The Deadliest Game Read online

  An attractive blonde was sitting by herself a few stools over. Next to her was a middle-aged couple in the heat of an argument.

  It was unusual for Blair to come here on a weekend alone. But he was desperate to unwind. The last few days of the workweek had not been kind. It had begun with a phone call from John Broley, his distributor in Great Britain, a prematurely gray-haired man with a hard exterior but a good heart. When Broley advised that Cyber-tech had a serious competitor, Blair was flummoxed. Cyber-tech was a proprietary product. Jeremy said so and he believed him.

  “Yes. I’ve been shown something rather similar,” Broley continued. “Not as nicely packaged, mind you. Graphics not up to your standards, perhaps. But pretty damn close.”

  “Are you sure, John?”

  “Absolutely positive.”

  Blair’s head began to swim. He envisioned Broley’s commitment of a hundred thousand pieces being reduced or canceled.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m here, John.”

  “Look, I didn’t say I wouldn’t remain loyal. But this other guy’s price is lower than yours. You might want to look into it.”

  “Of course.”

  “Find out what’s going on and get back to me. Will you do that?”

  “I will.”

  He got off the phone and brushed his hand through his hair, tempted to pull out the strands one by one. Too often Blair stayed awake at night remembering his near-impoverished upbringing, how he used to pray for a way out, a way to earn a hundred dollars a week, naively believing that this would enable him to live comfortably. After having achieved success, he looked back upon his early aspirations with amusement. The fear remained that it could all be taken away, in a heartbeat, and he would be forced to start over again, from scratch.

  He began repeating his personal adage: If it were easy, everyone would do it. But he hadn’t survived this long by throwing in the towel. And he wasn’t about to do so now.

  Then, on Friday, his daughter called, practically in tears. When he asked what was wrong, she seemed reluctant to tell him.

  “You can trust me,” he reminded her.

  “I know that,” she said.

  “You can tell me anything.”

  “I know, Daddy. You always say that.”

  “Well, then?”

  She hesitated. “Mommy made me promise to keep this a secret. She’ll be taking me out of school and moving us far, far away. I will never see you again.” She started to cry.

  Blair shook his head in frustration. A few days ago Mandy was talking about the two of them getting back together, trying to make a go of it again. Was this revenge, he wondered. Because he had said no?

  “Daddy, can’t you stop her? I don’t want to leave you.”

  “I’ll try very hard,” he said.

  “But what if she won’t listen?”

  “Then I’ll come visit you, as often as possible.”

  “Will you?”

  “I will.”

  “Even if we are a, uh, bazillion miles away?”

  “Even then.”

  “Okay.” Brightening. “I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, too, sweetheart.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Blair looked down at his empty glass. He had tried to reach his ex-wife both at home and at work, all in vain. He was more successful connecting with Jeremy Samson in Israel, who had assured him that whoever was trying to knock them off would be stopped.

  Meanwhile, for tonight at least, he wanted to forget about his problems. Mandy seemed to be purposely ignoring him. As for Jeremy, he had no choice but to trust him.

  The bartender approached with his refill. Blair was just taking a sip when he felt a tap on his shoulder. The blonde was standing next to him, asking why he was ignoring her.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  “I’ve been sitting here for over ten minutes.”

  Confused, Blair waited for the punch line.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Aren’t you going to apologize?”

  He saluted her with his drink. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “That’s better.” She thrust out her hand. “I’m Lisa. It’s nice to finally meet you, Richard.”

  “And it’s nice to meet you, too.” He figured he could be Richard, if that’s what she wanted.

  “I loved your last e-mail,” she said.

  “As I did yours.”

  A suspicious look crossed her brow, but it didn’t last. “That’s what first attracted me to you,” she admitted.

  “What? The way I signed off?”

  “No, silly. The romantic in you.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “The way you write. Your poetry.”

  “Jack and Jill went up the hill,” he quoted.

  She laughed.

  “And speaking of which,” Blair said, “you’re not such a bad writer yourself.”

  “I’m not?” She seemed genuinely pleased with the compliment.

  “Not at all. You have a certain style, an openness. How do the French say—a joie de vivre?”

  “I do?”

  Her mouth didn’t exactly fall open with each word spoken, but it came close. And Blair now realized how much she resembled his ex-wife. There was the blond hair, of course. The shape of her dainty nose. Her full lips. Even her style of clothes. Red dress falling a few inches above the knee. Black belt pinching her waist. If there was a difference, it was in her eyes, the left being slightly crossed.

  “Do you live around here?” he made the mistake of asking.

  This time her brow remained creased. “You’re not Richard, are you?”

  He smiled. “Never was; never will be.”

  She backed away.

  “But, I could be him,” Blair quickly added. “If you want me to be.”

  She drank from her glass, some sort of pinkish-orange concoction that was likely a Fuzzy Navel. “I promised to meet Richard here,” she said. “We’ve been corresponding for over a month. I kept refusing his request for a face-to-face. Until now.”

