Green City Savior

told.

Chapter One

December 31, 2003

Dear citizens of Niagara Falls,

You may have known me as Joseph Salvatore Malvisti, business owner, church deacon, family man. A pillar of the city’s Italian-American community. I’m good people, as the locals like to say.

Don’t listen to them.

One crisp fall evening in 1946 I made a decision that forever changed the great city of Niagara Falls. It was not a change for the better, as most of you know by now. I would do things differently if I had the chance.

At least, I have to believe I would.

My choice led to devastation and heartache for many. It marred the pristine beauty of the Niagara Frontier and shook my fellow citizens’ faith in government.

But that pales in comparison to what it did to my family.

It’s probably too late for my redemption, but perhaps not for that of my grandchildren or our legacy. And it’s certainly not too late for this city. Niagara Falls is ripe for a rebirth—a return to its former glory and natural beauty. An existence unmarred by toxic defilement or political corruption. Or pride.

You, my friends, have a promising future.

But you need my help.

Enclosed in the accompanying envelope is a memoir, of sorts, that I dictated to a trusted friend. (Weeks of staring at nothing but sterile white sheets and barren hospital walls give a sick man plenty of time to think … and write.) It’s partly my immigration story. An account of how a young Italian man, a boy, really, who arrived in America with nothing but a few childish trinkets in his pocket, built a business that employed and shaped an American city. I reveal some of my deepest hopes, my greatest successes, and my crushing failures.

But it’s also the story of Niagara Falls.

Like me, this once-magnificent city soared through the early part of the twentieth century on the wings of industry, only to crash and burn by its end, leaving brokenness in its wake. Corruption has worked its way into the very fiber of this place. It lives as openly as the abject poverty you see on a drive through downtown. The story of my life is bound up in the good and the bad, the right and the wrong, of my adopted hometown.

You are entitled to the truth about what happened to this city and why. I hope that you examine the justifications I offer. Talk about the rationalizations for the choices I made. My desire is that you make better decisions for the future after learning of my mistakes. George Santayana had it right when he said, Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. The past millennium has been marked by astonishing advancements in technology, rivaled only by man’s equally stupendous foolishness. Mine included.

Sharing the truth is a start. But this memoir contains something equally important. I aim to inspire you with an innovative idea for the future of Niagara Falls. I’ve laid the groundwork. I’ve done what I could. Now it’s your turn. Prepare to be renewed, inside and out, my friends. Who says man can’t think his way out of despair?

I finished recording this story a few hours ago, knowing the end is near for me. My heart seeks to dwell on eternal things now; I’m done with the hurts and mistakes of this world. But I’ve asked my friend to make sure the memoir isn’t released until both of my adult sons, Joseph Jr. and Salvatore, are dead. You may wonder why I’m waiting until my sons are gone from this earth to make public the truth. I’m not really sure. Guilt certainly plays a part. I failed to provide the guidance required of a father. Since their mistakes are a direct result of mine, I can’t live with the thought of helping to send them to prison.

But I also failed to provide the leadership and accountability demanded of a man esteemed in our community.

At least one of those failures is about to change.

Chapter Two

Niagara Falls, New York

Don’t go any closer to the water, Harrison James! The noise of the rushing river snatched away Lydia’s words. A few yards away, her six-year-old son stood on top of an old fallen tree, his little hands gripping his fishing rod and his eyes glued to the bobber at the end of his line. Despite her anxiety, she allowed herself a small smile. He’d waited all winter for the chance to catch his first fish.

Something’s gonna bite. I know it. Her first-grader edged toward the shoreline along the trunk worn smooth from years of exposure to the elements. He stopped just shy of where their neighbor’s boot-clad foot rested on the dead tree.

Stay close, boy, Mr. Mahoney growled. His lawn chair rocked unevenly over the top of a thick limb anchored in the mud.

