The Final Fabergé by Thomas Swan Read Free Book Online

thousand in spending money, and an Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme convertible which the lucky winner would claim at Carson Olds & Pontiac, located a hundred yards from the motel.
    A pair of clowns, one female and one male, watched over the kiddies while mother and dad were shown the newest in automotive luxury. In the evening, the New York commuters came in larger numbers, the ones who lived in Glen Cove and Oyster Bay, the ones with the real money.
Patricia’s advertising agency had scouted the territory and mailed expensive invitations to homes in the correct zip codes; the research department predicted, based on previous history, that 2,734 adults and 3,411 children would visit the showroom during the three-day grand opening.
    Patsy grabbed hold of Lenny’s arm and ushered him past young men and women dressed in the Carson uniform, gray slacks or skirts and maroon blazers, each wearing a badge with name and title, all smiling broadly as they handed out grand opening packets that contained product literature, service specials, and sweepstakes entries. Then the two went by a Cutlass Supreme convertible that overflowed with balloons and gift boxes wrapped in gold and silver, and with a sign suspended over it that said the car was the Sweepstakes Grand Prize. Flanking the car were two stunning models wearing dangerously brief bathing suits, one in Carson gray, the other in Carson maroon. Lenny was momentarily dazed by the immensity and cluttered noisiness. Patricia’s expression was watchful, searching for mistakes, of ways to do things better the next time.
    â€œOver there,” she said, pointing to the escalator that connected to a mezzanine. Her badge contained her photograph, and the word “Executive” across the bottom assured entrance past a huge man wearing a size 50 extra-long blazer. Dennis LeGrande had recently retired from his position as defensive tackle with the New York Giants, and though he was in training to become a Personal Transportation Consultant, his assignment during the grand opening was as a kind of marshal. He was anchored at the foot of the escalator to keep the kids from running up the down steps, and vice versa.
    Patsy said, “Mike’s waiting for us, and remember, it’s Mr. Carson.”
    On the mezzanine, eight clusters of desks, chairs, and low cabinets surrounded the communications center, each work station separated by leafy plants or small trees in pots. Along the inside wall were private offices, none large, except for one that had a commanding view of the showroom below, and in the doorway to that office stood two women and two men in their company blazers talking animatedly. They gave way to a man who came out of the office, paused briefly, then seeing Patsy, walked toward her, one hand held high, waving to her.
    â€œLet ’s go.” Patsy smiled broadly and waved back. “There’s your man.”
    Lenny studied the man as he walked toward him, a surprised look on his face, as if the man he saw was not what he expected. But what
had he expected? Did Mike Carson look too ordinary? Was his hair receding, or was his hair an early gray or very blond? Were his teeth crooked or was there a gap to one side, a small but noticeable gap? Did he look younger then thirty-five as Patsy said he would be on the 22nd of November?
    â€œThis is Leonard Sulzberger,” Patsy said efficiently.
    Mike Carson’s smile was still in place. “Welcome, Mr. Sulzberger, Patsy told me you were a good writer.” His hand went out.
    â€œHi, Mr. Carson,” Lenny said with a firm voice, certain not to make an immediate mistake. “I’m very happy to meet you.” His hand caught hold of Mike’s and he shook it affirmatively.
    There was too much about Mike Carson’s background that did not comport with the way he came across in the flesh. In every respect he seemed regular or average, nothing at first meeting glistened or stood out. The