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Thomas Bolden checked over his shoulder. The two men were still a half block behind. They'd kept the same distance since he'd noticed them soon after coming out of the hotel. He wasn't sure why they bothered him. Both were tall and clean-cut, about his age. They were respectably dressed in dark slacks and overcoats. At a glance, they appeared unthreatening. They could be bankers headed home after a late night at the office. College buddies hurrying to the Princeton Club for a last round before closing. More likely, they were two of the approximately three hundred guests who had suffered through the dinner given in his honor.
And yet . . . they disturbed him.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," said Bolden. "What were you saying?"
"Where are you going to put it?" Jennifer Dance asked. "You know . . . in your apartment?"
"Put it?" Bolden glanced at the large sterling-silver plate cradled in Jenny's arms. "You mean I'm supposed to keep it on display?"
The plate looked like the one awarded to the women's singles champion at Wimbledon. This one, however, was engraved with the words "Thomas F. Bolden. Harlem Boys Club Man of the Year." He'd won plaques, medals, scrolls, and trophies, but never a plate. He wondered what joker at the club had thought it up. Curling an arm over Jenny's shoulders, he drew her close and said, "No, no, no. This beautifully crafted hunk of lead is going straight into the closet."
"You should be proud of it," Jenny protested.
"I am proud of it, but it's still going in the closet."
"It doesn't have to be the first thing you see when you walk in. We'll put it someplace discreet. Maybe on the side table in the hall leading from your bedroom to the bathroom. You worked hard for this. You deserve to feel good about yourself."
Bolden looked at Jenny and grinned. "I feel fine about myself," he said. "I just don't want to be reminded how great I am every time I go take a leak. It's so . . . I don't know . . . so New York."
" 'It ain't bragging if you can do it,' " Jenny said. "Those are your words."
"I was talking about dunking a basketball. Now, that's an accomplishment for a thirty-two-year-old white male who fudges about being six feet tall. Next time get a picture of that, and I'll put it on the table leading to the bathroom. Framed even."
Nearing midnight on a Tuesday in mid-January, the narrow streets of the city's financial district were deserted. The night sky hung low, gray clouds scudding between the skyscrapers like fast-moving ships. The temperature hovered at forty degrees, unseasonably warm for this time of year. There was talk of a major storm system hitting the Eastern seaboard, but the meteorologists looked to have it wrong this time.
The annual gala benefiting the Harlem Boys Club had ended thirty minutes earlier. It had been a ritzy affair: white tablecloths, champagne cocktails, a four-course meal with fresh seafood instead of chicken. Bolden had been too nervous about giving his speech to enjoy the event. Besides, it wasn't his style. Too much backslapping. Too many hands to shake. All that forced laughter. His cheeks felt like a punching bag from all the busses he'd gotten.
All in all, the event raised an even three hundred thousand dollars. His cheeks could take a little roughing up for that kind of change.
A drop of rain hit his nose. Bolden looked up, waiting for the next, but nothing followed. He pulled Jenny closer and nuzzled her neck. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the two men were still there, maybe a little farther back, walking side by side, talking animatedly. It wasn't the first time lately that he'd had the sensation of being followed. There'd been a night last week when he'd felt certain someone had been trailing him near his apartment on Sutton Place. And just today at lunch, he'd been aware of a presence hovering nearby. A nagging feeling that someone was eyeing him. On neither occasion, however, had he been able to put a face to his fears.
And now there were these two.
He glanced at Jenny and caught her staring at him. "What?"
"That's my Tommy," she said with her all-knowing smile. "You're so afraid of letting it go."
"Letting what go?"
Copyright © 2005 by Christopher Reich
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Thomas Bolden grew up on the streets, his childhood a blur of fragmented memories. But now he's managed to put his past behind him, find the woman he wants to share his life with, and carve out a successful career on Wall Street. Until, in the blink of an eye, his world is turned upside down. A bizarre kidnapping sends him fleeing for his life, his face everywhere on the TV news, and a violent, shadowy organization is framing him for crimes he did not commit. Desperately trying to get back to where he was just a day before, Bolden must re-learn the survival skills of his hardscrabble boyhood. But as Bolden--with just eleven dollars in his pocket and hunters all around him--survives one violent, harrowing hour after another, he makes a series of startling discoveries: about a mysterious woman wanted for murder...about an astounding secret rooted in history, among the country's Founding Fathers and families...about a conspiracy lurking in the darkest corners of corporate America--and a deadly plan that only he can stop. And in the process, maybe Bolden will also find out who he really is.... Furiously paced, filled with brilliantly drawn characters from politicians to patriots, from Wall Street players to battle-hardened cops, The Patriots Club is vintage Reich: brilliant, breathtaking, and impossible to put down until the final unforgettable page is turned.