Lydia caught her neighbor’s sidelong glance as she and her younger son worked their way down the short embankment behind them. She nodded in response, and then did a double take. Mr. Mahoney held one end of a thin, braided rope. The other end was threaded through Harrison’s belt loops and knotted twice around the boy’s waist.

The old man leaned forward in his chair. Your mother will whip my backside if something happens to you.

Yes, sir.

This river can sweep you away like that. He snapped his fingers. You’d be dragged through the rapids and launched right over the American Falls. Got it?

Got it. Harrison took another step back, still focused on the bobber. Mr. Mahoney pulled his feet out of the way.

She’d given Harrison the same lecture this morning. Few people had ever gone over those cascades and lived to tell about it.

Lydia’s three-year-old yanked on her hand, pulling her through the stick-like brush crowding the foot of the bank.

Slow down, Trav. She ducked under an oversized, leafless bush. No signs of spring yet.

I wanna catch a shark. Travis jumped down the last foot to the shore. C’mon, Mommy.

Not today. She had to shout above the gusting wind. When you’re a little older, okay?

What?

When you’re older, Trav, like your brother. Raising her voice made it sound harsher than she meant. This isn’t a good place for you to fish.

Lydia wasn’t sure Harrison should be fishing here either. In their protected alcove alongside a concrete structure, the water appeared to be no more than a ruffled eddy. But twenty feet beyond where they stood, it became a river on a mission to connect one vast lake to another.

Not fair! He stuck out his bottom lip.

Sorry, love. Lydia thought she heard her cell. Using her knee and elbow to keep Travis close, she pulled it out of her purse. But her ears, aching from the noise of the fluctuating wind and the rapid current, must’ve tricked her. No missed calls, which meant no potential home buyers or promising listings. She squeezed the slider cell phone closed, shoving it in the front pocket of her purse.

Need help? Mr. Mahoney shouted over his shoulder.

Nope, she yelled back. Thank you anyway. She shook her head, grinning. For all the fatherly concern he showed her, and even if he had the money to spare, Mr. Mahoney couldn’t provide the kind of help she needed.

Together she and Travis picked their way over dead branches and smooth, fist-sized stones to join Harrison and her neighbor at the water’s edge. Travis’s worn sneakers slipped a few times on the debris strewn all over the narrow beach.

Hold tight.

Mr. Mahoney’s few strands of white hair blew haphazardly around his head. Without his trademark Yankees cap, and in his gray work gear, he looked almost like an extension of the ancient tree beneath him. Secure and enduring; just what she needed in a friend.

I’ve got a nibble! Harrison spread his legs to brace himself. His thin limbs appeared skeletal as the wind pressed his loose jeans against his legs.

Mr. Mahoney sat upright.

Be careful, Lydia called out. A chilly blast of air rocked her off balance.

I think it might be a bass!

Lydia scanned the river, but all she could focus on were the countless whitecaps. She tightened her hold on Travis’s hand. The wind is so strong down here, Lydia shouted to her neighbor.

And smells bad. Travis wiped his nose on his sleeve.

She looked upwind at the aging row of factories a quarter mile away. Both sides of the river were dotted with red brick smokestacks, their rims smeared black from years of operation. Usually the acrid odor of dead fish and sulfur-like emissions went unnoticed. Everyone in town was used to it. But today it seemed particularly intense, like the river appeared to be.

She wondered if the dozen or so fishermen on the concrete landing had noticed it.

As Harrison played with his catch, Lydia noticed a fit, middle-aged man in a military haircut standing at the edge of the concrete structure, watching. Something about the man drew her attention. He held a book, but no pole.

I got one! I got one! Harrison’s skinny arms trembled as he yanked the line to set the hook. C’mon, Mr. Mahoney. I need the bucket!

Old folks don’t hurry, my boy. Mr. Mahoney stood and grabbed Lydia’s free arm for support. You probably just caught some seaweed anyway.

Maybe it’s a giant shark! Travis bounced while Lydia held his hand. Each hop wrenched her back.

