Posted: Sep 26, 08 11:32am
The lobby was a cathedral. The arched ceiling, the hushed atmosphere, its expensive furnishings and understated décor was high mass. He came to worship money. All it was missing was the stained glass and a ridiculous man in an anachronistic hat. Instead it had chrome trimmings and lustrous carpets and two conservative women, tastefully dressed in muted tones of gray and fawn. The younger glanced in his direction as he walked by.
Each time John Mace entered the building he relived his decision not to follow God. He was certain that God had stopped watching by now; given up in disgust. He no longer cared, really, and was even bored with apathy. That apathy led him to this life of hedonism. He smiled as he rang for the elevator. Other people slowly gathered as he waited. The elevator door opened.
If he continued the hokey religious metaphor, the elevator would be the confessional. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he thought, watching the glowing floor indicator, “ It has been . . . it has been . . . it was no use trying. He couldn’t possibly remember how many years it had been since his last so-called confession. He might as well try to remember the names of all the women he’d had in the past two years. What was the point? He no longer remembered the seven deadly sins either. Let’s see, lust, greed . . . well he would know those two, wouldn’t he?
The muted bell of the elevator pulled him from his reverie. He thought about other buildings in which he’d worked. As he had clawed his way to the top of Wall Street the elevators became more plush and quiet. That was, he mused, another perk of success: the quieter the elevator chime, the fewer predators above you in the food chain. Who knew the food chain had elevators?
As he opened the door to his office he paused. He couldn’t help it. Nikki Ramsey sat behind her desk. She never looked up immediately when he opened the door but continued working for a moment. A subtle smile would slide onto her lips and only then would she shift her enormous blue eyes to his face, push the cascade of lustrous black hair from her cheek and say, “Good Morning, Mr. Mace.” The rich contralto of her voice said it all. He could feel her in his arms; the taught pressure of her muscles straining against him.
He realized he was holding his breath.
“Good Morning, Nikki,” he would say in return. Absolutely no one in the firm of Razer and Short knew of their involvement. Three years of incredible, though not exclusive, sex and not a soul knew. Their escape depended on it.
John Mace lived the high life, going out in style, spending extravagantly. He had watched and learned, culling every tip from every source. Now he was done. He had a house in Zurich, a villa in Tuscany, an apartment in Paris, and an estate outside of Kingston. There was roughly $1.5 billion in assets and investments that spanned the globe. He’d gone from seminarian to sugar daddy in ten years. It was time to run. The plane left the ground at 10pm tonight. They would be in Kingston tomorrow.
The company would have five months before it collapsed; six if they were really stupid. It wouldn’t matter, Nikki and he would be shooting craps in Biarritz and basking in the sun in the south of France. That same sun shone through the tinted floor-to-ceiling windows in his office, casting late morning shadows around the spacious room.
Suddenly, the door opened. Mace looked up to see three men entering his office. Three very large men; clones in dark suits.
John’s stomach melted and slipped into his shoes. His knees had never been weak, but they failed him now. He sat down hard.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mace,” Nikki’s voice was high, laced with stress, “I tried to keep them out, but-”
“Mr. Mace,” the nearest man interrupted, “we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
