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  “Did you take my advice?” queried Chin.

  “Yes, but it’s only a matter of time before he finds out about you, King and me,” worried Queenie. “And I still have his million dollar problem. And all the other debts I have.”

  “So if you want to save yourself, go after Noah Reid. He’s the one who took out King.”

  Not only King. Noah was the only man that had ever bested her father in an honest physical confrontation. But Queenie knew better than to mention that.

  “Easy to say. How do I find him? And more importantly, what’s the angle if I do?”

  “Go for his hot spot and pressure it until he has no choice but to give up.”

  Queenie’s voice sharpened. “What’s that?”

  “Not what, but who. Olivia Southam, my old lawyer, Garret Southam’s daughter. She and Noah split up but he’s still broken up about it. To get to my money, it will be easier to go through her, but don’t be greedy. Don’t go after all of it at once. Go after two hundred and fifty.”

  Queenie knew her father was worth billions. That’s why she and King were so pissed when he rejected their request for a measly twenty million. “So you want me to do your dirty work for you?”

  “I have enough money stashed away to disappear. But you? That’s another story.”

  “Why two fifty? Why not more? Why not less?”

  “It’s as much work to go after a million as a billion so you have to make it worth your while. But it has to be a number that Noah will be willing to lose. Two hundred and fifty’s not loose change but it’s not worth dying for either.”

  It was hard to argue with her father’s logic. “So how do I get to Olivia? Where do I go to get to her?”

  “You don’t have to go anywhere. She’s in New York with Abby, Tommy’s daughter.”

  Tommy Sung. The former public face of her father’s gambling and real estate enterprises.

  “Why, and what’s the angle?”

  “They think they’re musicians. They’ve gone to New York to play in the big leagues. Abby sings and Olivia plays piano.”

  Queenie spat her tongue in disgust. “Oh, brother, not no-talent dreamers. They all think they’re coming to conquer the Big Apple. Musicians are all insecure, gullible and trusting. Always waiting for a break that never comes. Chasing dreams that never get caught.”

  “Use that to your advantage. Don’t be cocky, Queenie. Everyone can be dangerous.”

  “So why did you call me?” she asked, waiting with bated breath to hear her father grovel for her help.

  “I called because it’s your turn to see if you can bail yourself out of the shithole you’re in. To see if you’re worthy, or just another one of my useless kids.”

  God, I hate him.

  6

  Setting the trap

  As soon as her father hung up, Queenie began googling Olivia on her phone. The scant info was pretty boring. Mainly info about her old law firm Pittman Saunders. Lawyer, Harvard Law, private boarding school. And a picture that made her look like she needed to drink a jug of prune juice to loosen up. She shook her head and started browsing for info about Abby. Same deal as Olivia. Studied music at Juilliard. An uninspired head shot with the same appeal as a spinster nun. “This is bullshit. Can’t use any of this.”

  She started digging into their info on Facebook and smirked. FB was where people revealed themselves, especially when they thought it was just for their friends or close associates.

  There were pics of Abby singing, sometimes accompanied by Olivia on the piano, sometimes by other unknowns. Performing old jazz standards at low-level clubs. Selfies taken outside recording studios.

  In one FB conversation, they talked about wanting to take the “next step” in their musical career but, even with all their credentials, getting gigs of any kind right now was like banging their heads against a brick wall.

  There was absolutely nothing remotely related to the legal profession or a desire to get any kind of regular job. Music was their thing and they were going to go all out.

  The most recent posts were about recent life in New York. How they relocated a few weeks ago and moaning about how hard it was to find any apartment in Manhattan that would rent to them because of Olivia’s piano.

  Time to turn on the oven and cook with gas. It wasn’t hard for Queenie to figure out what special direction to take. She was going to help make their dream come alive. Like a famous circus huckster once said, “There’s a sucker born every minute.”

  As she paced thoughtfully down the street, Queenie ran through her list of contacts, formulating a plan. Her eyes flashed as the pieces started coming together. She tapped a number into her cell.

  There was an almost immediate response. “Hey, Babe, what’s shakin’?”

  “I want to make you some money, Randy. Interested?”

  “Money is better than sex. Lasts longer. What do you need?”

  “An apartment in Manhattan. Tribeca. Battery Park City. Greenwich Village. A nice area.”

  “They don’t need me for that. Craigslist. Airbnb. What’s the catch?” asked the smooth-talking rental agent.

  “They want a place where they can put a piano.”

  “Oh.”

  There were five seconds of silence before Randy asked, “What’s the budget and for how long?”

  “Just get me a place. I won’t need it for more than a week. Tell them it’s five grand a month and I’ll cover the difference.”

  Randy didn’t need to ask why the rental was only needed for a week. As long as his hands were clean, he didn’t care. “Boy, you’re smooth, Queenie.”

  You don’t know the half of it. “I just texted you the info and their FB pages. Make up something believable.”

  Randy hummed, “I got just the place. It’ll be a tight fit with a piano but it’s real nice. One of my other clients bought it last week and isn’t planning to move in until he gets back from Spain next month.”