  “Don’t sweat it. He’ll show up. You know how men can be.”

  “No, I don’t know.” She looked at her watch. “Over twenty minutes late. And I thought he was different, somehow.”

  “I’m sure that he is. You just have to be patient.”

  “For how long?”

  “How about an hour? If he doesn’t show by then, you go off on your merry way and forget about him.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  She muttered something and went back to her drink.

  Blair invited her to have a seat.

  She hesitated, but not for long.

  Jimmy the bartender performed to perfection, with refills flowing endlessly. Blair expected Lisa to object eventually. He began to notice other aspects of Mandy in her. From the way she drank, using all of her fingers to grip the glass. To the color of her nail polish, a pastel shade close to pink.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  They clinked.

  “To Richard.”

  “To Richard.” She sort of laughed. “You know, you’re exactly the way he described himself.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes. Five foot eleven. A hundred and seventy pounds.”

  “That is close. What else?”

  “Blue eyes, actually.”

  “And?”

  “That’s about all.”

  “Handsome?” he asked.

  She smiled. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  “BM are my initials. You have to guess the rest.”

  “Bruce Matterhorn, like the mountain?”

  “Nope.”

  “Billy Monte Carlo, like the country?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “I give up.”

  “Blair Mulligan, in person.” He tipped an imaginary hat.

  “Blair.” She paused. “Is it really Blair?”

  “I swear
on my firstborn.”

  “You … you’re married?”

  He shrugged. “Was.”

  “For how long?”

  “Too long. Can we change the subject?”

  “What do you do?” she asked without skipping a beat.

  “I play with toys.”

  “No, seriously, Blair.”

  “I’m serious. Ask James.” He indicated the bartender standing close by.

  “It’s true enough, I’m afraid,” Jimmy said.

  “And what do you do?” Blair asked.

  “Masseuse.”

  “Oh yeah? In a massage parlor?”

  “Silly.” She grinned. “I work for one of New York’s top physiotherapists. Henry Fontaine. You ever hear of him?”

  For the first time he noticed the definition in her arms and shoulders. “No,” he said, “can’t say that I have. Is he famous?”

  “Very. His clients include members of the Mets, Yanks, and Rangers.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Are you impressed?”

  “Very.” God, the drink was getting to him.

  “Well—” they both said at once.

  “Over an hour,” Lisa said.

  “Uh-oh. Time to go.”

  “Not necessarily,” she said.

  Blair brushed an imaginary hair away from her forehead. Then he touched her glass again. “Here’s to Richard,” he said for the second or third time.

  “Uh-uh,” she objected.

  “Uh-uh?” he questioned.

  “Here’s to us.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Brandt was Lisa’s family name and she was an only child. She came from a working class family, born and bred in the Bronx. She was thirty, she said, but he found her demeanor to be that of someone older. Best of all, there was a genteelness about her, something soft and refined.

  He told her about the toy industry, how he had started out with a distributor in Montreal, after first trying his hand at computer sales. “I found I had a knack for toys,” he said with a self-effacing gesture. “Stayed with the distributor for five years before this opportunity presented itself here in New York. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Are you good at what you do, Blair?”

  “I made it to the Mean Apple, didn’t I?”

  Lisa concentrated on her drink.

  It dawned on Blair that his mind was growing fuzzy. He took her hand in his.

  “I like you,” she said, before he could speak.

  “I like you, too,” he echoed her words.

  She covered his hand with her own. “Can we go somewhere quieter?”

  She was so bubbly. And nice. He couldn’t remember being with a woman this nice. He wanted to give her a hug. “My place?” he suggested as he stood.

  Seeing him wobble, Lisa put her arm around him.

  How much did I actually drink? he wondered, no longer able to feel his feet.

  He knew Lisa paid for the cab. But how they ended up inside his condo was a mystery to him. His building was one of the few in Manhattan without a doorman, so there was no one to lend assistance. Conversation was moot at this point. Leading him by the hand, it was nice to see her taking charge. Through the hallway, past the den and kitchen, into the master bedroom.

  Lisa was not only in control, she seemed determined. His clothes came off, but not his underwear. He would have stopped had she tried to go that far.

  Not that she tried.

  Blair flopped down on the bed, belly first. Lisa said something about helping him feel better. It was all innocent enough, practically childlike. Until an iron-fisted set of knuckles began to knead the flesh on his shoulders.

  “Ow!” he called out, quickly sobering.

  “Your muscles are tight.”

  “They are?”

  “Yes. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “You haven’t?”

  “Not really.”

  “Ow!”

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  The pain was bringing tears to his eyes.

  “This will do you some good,” she promised.

  Blair wondered how an average-built woman could be this strong.

  She might be a psychotic killer, he told himself. And she was in his apartment. And he was lying here, more or less vulnerable. “Lisa—” he tried to distract her.

  He could swear she was humming to herself.