Let’s see what we’ve got here. Mr. Mahoney hobbled to Harrison’s side. His arthritic fingers covered the boy’s small ones on the cork handle. Stay steady now. Don’t jerk the rod.

Together they wound the plastic reel, pulling against the current. Travis inched closer to his brother, but Lydia maintained a firm grip to keep him out of the way.

There we go. Easy, easy.

Lydia looked on the scene with an ache in her heart. Her father should have been the one to teach Harrison to fish. Or the boys’ dad, except that work had been his priority when he was alive. But both men were gone now. Someone must’ve watched over her when she chose the house next door to Mr. Mahoney.

A dark fish thrashed wildly as it broke the surface. Harrison and Mr. Mahoney flung the agitated creature into a five-gallon container with a few inches of river water in it. It landed belly up, splashing water everywhere. The fish heaved its thick body and thumped dully against the plastic.

Yes! Travis yanked his hand out of Lydia’s grasp and headed for the pail. Harrison jumped off the dead tree. While Mr. Mahoney unhooked the rope from his belt, the boys bent over the bucket to examine the catch.

Their eyes went wide. Travis looked from his brother to the fish, his small mouth frozen in an O.

What’s wrong?

No answer. Maybe Travis didn’t hear her.

Harrison took a giant step back, nearly tripping on a piece of driftwood. His face paled. Mom … that’s not a fish. He grabbed his mother’s hand. His body shook.

Lydia looked at Mr. Mahoney. His face was white too. Get me the lid, he said in his characteristically stern voice.

Harrison rushed to deliver the cover, then sprinted back to Lydia without a glance at the fish, or at his brother still hovering over it.

What’s the problem? Lydia moved closer, urging Harrison to come along. It couldn’t be that bad.

Come and look. Mr. Mahoney stepped aside.

Even before she reached the pail, the stench of decay assaulted Lydia’s nose. The putrid smell triggered memories of her childhood days, living along the banks of the muddy creek just west of Love Canal. One summer her brother caught a bullhead that smelled just like this one. It rested on the creek shoreline and stared at them with dull eyes sunk deep in a misshapen head. A head that sported an unnatural, baseball-sized growth. They caught dozens more like it over the next few summers. Back then sick fish were common. And her brother had been healthy.

The repulsive fish in Mr. Mahoney’s pail looked the same, except the growth was bigger. This creature appeared as though a mud pie the size of a dessert plate had been thrown at its head and then fossilized. Dark crags and blistered nodules marked the gross protrusion. Its eyes were virtually eclipsed by it.

Her throat constricted. She couldn’t look away.

Travis stood on tiptoe, trying to get a closer look. It’s furry?

Just gills and … a sickness, honey. She couldn’t say the word tumor. Too many bad associations. Let’s cross our fingers that it’s the only one in this river.

It’s not. Mr. Mahoney pressed the lid into place, thumping it for good measure. Certainly didn’t want this to be Harrison’s first experience at catching a fish….

Should we put it out of its misery? Lydia asked, hoping Harrison and Travis couldn’t hear her over the river noise.

No. The DEC might want to measure it. The guys at the fishing club sent a dozen others over to them last fall. He gathered the boys’ fishing poles and tackle boxes.

The Department of Environmental Conservation? Her eye twitched. Don’t they come around only when there’s a problem?

Yes, indeed, missy. He picked up the bucket. You shouldn’t be too surprised. Maybe you were too young to remember, but in the ’80s, lots of agencies tracked tumors in Great Lakes fish. My buddies and I used to see who could snag the most disgusting one.

I thought all that dumping around the city was over? The implications of another potential contamination problem crossed her mind. One more reason people wouldn’t want to buy a home here. Someone’s keeping an eye on our area, right?

The politicians? Her neighbor’s eyes narrowed. No. And I’ll tell you why—

Mr. Mahoney was cut off by a shout. The athletic man with the crew cut launched himself over the platform’s side railing onto the narrow shore, tossing his book aside mid-leap. He scrambled across the rocky beach toward Lydia.