  “You’re the best, Randy. Once you’ve sealed the deal, show them the showcase page at Café du Music. I’m gonna put something together with Benjamin, too.”

  Randy chuckled. “Give me three hours.”

  “Just wrap the deal up fast.”

  Queenie disconnected and made another call.

  “Queenie, how good to hear from you. What’s happening with my favorite piece of ass that I still have yet to taste?”

  Biting her lip to keep from lashing out at the effeminate voice at the other end of the line, she cooed, “I want to give you some business, Benjamin.”

  “Am I doing you or are you doing me?”

  Queenie shook her head and put the cell phone away from her ear for a moment. She hated these stupid games. “I want to use the Café to hold some auditions.”

  “When, for how long, and how much will you pay?”

  “I want to start in three hours and we’ll go as long as we need. Not too long.”

  “The pay, Queenie. The pay,” harped Benjamin.

  “Do me this favor and I’ll make it worth your while. I’m coming now to set things up.”

  “I haven’t even said ‘yes’ yet.”

  “Are you actually thinking of turning me down? I know you, Benji so stop whining. Expect some calls and line them up.”

  “You are so demanding for a freebie… Actually, I’m so excited to see you in person.”

  Queenie replied with a skeptical, “Yeah? Why?”

  She could hear his smile slide into a broad grin over the phone. “By wanting to see me in person. Anything but sex we can do over the phone, and we can even try that if you like.”

  When hell freezes over. Queenie grimaced as she disconnected her cell and thrust it into her pocket.

  Finally

  New York

  When they first got into New York a few weeks ago, Abby and Olivia’s full-time job was to find a place to live. They’d both spent a lot of time in the city that never sleeps, but that was as students, not as actual people who lived there. S
leeping on floors or couches was no longer an option.

  Not that they were too proud, but now they were real musicians. At university, there was always a practice room with a piano or empty classroom to sing in but now, as full-fledged artistes, they needed a space so they could make music at home.

  They pounded the pavement trying to find a place but there was something about the words “piano” and “singer” that was poison to potential landlords so when Randy Chang, an apartment rental agent called and said, “Hey, I saw on Facebook that you’re looking for a place and I think I’ve got something you’d like,” they dropped everything to look.

  Ten minutes on the subway, another eight minutes of walking, one minute on the elevator, five minutes to check it out and ten seconds to sign the deal. Another eight minutes to do a credit check, thirty seconds to hand Randy three thousand bucks cash “incentive,” and Abby and Olivia had a newly renovated New York apartment just about all to themselves, save for the hopefully musically appreciative cockroaches.

  “How are we going to get our stuff in here?” groaned Olivia as she punched in a number into her cell.

  Randy flipped through the contacts on his cell phone and held it for Olivia to see. “These guys are reliable. Not the cheapest but you don’t want to take any chances with a piano.”

  Olivia punched in the number.

  “A1 Movers,” answered a man with a deep bass voice.

  “Hi, we need some stuff moved into our new place. A double bed, a table, a chest of drawers, two chairs and uh…a small grand piano.”

  “Two thousand two hundred bucks,” was the immediate answer.

  “That’s robbery,” argued Olivia.

  “Two grand for the piano and a couple hundred for the rest. We can do it day after tomorrow night and need an answer now. Otherwise, I’m going to the Knicks game.”

  Olivia sighed. She was weary and tired of living out of a suitcase. “Okay. I’ll text you the address.” She disconnected.

  “So my job is done. Congrats and hope you like the place.”

  “Thanks, Randy,” said Olivia effusively. “We were getting desperate.”

  “Well, I’m glad I was able to help,” he told them. “Hey, I got another tip for you, too. One that might help pay the rent or maybe even get you on someone’s radar.”

  “We’re all ears,” replied Olivia.

  Randy texted the Café du Music website to the girls. “Check it out. Benjamin the owner’s a friend of mine and he’s always looking for ways to promote.”

  “Will definitely do,” said Abby.

  Randy gave Abby a wink. “Let’s stay in touch.” He opened the door and exited.

  The door had barely closed before Abby launched into a tirade. “Twenty-two hundred bucks for the move, five thousand bucks for six hundred and forty-seven square feet. And let’s not forget Randy’s three thousand bucks ‘finder’s fee’ just for finding us on Facebook.”

  “I should have been in the real estate business,” grumbled Olivia as she stood looking out the window onto the bustling New York street.

  “My dear, you were in the real estate business at your father’s law firm, and you hated it,” reminded Abby. “But at least you liked Noah.”

  “Liked, as in past tense, is the operative word. How about you? I saw Randy checking you out.”

  “Ugh. No Asian men,” gagged Abby as she opened her iPad to find the website Randy texted to them. “Did you see him trying to show off his Rolex? As if that meant anything.”

  “He rented the space to us. That’s all that counts.”

  Abby’s mood brightened as she peered up from her tablet computer. “Hey, check this out. ‘Established jazz lounge looking for female musicians to showcase on Tuesday night. No pay but great exposure.’”

  “Oh, wow,” replied Olivia sarcastically. “Let’s expose ourselves. Do we audition in a bikini or a G-string? That is so sketchy. Maybe it’s some lech trying to trick girls with stars in their eyes into bed. I am so not into being a musical porn star. Pay me and play me.”