  “Lisa?” he repeated.

  “Yes, Blair?”

  “Could you, uh, stop for a while? Just for a second or so? Let me catch my breath?”

  “I will. Almost done…”

  He groaned out loud; it was unpreventable.

  “Feeling better?” she asked when she finally stopped.

  “Oh, yeah,” he muttered, the relief profound. “Much better.”

  “Perfect.”

  “And sober.”

  “Exactly my intention. Now, close your eyes.”

  He opened his eyes wide. If she were psychotic, this would be the perfect time to pull out a knife or gun.

  “Blair?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re not listening to me.”

  He closed his eyes, praying for the best.

  There was a rustle of clothing. Then the warmest body imaginable was lying next to his. Not quite naked, unfortunately. He could feel her bra and panties.

  Blair went to kiss her.

  She avoided his lips. “Sleep,” she whispered.

  He ignored her request and made a grab for her breast.

  She pushed his hand away, gently.

  Something stirred between his legs and it wasn’t the blanket.

  “Goodnight, Blair.”

  “But—”

  “But, what?”

  He sighed, feeling sorry for himself. “Nothing. Goodnight, Lisa.”

  In the morning, she was gone.

  CHAPTER 14

  Blair stayed in bed longer than usual on Sunday. His head was reminding him of how much he’d had to drink the night before. Then he felt the ache in his muscles. “Lisa?” he said aloud.

  Did she truly exist? he wondered.

  He tried sitting up, felt a wave of nausea, and immediately laid back down.

  She was real; he knew she was. Just the thought of the massage she had administered. The fact that she had lain next to him. Her smile and slightly crossed eye.

  Was it the left one or right?

  He couldn’t recall.

  Did it matter? It was the first time since his divorce that he had felt something inside his gut. Call it chemistry. Call it what you will.

  Call it too much booze, a voice in his head advised.

  “No!”

  The word popped out of him like a shot. True enough, he had had too much to drink. But long before that. When they had first met and she was calling him Richard, there was a connection there.

  He would swear to it.

  Suddenly, the urge to urinate overpowered his fear of being sick. He stumbled his way out of bed and into the bathroom. Then, holding on to the walls, he went in search of a note from Lisa, something that would indicate that she was indeed real.

  From the hallway to the den to the kitchen.

  There was no business card. No note. Nothing.

  Disappointed, he returned to bed, crawled under the covers, and went to sleep.

  It was past noon when his cell phone woke him. “About time,” he said unkindly, struggling to sit up.

  “And Merry Christmas to you, too,” his ex-wife countered.

  “Where have you been?”

  “You going to lower your voice, or am I going to hang up?”

  “Sorry,” he said, not aware he had raised it. “Why’d it take you so long to get back to me?”

  “I’ve been busy making plans.”

  “What sort of plans?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  “You’re traumatizing our daughter, Mandy.”

  “Traumatizing our daughter? What’re you t
alking about?”

  “What’ve you been telling her?”

  “Who—Sandra?”

  “No. Oprah Winfrey! Of course Sandra.”

  “Has she told you anything?”

  “She hasn’t said anything. But she’s been acting strangely. I figured you must have something to do with it.”

  “Frank’s been offered a job in California and asked us to move with him. I thought it would be a good change.”

  Change? Blair questioned in his mind. “What does that mean?” he asked. “A change from what?”

  There was no hesitation. “From everything. From you.”

  “Me?” Blair practically shouted.

  “Yes, you. And you’re raising your voice again.”

  His head began to hurt. One minute his ex was trying to seduce him. The next she was following her boyfriend to the other side of the country. Where was the logic in that? “I thought you told me that you and Frank broke up?” he said.

  “We did break up.”

  “And?”

  “And now we’re thinking of getting back together.”

  How apropos, Blair thought. His ex was more fickle than he had imagined. “Taking Sandra out of school and moving to California is not the best thing for her,” he said. “Besides, the court granted me visiting rights. I won’t let you do it.”

  “Oh, yeah? Let’s see you try to stop me.”

  “Hey, I’m trying to be reasonable here. Capisce?”

  “Sure you are. You can stop playing cutesy, buster. I will do what is best for me and my daughter. Whether you like it or not!”

  Cutesy? he thought to himself, just as he heard the phone click.

  CHAPTER 15

  On Monday, being first to arrive at his office, Blair pressed the code to deactivate the alarm and immediately sensed something was wrong. He hit the light switch and froze.

  In the forefront sat an average-sized desk with a partition rising four feet from the front edge to give the would-be receptionist some privacy. But it was superfluous. Ever since the downturn in the economy, there had been no receptionist. In her place sat a black telephone, along with a list of employee extension numbers.

  The telephone cord had been ripped from the wall.

  The Canon color copier standing nearby had all its trays pulled open. The various-sized sheets of paper they had once contained were strewn upon the floor. The file cabinet next to it had been tipped onto its side.