CHAPTER ONE
New York City, on December 23, 1989, was cold with sharp, arctic like winds raising havoc with the city. A slate, colored sky covered the city like a malevolent shroud as the winds swept down between the glass and concrete skyscrapers that dominated the Manhattan landscape. The winds rushed past the towering buildings onto the broad, traffic-swelled avenues that were dotted by thousands of yellow machines that careened purposefully through the evening traffic. The drivers often displayed skills that one could not help but marvel at in spite of the fact they caused taut knuckles and large bulging eyes that tried to see everything at once. Foreign language primer, a workable seat belt and a stiff drink would be the ideal accouterment for a taxi ride in New York, but that being impractical, one just sat helpless and exhilarated! To ride in a taxi in New York City was to understand what it felt like to live there.
The city was in a mean season. The famous ethnic melting pot that was New York had boiled over during the summer into an orgy of racial and drug related violence. The city's daily newspapers printing of race related and subway murders was unrelenting. The local drug lords had assumed power that had once been the jealously guarded privilege of the mob. News vans crisscrossed the city streets tirelessly, jammed with cynical reporters and news crew. Their ears were tuned to the station's dispatcher so they would be certain to be first at the next unfolding tragedy. Their unspoken motto was "FIRST WITH THE WORST!"
Traditional festive atmosphere permeated the air. Last minute Christmas shoppers collided peacefully with a multitude of slightly drunk santas and prime time pickpockets who carefully scrutinized the carefree crowds anxious to corral their latest victims. At 7:45 that evening it began to snow. Thick moist flakes fell clumsily over a brightly lit marquee that spelled out, MARSHALL GARNETT-TWO NIGHTS ONLY. Thousands of people made their way to the mecca of the moment, Radio City Music Hall. New York café society and project dwellers pushed and shoved as momentary equals as they made their way into the fabled hall.
Collette Garnett sat quietly in a rented limousine at the curb outside the hall and watched the huge crowd scramble through the smudged glass doors. It appeared to her as if there would be a sellout crowd. She sincerely hoped so. Her husband Marshall was headlining the show and would not be fit to live with if it had not sold out. Before marrying him, she had not realized how fragile an entertainer's ego could be. Sometimes it appeared that the basic quality of their life together depended on a hit record or how well a particular concert turned out. It was maddening at times, but the perks made it all worthwhile.
Collette quickly tired of watching the controlled mayhem and eased back into her seat and the comfort of the limo's interior warmth. She ran a manicured hand alongside the vacant seat beside her, searching for her beaded handbag and a much needed cigarette. She found a gold plated cigarette case with its matching lighter and lit the Newport Long as it dangled precariously between her peach colored lips, vaguely remembering a promise to Marshall that she had vowed to quit. She exhaled quickly, blowing a large cloud of white smoke into the car's chocolate interior. She gazed lazily around the car thinking of how her friends had always teased her about smoking, saying that she smoked just like Bette Davis.
She glanced out at the falling snow, slowly beginning to regret wearing the silk mini dress she had on. She was not used to being bi-coastal. Just three days ago she had been in LA and in that climate the dress would have been perfect. Well, at least she had worn her full length ermine and she only had to go as far as the entrance. That was one of the little things she appreciated about having money. One did not have to worry about petty miscalculations, you just covered them up with a fur. Glancing down at her ring encrusted fingers, her soft brown eyes lingering on her ring finger and the large opal surrounded by blue diamonds, remembering how excited and thrilled she had felt on the night Marshall gave it to her, the night they had become engaged. Could it only have been six months ago? Where in the hell was that damned chauffeur?
As if answering some unspoken summons, Chris Garcia, the Puerto Rican chauffeur, walked toward the limo. The collar on his long black topcoat was turned up and he leaned forward into the relentless wind. Collette rolled down the window as the man approached. Impatient, she began speaking before he had reached the car. "Where have you been for so long?…Has Miss Jackson come yet?…goddamn…I'm just sitting here waiting for you all this time…seems like you could have had some consideration!"
Chris had been smiling when he approached the car, and after having been a professional chauffeur for the past three years had grown to love the job. He was determined not to allow this young, spoiled woman ruin his attitude, especially since he would be rid of her in a couple of days. He had come to know and respect Marshall Garnett. The singer was one of the most agreeable and likable celebrities he had ever driven, not to mention the best tipper. With those thoughts as consideration, he decided to ignore her latest tantrum. Smile still in place, he leaned over and answered the annoyed woman.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Garnett, but I took care of things as fast as I could! Your guest, Miss. Jackson, is in her seat waiting for you and we only have a few minutes if you want to see your husband before he goes on stage."
Collette angrily flung the door open striking the man with it as she stepped to the curb. She smoothed her dress and checked her hose as he moved past her to retrieve her fur. She turned without looking at him as he draped the coat over her slender shoulders. Collette secured the coat and walked toward the entrance without looking back. Chris scrambled to lock the car before falling into a quick trot behind the sullen woman. Suddenly, she stopped and turned. "Mr. Garcia!" The man stopped abruptly, a puzzled expression capturing his handsome features. "Yes?"
"My purse…it's on the back seat!" Without another word the woman turned and continued walking to the building, a small, unseen smile creeping across her face.