into his driveway with a sigh of relief that he had made it without being stopped. He should have eaten something at the party.

He turned the key in the car's ignition and sat as Irene and the kids poured out of the Volvo wagon. When the doors cracked shut, he winced. Then Irene was rapping her knuckles on his window. Patrick turned the key in the ignition again to lower it.

“What?”

She bent to look in at him, her long auburn hair tumbling forward. He'd loved her hair once.

“If you let Ann do this, Patrick, I swear I'll leave you without a dime to your name. I've had enough of watching you wag your tail every time your mother looks your way. The old bitch isn't going to
give
you anything, don't you get that yet? You don't have a birthright where she's concerned. She thinks you're a fuck-up.” She straightened. “And she's right.”

Irene stepped back from the window and stalked toward the house. She was a maestro with orders, he thought, laying them down with an aggrandized flick of her wrist, with no idea of the clever effort they required. She was relentless.

Stop the doll? Not likely.

But he had two very good reasons to do so, Patrick thought—although Irene had only mentioned one of them. His mother would rhapsodize the ground Ann walked on if she succeeded with this. And if Ann fell on her face, what good would Felicia's disapproval do him if the company came down in the process?

He felt trapped, caught between a rock and a hard place. The old him would have known what to do. Too many competitors crashed and burned over one promotional item. Thoughts of Hart Toy doing the same crowded his brain, now swelling painfully into a throbbing headache. He wished he had the ability to stay off the booze. He didn't graduate magna cum laude from McGill
University because of his good looks. Sobering up would give him the opportunity to prove his true value to the company.

He could make president if Ann failed with this. But he would be president of … nothing. Hart Toy would be borrowing heavily just to lift the damned doll off the ground. And then, with the vagaries of the industry, of the buyers and the merchandise managers and—God forbid—the whims of the purchasing public, anything could happen. They could be washed up in the space of a year.

Patrick watched the lights in the lower level of his home flick off. A moment later, a golden glow appeared in his own bedroom window. Irene was finally upstairs. He turned the car off for a second time and went inside.

In the den, he poured himself a well-deserved nightcap. Sobering up was easier said than done, he realized. Fucking Ann, he thought as the cognac burned through his bloodstream. He sat in a chair in front of the fireplace and hooked an ankle over his knee. Then he pressed the snifter to his forehead as though it could somehow draw out the pain.

The first time he had seen Ann, he'd been stupefied. His mother had talked nonstop for weeks about the Flower Girl, some urchin selling roses on the corner of 23
^rd
and Broadway. Felicia had passed the girl daily on her way to the office, buying up her wares for some obscure reason Patrick had never been able to fathom. Then the Flower Girl had disappeared. For the better part of two days, his mother had been frantic—until the detective she'd hired to track her down found her holed up in the sanctuary of a church five or six blocks from the corner.

Then Felicia had brought her home. At the time, Patrick had conjured an image of her in his mind—fair, ephemeral, sweet. Instead, Felicia had brought a flu-stricken tramp into their house, one with straw-straight hair, hollow eyes, and cheeks dry and livid with fever.

It had been right after Christmas. Patrick remembered hovering unseen outside the library door, listening to his mother talk about her with Cal Everham, her personal doctor and friend. The man had come by to examine the girl.

“It's a nasty strain of flu this year,” Cal had said. They leaned close together, nose to nose, in front of the fireplace. “She should probably be hospitalized. Where did you find her?”

“It doesn't matter. I suspect she's a runaway,” Felicia had said. “No parent would allow a child to live this way.”

Cal placed his hand over hers. “It wouldn't happen in
your
world, Felicia. But who knows where this girl hails from.”

“She won't tell me anything. She seems to hate me even for asking. Cal, I tell you, those begging eyes haunt me.”

For what? Patrick had wanted to shout sense into her.
For your money!

“She's alone in the world, Cal, I'm sure of it.”

