The Whale

by Lawrence Kelter

  Ding.

  The computer-generated tone brought smiles to their faces. “So much for Plan B,” she said. She sat down and began clattering away on the keypad. “And…voilà.” She turned to Sam, eyes beaming, her smile stretched wide.

  “We’re in?” he asked in mild surprise. “That’s it?”

  She checked her watch. “Yeah, that’s it—eleven hours of sitting around biting our fingernails was all it took.”

  He came over and stood beside her as she typed the name Keys, Peter into the client entry field. The screen filled with a list of options: Tax Returns, Investments, Trusts, Banking, among others. “I’ll take one from Column A.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Nice work, Rachel. This is head and shoulders more advanced than anything we’ve ever attempted before.”

  She nodded in agreement. “It’s more than we’ve ever invested in R&D, too. Or put so much time into the setup. We’re four months and counting and we’re nowhere close to being out of the red.”

  “What kind of way is that to talk?” Sam asked. “You’ve been spending too much time with that bean counter, Wrent. Once we break into the social crowd at the University Club, the sky’s the limit. There’s no telling how much money we can tap into. This is like getting a combination to the Citibank vault.”

  Rachel looked away from the screen and fixed him with a stare. “What happened to one and done? I thought this was our swan song—one last big score and it’s Fiji for the rest of our days—nothing but sea, sun, and margaritas.”

  “It is. I can hear the fat lady singing already.”

  “I don’t know—you’ve got that look in your eye, Sam—like you’re still hungry for more.”

  He did a lousy job of looking surprised. “What look?”

  “Like Dr. Evil just before he’s about to extort one billion dollars from the leading world powers. You haven’t gotten bitten by the greed bug, have you?”

  “Me? No way. One and done—just like you said.”

  “Because we’ve talked about that before and you know that’s how most of the great grifters got caught.”

  He scooped a pile of folders off the floor and dropped them on the desk next to her. “Hey, hon, download these pigeons after you’re finished with Keys’ file. I’ll tidy up here and we’ll be off.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” she said. “I’ll copy Wrent’s entire hard drive. Why settle for less when we can have it all?”

  “Why indeed?” A moment passed before revelation became visible on his face. “But you just said…”

  “Yeah, I know—one and done. This is for contingency purposes only.”

  “Or in case we go hog wild and blow through all of our money.”

  “That sounds like a contingency to me.”

  “Exactly.” He had a happy expression on his face as he sauntered out of the room, whistling.

  “Where you going, hotshot?” she asked.

  “Where am I going?” He said in a robust voice. “I’m going to microwave that Katz’s pastrami sandwich. It’s Miller Time.”

  Six

  Sam sat down in a quiet corner of the library with a fifteen-year-old Bowmore single malt and a copy of the Wall Street Journal he had no intention of reading. He allowed the single-malt liquor to warm his throat and saturate his gray matter. He felt his mind cloud over with that happy, sloshy feeling he so welcomed as mentally prepared to hold court. I’m getting good at this, he thought.

  As if reading his thoughts, Rachel’s voice filtered through his sub-vocal earpiece. “Don’t get carried away with yourself, Moneybags. You’re getting drunk, not massively successful. Enjoy that expensive hooch but get your head in the game.”

  “Roger that. I’m on the prowl.”

  “You remember all your background on Peter Keys?”

  “He and I are one, like Luke Skywalker and the Force.”

  “Let’s hope so. I don’t look good in San Quentin medium risk orange.”

  “Not true, honey, you’d look good in anything.”

  “Although flattering, I don’t find that the least bit comforting. So, get your facts straight, Rockefeller.”

  “Don’t sweat it, babe. I’ve…got to go, actually. Someone’s coming.” An approaching gent stopped to speak with someone along the way. Sam wasn’t sure whether he’d make his way across the floor to chat.

  Closer. Closer. Stop yapping with that skinny old fop. You probably see him every day. Come one over and meet someone new.

