by Damon Suede
“Of course.”
“Incidents.” He fell silent and did the goofy dad-smile again with his deep dimple.
Ruben held his tongue. Obviously this dude had sat in first class reading too many airport novels. When Ruben looked back up, Bauer was eying him critically, and that funny feeling returned. “What type of business?”
“Finance. A trader, really. Apex Securities. I run a hedge fund.” Bauer bounced his knee. “I work from home.” He kept eying Ruben with blank hero worship, as if casting him in some super-spy bullshit studded with dry martinis and wet pussy. “As a precaution. I’ve got a lot of sensitive documents in the office right now, and I’d feel better with someone on hand to make sure there are no—”
Ruben raised his eyebrows, patient.
“Up on Seventy-Eighth and Park. I live in the Iris.”
Which meant exactly nothing to Ruben. He’d ask his brother. “Sure. Okay.”
Why would someone this loaded hire Charles’s little company, which mainly rented bouncers and backup security for parties? Bauer could have gone to Citadel or Stone Security. They had tech departments and goons who’d fought in the Israeli army. By comparison, Charles had a gut and a divorced drunk on the payroll. Something odd there.
When he looked up from the pad, Bauer still hadn’t moved or blinked, apparently… his dashing face still as stone. Hell, maybe Bauer was only pretending to like him.
“I mean, it’s a secure building. Co-op bachelor pad. They did the renovations three months after 9/11, so the board went a little nutso with the cameras and alarms.”
“Who has access? Besides you.”
“To the Iris? Uhh….”
Ruben flipped to a blank page. “Your apartment. You gotta wife, girlfriend?”
The guy looked married, the kind of walking Sears ad: as if any second a ranch house, a chirpy wife, and giggly blond toddlers would spring out of the ground around him.
Headshake. “A couple girls I get with. Nothing serious. I travel a lot.” Bauer blinked and looked away. “For work, y’know.”
Not queer, then. With a stray flicker of jealousy, Ruben tried to imagine any woman who’d wanna fake a climax with someone this bland. Then again, who could figure women? Maybe he had a cock the size of a pint glass.
Bauer’s eyes came up, soft as flannel. “Marriage doesn’t agree with me.”
Ruben’s gaze flicked to Bauer’s lap. No sleeping anaconda there; maybe he fucked ’em with his wallet. Batshit Bauer had capital to spare.
Note to self: get rich ASAP.
“You got angry employees? Clients with a beef?”
“Hardly. I got an assistant that stops in a couple times a day, for schedule and research.” He looked at his nails. “Housekeeper comes in three times a week. My IT kid when the computers need pruning or weeding.”
“Which tends to be?”
“Weekly, at a minimum. Has to be. My biggest expense.” Shrug. “My computers never stop upgrading.”
The emphasis made Ruben pause and raise his eyebrows. He didn’t ask the question, but he left space for an explanation. Curious played better than stupid, in most situations.
Bauer’s lips scrubbed his teeth before he explained. “For investors, a quarter-second lag can mean millions of dollars. Finance drives all technology. We’re the reason chip upgrades happen. Even more than gaming or medicine.”
Ruben perused his brother’s tiny, cluttered office. A thousand security places in Manhattan and he comes to us? Sketchy. “Anyone else who drops in with any regularity, then?”
“A couple international clients I’m friendly with. My assistant. Cook. The gardener comes up twice a month.”
Gardener? How big was this bachelor pad? The knot of irritation tightened in Ruben’s belly.
Bauer must’ve caught the reaction because he added, “I’m in the penthouse, so I have a couple terraces with trees. Pool downstairs. Y’know.”
Oh yeah, genius. I know all about penthouse pools on Park Avenue. “Right.” This jerk was so loaded he’d forgotten that most people wanted shit they couldn’t afford.
Ruben kept his face blank, the expression Marisa called “Aztec asshole.” A sharp pang of missing her took him by surprise. He hoped that new guy treated her better than he had. “And you suspect some kinda theft?”
“A security breach, more like. The Apex Fund handles some players.”
“We’re not equipped for tech breaches, let alone a full executive protection detail.” Charles had trouble checking his e-mail.