“I can find her a bed at Bellevue.”

“No. She'd only run. I'll keep her here, at least until she's better.”

“Felicia, that's a risk.”

She gave him a patented Felicia smile. Small, enigmatic. Almost eerily wise. “She can't even stand up without help, Cal. She's hardly capable of robbing me blind.”

“You're too trusting.”

“I know this child. I've been talking to her every morning, every afternoon for weeks now.”

“You just said she avoids all your questions.”

Felicia took her hand back. “She's afraid of me. I could turn her in to the authorities. I'm sure she figures that the less I know about her, the better.”

“But you keep asking anyway.”

“God knows why, but she reminds me of myself at her age. We just have to be patient. I have an instinct about this girl. Time will
bear me out.” Felicia stood. “I'll have Francesca feed her for a while, put some meat back on her bones, then we'll take it from there.”

Patrick had watched his mother pick up a brass snuffer and place it neatly over the flickering flame of a candle. Felicia spoke again after a long beat of silence. “Cal, I was so poor when my Frederick started whittling those clowns. He had a talent for bringing them to life. And that's why they sold as well as they did.”

Cal waited.

“One merchant, one man in one out-of-the-way burg in Canada, took them on. He saw something in the clowns that made him willing to take the chance.”

“Or he saw something in you,” Cal suggested.

“I
was
good,” she said wistfully. “In everyone's life, one person must take a chance on them.”

“In an ideal world, yes.”

“If we don't extend ourselves periodically, then mankind becomes something unconscionably evil. What are we, really, but a snarl of earthbound, frantic souls trying to survive? A hand offered here or there in the dark … it can make the difference in lifting one of us from the morass.”

Cal drained his drink and stood. “Well, this frantic soul knows better than to try to talk you out of something you've already decided.”

“Did you leave her some medicine?”

“It's on the bedside table. I'll charge your account.” They both knew he wouldn't. “I'll want to see her again in a week. If she's been living on the street, God knows what else she's brought into your house.”

Patrick couldn't listen anymore. He'd crept back upstairs to the bedroom his mother had given Ann. He'd leaned against the door to find that it was not only unlocked, but that it eased open beneath the pressure he applied. He crossed soundlessly to her bed, staring down at her as she slept.

Her breath had been shallow and putrid, wafting up to him for all its lack of force. At ninety pounds she seemed no threat to anybody. But he knew better. He knew even then that she would somehow manage to ruin everything.

And he had been right. It had taken two more years, but Ann Lesage had struck the first blow toward destroying them all.

Flames rolling in a red-white ball over the water, billowing then playing out like tongues licking the oil-slicked surface. Matthew's scream. Then silence. Jonathan taking hold of Patrick and slapping him, hitting him, harder, harder still, then lifting him by the front of his T-shirt and heaving him bodily into the back of the boat. “Stay there. Just stay there. Don't talk.”

Patrick jerked free of the memory with an audible grunt. A wide, wet stain spread over his left thigh where his hand had relaxed, tilting his snifter until the Courvoisier spread over his trouser leg like an indelible mark.

Ann had helped kill Matt and now, after years of manipulating his mother, she had become president of Hart Toy. Irene was right, Patrick thought. He had no choice but to stop her. He had to show his mother who Ann really was. He still had some time. He would make sure Felicia changed her opinion of Ann, and in the process he would end up with what rightfully belonged to him.

T
he small co-op apartment was his private escape. The single room was spare, dominated by a bed, a California king, draped by a luxurious, silk duvet cover in ruby red. Voluminous curtains in a shocking vermilion, and a large formal desk in cherry wood completed the womb-like interior.

Taking a seat at his desk, he unconsciously drummed his fingers on the blotter. The call was scheduled to take place in ten minutes. Ten more minutes before he knew whether this would be another lead that fizzled.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

His widowed mother's death left him the sole beneficiary of an insurance policy that numbered in the millions. Conservative but intelligent investments, coupled with a frugal lifestyle, had allowed him the freedom to more or less do as he pleased.

