a highly successful entrepreneur and then there’s the way you dress, the way you conduct yourself—typical Republican. The reason I asked is that I’d like to sponsor you as a member of my club. It’s composed of a group of intellectuals from all over the country. We meet in New York on 62nd Street between Park and Madison at the Regency Hotel. We even have a few Democrats.”
“I live only a few blocks from there, on Central Park South,’ Sam replied.
“We only sponsor men and women of substance,” Lentz said.
“What do you mean by substance?” Sam asked.
“You must have the wherewithal and the courage to wager. You see we play games of intellect for high stakes.”
“It sounds interesting. I love risk. But right now I’m afraid that I’m forced to decline.”
“Why don’t you come down anyway? I’m sure the group would love to meet you. Perhaps they’ll succeed in convincing you to join. They’re very persuasive, you know.”
“I’ll bet they are. But I don’t think so,” Sam said.
“Take my card in case you change your mind.” Lentz scribbled something on the back before handing it to Sam. “A pleasure, Mr. Sonn.”
Sam took the card and put it in his pocket. It was getting late. He had a luncheon date with Esther and she didn’t like to be kept waiting. He walked briskly across the newly tarred parking lot to his black Volvo. The early afternoon sun was baking the tar and the vapors were very strong. Sam was anxious to immerse himself in the air-conditioned comfort of his 940 turbo. He took a quick peek back at Lentz who was still fiddling with some papers on the passenger seat. Sam inserted the key into the ignition slot on the steering column and adjusted his seat belt. As the cool air rushed out of the vents, he took a second to adjust them to point away from his face. Then he placed his right arm on the headrest of the passenger seat and began to back out of the space. But as he turned his head, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, Lentz’s Mercedes jolt backwards at high speed.
“What the . . . ?” Sam muttered. Lentz’s car rammed into the Japanese import parked behind him. Sam shut his engine and ran out of the Volvo toward the Mercedes. Lentz was slumped over the steering wheel. The Mercedes was spinning its wheels, pushing against the Japanese import. Lentz was unconscious, his leg locked, and pushing full force on the accelerator pedal. Sam reached into his shoulder holster and pulled out his silver Colt 2000 9mm automatic. But before he could aim and fire, the Mercedes succeeded in dislodging the small Japanese car. It barreled backwards, sideswiping the Japanese car twice, speeding undeterred across an open area of the lot, before crashing at about 60 mph into two parked cars. The force of the impact caused the gas tank to rupture. The rear of the vehicle was engulfed in flames. Sam ran full speed after the runaway Mercedes, pistol in hand. He shot out the passenger window and unlocked the front door. Lentz was still slumped over the wheel. Sam could feel his own flesh cooking like a hamburger as he reached across Lentz’s body to unlock his seat belt; but it was fused solid from the intense heat. Sam carefully aimed his pistol at the belt clasp and fired. He succeeded in breaking Lentz free and pulled him from the burning car just before it exploded. Sam was knocked to the ground from the fury of the explosion; Lentz lay lifeless beside him. Lentz had died instantly of a massive coronary. Nothing could have saved him.
Thirty minutes later. Detective Morgan, Ward and Sam stood off to the side, as the ambulance drove away, taking Lentz’s body to the morgue. The parking lot was filled with police and tow trucks.
“I can’t believe it,” Ward said. “He was just with us. He looked and acted fine.”
“It’s a pity,” Morgan said, “the way it ended so suddenly. You’re lucky Sam. You could’ve been killed by that explosion.”
Sam nodded.
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Morgan said. “They’re going to need a new crossword editor down at the Herald Gazette. Whoever it is will have some mighty big shoes to fill.”
Sam didn’t reply. Nor did he make any overt gesture of agreement. He was still trying to make sense out of what had happened.
Chapter 2
The Good Ship Constitution
Esther Rozan, Sam’s girlfriend, was a fascinating psychological study—the facets of her personality overtly incongruous. She was the only child of Amir Sharon, a Persian émigré who amassed a small fortune as an exporter in Iran and parlayed it by investing in commercial strips on the North Shore of Long Island. Her father indulged her every whim: whatever Esther wanted, Esther got. She was spoiled rotten. At 26, she was a child who had never grown up, her temper tantrums legendary; Sam was surprised both by their frequency and intensity but he found her other qualities endearing. She had a soft side, could melt a glacier with her pastel brown eyes and one smile was all it took for Sam to be putty in her hands. Her mind was extremely active, but the greater part of her mental energies was generated by her libido. She had been diagnosed by more than one shrink as an obsessive-compulsive with nymphomaniacal tendencies. She would spend an inordinate amount of time dreaming up ways of satisfying her sexual fantasies. And she had been remarkably successful—love triangles and adultery, mixed with international intrigue and murder.
Esther had all the necessary prerequisites to flourish within the context of her own sexual fantasy world: she was imaginative, intelligent, and of paramount importance, breathtakingly beautiful. Her face was perfectly proportioned. Her high cheekbones and magnificent pastel brown eyes blended in harmony to give her an exotic look—she could have played the part of Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile. She was, undoubtedly, the product of centuries of selection in a restricted gene pool, heralding an extraordinary aesthetic quality unique to Persian women. It was beauty in the classical sense; when Esther walked into a room, all eyes turned in her direction.
Despite her innate beauty, Esther was at war with herself. It was as if, the selection process, from which she derived her beauty, had left her wanting with respect to basic traits critical to a well-adjusted person. Esther could never find a middle ground. Her beauty and passion for conquest placed her in situations she had little or no ability to control. By the time she met Sam, she was already well down the path of self-destruction. He helped her reclaim her soul. And he thought, perhaps naively, that in time, he could harness her temperament.
Sam first met Esther nine months ago when she burst into his office demanding his help in what later was referred to in the press as the Code of Samuel murder case. She was gorgeous, mystifying, and sensuous. The chemistry between them was immediate—the irresistible object and the immovable force. Esther was a woman who could obtain everything and anything she wanted merely by expressing her desire to have it; Sam was a man who denied himself love as a consequence of his steadfast commitment to his work. He was every bit the masculine counterpart to Esther, just as Mark Antony was to Cleopatra. Sam stood six foot two inches tall, with a magnificent physique molded by hundreds of hours pumping iron. He had rugged good looks, deep brown eyes that matched his curly neck length dark brown hair. His eyes never looked away—no one could stare him down, and he had a charismatic personality that was hard to match. And like Esther, he had difficulty suppressing an abundance of sexual energy, which likewise propelled him into awkward relationships. But, in contrast to Esther, Sam had gained some control over his untoward inclinations. He stayed within the bounds of societal norms; Esther didn’t even know they existed. Sam was not generally inclined towards living a traditional life style, but he found himself in the peculiar position of having to set a good example for Esther. He had to be the perfect role model.
For Sam,