“This isn’t hackers.” Bauer held up a hand, right on the edge of rude. “These people have been in my house.”
Paranoia much?
“Look, I know how it sounds. I’m not a nutjob. High-risk investment creates some pretty weird bedfellows.”
“And enemies.” Invisible enemies who leave no proof. Right.
Bauer bobbed his head and exhaled loudly. “You see my problem?” The way he said “my” made it sound like the problem was something he owned.
Only a saint would turn away a client like this. Charles would shit nickels, but Ruben smelled a rat.
Ruben squinted, trying to provoke a real reaction. “Well, not really.” Too easy, too easy. The words slipped out of his mouth. “Why us?”
“’Scuse me?” Condescending and jittery, both. Maybe he wasn’t a nutjob, but Mr. Bauer definitely wasn’t telling the whole truth.
“Empire is hardly a triple-A outfit, Mr. Bauer.” He looked around at his brother’s shabby office, the coffee-ringed desk and dusty cabinets. “We’re not exactly at home on red carpet. We do event security mostly for people who don’t make the papers.”
“Exactly.” Bauer blinked. “I’m sitting here because of what you did this morning.” Boy Scout bullshit.
Ruben trusted his instincts. He wondered if he could convince Charles to give this gig a pass. He crossed his arms, giving his best bouncer glare.
“I don’t want the NYPD involved. On white-collar crime they suck, and I don’t need feds digging up the bones in my closets.” He obviously hadn’t heard “no” or “why” too often. “I need an experienced pair of eyes on me while I close a deal, but I need to steer clear of the standard bullet catchers.”
“Still, why slum it with us if you’re really worried?”
His calm brow clouded. “That’s a bit tricky.”
“Yeah?” Ruben held his unsettling gaze. “Meaning?”
“A high-end firm may be the… problem. I’d like a fresh pair of eyes from a new angle. Tighter security. Nothing flashy or complicated. And so I came to you.” The goofy smile returned, almost desperately casual and cheerful.
“Right.” Ruben ignored his gut and thought about the money. “Executive protection. Daytime only.”
“A few nights. I hit a lot of black tie events. Partying with clients and grooming accounts. I’d present you as a friend, an associate.”
“Again, I feel like we’re a bad fit, Mr. Bauer.” Ruben sat back. Those investors would take one look at his dark complexion and crappy clothes and peg him for a blue-collar bruiser, a middle-aged drunk who cashed checks at the bodega. Everything about this gig raised his hackles. “We don’t exactly look like buddies.”
“Why not?” Bauer eyeballed Ruben’s clothes, the scuffed oxfords, the crooked tie. “A haircut. Wardrobe. Incidentals. Expensed, obviously.” He looked serious.
“’Cause you’re pretty prepped out and I’m a big ugly spic?” Ruben scowled a second. “Just a hunch.” Ruben dropped the pen on the pad. “All due respect, don’t shit a shitter.”
“Fair enough. My family has accounts with Kroll, and I don’t want to worry them unnecessarily.”
“Mr. Bauer, you’re not being straight with me.”
Bauer blinked, for the first time, it seemed. “Straight?”
“Pretty sketchy logic there. Espionage? Sabotage? Your family of superspies and stock market ninjas.”
“Now you’re not being straight.” Bauer’s eye
s hardened. “Let’s just say I have reason to distrust my family and their friends.” For the first time, the predatory edge sliced through all Bauer’s folksy charm, calculated and forceful. “So I’m hiring you.”
There he was. Nice to meet you, motherfucker.
The silence felt like embarrassment, but whose? Without waiting for an answer, Bauer opened his briefcase and began writing a check. He glanced up. “Retainer.” All balls and no sense. Scribble, scribble.
Ruben could hear Charles bellowing in his head: Take the fucking job. Empire needed the money. He did as well. He’d go nuts sleeping on a couch all summer with a busted A/C. The red flag wasn’t Bauer or his bull’s-eye face; it was the cushiness of the deal.
“Two, three weeks at the outside. Twelve hundred a day plus expenses.”
Even though Empire only would have charged him seven.