Your boy! He’s in the water!

The man raced past her. Lydia spun around and saw that the old tree was partially dislodged from where it had been anchored in the beach. Travis lay on a section several yards from the shoreline, his stomach draped over the trunk. His legs and hips dragged in the water. His little hands held a smooth, short limb in a death grip.

A strangled cry escaped her throat.

One thick branch of the tree remained secured in the muddy shore. But it would work its way loose in no time.

Lydia lurched toward the water, her heart pounding hard. She slipped on the rocks. Her ankle twisted, pain stabbing through her lower leg. Mr. Mahoney reached out to break her fall, but Lydia’s momentum knocked him backward into his chair.

She fell into the thigh-deep water. Stiff coontail plants, with their clusters of forked leaves, scratched her hands and wrists. She clawed at the muck and pondweeds to right herself, her leg throbbing in time with her heart.

Lydia lifted her head from the water and spit foul-tasting water from her mouth. Distorted cries of alarm echoed across the river and back. She had to get to her boy. But the algae-covered rocks made it impossible for her to stand, much less move forward.

I’m coming, Travis! she shouted over the thunderous river that kept her from her son. She felt helpless, and scenes of another accident flashed through her mind. Oh, God, no, please, not again.

She crawled to the shore on her hands and knees, hoping the other side of the fallen tree might be shallower or have firmer footholds. When she finally reached more solid ground, her hands were weak from clawing at the slimy mud and her ankle raged with pain. She turned to scan the river. She saw the tree, still barely attached to the shore. But she did not see Travis.

Her stomach heaved. Dark shadows crowded the edge of her vision, threatening to blind her. She staggered forward, prepared to swim downstream and over the Falls.

Before she reached the water’s edge, someone thrust Travis into her arms.

Alive.

The man from the platform stood over her, his hair and clothes dripping wet. He panted from the effort of having rescued her son.

Lydia clasped her three-year-old to her chest. The horror of what might have been was too staggering to contemplate. Everything around her blurred.

The stranger grasped her elbow. Her ankle gave way, and she and Travis nearly fell back onto the ground, but he wrapped a sturdy arm around her waist and held her up. People stood nearby, offering to help.

Rest easy. He’s okay. The man’s concerned face offered reassurance. You may want to ice that ankle when you get home. Let me help you get up the bank.

Lydia hugged her toddler’s cold, dripping body close. Oh, Travis. How could I let this happen? I’m so, so sorry. I should never have brought you guys here. She squeezed harder as she made her way up the hill, the man close behind.

My name’s Amos, the tall stranger said.

The preschooler dug his forehead into Lydia’s shoulder.

What were you doing out there, little guy? Amos touched Travis’s matted hair.

Her son’s head popped up. I wanna shark monster like Harry’s. A grin spread across his flushed face.

Lydia cringed at her son’s naiveté. Suddenly unable to catch her breath, she collapsed onto the grass at the top of the bank. This time, she held tight to her son and didn’t let go. She couldn’t wait to get home.

Amos squatted and examined Travis’s pupils, then both arms and legs. He took off his sweatshirt and put it on the shivering boy. The gesture caught Lydia by surprise. No man had ever helped dress her younger son. She’d been a single parent since before Travis was even born.

The similarities between this situation and the nightmare she’d endured more than three years ago made her sway slightly. Just like today, a stranger had appeared out of nowhere and helped her in a dire situation. As she rested her elbows on her knees, she wondered, how many saviors could one person need in a lifetime?

Amos looked over at her, his eyebrow raised.

I’m okay.

You sure?

I almost lost my older son when he was about this age, she explained.

Harrison! Her gaze swept the shore, but she saw no sign of him. The safety rope Mr. Mahoney had used lay across a piece of driftwood.

Harry!

Over here!

