by Stuart Woods
“You’re so smart!”
“I don’t know anything I didn’t learn up the river,” Jack said. “In the joint, negotiating is a daily practice. You get good at it.”
“Maybe I should have gone to Sing Sing, instead of Bryn Mawr,” she said, laughing.
“I like you the way Bryn Mawr made you,” Jack replied, sitting up. “Can we have some celebratory eggs?”
“What are we going to do with it, Jack?”
“With what?”
“All that money.”
“You have a brokerage account; put it in there.”
“I’m not crazy about those people. I’d like somebody a little more . . .”
“Aggressive? I’ll think of something. Give me a little time.”
* * *
—
Stone was having his mid-morning coffee when Joan buzzed him. “Jack Coulter on one for you.”
Stone stabbed the button. “Morning, Jack, are you all right?”
“Me? Of course. Oh, you mean Mickey O’Brien.”
“Yes. He’s not a threat at the moment. He’s come into some money, and he’s too busy spending it to think about you.”
“Coming into some money is why I’m calling.”
“Did you hit big with your bookie?”
“No, I took my money back from those people.”
Stone’s jaw dropped. “They let you cash out? I would never have believed it. Those guys never let go of money. How’d you manage it?”
“I asked them nicely.”
Stone burst out laughing. “What does that mean?”
“It means I threatened them if I didn’t have the money back the next day. In prison, I learned to keep my promises, so they believed me. The reason I called was to ask your advice about investing a windfall.”
“Are we talking about your million from the bookie?”
“No, it’s a bit more than that. Hillary is selling the family business, and after a little negotiation, we settled for a billion three.”
“For the whole company? That sounds low.”
“No, her sisters are involved, too. That’s just her share, after taxes.”
Stone was flabbergasted. “Forgive me, Jack, but I don’t often hear that kind of number bandied about, especially after taxes.”
“Me, either. Now, Hillary and I don’t think her broker has been doing a terrific job for her, and I was wondering if you have a recommendation. We’d like someone fairly aggressive.”
“Well, yes, I know somebody.” Stone told him about Triangle Investments, his company with Mike Freeman and Charley Fox. “Charley is an ex–Goldman Sachs guy, whose specialty is mergers and acquisitions. He keeps an eye out for growth companies. We try to get in early. That’s where my money is. Are you in town?”
“No, but we’ll be back in tomorrow. Can we have lunch with you and your colleague, the day after?”
“Certainly.”
“We’re closing in about a week, so we’ll want to move fast, so as not to lose income.”
“I’ll tell Charley that,” Stone said.
“Okay. I’ll see you, say, the day after tomorrow?”
“The Grill at what used to be the Four Seasons, at twelve-thirty.”
“See you there. I’ll introduce you to my new nose.” Jack hung up.
Stone made a conference call to Charley Fox and Mike Freeman.
“Morning, gentlemen,” Stone said. “Are you both in New York?”
“I am,” Charley said.
“I’m in the Gulfstream,” Mike replied, “over the Atlantic, on the way home.”
“Are you both free for lunch the day after tomorrow, at the Grill?”
They both responded in the affirmative.
“I want you to meet some interesting clients of mine, who would like to invest some money with us.”
“I don’t know, Stone,” Charley said. “It’s time-consuming, dealing with more people than just the three of us.”
“How much does he want to invest?” Mike asked.
“One billion, three hundred million dollars.”
“Ignore Charley, Stone. We’ll both see you at lunch.”
14
Mickey O’Brien called a company he used to work for, driving limos part-time, back when he was a patrolman. They had a division called Chauffeurs Unlimited, who furnished drivers for your own car. He arranged to meet one at his house, then got into the rear seat of his new Mercedes. “Ralph Lauren, Madison and Seventy-Second,” he said to the driver
“Yes, sir, Mr. O’Brien.”
In due course they pulled up to the old Rhinelander Mansion, which now housed the home store of Mr. Lauren. Mickey went upstairs to men’s suits and picked out a half dozen and a tuxedo. He had always been a perfect size 40 regular, so only the trouser lengths had to be fixed. He picked out another half dozen tweed jackets and a blue blazer, as many odd trousers, then he went downstairs to look at shoes while they did the trouser cuffs. He picked out a half dozen pairs of shoes, two of them very expensive alligator, then he bought some socks and sweaters.
When everything was ready he directed them to be put into the trunk of the Mercedes, then headed down to East Fifty-Seventh Street to Turnbull & Asser, where he ordered two dozen shirts to be made, plus a selection of neckties and some ready-made things, since the custom shirts took a couple of months.
Back in the car, he made a reservation for two at Daniel, then headed downtown and called Marge, who was working on his new house. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Are you at the house?”
“I am, and working like a beaver.”
“I’ve got a trunkful of clothes I’d like to drop off. Can you put them in my closet for me?”
