2. Cale
2
CALE
T he Wingate mansion is something of a historic landmark, the oldest sprawling eyesore on this piece of Long Island’s north shore. A fitting home for assholes who think of themselves as American royalty.
“Your keys, sir?” The shivering valet awaits with an outstretched hand in order to add my car to the sea of vehicles cluttering both sides of the street.
I won’t be staying long so I wave him off in the driveway and yank a hundred dollar bill out of my pocket to slide into his palm. Anyone might think that tipping would be magnificent at a party like this but I know the brand of rich people here. Careless and stingy.
The place is crawling with hired security. The pair who stand in front of the door must be part of Asher Wingate’s personal staff. When I point to the neighboring Amato estate, the muscled suit on the right visibly blanches before stepping aside. The mammoth front door is thrown open and before I take two steps a tray of champagne flutes is pushed under my nose.
I’m not interested in champagne and tonight I won’t be searching for something more hardcore. Alcohol does nothing but eat the sharp edges of a man’s senses and most of the time I’m not a fan of sacrificing my wits for shit that tastes like motor oil.
To my left, a woman shrieks with laughter and stumbles in her heels. There are famous and semi-famous faces in every direction. Politicians and actors and pro athletes.
Wading through this perfumed crowd leaves me ready to break out in hives. I’d much rather be back in the city, enjoying the solitude of my Manhattan loft and brooding over the best way to extricate myself from my uncle’s rotten marriage scheme.
It's weird to be in this house again. I used to spend a lot of time here. The colossal crystal chandelier dangling from the cavernous ceiling once hung in a Russian palace. Or maybe it was a French palace. One day Baylor threw an apple at it just to see what would happen. When a couple of shards broke off he was grounded for a month.
To my right, an enormous Christmas tree stretches nearly to the ceiling. It could easily kill a dozen people if it topples over right now. Nearby, a man-sized nutcracker watches me with static painted eyes. For some reason I have the urge to flip him off.
So far I have yet to encounter a member of the Wingate family and I’m avoiding eye contact with everyone else. The house hasn’t changed much. The walls of the long corridor are still lined with Asher Wingate’s priceless art collection. At the moment the paintings are all covered to protect them from damage by tipsy guests but I cut loose with a snort of laughter now that I remember how Bay once drew a Sharpie mustache on one of the Renoirs. When his father threw a fit and had to send the paining off to a professional art restorer, Baylor laughed and said to take the cost out of his inheritance. That’s what he was like back then. Rude. Rebellious. Fun.
Then again, I used to be a lot of things too.
Eventually, Baylor skipped off to his destiny. And I’ve grown to grimly accept mine.
Asher Wingate’s deep baritone carries from another room. “This is OUR year. That Stanley Cup is coming back here where it belongs.”
A cheer goes up from all the hockey fans. This hits in a weird way. My dad was a huge hockey fan. There was a time when I was a capable player on the ice and had a few thoughts on going pro someday. These days I rarely make time to catch more than ten minutes of a game.
Pausing in a doorway, I spot the silver head of Asher Wingate holding court as a dozen minions hang on his every word. Standing dutifully at his side is a woman whose face is at least thirty years younger than his. She may or may not be the latest to hold the title of Mrs. Wingate.
My right shoulder is jostled and my muscles tense on instinct. But I relax when I find myself eye to eye with my former best friend.
“Cale,” Baylor Wingate says. “Wasn’t expecting to see you. It’s been a while.”
The crooked smirk I remember from our teenage years has been replaced by a bland, artificial smile that makes him look like he’s acting in an aftershave commercial.
The sight of Baylor standing there in a two thousand dollar suit with an impeccable haircut is hilarious. Still, I keep my cool. I’m not here for shits and giggles. This is purely a diplomatic mission.
“Last minute change of plans,” I say and accept his handshake.
Baylor’s eyes make a quick sweep of the territory in case there’s a better option. He doesn’t find one. He clears his throat. “How have you been?”
“I keep busy. Family business and all.”
“Right.” He nods and averts his gaze. “I’ll understand if you don’t have time to sit down for a minute.”
I would bet my car that he’s hoping I’ll say no.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ve got a minute.”
“Great.” Another phony smile. “Let’s claim one of those empty tables over by the buffet.”