Lydia followed the high-pitched voice and spotted movement behind a scraggly bush on the ridge of the riverbank a few yards away. Harrison waved and gave Lydia a thumbs-up. Then he shifted his attention to the pail.

Mr. Mahoney remained on the shore below Lydia and Amos, trembling on the edge of his lawn chair. His ashen face glimmered with sweat.

Harrison, come sit with your brother. She told Travis to stay put and then limped back down the embankment toward her neighbor. Amos jumped the bank, landing lightly on his feet, and reached him first.

Are you hurt, sir?

Naw, just shaken up.

He carefully flexed Mr. Mahoney’s arms and examined his pupils. The old man submitted to the impromptu exam, which surprised Lydia. Conroy Mahoney prided himself on not having seen a doctor in ten years.

Mr. Mahoney turned to her. You promised me one normal, worry-free day, missy. His gruff voice made his words sound like an accusation. I don’t know if that day will ever come for you. Not in my lifetime, that’s for sure.

She slipped to her knees. His words pierced her soul, mostly because they were probably true. She didn’t ask for much out of life. A healthy family. Money to pay the bills. Maybe some peace. So far they’d all eluded her. It sickened Lydia to think of her tumultuous life causing him distress.

Mr. Mahoney sat back in the chair, eyes closed. Those kids are like grandchildren to me, he whispered to the stranger. No more fishing for us. I’ll make ‘em some slingshots.

A loud crackling sound captured everyone’s attention. Lydia stood and glanced up at the boys. Harrison covered his eyes, but Travis pointed toward the river. The tenuous connection the dead tree had with the beach severed, and the tree floated away. It rocked in the fast current, gaining momentum in the gray-green water. It crashed against boulders and tangled with brushy outcroppings before it disappeared from sight around a bend in the river.

That’d be something to see going over the Falls, eh? Mr. Mahoney said, his voice shaky.

I’m sure. I haven’t seen it myself, but I’ll bet lots of broken things get swept over that crest. Amos glanced at the mist plume in the distance. The Canadian side of the Falls will be packed with visitors. Someone’s sure to catch it on video.

Mr. Mahoney cocked his head to the side. You’re not from around here, are you?

No, sir. He smiled and extended his hand to Mr. Mahoney, his short-sleeved crew-neck shirt revealed tanned skin on muscular arms. I’m Amos. Been here for just a short while.

Well, thank you for acting so quickly. You saved a life today.

Yes, Lydia said, realizing she hadn’t properly expressed her appreciation for the valiant rescue. I can’t thank you enough. Thank you for everything.

Glad to help. Closing his eyes, Amos cupped his hand around the back of Mr. Mahoney’s head. His lips moved, but no words came out. He then glanced at the small crowd on the beach. I need to get going. Take care.

Did he just pray over Mr. Mahoney?

If so, she wondered if her neighbor had noticed. His eyes had widened, but he didn’t move away.

Lydia watched for a moment as the brave stranger jogged up the hill toward the platform, stooped to retrieve his book, and headed into Malvisti Park. Clapping could be heard from the handful of remaining anglers.

She leaned heavily on one foot as she made her way back to where Travis and Harrison sat together at the top of the bank. She squatted down to rest her chin on Travis’s head. Her ankle hurt like crazy, but at least her sons were safe and sound. Let’s head home, guys.

She stood and took a few steps, but her ankle collapsed again and she fell on her backside.

Mom, you okay? Harrison tried to suppress a smile.

Gimme a minute. She hoisted herself up using the leg of a wooden sign affixed to the concrete platform. She hadn’t noticed it earlier. Its sticky texture made her wonder how recently it had been painted. She paused to read the words.

Coming Soon: North America’s First Eco-city!

Revolutionary Green Living made possible by Malvisti Industries.

Green living? Made possible by the county’s largest landfill owner? What a contradiction in terms.

