Free On the Avenue by Antonio Pagliarulo

all too aware that they would have to walk through it with their heads held high. Side by side they went forward, into the storm, and a dozen cameras started flashing. Against the glare of the white lights, people eyed them curiously and began to whisper.
    The Hamilton triplets. A murder. Front-page news.
    It was official: the biggest scandal of their lives had broken wide open.

6

Bust It Like Becker
    Exhaling the last smooth, smoky stream of his Cuban cigar, Clarence Becker leaned up against the driver's-side door of the Mercedes limousine and stared across Fifth Avenue. The Met was always lit up at night, but right now it looked like a runway strip at the airport. Police cruisers lined the west side of the street. News vans waited in the shadows of Central Park. The scene was chaotic, and little packs of reporters kept popping out of cabs and news vans to cover the big story unfolding inside the museum.
    Clarence had heard something about it on the radio an hour ago—a fashion lady found dead. Big fucking deal. She was probably one of those bitchy types with a stick of dynamite up her ass. Media was making it into headline news just because she had a couple of bucks. Hell, where he came from, crimes were
really
violent. Clarence had been born and raised in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, the only non-Italian kid in a neighborhood of mobsters. He was seven the first time he heard gunshots booming in the night. Nine the first time he saw a body. He remembered it like it was yesterday: old man Randazzo sprawled on the pavement in front of DeCicco's Restaurant, riddled with bullets and practically floating in blood. Lots of wiseguys had ended up on the meat rack back in the neighborhood, and more than half of them never even made the papers, let alone the television.
    Clarence shook his head. It was all about dollar signs in this world. You could buy anything if you flashed the greens. Being a chauffeur for the Hamilton family these past few years had proven that much. Clarence had seen Trevor Hamilton slide his way out of a hundred sticky situations by simply reaching into his wallet. Same for the girls, although Lex was more prone to use money to get her way than Madison or Park. Thinking of them now, Clarence smirked. They were a handful, but they could also be a sweet and cute little trio. They had never uttered anasty word to him or acted like bitches. They had never made him feel like the poor schlep he was. In fact, they seemed to actually
respect
him in a fatherly sort of way. It was shockingly pleasant. As far as he was concerned, Madison, Park, and Lex were more than just his bosses. They were more than just celebutantes too. In that hidden and totally unmacho corner of his heart, Clarence felt a certain fondness for them. Playing the role of bodyguard wasn't in his job description, but he couldn't help being overly protective of the girls. He looked out for them. He kept their secrets. And he knew every one of their crazy antics.
    He scanned the front steps of the museum again. He was parked across the street, directly in front of the Stanhope, and had a bird's-eye view of the activity. What the hell was going on in there? He didn't like the idea of the girls being in the middle of all this chaos. Lots of crazy people walking around. If the girls didn't come out soon, he was going to have to push his way inside and kick some serious ass. He knew they weren't in any imminent danger, but a few more minutes and one of these nosy reporters would figure out who he was and start badgering him. It always happened that way. Got a question about someone famous? Ask the chauffeur! Clarence scowled at the very thought of a microphone being shoved in his face. Any of those pencil pushers so much as approached him, they'd have his fist for dinner.
    He was about to get back into the limo when something caught his eye. There was activity up near the entrance of the museum. One set of wide doors yawned open, and out came several uniformed