Ruben knew exactly what things cost—one of the side effects of growing up broke and scrimping his whole life. He probably knew the prices on Bauer’s clothes better than the man who’d paid for them. Too easy.
“I’ve seen you handle trouble, and money’s not an issue for me. I’m faced with a sticky situation. The risk is minimal and the pay is not.”
Who on earth had steered this crazy whale his way?
Charles. Ruben sighed. Thanks, little brother.
“Excellent. I’ll meet you at the Iris then to go over particulars.” Bauer gave a victor’s smile and stood. “Tomorrow morning, say?” He rubbed his hands together as if they were sweaty. “I’ll leave your name with the building staff. Ruben…?”
“Oso.” He waited for the joke. In Spanish, the name meant a couple things, all silly.
Not even a smile. “Oso. Right.” Just the square-square jaw and the flannel eyes looking back out of a handsome face that said Punch me.
Ruben stayed in the chair, feeling like he’d had his pocket picked.
Mr. Bauer gave a sharp nod from the doorway. “Perfect.”
Not even close.
Five minutes later, Ruben was still considering that door when Charles came back, eating a greasy bacon sandwich, and shuffled through the paperwork. “You all set with the Apex guy?”
“I guess.”
“Cakewalk. That Bauer is hiring a wingman to impress someone.” Another swallow. A drip spattered on his hibiscus shirt. “Ten bucks he’s some Wall Street gonk who’s seen too many thrillers. Scariest thing he deals with is silicone titties and erectile dysfunction.”
“Carlos….” Charles had been christened Carlos, but their parents refused to speak Spanish on principle. No immigrant bullshit for them. Their grandparents had moved to Florida from Soledad after the Second World War. The Osos were American through and through. Roots, nothing. Charles had learned Spanish during his pretend-to-be-mob phase.
“Tsssh. Yeah. You watch.” Charles took a drippy bite. “He just likes your scary mug.”
My bull’s-eye.
“Whatsamatter? You said you were doing good.”
“Yeah.” Ruben lifted a shoulder noncommittally. “Yeah, sure. I’m doing great.” Even if he couldn’t put his finger on the feeling that nagged him.
Charles narrowed his eyes.
“No. No way. It’s not that. I’m great. I just woke up late.” Ruben hoped that was the truth.
“I don’t wanna come home to you punching holes in my wall.”
“I promise.” None of that here. Ruben had patched plenty of walls on plenty of mornings.
“Something funny there.”
“Ha ha.” Charles balled up the sandwich shrapnel and tossed it. “What’s funny?”
Ruben squinted. “He is.”
“He is”—Charles overlapped his words—“a spruce goose laying golden eggs, baby. You better sit on that motherfucker till all of ’em hatch.”
Ruben tapped the desk, then slid the check across the clutter toward his brother. Something Bauer had said, but what? It stuck in his teeth like gristle he couldn’t stop worrying with his tongue. “He’s all balls and fulla shit.”
“So much the better. It’s all in his head, then, and he wants to put on a big fancy show. Paranoid on Park Avenue.” Charles rubbed his hibiscus gut and sat. “I think the problem is you’re looking for a problem where there ain’t none.” He plucked the retainer check off the desk. “Good gig. Easy money and no headaches. Fancy clientele. This is a milkbone. You chew on it all summer. Scare up business from his, uh, associates.”
Ruben nodded.
Charles held the check over his face and closed his smiling eyes like the zeros were sunshine. “Give him his show. Ya needta get laid. You need some new threads. Place of your own. Bauer’s your ticket. He does anything funny, you laugh.” A look.
“Sure. I promise.”
“And Rube.” He pointed, fake stern. “Up that penthouse, you better be passing out my cards like crabs.” Charles tried to sell it. “I’m taking care of you, man. You needed work and this deal’s a cinch.”
As in, boring as hell. Ruben tried not to feel insulted.
“You just got divorced. Off the bottle. And it’ll get you outta the apartment.”
“So it’s bullshit.”
“The check’ll clear.”
“Fuck off. I mean that he’s in no danger.”
“Psssh. Danger! I’m in danger, you’re in danger. Life is danger, bro.” Charles wiped his jowly chops. “Might as well get paid.”