  As if willed by Sam’s thoughts, the prospective mark broke off his current conversation and headed directly for him. He was a rotund man with gray bristly hair and a manicured beard.

  “You don’t look familiar,” the gent said. “I thought I knew everyone here.”

  “Peter Keys,” Sam said. “I’ve been a member for over fifteen years.”

  The man’s mouth dropped. “Peter? Peter Keys?” He rubbed his bear. “The name is familiar but the face…”

  Sam’s memory was good but hardly the stuff of legends. It took a special effort for him to memorize all the names listed on the brass plaque beneath the photo of club’s board of trustees. “I see your memory has only gotten worse with age, Abe.”

  The man squinted, looking very much as if he was trying to force himself to recognize the unfamiliar face. “We…we know each other?”

  “Abraham Murray, you’re really getting old. We used to play backgammon together. You remember me kicking your ass, don’t you?”

  The strain showed on Murray’s face. He sighed with exasperation. “Alas—‘The rich were dull and they drank too much or they played too much backgammon.’”

  “Hemingway write that?”

  “I’m pretty sure he did, Mr. Keys, but I can’t remember in which book.”

  “It wasn’t a book. ‘The Snows of Kilimanjaro.’ It was a short story he published in Esquire.”

  “Ah.” Murray shrugged. “My memory fails me, which is probably the reason I stopped playing backgammon.”

  “And don’t remember who I am.”

  Murray offered his hand. “Good to see you again, Keys—ha—whoever you are.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?” From what Sam knew about private clubs and their billing practices it would be at least a month before Peter Keys’ tab appeared on Alton Wrent’s desk for payment. He figured he could live it up at Keys’ expense for at least that long before Wrent questioned why Keys hadn’t informed him that he was back in New York. It was champagne and caviar for the duration.

  Murray checked his watch, a paper-thin Blancpain calendar watch. “Well, it is about that time. What are you drinking, Keys?”

  “Bowmore, of course. Can I order one for you?”

  “By all means.” He took the seat next to Sam, who ordered two more. The server made quick work of delivering the drinks. Murray raised his glass and toasted, “To the stinking filthy rich.”

  “Why beat around the bush?” Sam said with a grin. “I’ll drink to that.”

  They clinked their glasses. “Bring an old man up to date, Keys. Where did you make your money?”

  Sam gave him a quizzical look.

  “Why be evasive?” Murray sipped his drink, smiling. “Am I right, Keys?”

  “You always were direct, Abe.”

  “Now that I remember.”

  Sam placed his drink on the end table, taking a moment to summon the background story he and Rachel had concocted. “Spirits. My grandfather ran boats right alongside Joe Kennedy’s ships.”

  “Bootlegging?”

  “That’s right. Just like the ex-president’s daddy.”

  “To bootlegging, then,” Murray said. They toasted once more. “I’m glad it served you well.”

  “It was really the jumping off point for me. My dad squandered most of his father’s money. I took the little that was left and developed wine and brandy export out of South Africa.”

  “The South Africans always did make t
he best brandy.”

  “Indeed they do, and from there I was just a hop, skip, and a jump to Botswana, and you know what they have over there, don’t you?”

  “Don’t tell me you found diamonds?”

  “We found them when we were blasting new caves to age and store the wine. Between that and seeking thrills…well, I haven’t been back in New York in almost ten years.”

  “You haven’t been home in ten years?” Murray shook his head slowly. “I can’t imagine. I certainly don’t envy you having to actually work for a living.”

  “Only occasionally,” Sam assured him, raising his glass. “Here’s to privilege.” They toasted again. “I work hard and I play hard. Even now, relaxing here at the club, I’m looking for investors for a new mine I want to drill. I suppose there’s no rest for the weary.”

  Rachel’s voice whispered in his ear. “Nicely played, but don’t oversell it. While you were talking I researched Abraham Murray on the web—net worth, sixty-one million, mostly real estate holdings. That fat man sitting next to you isn’t just any lump of lard. That man is the freakin’ whale.”

  Seven

  And whales travel in pods.

