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Murder on Fifth Avenue
It was morning rush hour. The sidewalk hummed with the normal flurry of suits and briefcases, some marching to glassed-in offices with walnut desks, others trudging up to ho-hum cubicles with cookie-cutter workstations. Martin Van Buren’s corner office was on the forty-ninth floor of Trump Tower.
Although Martin was CEO of Gucci Incorporated, no nameplate lay on his desk. The credenza behind that massive desk displayed family photos in simple black frames. While successful, Martin was a fashion non-conformist in the corporate world. His closet never contained an Armani or a Givenchy. Frogg Toggs Hip Waders was more his style. Some worked to pay a big mortgage and drive a Mercedes. Martin worked to cast a fly up in the Adirondacks.
The green walk sign lit up. Martin stepped off the curb. Two shots split the air. Martin’s body hit the pavement. A couple of suits rushed to him. Most hurried to the nearest building for cover. The suits knelt down beside Martin. One felt for a pulse. There was one but very weak.
Distant sirens screamed.
Martin’s wife stayed at his bedside while doctors did all they could. Eight days later the hum of a ventilator transitioned into a welcoming choir for fifty-year-old Martin Van Buren.
***
The initial introductions were nice, but I can only imagine what is to come. Beauty—as I’ve never seen.
Our Baby Angelique will be here. Oh, and I see Dad walking toward me. He’s carrying a fly rod. The scene is changing. Behind him is a gorgeous stream meandering alongside a mountain blanketed by Eastern white pine.
I walk toward him. We meet. Dad grins, places his hand on my shoulder and presses me forward. “Martin,” he says, “I’ve got someone up here I want you to meet.”
We traipse through ostrich fern and Joe-Pye weed. I’m taking in the splendor, but Dad keeps urging me on. A man in waders holding his fly rod walks out of the water and toward us. Six feet away, he reaches for my hand. I grasp his firmly.
“Martin,” Dad says, “I want you to meet Chico Alvarez. We’ve become friends. He’s been waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me?” I’m confused.
“Meester Van Buren,” Chico says with a heavy Mexican accent, “your papa told me you would come. Said he had no doubt.”
The beauty of the area distracts me. “What? Dad said I’d come?”
A rainbow trout jumps twenty feet ahead of us. Where’s that fly rod?
He’s still pumping my hand. “Meester,” he says, “I should explain. That bullet you took back there on Fifth Avenue, well… It came from my Ruger 9.”
“What!”
“See, I was aiming at my supplier—he was out to kill me. You stepped in the line of fire. And, at the same time, the dude’s bullet hit me. I lasted two days.
“It was the evening of the second day in the hospital, a chaplain came to me. ‘Chico,’ he said, ‘God’s forgiveness is there for you, but you have to ask.’ I did ask, and an hour later I took my last breath.”
My jaw drops. I’m at a loss for words.
“Meester,” he said, “will you forgive me—just as God did?”
“Of course, I will.” I grin. “But let’s get that fly rod. I just saw a rainbow.”
Enjoy the journey
Eldon