The Chairman - A Novel Part 6

"Jesus," Gillette muttered. At seventeen he'd been surfing off Santa Monica and hanging out on Rodeo Drive.

"Christian?"

"Yes?"

"Why do you do all this for me and my family?"

Gillette took a deep breath and glanced at the house he was about to buy for Jose's brother. Conflict. Always conflict.

Mason held his head in his hands. A week ago he was sure he was going to be the next chairman. Donovan had promised him. Now he was barred from Everest for life, and fifty-nine million dollars poorer.

"I'm screwed," he murmured, tears filling his eyes as he sat in the darkness of his Manhattan penthouse.

He swallowed hard and reached for a .38-caliber pistol lying on the coffee table. His career, his money, his future. Gillette had taken them all.

Mason c.o.c.ked the gun, pressed the barrel to his temple, and slipped his finger behind the trigger.

Gillette stepped back into the kitchen from outside just as Jose Jr. and Ruben ran a lap around the table again. He grinned, watching them disappear into the living room. Then his smile faded, and for a moment he simply stared. The young woman the two boys had darted past was gorgeous. One of the most beautiful creatures he'd ever seen.

Selma bit her lower lip, trying to hide a smile.

Gillette caught Selma's smile, realizing in that instant that this had been neatly ch.o.r.eographed. But he didn't care. The young woman was too beautiful for him to care.

"Chris, this is Isabelle, my youngest sister. She's visiting from San Juan."

The man s.h.i.+vered inside his triple-layered, goose-down parka as he moved carefully across the frozen ground toward the ghostly outline of his specially outfitted Ford Explorer. You had to move carefully up here, no matter how much you wanted to reach the warmth of your truck. If you fell and something snapped in the bitter cold, you were a dead man. Survival time out here was measured in minutes, not days.

He brought his hands to his ski mask as a brutal gust of wind whipped snow past him. People thought they understood the meaning of "remote." They watched specials about places like this on the Discovery Channel, so they thought they knew. But they had no idea. Images on a television screen couldn't convey the isolation that dominated this barren area of Canada eight hundred miles north of Montana.

His breath iced up the window of the idling truck when he reached it, but he didn't stop to admire the geometric patterns. He yanked the door open and hopped inside. He was one of the few people in the world who did understand this place. Who understood how weeks of little or no human contact spent almost entirely in darkness could play on your mind. How watching the aurora borealis s.h.i.+mmer across a star-laden sky could send s.h.i.+vers up your spine, no matter how many times you'd seen it. How you questioned your sanity ten times a day for being up here.

Once inside the truck, he removed his thick gloves, picked up a clipboard, and scrawled notes on a pad. They'd plant the last of the dynamite near this spot tomorrow and run the test. Then he was going to get the h.e.l.l out of here and go someplace warm.

Gillette stopped in front of the pool hall and watched the Town Car's taillights disappear down the Brooklyn street. He'd sent the driver off, telling him he'd get a cab back to Manhattan. The guy hadn't hesitated a second. Just taken off like a bat out of h.e.l.l the moment Gillette closed the door, happy to get out of the rough neighborhood as fast as possible.

It was late, almost one in the morning, but Gillette wasn't tired. He didn't need much sleep. Never had. Just a few hours a night and he was fine.

He was still dressed in the neatly pressed charcoal suit he'd worn to the funeral. Tie stuffed in his pants pocket, white s.h.i.+rt open a couple of b.u.t.tons at the neck. He reached for the inside pocket of his suit jacket and his wallet. Before leaving home this morning for the funeral, he'd taken everything out of it except the cash and his driver's license.

He took out what was left of the cash-two hundred dollars-and put the bills into the s.h.i.+rt pocket of a man lying on the ground in front of the pool hall cradling a wine bottle in both arms. The guy never moved, never even said thank you. But this wasn't about charity. It was about going in unarmed.

The place was loud, smoky, and crowded. Rap music blared, and there was the constant crack of the cue ball. Every table had onlookers. People keeping an eye on the quarters they'd put down to reserve the next game. People there to root for the players-girlfriends, boyfriends. People just interested in seeing a good game. And sharks waiting for the best time to slip into the flow without seeming too enthusiastic.

Gillette was keenly aware of the looks he was getting. It wasn't hard to catch them. He was the only white guy in the place-and the only guy wearing a suit.

He'd never been here before. He'd heard about it from a couple of guys in Queens. There were supposed to be some very good players, guys who could have made it on the circuit, and he liked the pressure their games would give him. He used it to test himself. He could beat anyone in here on a quiet, neutral table. He knew that. But in front of the hometown crew, without a dime in his pocket, it might be a different story.

He watched for a while, getting the lay of the land. It was clear to him after a short time that the back four tables were reserved for the best players. No smiles, no conversation, no alcohol. Just hard looks, crisp shots, the sounds of the game, and the dance of the two players around the table.

And one guy managing the gate for each table. The guy who held the money.

"How long's the list?" Gillette asked loudly.

The gate glanced up, casing Gillette. Toothpick moving to the left side of his mouth as he took one more look at the expensive suit. "Just one ahead."

"What's the bet?"

"Five grand."

"Put me down." Gillette nodded at the gate's scratch in his notepad.

"Money first."

"I'm good for it," Gillette said evenly. "I'm sure you understand why I don't want to let go of my cash."

The gate shook his head. " 'Fraid not. You got to give it to me now."

Gillette smiled confidently. "You really think I'd walk in here without the money?"

The gate looked Gillette up and down again. "You better be good for it. You tell me you don't have the money when you lose, and you won't make it out of here alive."