  It wasn’t long before Murray had introduced Sam to his band of cronies, taking credit for his discovery, and spreading word that Sam was looking for investors in his new diamond mine. Murray was so boastful for having first made Sam’s acquaintance that one might think he’d discovered the cure for cancer. And yet Sam became unhappier with each contact he made. He had come to the swanky New York club hoping to make it rain but he was not looking for a deluge of biblical proportion. Murray and three of his colleagues now surrounded him, each eager to grab a piece of the freshly baked pie.

  Rachel’s voice boomed in his ear, “Pull the plug, Sam. Too much of a good thing is a bad thing, and you know what else it means.”

  She didn’t have to explain further—it was the law of supply and demand—limit supply and demand grows. Exclusivity is desirable. Abundance turns to trash.

  “This is a Eureka moment,” Murray boasted. “We may very well be looking at the next Gahcho Kué, gentlemen.”

  “I’m not familiar with that,” Leonard Lemm said, leaning forward in his chair.

  “The first big diamond find in more than a decade and a half—up in Canada just north of the Yellowknife Territory near the Arctic Circle.” He turned to a man with a sharp widow’s peak. “You have a piece of that, don’t you, Cullen?”

  “A substantial piece,” Cullen Atwater boasted. “I got in early.”

  “Damn it!” Lemm howled. “It’s time to fire another investment guru. Why are all of my friends getting in on ground floor opportunities while I’m sitting around sucking hind tit?”

  “None of these self-proclaimed investment experts are worth a damn,” Cullen said. “You’ve got to be your own advocate these days. The investment specialists, they’re just leeches, living off your money.”

  Sam was amazed at Cullen’s cattiness, the pleasure he took in one-upping his friend. He examined his face closely and decided that man was the spitting image of Ming the Merciless.

  An almost Shark Tank-like atmosphere had developed in a matter of moments. The four carnivores were bandying dollar amounts and investment strategies among themselves. Sam was no longer involved in the conversation and realized that he was losing control.

  Sam tried to interrupt the discussion with a loud, “Harrumph,” but the sharks continued to talk, growing more and more animated as the scent of blood filled the water. Each of them was analyzing his own holdings, deciding from where to carve the capital he needed for the investment in the Sam’s new mine.

  Rachel hollered so loudly it sent an ache through Sam’s ear canal. “Ripcord. Ripcord, babe. Abort. Abort. Abort!”

  Sam spoke loudly and in an authoritative tone. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, you’re getting a bit ahead of yourselves, aren’t you? Yes, my last diamond mine was a whopping success but its discovery was a pure accident.”

  “It was?” Justin Bickens, the third man said. “How so?”

  “He was blasting a cave for wine storage,” Murray said with a hardy laugh. “Sheer serendipity.”

  “In other words, you got lucky,” Bickens said.

  “Exactly,” Sam replied glad that at least one of them was listening to what he had to say. “It was the first real diamond strike south of Botswana. Yes, I’ve learned a lot since the discovery, but I’m not looking for cash investors per say. DeBeers and the other big players dominate the African diamond trade. As profitable as my mine is, they’re the ones who dictate prices and they’re doing everything they can to make me sell out to them. I won’t. Not now and not ever.”

  “So what’s your plan?” Murray asked.

  “Direct to retail distribution—raw diamonds shipped from the mine directly to retail outlets here in the states. I’ll carry almost no finished inventory. I’ll cut the diamonds onsite and deliver them in the setting within forty-eight hours. The profit margins will be enormous and I’ll control retail prices instead of having these bastards at DeBeers dictate how I have to do business. I’m only looking for investors that can bring something integral to the table. Not just cash but cash and retail development, cash and marketing, cash and jewelry expertise. Without that…” He looked around at the forlorn sharks with a poker face. “Without that, there’s no way for any of you to buy in. I’m sorry.”

  Rachel cooed in Sam’s ear. “Brilliant, hon.” She already knew that Murray owner shopping malls in all the major metropolitan areas. By coming up with the impromptu conditions he had eliminated three of the four predators.