“Lead the way.”
Cutting through the crowd takes a minute because Baylor has to stop a hundred times to shake hands and kiss cheeks. I’m not bothered by the fact that he doesn’t introduce me to any of his A list crowd but I don’t like trailing after him like a footman so I break away and locate an empty table on my own.
Baylor is still sidetracked by his social butterfly tasks, now exchanging backslaps with two bearded hockey players. He searches over his shoulder, spots me sitting alone at a table and hesitates before attempting to wave me over.
Slowly, I shake my head. I’m not here to make friends.
Bay’s throat bobs and he hastily excuses himself from his fan club. The back of his neck flushes red. He’s nervous. I guess it’s no fun having your old best friend-turned-mobster show up when you’re trying to be all reputable and shit.
Another tray of champagne appears in front of my face. This time I take a glass.
A shrill laugh slices through the rest of the noise. Hadley Wingate tosses a curtain of shiny blonde hair and hangs on the arm of some vacant dude in a tux. They are talking to the actor who stars in all those space cowboy movies. She hasn’t looked in my direction and I hope it stays that way. Baylor’s sister, two years older and full of boarding school attitude, was always a pain in the ass.
“Sorry about that.” Baylor sinks into a chair and adjusts his tie.
“No problem,” I say smoothly and pluck Richie’s envelope from my front pocket. I’m confident no one can see when I slide it into Baylor’s hand beneath the table. “A gift. From the desk of Richie Amato.”
He freezes. Our eyes lock. He breaks the stare first, swiveling his gaze back and forth to see if we’re being watched. It’s hard to say if anyone among this glitz and glamor crowd would be able to pick out a member of the caporegime belonging to one of the biggest mob families on the east coast. I highly doubt it.
People like this have an entertainment-level view of the mafia. Some of us fit the bill on purpose, like Franco and Brisetti, two other capos in my uncle’s army. Flashy and gutter-mouthed and dripping in gold, they come across like they’re cosplaying a role on The Sopranos .
Not me. I’m a big fan of flying under the radar. It’s far better to be the threat in the shadows that no one sees coming.
Meanwhile, Baylor is starting look he did the time he decided to experiment with some chewing tobacco we stole from his father’s driver. All I need to do is wait him out while it dawns on him that he needs to accept the envelope. He tucks it away in a pocket without opening it.
“Not that you’re hurting for cash,” I say, lacing my hands together on top of the shiny black table. “But it’s nice to know you have the support of friends. Isn’t it?”
He glances at the pinky ring on my right hand. A gift from Uncle Richie the day I became a made man.
A wrinkle of disgust crosses Baylor’s brow and then disappears. His plastic grin returns. “Absolutely.”
He makes a discreet gesture to someone on his right. Looking over, I see a group of women chatting among themselves. The exception is the tall, extremely attractive brunette in the center. She’s staring at us. Her mouth turns down with disapproval. I take note of the diamond rock on her left hand and draw a conclusion.
Then I decide to fuck with Baylor a little.
“Your wife must be here tonight,” I say to him. “I’d love to meet her. When I heard you tied the knot last year I wondered if my invitation got lost in the mail.”
Keeping one eye on the woman, I get the impression she’s received some signal from her husband. All of a sudden she turns and gracefully floats away, friends in tow, the hem of her voluminous black evening gown trailing behind her.
Baylor is slow to respond. He waits until she disappears into the crowd. “Talia and I celebrated our first anniversary in July. She’s a Barrington, as in Barrington Publishing.”
That doesn’t mean dick to me.
I suppose my face looks blank because Baylor adds, “Her father owns the Boston Daily News.” He clears his throat and gets fidgety. “I would have introduced you but she’s in the middle of a little holiday reunion with her sorority sisters. You know how that goes.”
“No,” I say, totally deadpan. “How does it go?”
He continues to squirm. “I just meant that with the party and the holiday things are a little chaotic tonight.”
Who does he think he’s kidding? He doesn’t even want his wife in the same room as me. Guess I can’t really fault him for that. But I’m annoyed anyway.
“Maybe later,” I say, growing bored by the topic.
He bobs his head and relaxes a notch. “Sorry about the wedding oversight.”
“No big deal.”
“Talia handled the guest list.”