An hour later, Gillette leaned over the green felt, curled his left forefinger around the cue, and lined up the shot. Other than the cue ball, the eight was the only one left on the table. It was an easy scratch, and, if he didn't make the shot and and didn't scratch, the other guy would definitely drop the eight on his next attempt-and win. He'd owe five grand to a man whose biceps were as big around as his thighs. With no way to pay. And an IOU wasn't going to cut it. didn't scratch, the other guy would definitely drop the eight on his next attempt-and win. He'd owe five grand to a man whose biceps were as big around as his thighs. With no way to pay. And an IOU wasn't going to cut it.

Gillette closed his eyes for a moment, tuning out the crowd. More and more people had circled around the table as the match-best of five-had unfolded. There were probably fifty people watching at this point. Some screaming at him. Not wanting him to beat the neighborhood hero.

The cue ball rolled smoothly toward the eight, smacking it exactly where Gillette had aimed. No doubt the eight would drop, but the problem now was the cue. If it dropped, too, he'd scratch and the human mountain who was his opponent would win five thousand without having to take another shot.

In his peripheral vision, Gillette was aware of the eight ball dropping into the far corner pocket. But he was watching the cue as it rolled back the length of the green table toward him and the near corner. It was headed straight for the pocket, moving more and more slowly. The crowd screamed as it rolled and his opponent watched bug-eyed. Finally, it stopped, a quarter of the ball hanging over the pocket. The crowd groaned loudly and man mountain broke his cue in half over his knee.

Gillette handed his cue to someone in the crowd and moved to where the gate sat. The gate handed Gillette a wad of bills, which he slipped into his pocket with the tie.

"Hey, boy," the gate asked as Gillette turned to go.

Gillette turned back. "What?"

"Did you have it?"

"Have what?"

"You know."

Gillette moved back to where the gate sat, reached into his jacket pocket, and removed his wallet. Then he opened it up just enough that the gate-but no one else-could see that it was empty.

The gate smiled broadly. "Cool, man, but I'll remember next time."

"There won't be a next time."

"What? You think you're too good for us now?"

"Got nothing to do with it," Gillette answered, looking around. "I like this place, but I just beat the best in the house, so I'll never get a money game in here again. And I never play for fun."

5.

The Male Curse. The relentless urge to hunt. The ruthless drive to conquer. The insatiable need to ama.s.s. The relentless urge to hunt. The ruthless drive to conquer. The insatiable need to ama.s.s.

FAITH Ca.s.sIDY SCRIBBLED ANOTHER AUTOGRAPH, this time on the label of a champagne bottle. As she handed the pen back to the nervous young man who had approached her, she gave him the smile that had sold millions of CDs. It was the third time in the last ten minutes she'd been asked to sign something.

"You ever get tired of that?" Gillette asked when the guy was gone.

Faith picked up her gla.s.s of Chardonnay. "Tired of what?"

"People constantly wanting something from you."

"No. Not fans, anyway." She took a sip. "Do you ever get tired of managing all that money?"

Gillette ran the tip of his forefinger across his bottom lip. "No."

"You aren't telling me the truth."

He looked at her curiously. "Why do you say that?"

"You hesitated when you answered."

He shook his head. "You shouldn't read anything into that. I give every question due consideration."

She groaned. "Due consideration? Are you really that boring, Christian? If you are, I'm leaving. I want someone who talks to me like a real person, not somebody who sounds like the lawyers micromanaging my career." Are you really that boring, Christian? If you are, I'm leaving. I want someone who talks to me like a real person, not somebody who sounds like the lawyers micromanaging my career."

"I'm thirty-six. I can't change who I am."

"Can't or won't won't?"

Gillette gazed at Faith over the flame of a single candle. She was blond with large green eyes and a voluptuous figure he knew had been surgically enhanced. She wasn't cla.s.sically beautiful-not like Isabelle was. Faith overpowered you with her curves and enticed you with those bedroom eyes.

Still, it was Faith's personality Gillette found most intriguing. She was confident but not arrogant. And she had a charisma and a pa.s.sion about her that was contagious. She seemed to say whatever was on her mind-a luxury he didn't have. What he said, he said with candor. But he didn't say everything. He couldn't.

"How about when your limousine explodes?" she pushed when he didn't answer. "Do you get tired of managing billions then?"

He smiled for the first time. "No. I call the dealer and order a new one."

She laughed. "You have a wonderful smile, but you don't show it enough."

"Always leave people wanting more. You know that. You're an entertainer."

"Are you really that calculating?"

He pushed his spoon around the tablecloth. "Are you really that direct?"

"I heard you you were. I thought you'd appreciate it." were. I thought you'd appreciate it."

"How exactly did you hear I was?"

"Mutual friends."

"I doubt we have any mutual-"

"Okay, I guessed," Faith admitted. "But it seems logical. One of my a.s.sistants researched you on the Web. A man who's chairman of so many companies, of the company that owns my record label," she reminded him, "a man like that would have have to be direct. He'd have so many demands on his time, he'd have no choice." She paused. "But maybe a man like that doesn't appreciate having the tables turned on him." to be direct. He'd have so many demands on his time, he'd have no choice." She paused. "But maybe a man like that doesn't appreciate having the tables turned on him."

"Maybe not," Gillette agreed coolly.

"And maybe I'm risking my next contract."

"Not as long as your CDs keep selling."

"Oh, I see how it is."

"Business is business." Gillette folded his hands in his lap. "Remind me again, Faith. How many alb.u.ms have you done?"

"Two."

"When did the first one come out?"

"A little over a year ago."

"How many copies did it sell?"

"Over five million."

No wonder so many people were begging for her autograph. "And the second one? When was it released?"

"A few weeks ago."

"How's it doing?"

She glanced down. "Fine."

"Better than the first one?"

"It's early, you know," she murmured. "Still early."

Clearly there was a problem. "Is it as good as the first one?"

"Better," she said firmly, her expression turning steely. "Much better." better."