“Dressing room,” she said. “You don’t have a closet, you have a dressing room. I guess you missed that on the tour.”
“All the better.”
“I don’t want you in the house yet, though.”
“I’ll send the driver up with the things, then I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty. Where will you be?”
“Here. I brought a change of clothes to save time, and I’ll use your shower.”
“Do I have towels, yet?”
“You do. You have just about everything. I’m just arranging with a couple of guys to move things.”
“Okay, see you at seven-thirty.”
“Where are we dining?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Whatever you say.
He was driven downtown. Then, while the driver carried everything into the house, he sat in the front seat and played with the electronics, setting up his satellite radio and selecting stations.
* * *
—
Stone, Charley Fox, and Mike Freeman rose to greet Jack and Hillary Coulter. Stone was struck by the difference in Jack’s face. His nose was just as long, but narrower, lending refinement to his face. His previous schnoz had suffered from his prison experience. There was still a little redness, but not enough to matter. His graying hair had grown and was handsomely barbered. Stone introduced everybody, and they all sat down and chatted while they looked at menus and ordered.
“Is the figure you mentioned to Stone still correct?” Charley asked, to get the ball rolling.
“Yes,” Jack replied.
“I suggest you put three hundred into a money market fund, then we invest the remainder.”
“All right,” Jack said, and Hillary nodded.
“With the rest I want to put you into one startup and another outfit that will go public this year, then we’ll start hunting for new buys. We’ll do so in such a way that we’ll be investing alongside you. I wouldn’t put you into anything we didn’t think enough of to invest in it ourselves.”
Charley talked for a half hour uninte
rrupted, then lunch arrived and they resumed chatting.
“We’d like debit cards to use against the money market fund,” Jack said.
“Of course. May I ask, what are you doing with your other assets?”
“We’ll leave them where they are for a while, I think. At some time in the future, we may want to move them to the new account.”
“That’s fine,” Charley said. After lunch, everybody went home feeling satisfied with how it had gone.
* * *
—
Mickey and Marge sat in the center of the floor at Daniel, and dined grandly.
“I’ve never been here,” Marge said, “living in Brooklyn. I like it.”
“We’ll come here often then.”
“I should tell you that I’m divorced,” she said.
“Who isn’t?”
“Just once, though.”
“Twice for me. It wasn’t their fault. Living with a cop isn’t easy.”
“Kids?”
“Nope. You?”
“No. I’m thirty-six,” she said.
“I’m fifty. That’s how old you have to be to retire on a full pension from the NYPD.”
“Anything else you want to know?” she asked.
“You mean, like, your bra size?”
She laughed. “You can figure that out for yourself.”
“I’ll look forward to that.”
They finished their dinner and were on dessert.
“Why don’t we have a cognac at your place?” Marge asked.
“I’m not due to move in until tomorrow.”
“I have a surprise for you. It’s ready now, everything in its place.”
“In that case,” Mickey said, waving for a check, “let’s have a cognac at my place.”
“Love to.”
* * *
—
Mickey woke early, as he usually did. Marge was sprawled beside him, her blond hair splayed over her pillow. He eased his way out of bed and into the silk robe she had bought for him, then he stood and looked around the room. It was perfect. He loved the dressing room with his new suits and jackets hanging there. He would give his old stuff to Goodwill.
He walked around the apartment and looked at what he had first seen the night before, but with an owner’s eyes. It was remarkable how everything suited him. It was as if he’d done his own shopping, but with better taste.
He figured out how to use the coffee maker, made them some, and took it upstairs.
She was sitting up in bed, the covers only up to her waist. He set her coffee on the bedside table, shucked off his robe, and climbed in beside her. They clinked coffee cups.
“It’s absolutely perfect,” he said. “I feel lucky to live here.”
“That’s how I wanted you to feel,” she said.
The phone at his bedside buzzed.
“That’s the front door,” she said. “Just pick it up and talk.”
He did so. “Hello?”
“Hey, pal, it’s Tiny. How you doin’?”
“I’m not here,” Mickey replied. “Try to remember that.”
“But I got a horse for you.”
“Eat it yourself,” Mickey said, then hung up.
Marge laughed. “I won’t ask who that was.”
“A guy I’d like to forget is alive,” Mickey said.
* * *
—
Tiny squeezed his bulk back into his car. “Can you believe that guy?” He asked nobody in particular.
“Who?”
“Mickey O’Brien. I carried him for years, and now that he’s flush he don’t want to bet with me no more.”
“You made a lot of money on Mick, Tiny,” the man reminded him.
“All the reason to make a lot more,” Tiny reasoned. “And I intend to.”
“If he won’t bet, how you going to do that?” the driver asked.
“I’ll figure it out,” Tiny replied. “He’s always been mine, and he’s going to keep being mine.”