It must be an early April Fool’s Day joke. Around here green innovation meant the delivery of recycling bins. Two sat unused outside the city dump. Besides, she knew the Malvisti name—baseball diamonds and parks all over town were dedicated to one Malvisti or another. The name was synonymous with garbage and wealth.

And, some said, deceit.

Something didn’t add up. But she couldn’t contemplate that now. She had to get her kids home and her ankle on ice.

The Vallones were done with fishing in the Niagara River. Maybe forever.

Chapter Three

Just outside Tampa, Florida

Michael Malvisti had never considered his Nissan GT-R cramped until Tyler’s oversized frame filled every inch of the passenger seat. Then again, Jillian had been his only rider until now. With her legs crossed—and usually her arms as well—his girlfriend barely made a dent in the leather-and-suede seats. Not so with Big Ty.

His friend took a sip of coffee from his travel mug and leaned over to examine the car’s display monitor embedded in the middle of the dash.

He might as well have been in the driver’s seat.

You want to drive?

Nah. I don’t drive anything I can’t afford to fix. Ty reached with his free hand to tap the screen to display the sports car’s acceleration g-force. Nice, man. This ride must’ve cost you a pretty penny.

She’s well worth it, believe me.

They bumped elbows. Coffee from the travel mug in Tyler’s hand splashed across the console and pooled in the folds of the leather gear shift.

Whoa! Distracted, Michael missed second and winced when the gears ground. Two retired-golfer types stared at him from the nearby sidewalk. Probably pegged him as a teenager fumbling with his father’s latest toy.

Sorry, man.

No prob, Michael said, trying to be agreeable. At the next light he wiped down the stick shift with a handkerchief from his suit pocket. Coffee soaked into the JSM monogram, his grandfather’s initials.

My car might not be fixed ‘til the end of the week. Tyler took the cloth, cracked open the window, and then wedged the cloth so that it flapped outside.

Four years of engineering and that’s the best you can do?

State school. ‘Nuff said. I’m not a Malvisti, remember?

Michael winced.

So can I catch a ride to work on Monday?

Not if you bring coffee again.

Yeah … I’ll work on that.

Once they were on the move again, Tyler resumed his examination of the in-dash monitor, keeping his body a few inches from Michael’s arm. This thing mapped our route from Gulfport to Tampa. It says we can go another two hundred miles before we run out of gas. Very cool.

Most cars can do that nowadays.

Not mine. Dude, my ex would’ve run this thing to a hundred and ninety nine before she even thought about telling me to put gas in her car. The monitor went blank. Whoops, I didn’t do that, did I? He put both his hands in the air.

Relax. Michael reconfigured the screen to show the brake pedal input. Check this out. This baby tells me everything I need to know. I get constant feedback, customized analysis….

I’m diggin’ it. But numbers can complicate things. Sometimes I just want to turn the key, drive fast, and enjoy the ride.

You know me. I like facts. Accuracy. Michael chuckled. Too bad Jillian can’t give me precise input like this. Why can’t she just say she’s hungry, happy, miserable, lonely, or whatever? Instead she makes me guess what’s going on in her mind and then punishes me for getting it wrong. I can’t operate that way.

I hear ya. But I’ll bet she looks great sitting in this seat.

Michael grunted. Her blonde, all-American girl looks were his weakness.

I want to see her do zero to sixty in three and a half seconds.

Jillian?

No, the car! Tyler rolled his eyes. She’s one of the fastest rides on the road right now. And we need every one of those horses to get us to work on time. Gun it. It’s our big day. Tyler shifted in his seat. Besides, I’ve seen Jillian go from zero to sixty in less time than that, and it ain’t pretty.

Too many old people on these streets to be driving anywhere north of fifty. Michael said, laughing outright for the first time that day. He surveyed the gift shops and outdoor restaurants lining the coastal road. Wait ‘till we get closer to Tampa. He checked his watch. They still had a half hour.

Something small and shaggy darted out into the road. Michael’s sudden, screeching stop lit up the GT-R’s brake monitors.