  “Or maybe there’s some astute club owner or record executive that recognizes women are a fast-growing demographic that is under-represented. Don’t be so skeptical, Olivia.”

  “It’s my lawyer nature to question everything. And, while we’re at it, if this place is so ‘established,’ then why do they need to advertise? And why isn’t there any pay?”

  “It doesn’t have to pay, Olivia. This is New York. The place is crawling with musicians trying to find a way to get noticed.”

  “Abby, something smells. No established jazz club in New York advertises. We can just pay our dues and work our way up.”

  “We have been paying our dues for years, Olivia. We’ve played all the dives, attic clubs, and after-hours jazz places. We’re on a first-name basis with every bouncer in town... At any rate, it doesn’t hurt to call.”

  “Okay, but it goes against my better judgment.” Olivia pasted a smile on her face as she punched the number into her cell.

  “Hello. Café du Music,” answered a brusque male voice.

  Olivia forced a cheery voice and asked, “Hi. You’re looking for female acts for showcasing?”

  “Yup. What do you do?”

  “I play the piano and my girlfriend sings. We just blew back into town.”

  Olivia heard grumbled murmurs before the voice resumed. “So where you from?”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “Listen, there are more than ten million people in New York City and almost every one of them is either a writer, actress or musician. I need to find an angle, a unique selling proposition, I can promote.”

  “We’re from Hong Kong. You want a USP? I’m Caucasian. My friend’s Chinese. East meets West. Yin meets Yang… We’re friends of Randy’s and he thought we’d be a fit for you.”

  There were a few moments of unbearable silence as Olivia prayed that no one was going to check up on her lie about being connected with Randy. “Can you come in two hours for an audition?”

  “Audition for a job that doesn’t pay?”

  “Hey, you called me,” the voice reminded her.

  With Olivia’s impatience starting to come through, Abby grabbed the phone. “We’ll be there. Who should we ask for?”

  “Queenie. I’m just taking her calls to set things up. You get five minutes to impress her.”

  “Okay, we’ll be there.” Abby hung up.

  Olivia’s gaze shifted to Abby with disdain. “Café du Music? What kind of random made-up name is that?”

  Unlike Olivia, Abby’s face hummed with excitement. “That’s the latest name of Le Chat Noir. Same family of owners for a hundred years. They just open, then close. Open under a new name, run it for a while, then close again.”

  “They close because they don’t pay their bills. Right?” said Olivia.

  “At least they’re honest. They’re already telling us they’re not going to pay.”

  “I hate honesty.”

  “Shut up and let’s go.”

  Benjamin looked across his mammoth desk to see Queenie staring intently at him. “Queenie, next time you ask for a favor, I’m going to say ‘no.’ I had like ten thousand chicks wanting to come in, and I didn’t even have it posted for an hour. Most of them weren’t even musicians. And they would do anything. Even over the phone.”

  “Everyone wants to be a star. Thought you’d like that.”

  “Very funny. But I got thirty acts for you to listen to. All with Asian combinations of some kind or another.”

  “Anybody sound promising?”

  “Everyone sounds promising over the phone. But damned if I know how real they are. At any rate, auditions start in half an hour.”

  “Good boy, Benjamin.”

  “Bow wow, bitch.”

  What’s Really Important

  Shanghai

  “I’m going to grab a bite outside. Want anything when I come back?” asked Noah.

  It was a rhetorical qu
estion. Sam was conked out from the barrage of painkillers and JJ, slumped in the chair beside Sam’s bed, was just plain worn out from the most hectic week he had ever experienced.

  Noah was glad for the solitude as he stepped out of the hospital room and into the elevator. He had had hardly any time to himself since Olivia told him she was leaving just a few weeks ago.

  What the hell did I do wrong? He wondered as he stepped out into the warm, humid Shanghai air. She thought he was funny, charming… She liked the special flowers he bought—including the Venus flytrap.

  And sex? He snickered thinking of how badly Sam had judged him. Well… Olivia’s quaking body, her urgent gasping breaths and her utterly satisfied exhaustion after he made her feel like she had exploded into a million pieces.

  But had he made the timeworn mistake of interpreting satisfaction of lust for love?

  He had barely stepped on to the sidewalk before a smelly, hunchbacked woman in dirty clothes accosted him. She took Noah’s arm and pleaded, “Money, sir. Money.”

  Irritated by her invasion of his private reverie, Noah also knew that giving her anything was inviting trouble. He would be swarmed by beggars hoping for a handout from the soft white man if he gave her even a few cents.

  Ignoring her pleas, he kept his eyes centered straight ahead and continued walking.

  Then, at the street corner, a sight stopped him cold. A little girl, maybe six years old, was unsuccessfully trying to convince every passerby to buy her wilted red roses. To the casual observer, she was just another street beggar, but something about the tone of her voice reminded him of… Olivia. As the little girl made her pitch, he could hear Olivia’s voice saying, “I love roses. What’s wrong with roses? My mother loved roses and so do I.”