Astor lived in another world now. In this world, parties cost $500,000 and guests received ungodly expensive purses for showing up. He knew it was crazy and he scolded himself for buying into the entire scene. But in the end, buy he did. And as with everything he committed to, he did it in a big way. The Astor way. He knew enough about luck and risk and the wicked whim of fate to feel privileged to be able to pony up and pay.
Anyway, it had been a good year.
“Come on, Bobby! You da man!”
“Jump!”
“He’ll never do it,” shouted a Brooklyn-born voice. “All talk and no show.” It was Marv Shank, Comstock’s vice chairman and head trader, and until that outburst Astor’s best friend.
“Says you,” called Astor. “You’re coming up here next.”
“Not in a million years,” said Shank, waving him off amid a flurry of expletives.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Astor. “Your attention. As most of you know, it’s our tradition at the clambake to give back a little of the good fortune we who work in this industry have been so lucky to have. A few years back, Marv convinced me that instead of just asking, I ought to do something crazy to help convince you to donate your hard-earned money to an organization I started, Helping Hands, which does a great job with kids in our fine city who didn’t get the fairest shake in life. This year I’m pleased to announce that you nice folks have come up with a cool two million dollars, which I will happily make you pay if and when I gather the courage to jump.”
“You can do it, Bobby,” shouted a woman.
“So,” Astor continued, “before I give this a shot, I just want to say thank you for coming out and making this night special for me—and for the kids. Drum roll, please.”
It was then that a gust blew in off the ocean. Umbrellas swayed on the deck. A woman shrieked as her cap skittered across the flagstones and into the pool. The wind hit Astor like a baseball bat. One foot lifted off the chimney, and for a moment he swayed perilously. He threw his arms out for balance. Teetering, he landed a heel on a barb protruding from the ember grate. He bit his lip, burying a yelp, then quickly waved to show everyone he was all right. He even managed a smile. A smattering of applause broke out. Someone whistled, and with a bold step he retook his position at the edge of the chimney.
Marv Shank glared at him from the far side of the pool. He was a short, barrel-chested man, a grind in the office and out, argumentative by default. He was as white as a ghost, and his pale stomach bulged obscenely over the waistline of his madras shorts. Shank shook his head, and Astor could read his mind: one more dangerous situation the boss had gotten himself into.
Because, of course, it hadn’t been Shank’s idea to do the stunt each year.
It had been Astor’s.
Shank cupped hands to his mouth and shouted, “Swan dive!”
“Not a chance!” Astor shook his head furiously, and Shank repeated his demand.
A current of excitement rolled across the crowd.
Astor let it build. Shank’s request was no random demand. When it came to Helping Hands, Astor was zealous in his efforts to separate his guests’ money from their wallets. “How much you give me?”
“Twenty grand,” said Shank.
“Make it fifty.”
“Fifty.”
“Deal,” said Astor. “Any other takers?” He called out a few of his wealthier guests and they graciously agreed to chip in, taking the total to $2,250,000.
Shank turned to his fellow guests and raised his arms in the air, exhorting them to join him. In a moment the entire crowd was chanting, “Dive! Dive!”
Over the heads of his guests, Astor caught a pair of headlights turning onto Further Lane a half mile up the road. It wasn’t a BMW or a Mercedes or even a Lexus. The car had its brights illuminated and was moving fast. He followed it up the road until he recognized it as a Dodge Charger. Black. He knew the car’s stats by heart: 5.7 liter V8 Hemi engine. Dual Flowmaster exhausts. Eibach shocks. This one even came with an assault shotgun under the driver’s seat, a 3,000-lumen floodlight, and a light stick of red and blue strobes.
What was she doing out here at this time of night?
“Dive! Dive!”
Astor squared his shoulders and raised his chin. He knew it was too far, and that if he had any brains at all, he’d jump feet first and take his lumps afterward.
But that was out of the question. A bet was a bet.
And after all, Bobby Astor was invincible.
He dove.
2
Astor gazed at the tall, athletic brunette standing in the doorway.
“Hello, Alex. A little past work hours, even for you.”