Tyler’s mug spilled coffee all over his lap. Dude!

Some kind of animal came out from between those potted palm trees. I almost hit it. Michael threw the car into park and put on his flashers. The creature could have been a dog, but it had an odd gait. Let me check it out. Even as he worried over what he’d nearly hit, Michael noted that the car’s Brembo brakes lived up to all the hype.

Before you get out, do you have another one of those stupid hankies?

No, sorry. Michael heaved himself out of the low-lying sports car and raced to the front. A light-tan dog with pink bald patches lay on the pavement, just a few feet in front of his bumper. The animal’s nails scratched the asphalt as it contorted its body in an effort to regain footing. It gave up and rested on the road, panting heavily. From the looks of it, the dog had long ago lost its back leg.

Settle down, it’s okay. Michael crouched down and let the dog sniff his hand. He was pretty sure he hadn’t caused any serious injury; this was just an old, worn-out, crippled mutt.

Is she okay? An alarmingly thin man pushed through the potted palms lining the sidewalk and rushed over to the dog. His knees cracked when he lowered himself down to her level.

I think she’s all right, sir.

The old man spoke softly to the dog, stroking her head and belly. We walk down this street every day. She’s never jerked away from me like that. The man’s singsong tone suggested an eastern European accent.

I don’t think the car touched her. But she may have fallen when she tried to get out of the way. Michael scooped up her frail form. They moved away from the road and he laid her on the sidewalk. What’s her name?

Clary. The man sniffed. She’s all I got left since my wife died a few years ago. I can’t imagine losing this old girl, too. The word losing came out as losink.

Michael wasn’t sure what he should say. Besides, if he didn’t get going soon he’d be late for one of the most important meetings of his legal career.

He stood and studied the old man and his dog. The man’s skinny arms poked out from a blue polyester shirt that probably fit him better twenty-five pounds ago. These two were simply surviving until their time came to disappear forever.

I have bottled water in the car. Michael backed through the palms. That might perk her up. He popped the trunk and rummaged through racquetball equipment. Behind his golf bag, he found an emergency stash of water.

Mike, Tyler called from the car window, we’ve got to go. I’ve got prep work to do before the Green City meeting.

One sec. Michael jogged back to the sidewalk. Here’s a bottle for Clary and one for you. Good luck with everything. He gave the dog a pat on the head and turned to leave.

What’s your name, young man?

Michael Malvisti.

Clary’s owner narrowed his eyes. You related to the Malvistis back in Western New York?

Michael hesitated. He never knew what kind of reaction he would get when he identified himself as a Malvisti. On one of his visits home, a woman had spit on his new Berluti shoes when she discovered his last name. He was almost sure he heard the word murderer through her clenched teeth as she thundered off. Yes, I am.

Are you Sal Malvisti’s son?

No, sir. Michael cringed. Sal is my dad’s twin brother.

Florida’s a winter magnet for us Western New Yorkers, but I haven’t run across any Malvistis until now. Your family is good people, I’ve heard.

Michael nodded, relieved.

Can I buy you a cup of coffee?

No, sir, I’ve got to get to work. Michael backed through the planters to his car. Thank you anyway. No doubt the man would want to talk about Michael’s family. He’d probably need to talk about his dead wife too. Michael could envision that agonizingly uncomfortable conversation stretching until lunchtime. Fortunately, duty called.

Are you done saving the world? Tyler asked as Michael jumped into the driver’s seat.

I think so. He gave a perfunctory smile and hoped Tyler wouldn’t ask any more questions. Just hearing Uncle Sal’s name had irritated him. He didn’t feel much like talking.

He activated the GT-R’s launch control mode once they reached the outskirts of town. Rear tires spinning, the car rocketed down the road at a heart-stopping speed.

Tyler clutched the passenger grip bar, his head plastered against the rest. That’s all you got? he shouted above the whine of the twin-turbo engine.

