The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [75]
Old money.
Quiet excess.
Respectability.
The polished wood library was the gathering place for an Eastern Establishment group that effectively controlled much of the American banking system, but also the all-important communications industry, and, as much as any clique of Americans could, the major activity on Wall Street. The four regular members were also part of the Midnight Club.
The subject of the meeting that night was an important one—oil prices and the heating of the West, without undue panic or economic collapse, for the coming winter. All those in the room agreed on one thing: it was a decision far too complex and delicate to entrust to the politicians and bureaucrats in Washington, or elsewhere around the world.
As the men stiffly filed out of the library around twelve, Alexandre St.-Germain was aware of an arm firmly sliding around his shoulders. A Wall Street power broker named Wilson Seifer spoke confidentially to him.
“There’s a party planned. Private affair. Why don’t you come with us.”
Seifer led the way down a corridor with resplendent tapestries and medieval heraldry on every wall. Baccarat chandeliers swung overhead, like priceless necklaces and pendants.
The room that the men entered was lit by gold and rouge flames coming from a fieldstone fireplace. Overall, it had the appearance of a mead hall.
The girls inside the room stood in an orderly school row. They were grouped in front of the crackling, blazing fire. Their bare skin and long hair gleamed beautifully in the burnishing firelight. The oldest girl looked sixteen, the youngest might have been twelve.
They were naked. All were shaven between their legs. Each girl wore a black satin sleeping mask.
Old money, Alexandre St.-Germain thought, and had to stifle a smile.
Respectability, indeed.
The best things about the Club never really changed.
73
John Stefanovitch; East Forty-third Street
STEFANOVITCH WAS NERVOUS as he waited on the corner of East Forty-third Street.
He listened to a cacophony of noise just starting up at six-thirty in the morning—the usual cries and moans of early Manhattan traffic. He was sipping juice from a cardboard box when Beth Kelley finally showed up.
“Long time no see, Stef,” his physical therapist said when she saw him. “What’s it been, nine days?”
“Yeah, but who’s counting,” Stefanovitch shrugged. His face and neck had begun to turn red.
“Nine days, no word. Not even a postcard.” When it finally came, the therapist’s smile was brittle. She was hurt and disappointed. She had invested a lot in Stef’s rehabilitation; more than a year of her time and expertise.
“You didn’t get the card yet? Man, those local mails.”
A slight smile came from Beth Kelley, a real one.
“How do your legs feel? They’re real strong, I’ll bet,” she said. “Upper thighs, calves especially.”
His legs felt terrible, as a matter of fact. He couldn’t believe how much strength he’d lost already, how his legs had atrophied in such a short period without exercise.
“I’m on a case. It’s a huge, complicated mess.”
Beth Kelley said nothing to that. “You coming inside? Or is this just to say good-bye?”
“No, I’m coming inside. I’m here for a workout. If you’ll promise to be nice.”
Kelley said nothing to that either. She turned and walked into the gym ahead of Stefanovitch.
Ten minutes later, he was straining under weights that seemed impossible for him to have ever lifted. Sweat was rolling off his body. His upper thighs were burning. He needed to work out for emotional as much as physical reasons, he knew. He needed a release from the tension.
I’m going to walk, he finally began to repeat over and over to himself. I’m going to walk.
It was like the way he used to issue chants as a boy back in Pennsylvania, as if by force of will he could do whatever he wanted to, or had to.
I’m going to walk.
“Goddamn