  Or so she thought.

  “I’m in,” Ming the Merciless said while stroking his goatee. “I own half the retail selling space at the Forty-seventh Street jewelry exchange. My people have access to diamond cutters, gold workers, designers…you name it. Why, I’m practically a one-stop shop for all of your needs, Peter. With my connections you’ll be able to bring your business to market in half the time you’ve figured on.”

  “Of course you remember the business I’m in, don’t you, Keys?” Murray said with a broad smile. “Such good fortune. And to think, I was going to waste the afternoon playing golf. Nothing like making the acquaintance of an old friend.” He gave Sam a hard slap on the back. “Ha. Glad I bumped into you, Peter. Glad as hell.”

  Eight

  Rachel wore a simple black dress to dinner at the club that night. It wasn’t very different from the dresses many of the female club members wore except for the cut and the way it fit. It accentuated her thin waist and the contour of her chest. It was taut in the back, taut enough to pull the gaze of every man in the club as she walked in on Sam’s arm. Most of the ladies had their hair pulled back in a bun and sported the requisite string of pearls. By contrast, Rachel’s hair was long, blonde, and flowing. She wore no pearls that would distract the eye from her pretty cleavage. By the numbers, Peter Keys was far from the wealthiest man at the club, but by the company he kept…that was another matter entirely.

  Sam and Rachel eyed the crowd. They’d originally planned to frequent the club for as long as it took to locate an eligible mark. Then hook, land, gut, and get out of town. They had never entertained the possibility of hooking not one but two pushovers on the first day. Still, they thought it prudent to be seen around the club, rubbing elbows, so as to add to their legitimacy.

  “He’s pretty,” Rachel said sizing up Michael Broadbend, the front desk manager. “Is he working the crowd?”

  “What do you think?” Sam replied. “With his good looks…? You think he’s here because he likes to kowtow to the rich and pompous? He’s here to make his fortune, same as you and me. He’s no grifter, though—more of a Svengali, I think.”

  “I’d throw him a mil if I wasn’t already in love the best-looking and smoothest conman on the continent.”

  “You left out fabulous lover.”

  “It’s s
o easy to play on your insecurities,” she said teasing him. A quick squeeze on the arm drew his attention. “Two o’clock—isn’t that your prospective business partner headed our way?”

  Murray looked as if he’d consumed a full turkey for dinner. His belly was distended and his starched white shirt was pulling apart. He had a cranberry-colored stain on his shirt collar. He carried a snifter in his hand filled with an amber-colored liquid. “All this talk about South Africa piqued my interest in brandy. This is my second glass of Tesseron.” He raised the glass to his nose and sniffed. “Absolutely mesmerizing,” he said, turning to Rachel. “As is this divine beauty on your arm.”

  “This is my dear friend, Ms. Riggs,” Sam said, “Ms. Layla Riggs.”

  “Charmed,” Murray said, taking her hand. “Abraham Murray, my dear.”

  “Layla was good enough to accompany me here from South Africa,” Sam said.

  “All work and no play makes Layla a dull blonde,” she said. Rachel had spent the afternoon watching Charlize Theron interviews on YouTube and had copied her accent to perfection.

  “That would be impossible,” Murray said. “Are you in the diamond business like Peter, Ms. Riggs?”

  “Call me Layla…please. Show me any woman who isn’t in the diamond business and I’ll show you a fool, an absolute fool.”

  Murray laughed loudly.

  “Layla’s family has been in the diamond mining business for over one hundred years,” Sam said.

  “You might say the earth has been very good to us,” Layla said. “Have you been?”

  “To South Africa? Sadly, no,” Murray said.

  “We’ll you’ll have to pencil it in on your calendar, Mr. Murray. Cape Town has become quite the party town.” She batted her long eyelashes. “We’ll show you a good time.”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” Murray said with a schoolboy grin. He was already buying into the illusion Rachel was proffering. By the end of the night, she’d have him eating out of her hand.