The Legacy (2 page)

Im doing fine, Lewis, Cole repeated.

Really? Gebauer gummed an unlit Cuban cigar from a box he had smuggled into New York through Kennedy Airport after a trip to Paris. Thats not what I hear. Gebauer enjoyed kicking people when they were down. It was entertainment for him, it made the day go faster.

Cole had been forced to sit next to Gebauer since his first day on the trading floor, and he had grown to detest the man just as everyone else did. Now he recognized that Gebauer was bored with the afternoon lull and was simply trying to start an argument in order to make the time pass more quickly. In these situations it was sometimes effective to launch a pre-emptive strike. Im surprised you can hear anything, with all of that protein sprouting from your ears.

Two traders on the other side of the desk snickered loudly at the ear-hair crack. Cole was fast with a comeback, not someone you dueled with carelessly.

I hear youve got a big fat mortgage on that Upper West Side penthouse condominium you bought two years ago, Gebauer sneered, adding specifics to his verbal attack. He had no intention of backing down. And I hear you havent gotten a bonus since George Bush was president, he exaggerated. Thanks to that, youre way behind on your Mount Everest-size mortgage. Gebauers pulse quickened as he recounted the information recently conveyed to him by the man with an ugly scar cutting through his left cheek.

Cole tried hard to focus on the computer screens and ignore Gebauer, but the numbers in front of him blurred as the question raced through his mind. How the hell did Gebauer know about the bonus and the mortgage? Only Gilchrists top executives knew hed been shut out of the bonus pool last year, and he hadnt told anyone on the trading floor he even owned an apartment, much less a penthouse with a huge mortgage. He stole another glance at Gebauer. Several times over the last few days, papers on Coles desk seemed to have been rearranged when he returned to the trading floor after procuring one of the six Diet Cokes he drank daily. Surely, he realized, Gebauer must be responsible.

Young blood with the sabre tongue isnt talking much now, Gebauer crowed.

One of the traders on the other side of the desk stood up and stretched casually, using the opportunity to glance over the computer monitors and phone banks at Cole to judge for himself whether Gebauers mortgage missile was on targettrading floors thrive on gossipbut there was no way to tell for certain. Coles face remained impassive.

And I hear your honey has the same problem I do, lover boy, Gebauer continued, full of confidence now that Cole had gone silent. I hear she likes girls, if you get my drift, he said, smiling lewdly.

Coles right hand slowly contracted into a fist. He could send Gebauer into next week with one right to the jaw and probably earn a standing ovation from everyone on the floor. He swiveled in his seat, as if to take a swing, just as one of his ten phone lines began blinking. He stared at the blinking light for a few moments before finally unclasping his hand. Forget Gebauer, he told himself. The guy isnt worth it.

Cole punched the blinking line instead of Gebauer and grabbed the receiver. Hello.

Who is this? The voice was cold.

Cole Egan, he answered, forcing himself to be cordial. Gilchrist senior executives sometimes buzzed the trading floor just to see how quickly calls were being answered.

What is your middle name, Mr. Egan?

Cole was instantly annoyed. Who the hell wants to know? In the background he heard someone shout a warning about an imminent announcement by the Federal Reserve and pressed his palm over the ear not covered by the phone to drown out the growing din. Who are you?

Tell me your middle name, the voice insisted.

The noise level on the floor rose to a dull roar as a senior Fed official appeared on the many television monitors positioned around the Gilchrist trading floor. Cole hesitated, torn between the chaos erupting around him and something in the voice at the other end of the line.

Your middle name, the voice demanded.

Sage, Cole snapped, impatient to cut off the caller. Like any good trader, he sensed a tempest bearing down on his portfolio and knew he should be directing his full attention to that right now, not the call. Whats it to you?

Im an acquaintance of your father.

The Fed announcement burst like water through a cracking dam, and bedlam exploded as traders shouted orders simultaneously over multiple phones, desperately attempting to take advantage of, or protect themselves from, the interest rate increase suddenly imposed by the central bank. But Cole heard none of it. He had blocked out everything except the icy voice that spoke of his father.

I have bad news for you, the voice continued. There was no sympathy in the tone. Your father is dead.

The news hit Cole like an avalanche, but he gave no indication to the individual at the other end of the line. I cant say Im overcome with grief, he offered defiantly. He had seen his father only a few times in his life, having been raised by an aunt and uncle after his mothers death. He had believed all his life that his father never wanted him.

I dont care whether you grieve or not, the voice said indifferently. My job was to deliver this message for the agency, and to deliver an envelope to you which is now out front at the reception desk. Goodbye, Mr. Egan. The line went dead.

Hey, Egan! one of the traders on the other side of the desk yelled. Ive got a guy from Merrill Lynch on the line. He says he wants to buy some of your five-year paper. He says youre probably ready to sell it at this point.

And Nickis on line three! another trader hollered.

Cole knew he shouldnt leave the desk right now, not seconds after the Fed announcement, but he had to. The envelope out front involved his father, and anything having to do with his father took precedence over everything else. Tell both of them Ill call back! Cole yelled over his shoulder as he dropped the receiver on the desk and sprinted through the chaos toward the reception area outside the wooden doors at the far end of the room. He dodged a young assistant bringing coffee to the junk bond traders, raced the last few yards to the doors, burst into the reception area and stopped short. There were always visitors milling about here, and he scanned every face carefully, trying to memorize distinctive features of each one. Finally he moved toward the reception desk, and the noise from the trading floor subsided as the door swung shut behind him.

Hi, Cole. Anita Petrocelli smiled cheerfully at him from behind the large desk. She was a young Queens native whose infatuation with Cole was almost as pronounced as the dark mole above her upper lip.