“Whatever. I’m sure I was busy that weekend anyway.”
Piano music drifts into the room above the din of voices. An elaborate rendition of Jingle Bell Rock.
I’ve done what I came here to do.
There’s no reason to stick around for much longer.
If not for memories, I’d laugh at the idea that this jerk across the table was once my best friend. The one who cut off contact shortly after starting Yale. The one who now doesn’t even want me to meet his wife.
While these thoughts roam around in my head, Baylor has been babbling about his campaign and his political plans. I’m about to interrupt him and head for the exit when my eyes catch on a shapely figure.
Hips with enough flare to grab onto. A great rack that’s just begging to be played with. All of it poured into a blue dress that I could see myself unwrapping in two seconds flat.
My eyes tick north to a pile of reddish curls doing their best to escape from a loose bun.
In an instant, all dirty thoughts disappear.
Baylor quits talking at my snort of laughter. Indignation flashes across his face, like he thinks I’m laughing at him. Maybe I would be, if I’d been listening to a fucking word he said.
I jerk my head in the direction of the girl. “Almost didn’t recognize Scraps.”
He swivels and notices the youngest Wingate sibling carefully considering the buffet selection. “She flew in yesterday. It’s been a while since she’s visited.”
I haven’t laid eyes on Mercedes Wingate, nicknamed Scraps by her family, since she collided with the awkward early teen years and was swimming in oversized hoodies with her wild red curls falling in every direction.
A lot has changed since then. Ordinarily I would appreciate the changes but there’s no way I can have hot thoughts about Bay’s little sister. She’s even younger than Luca. For crying out loud, she was the kid who’d follow us around with cookie crumbs on her face while begging us to help her save the live lobster she’d just rescued from the kitchen.
“She must be done with college by now,” I say.
“Yeah, she briefly came home after Cornell and was supposed to attend grad school at NYU. But then her independent streak got the better of her.” He shrugs. “Now she’s running some animal sanctuary in Colorado. That’s why she’s here. The small trust fund her mother left her is gone and she needs the old man to cough up some funds.” He takes another look at his sister and frowns. “She’s wasting her time.”
“What’s the problem?” I ask. “Sounds like a good cause and the Wingate family isn’t in the habit of pinching pennies.”
He shakes his head. “Not that simple. Dad’s still pissed about the way she called off her engagement.”
“What happened?” Normally I wouldn’t care but something tells me not to dismiss the conversation so quickly.
“She was all set to marry Grant Gallant. You know, as in the restaurant chain.”
“Gallant’s Steakhouse?”
“That’s the one. Casper Gallant has been a close family friend for decades. Grant was lined up for a job on the Dukes executive team and they were going to build a restaurant inside the arena. But then Scraps blew off all the wedding plans and moved to Colorado to start that stray animal project of hers.”
I take a closer look at the girl at the buffet table. She’s examining a row of tiramisu wedges.
“Good for her. She shouldn’t be forced to marry some silver spoon asshole if she doesn’t want to.”
None of us should.
Baylor lets out a gross little snicker. “My little sister needs to learn how to play the game.”
“What game?”
“Make the king proud and you’ll be rewarded.”
“Why don’t you just give her the money if he won’t?”
Bay’s expression turns shrewd. “We all have our roles to play, Cale. I’m sure you understand that.”
I unfold my hands and lay them flat on the table. There’s been blood on them before. There will be blood on them again.
That was my choice. Offer up my soul to save my brother’s.
Now I have another choice to make. Fall in line with my uncle’s wishes or risk his wrath.
But a new option has just occurred to me.
One that no one will ever see coming.
One that could solve more than just my own problem.
One that’s going to horrify the pretentious Wingate old guard and make this conceited dickhead across the table shit his pants.
The idea actually makes me smile.
“I should let you go,” I say. “Don’t want to monopolize your time when you have all these guests.”
Baylor doesn’t need any prodding. He practically vaults from the chair. “Good seeing you again, Cale.”
Before scampering away he finishes with a limp handshake and an insincere promise to have drinks in the city sometime.
Two seconds after he disappears, I take a swallow of that stupid champagne. Then, with a new mission in mind, I turn around and wait for Mercedes Wingate to finish fretting over her dessert selection.
We’re going to be making a deal. She just doesn’t know it yet.