financier. Though the American kept his name off the Forbes list by choice, his hedge fund–acquired wealth was rumored to be mind-boggling.
So it was more than a little ironic that the financier and the well-heeled Brit were riding like a couple of schmucks in an ugly metallic-brown Mazda CX-9 crossover as they cruised up Lenox Avenue in East Harlem.
The Brit didn’t mind. Slumming, roughing it, enhanced the manly intimacy and esprit de corps that the organization had been formed to engender. Besides, as they all knew, discretion was entirely necessary.
The building where they finally pulled to the curb was at Lenox Avenue and 145th Street, in front of a subway pit for the 3 train. It was a broad, three-story prewar structure that probably had once been a luxurious apartment house. Now its high windows were sealed with cinder blocks and its once-grand arched doorway held an ugly spray-painted steel shutter.
The Brit, who had just been elected an executive director at the IMF, gazed up at the curious structure. Having briefly flirted with becoming an architect at Warwick before coming to his senses, he detected a golden-mean, Parthenon-like quality in the well-constructed building, slightly wider than it was tall. He also picked up a faint flavor of French classical style in the building’s quoins and the porthole-like oculus window beneath its open cornice. It made one think of ruins, he thought. Of rituals.
Something stirred deep in the pit of his empty stomach. Might the French aspect of the location denote tonight’s fare? he wondered, licking his thin lips. Was there a little haute cuisine on the menu tonight? Hmmmm. It was always a surprise, per club rule, and the anticipation was killing him.
“I hate to admit it, but you nailed the venue this time,” the Brit said, turning toward the financier sitting directly behind him. “This is like coming upon a temple in the middle of a jungle.”
The tall American hedge fund owner smiled as he patted the driver on the shoulder.
“Don’t thank me. It was Alberto who found it, of course.”
The Brit, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, smiled at the hulking chauffeur, Alberto Witherspoon, beside him. Alberto smiled back, a twinkle in his brown eyes as he nodded proudly.
“Least I could do,” he said.
The Brit had heard all about Alberto. The story was that the handsome, six-foot-four-inch gentle-seeming black man from Oakland had once been a bodyguard to the infamous cult leader Jim Jones. He’d been there from the early days when Jones was still a darling of political figures like First Lady Rosalynn Carter, California governor Jerry Brown, and gay rights activist Harvey Milk. Alberto had been off on a supply run when Jones had persuaded the nine hundred Americans who had signed up for his socialist agrarian paradise in Guyana to raise a glass of cyanide-laced Kool-Aid.
Or at least that was what the deviant claimed, thought the Brit. One could only happily imagine the kinds of unholy things the not-so-gentle giant had seen and done.
CHAPTER 2
THE BRIT WATCHED AS Alberto gazed up and down the darkened street, listening to the police radio in the drink holder. The placard he removed from his jacket and placed on the dash denoted the car as on official NYPD business.
The Brit shook his head and smiled gleefully at the official-looking document. It looked real, it probably was real. The financier was supposed to have connections virtually everywhere .
That was what he loved about this club, the Brit thought as Alberto handed him a flashlight. Its reach was something altogether new. Literally nothing was prohibited. There was nothing they couldn’t do.
A clatter of steel from the subway pit sounded like some far-off torture in a dungeon as they crossed the deserted sidewalk to the building’s steel-shuttered entrance. Before he unlocked the gate, Alberto set down the large suitcase he had taken from the crossover’s trunk. Then he rattled
So it was more than a little ironic that the financier and the well-heeled Brit were riding like a couple of schmucks in an ugly metallic-brown Mazda CX-9 crossover as they cruised up Lenox Avenue in East Harlem.
The Brit didn’t mind. Slumming, roughing it, enhanced the manly intimacy and esprit de corps that the organization had been formed to engender. Besides, as they all knew, discretion was entirely necessary.
The building where they finally pulled to the curb was at Lenox Avenue and 145th Street, in front of a subway pit for the 3 train. It was a broad, three-story prewar structure that probably had once been a luxurious apartment house. Now its high windows were sealed with cinder blocks and its once-grand arched doorway held an ugly spray-painted steel shutter.
The Brit, who had just been elected an executive director at the IMF, gazed up at the curious structure. Having briefly flirted with becoming an architect at Warwick before coming to his senses, he detected a golden-mean, Parthenon-like quality in the well-constructed building, slightly wider than it was tall. He also picked up a faint flavor of French classical style in the building’s quoins and the porthole-like oculus window beneath its open cornice. It made one think of ruins, he thought. Of rituals.
Something stirred deep in the pit of his empty stomach. Might the French aspect of the location denote tonight’s fare? he wondered, licking his thin lips. Was there a little haute cuisine on the menu tonight? Hmmmm. It was always a surprise, per club rule, and the anticipation was killing him.
“I hate to admit it, but you nailed the venue this time,” the Brit said, turning toward the financier sitting directly behind him. “This is like coming upon a temple in the middle of a jungle.”
The tall American hedge fund owner smiled as he patted the driver on the shoulder.
“Don’t thank me. It was Alberto who found it, of course.”
The Brit, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, smiled at the hulking chauffeur, Alberto Witherspoon, beside him. Alberto smiled back, a twinkle in his brown eyes as he nodded proudly.
“Least I could do,” he said.
The Brit had heard all about Alberto. The story was that the handsome, six-foot-four-inch gentle-seeming black man from Oakland had once been a bodyguard to the infamous cult leader Jim Jones. He’d been there from the early days when Jones was still a darling of political figures like First Lady Rosalynn Carter, California governor Jerry Brown, and gay rights activist Harvey Milk. Alberto had been off on a supply run when Jones had persuaded the nine hundred Americans who had signed up for his socialist agrarian paradise in Guyana to raise a glass of cyanide-laced Kool-Aid.
Or at least that was what the deviant claimed, thought the Brit. One could only happily imagine the kinds of unholy things the not-so-gentle giant had seen and done.
CHAPTER 2
THE BRIT WATCHED AS Alberto gazed up and down the darkened street, listening to the police radio in the drink holder. The placard he removed from his jacket and placed on the dash denoted the car as on official NYPD business.
The Brit shook his head and smiled gleefully at the official-looking document. It looked real, it probably was real. The financier was supposed to have connections virtually everywhere .
That was what he loved about this club, the Brit thought as Alberto handed him a flashlight. Its reach was something altogether new. Literally nothing was prohibited. There was nothing they couldn’t do.
A clatter of steel from the subway pit sounded like some far-off torture in a dungeon as they crossed the deserted sidewalk to the building’s steel-shuttered entrance. Before he unlocked the gate, Alberto set down the large suitcase he had taken from the crossover’s trunk. Then he rattled
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