He did not consider his approach to women to be a fetish, or even peculiar, for that matter. He liked his ladies to be loose, with few morals. The looser the better. Whores intrigued him. He paid for their services and there were few complications.

Occasionally, hookers weren't enough and he took what he had to have by force. It wasn't rape. Every woman wanted it. Despite their protests—their tears and begging—he read between the words, understanding that no meant yes, that please meant thank you.

His victims adhered to his warning. Most believed him when he said that seeking revenge, or contacting the authorities, would lead to dire circumstances. Except for one young girl in New Jersey, who pulled a knife on him.

He never lost consciousness, but there had been so much blood he thought he had been blinded. The sight of the hellacious scar still enraged him today. Nothing could ease the humiliation of being bested by that girl.

Years of private detectives yielded nothing. Tens of thousands of dollars spent tracking down false leads, from New Jersey to Los Angeles, Maine to Florida. It seemed the girl had disappeared.

Tonight he waited once again, aged fifty-two and running out of patience.

When the phone rang, he quickly snatched the receiver in hand.

The voice at the other end spoke in a monotone. “We found her.”

The man practically jumped out of his chair. “I beg your pardon?”

“We found her,” the voice repeated.

A
nn was mildly out of breath when she reached the Air Canada gate at LaGuardia on Wednesday evening. She dropped into a seat and rested her briefcase on her knees.

It occurred to her that if anyone knew its contents, she'd probably be committed. After all, company presidents should not be obsessed with Gameboy, even if it was the original model and dated back a long while.

Opening the case, Ann pushed aside tubes of lipstick and makeup, her wallet, and dug into the back compartment for the Maalox tablets.

She preferred the tangerine-flavored ones, so she took a moment to fish her finger through the bottle, holding it up and tilting it at eye level to look for the right color. She found four of them, put them in her mouth, and chewed diligently.

“You're either considering personal bankruptcy or you're afraid of flying.”

Ann's cry of surprise popped out of her like a shot. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, jumping to her feet to confront Jonathan.

He stepped around to take the free seat on her right, then made a production of checking the pockets of his leather jacket. He held up his ticket. “I'm on my way to Toronto.”

“You're out of your mind.”

“I'm a man of my word.”

“You're going to this commercial shoot with me?”

“Yes, I am. But I feel compelled to tell you that I resent paying business class.”

“I had a free upgrade.”

“Well, I didn't.”

“Then cash in your ticket and go home.” It occurred to her that she'd spoken to Jonathan more in the last few days than she had in the preceding seventeen years. She couldn't believe he was serious about keeping tabs on her and the doll project. What could he hope to gain by it? He knew next to nothing about the toy industry. She could be robbing his mother blind and he wouldn't have a clue.

Ann stood. “I can't stop you from doing this?”

“No. Free country, and all that.”

“Well, I won't sit with you on the plane.”

“That's ridiculous. You'd rather chat with a stranger?”

“I don't chat when I'm flying.”

“What do you do then?”

She played with the Gameboy to keep her mind off the distant ground, but she'd be damned if she'd admit it. “I think highly intelligent, corporate thoughts.”

“Spend the time sharing them with me.”

Their flight was called.

“Better downgrade to economy while you still have the chance.” Ann turned for the gate and left him.

She took her seat on the plane. A few minutes later she was not surprised to find him stopping at her row to stow his bag overhead.

“Care for a drink before take-off?” he asked, snapping his seat belt.

She kept her gaze on the window and the tarmac outside. “Sure. It might take the edge off the possibility of dying next to someone I detest. But I think we have to wait until we're airborne.”

He removed a mini-bottle from his travel bag. It had a medical prescription label around it, which explained how he got it past security. Ann watched in bemusement as he divided its contents—Scotch, obviously—into two paper cups.