CHAPTER TWO
THERE’S ONLY one way to find out if a man is honest: ask him. If he says yes, he’s a crook.
Ruben fidgeted in his brother’s little offices through a lunch he didn’t take and calls he didn’t answer. Something about Bauer’s flannel stare kept right on bugging him. “I’m gonna go to church.”
Charles looked up at him and nodded. Church was Ruben’s code for an AA meeting, and Charles probably didn’t want to ask questions. “Sure.” He thumped Ruben’s back, man-to-manly.
In the hall, Ruben pulled up the AA app and found a Big Book meeting at the Jan Hus Church on East Seventy-Fourth. He headed down the hot stairs.
He skirted Central Park, nervous about navigating his way through the trees. Even at its margins, the air felt cooler than he’d expected, but then he was wearing an outsize cotton suit without a tie. He’d seen pictures of ponds and castles hidden in there, and hot girls running in their goddamn underwears practically.
Nature was about the only thing he missed living in the city. He’d definitely be coming back to these trees when he felt braver.
A half hour later, he reached a red brick church wrapped in gingerbread arches. He grabbed a folding chair with five to spare. Maybe fifteen people, mostly white and mostly older. Not surprising given what Charles had told him about the Upper East Side. Still, no one blinked at him. Mostly Ruben kept his head ducked, surprised to feel a sunburn on his neck.
The meeting didn’t help: a roomful of wealthy retirees who treated it like a gabby social club. Their problems were not his. He sat in the back, and though he stood up to introduce himself at the open, he didn’t share and he only half listened. Peach would have smacked him and snapped him out of it; she was always after him to share. In her absence, he’d have to man up.
The group talked through Step Four, the Step he was still hung up on: “We made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.”
Good times.
They broke after an hour. He thanked the old man who’d run the meeting and dialed his sponsor before he’d gotten outside. His feet headed back toward the park. On the third ring, Peach picked up.
“Hey.” She sounded raspy and out of breath. “There you are.” She always answered like she expected his call, which he found weirdly comforting. As a guy, Ruben knew he should have had a male sponsor, but no one cut to the bone like her.
He smiled. “You working in the garden?”
“Kid, I’m too old to work. I’m having sex with the pool boy.” Peach lived alone in a retirement community in Aventura, fifte
en miles outside downtown Miami. “Of course, he’s fifty, so it takes a while.”
“So you’re on a break.”
She cackled and coughed. “What’s up? You sound like shit.”
“Meeting. Fourth Step, still.”
“Inventory is rough.” The sound changed, like she’d moved outside onto her little balcony. “Ruben, here’s a thing. You don’t have to love the process, but you gotta live with it. Shame puts the glass in your hand.”
He nodded and then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yeah. It’s good. New York is good.”
The tcchk-tcchk rasp of a lighter. She was all of five feet tall and chain-smoked menthols. He could imagine the smell exactly, and the smoke curling around her knobby knuckles.
She sighed. “Lonely, I bet.”
He pressed his lips tight before he spoke. “Oh, man. Like you wouldn’t fucking believe.”
“Tell me. I’m a seventy-eight-year-old floozy from Boca.” Peach breathed loudly for a few seconds. “See any great shows?” As a former hoofer, Peach loved musicals.
“C’mon. I don’t even watch TV these days. I work and I sleep.”
“Kiddo, lonely sucks, but other things suck more. Work your Steps. Pay attention to what matters, huh?”
“Mmmh.”
“And call your damn parents.” She was right, of course. “They’re old and they worry.” In other words, Peach was older and worried more about him. She gave the best guilt.
“I will.”
“Ruben, lonely isn’t always such a bad gig. Stay focused. Howzat job?”
Little by little his shoulders relaxed. As he walked west he told her about Charles, about his sofa bed, about the office, even the mugger that morning and the money tornado, but not Bauer. For whatever dumb reason, Andy Bauer and his paranoia didn’t come up.
Before he realized it, he’d reached Park Avenue and Seventy-Fourth.
Peach asked, “And have you met anybody?”
“Not like that.” He looked uptown. Bauer’s building had to be right there.