Cole always looked great, Anita thought, but today a special intensity in his gaze made him look even better. He was tall and broad with rugged featuresa strong nose, strong chin and sculpted cheeks. His wavy jet-black hair contrasted starkly with his neatly pressed white cotton dress shirt and matched his onyx cuff links perfectly. His hair was long on top but short on the sides and in the backnot the more conservative style worn by most of the men who prowled Gilchrists trading floor. His dimpled smile was alluring and mysterious, as if he were hiding something. The three holes in his left earlobe provided a tiny window into a rebellious adolescence. And his large steel-gray eyes, surrounded by long thick lashes, were the sexiest she had ever seen.

He had taken her to lunch several timesprobably just to be friendlyand through their conversations in the more relaxed atmosphere away from work she had come to know his total abhorrence of conformity simply for conformitys sake, and his love of being different simply to be different. She had also come to know his considerable appetite for risk. He was constantly wagering on something. The stakes didnt really matter, and he never took her money if he won the bet. He simply loved to take risks. She found this devil-may-care attitude electrifying. So did other women at Gilchrist, she knew. He was quite a package.

For Anita, the best thing about Cole was that he had made it to his twenty-ninth birthday single. There were rumors that he had a steady girlfriend, but no proof, and without a gold band on his left-hand ring finger she considered him her primary target. Maybe even with one on, she admitted, slightly ashamed of herself. She had made no secret of her attraction to him. He had always told her she was too good for him. She understood this was his way of letting her down gently, but she continued to flirt with him anyway. After all, if she kept hammering long enough, the wall might finally crumble.

What can I do for you, Cole? she asked, batting her eyes playfully.

Is there anything out here with my name on it?

Yeah, me. She placed her elbows on the desktop, rested her chin on the back of her hands and batted her eyes again. I went down to Greenwich Village and had your initials tattooed on a very private part of my anatomy last

Im not kidding around, Anita, Cole interrupted.

Boy, youre grouchy this afternoon. Her smile disappeared as she scanned the desk quickly. Most days he gave her that dimpled smile she adored and a compliment on her hair or her outfit. Oh, yeah, heres something. She handed him a large brown envelope with his name neatly typed across the front.

Who gave this to you? Cole wanted to know.

Anita shrugged. I dont know. A messenger must have left it here while I was away. I didnt notice it was here until you said something.

Cole turned abruptly and headed toward a small conference room off the reception area before she had finished speaking. She pushed out her lower lip, pouting. Usually he was so polite.

Cole moved into the conference room, closed the door, ripped open the envelope and poured out its contentsa typed note, an official-looking document and a small key that clattered onto the tabletop. He picked up the key and shoved it into his pocket, then read the note. It made two requests. First, he was to place an obituary notice in the New York Times marking his fathers death. Second, he was to proceed immediately to the Chase Bank branch a few blocks down Fifth Avenue from the Gilchrist Building and retrieve the contents of a safe-deposit box the key would open.

Cole picked up the official-looking document that had been inside the envelope. It was a death certificate with his fathers name on it. Jim Egan had appeared at Gilchrists main reception desk six months ago, unannounced. It was the first time Cole had seen his father since high school graduation. The elder Egan had taken Cole to luncha sandwich, chips and a Coke at a delicatessen on Forty-seventh Street. The conversation at the deli had been full of uncomfortable pauses, and there were no great revelations as to the elder Egans near-lifelong absence. After lunch the encounter had ended with a strange, forced handshake in front of the Gilchrist Building. Cole had offered a tour of the trading floor, but his father had adamantly refused, then taken off down Fifth Avenue without another word, disappearing into the lunch crowd hurrying along the sidewalk.

Cole stared at the death certificate. Christ, if he had just known that would be the last time they would ever see each other. He might have pushed harder for answers to the questions plaguing him for so long. And he might have said something to his father that mattered.

COLE SHOVED THE tape into the VCR. The machine clicked several times and the tape began to roll as he sat down in one of the comfortable chairs positioned in a semicircle before the wide-screen television. He was on eight, two stories below the Gilchrist trading floor, in a screening room the institutional salespeople used for impressing investors with flashy presentations describing companies Gilchrist was about to take public. It was after five oclock and the floor was deserted, but Cole had locked the door to the screening room anyway.

The tape had been the only item inside the Chase safe-deposit box. There was no will bequeathing millions, no sheaf of bearer bonds, not even a piece of fine jewelry. Not that Cole really expected any of those things. According to Coles aunt, his fathers only sibling, Jim Egan had never been concerned with material possessions. Cole glanced at the rows of videocassettes of old presentations lining the shelves on the far wall, then looked out the window into the darkness of the late autumn evening. Perhaps this tape was a message from the grave explaining why a father had neglected his son for so many years, or a pathetic attempt to evoke pity from someone who no longer cared.

The tape began with a bright day in a park. Cole watched as a motorcade moved in front of a building and toward the camera. The images seemed eerily familiar, yet he couldnt quite place them. His eyes narrowed as he gazed at the crowd, the motorcycles and the limousine. The motorcade inched closer, and suddenly Cole snapped his fingers, recognizing the Kennedys and the Connallys inside the open limousine. There was President Kennedy in the backseat waving, Mrs. Kennedy in her pink outfit and matching pillbox hat beside the president, and Governor Connally sitting in the seat directly in front of Kennedy. Of course. It was a copy of the Zapruder film. The film constantly used as part of Kennedy assassination documentaries.

Cole watched for a few moments longer, then shook his head, confused by what he saw on the tape. In the Zapruder film President Kennedy was on the side of the limousine closer to the camera. Here he was on the side away from the camera. Governor Connally should have been on the camera side as well. Everything was reversed. Abraham Zapruder had filmed from the other side of Dealey Plaza. Coles pulse jumped as the realization struck him: this wasnt the Zapruder film.