15
Vinnie sat in his box seat at the post at Hialeah and, using his binoculars, watched the herd turn into the home stretch. He glanced at the board to get the final odds and was pleased. His bets were well-placed. His phone rang, but he waited for the winner to cross the finish line before he answered.
“It’s Vinnie, talk to me.” He had a pencil and pad ready to take the bet.
“It’s Manny,” he said.
Vinnie winced. Manny didn’t call often, and when he did, it was always about something Vinnie didn’t want to do. “Morning, Manny.”
“That guy,” Manny said.
Vinnie knew who he was talking about but pretended not to. “Which guy?”
“That guy I just made a gift of a mil.”
“Manny, it wasn’t a gift. It was his money, and we made a bundle off it while we had it.”
“I want it back.”
“You want his money back?”
“You hard of hearing?”
“No, and I’m afraid I heard what you just said.”
“Tell me what I just said.”
“You said you want a client’s money back.”
“See? You can hear just fine.”
“Yeah, but I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“You want to come over here and have me explain it to you in person?”
“Manny, can I tell you some things?”
“If you can do it in less than a minute of my time.”
“This guy took care of Eduardo Buono in Sing Sing for over twenty years, and Eduardo never took a punch for all of that time. He lived like a king, and Johnny was his prince.”
“So what? I still want his money.”
“I told you how Johnny and I communicated.”
“With throwaways, so what?”
“I met with him just once, in a diner, where he handed over his mil. So, I never knew where he was, and I don’t know now.”
“Find him,” Manny said.
“Manny, this guy is very, very smart. Who could go into Sing Sing broke and come out with millions?”
“Eduardo’s millions. And Fratelli ain’t the kind of guy to spend it all. He’s still got it, and more. I want everything he’s got.”
“Manny, you call me up and tell me you want back a guy’s money who dealt with us straight, and then decided he wanted out, for whatever reason. And now, you want . . .”
“I know his reason,” Manny said, “and I know how to find him.”
“You mean, you know how I can find him.”
“Your hearing is still good, Vinnie.”
“And how do I do that?”
“You know Tiny Blanco, in Brooklyn?”
“Yeah, or I used to anyway. He’s a real piece of shit.”
“I don’t care what he is. He’s got a client named Mickey O’Brien . . .”
“A cop. I knew him, too; degenerate gambler.”
“Ex-cop. He wants Eduardo’s money, too, and he knows how to find Johnny Fratelli.”
“So, you want me to call Tiny Blanco and tell him we want his client? Then he’s going to want a big cut.”
“You’re right, and that’s why you don’t call him. You call somebody else who knows Mickey from when he was a cop and find out where he lives. Then you have a conversation with Mickey.”
“What’s Mickey’s motivation for telling me where to find Fratelli?”
“ ‘Motivation’? His motivation is he gets to keep living and walking around on two legs without crutches.”
“Okay, I’ll make inquiries.”
“Get your ass on a plane to New York, and call me when you’ve got your hand on Mickey O’Brien’s throat. Your number two can handle Hialeah, until you’re back.”
“I won�
�t be responsible for what he does while I’m gone.”
“I’ll see to that. Call me when you get to New York.” Manny hung up.
Vinnie sighed. His number two walked up and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“I got a call from Manny’s guy. He says you’re expected in New York.”
“If you screw up while I’m gone, Manny’s going to cut your balls off. You know that.”
The backup guy knew that.
16
Marge Twist amazed Mickey O’Brien. Day after day, she came to the house and cooked for him. She found him a daily maid; she rented the two empty apartments. And she was always ready for sex, any kind he liked—and he liked everything. So did she: front, back, upside down, it didn’t matter, she loved it. It occurred to Mickey that, since he had never had a woman like this, it might be something to do with the fact he was rich. Every day she brought a few things with her, and soon, she was using half his dressing room.
He was also humping Gerry, the bank teller, a couple of times a week. He was on Viagra, like, all the time. Being rich was fun.
Then one day, when Marge was at work, there was a knock on his door, and a guy in a black raincoat stepped inside and put a gun to Mickey’s forehead. “Where’s Johnny Fratelli?” he asked.
“How the hell should I know?”
The guy in the black raincoat cocked the weapon. “One last chance to cure your memory failure.”
“I’ll tell you everything I know,” Mickey said. “I was walking down Lexington Avenue a few weeks ago, and I passed Johnny on the street. I recognized him and followed him. When I got a chance, I turned him around and hit him in the face with a blackjack. Some passersby screamed for the cops and an ambulance, and I beat it out of there. I heard later than he had checked into a private hospital somewhere on the East Side, but I could never find him, because I didn’t have a name. I still don’t, and that’s the God’s honest truth.” Mikey hoped the lie didn’t show on his face.
“If I don’t believe you, I’m supposed to kill you,” the guy said.
“Well, I hope to God you believe me, because that’s all I know.”