Not fast enough for you?

If I wanted a Sunday drive, I woulda called your mother!

Michael gunned it. Tyler’s stocky frame lurched with each shift of the gears.

That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Tyler whistled. A patch of perspiration soaked the armpits of his blue dress shirt.

Michael slowed when they reached the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. He pretended not to hear Tyler exhale.

Small fishing boats littered the harbor below. Michael’s own twenty-nine footer was in its slip down there, ready to be cleaned for what he hoped would be a summer of water sports and good times.

What was all that about with the dog owner back there? Tyler asked as he settled back in his seat.

That old man knows of my family back home.

Tyler scrutinized Michael’s face. Someday, you’ve gotta fill me in on your folks. After all, you’re about to change the face of your hometown as much as your rich family ever did. He laughed quietly.

Michael didn’t respond. Beyond the fact that the Malvistis were well known back in Western New York, he didn’t know all that much about them himself. His family had always kept him in the dark about the family business. Maybe it was time to find out where—or what—he’d come from. It might clue him in to where he was headed.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled into Michael’s reserved spot in his employer’s parking deck, attached to a twenty-story futuristic glass-and-steel structure. The name Hessley Development was etched into the buffed steel arch over the entrance. Today’s meeting was pivotal to Hessley’s latest project, a remarkable development right in Niagara Falls, New York. The place where Michael felt most at home. Nothing about urban living would be the same after their vision took shape. His stomach tightened.

Showtime.

Chapter Four

Niagara Falls, New York

As Lydia limped toward the parking lot with Mr. Mahoney and her boys, her cell phone chirped. A feeling of dread washed over her. For weeks, she’d been expecting the call that would bring heartbreaking news about her brother. Although Robby’s condition appeared stable as of this morning, his cancer seemed to have a mind of its own.

Shivering, she rifled through her purse. Where’s my phone? She shook the bag’s contents onto the dead grass. Crumbs from half-eaten granola bars spilled out with the device.

There it is, Mommy. Travis popped a chunk of a bar into his mouth and bolted toward Mr. Mahoney. His exuberant laugh rippled across the water. If only she could shrug off the events of the day so quickly.

Lydia Vallone.

You need to get home. Her best friend’s voice seemed tight.

Is it Robby? Lydia nearly shrieked. What’s going on?

No, no, no. This has nothing to do with your brother. Dana DuPays’s Long Island accent gave her words a sharp edge. I’m at your house. I came by to show you today’s newspaper headline and—

Please don’t tell me it reads, ‘Boy Falls in River, Nearly Plunges over Falls.’

No-o-o. Dana hesitated. Are the boys okay?

Yeah, but it’s been a horrible day. You know the fishing tree at Malvisti Park?

Of course.

It’s no more. Part of it broke away and Travis was almost swept out into the river with it. A complete stranger rescued him. It was terrifying. Lydia wracked her brain trying to remember the man’s name.

Dana exhaled. Sounds like it could’ve been worse.

Wow! That sounds like a quote ripped out of one of those self-help books you always read. No matter how much worse it could have gotten, it was still horrible.

I’m sure.

Lydia swept the scattered contents of her purse into a pile.

I’ll wait for you here. Load the boys and hurry home. Dana clicked off.

Lydia, Mr. Mahoney called. He jerked his head in the direction of the parking lot.

Lydia lowered the phone and hobbled toward him. Scanning the lot, she noticed an oversized utility van parked a few spaces away from her minivan. Two cameramen stood talking over a tripod positioned between her and her vehicle. Access to Lydia’s minivan was blocked by cameras, lights, cords, and stools. Local Channel 2 news stood ready.

Were they there for her? Had one of the fishermen called the news?

One of the cameramen pointed in her direction. Lydia’s heart sank. She couldn’t handle an interview right now. Her nerves were already frayed from the death watch over her brother. And after today’s drama, all she wanted to do was retreat to her house. They’d better not follow her there.

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