The Repairman- The Complete Box Set
Page 47
Knowing Pax is an early riser, I call first thing, and as promised, the dough is there. I owe an even million to my four buddies. I'll pay Pax a quarter mil for his trouble, which leaves a million two for the brains of the outfit…but since the outfit has little brains, I'll keep it.
I spend a half hour with Blumenthal and leave him a little perplexed to say the least, but he finally calls Wedgeworth at the Biltmore and looks even more bamboozled as Prather confirms all. My final words to Blumenthal are, "Mr. Wedgeworth has a plethora of personal problems that he and his wife have to work out, which is the reason for the custody agreement. For your ears only, some of those problems can ruin this company and if I were forced to divulge them, everyone here would be out of a job and the company's stock would be worthless. Do you understand?"
He eyes me carefully, and with great suspicion, but nods his head.
So I continue, "I'll be checking with Tatya, and you, to see that everything remains as Prather and I have agreed." When you're talking to attorneys you can use words like plethora.
"You're blackmailing him," Blumenthal accuses.
"Into doing exactly the right thing? That doesn't sound like blackmail to me." I laugh, but he's not amused.
He lowers his head and glowers at me over his glasses. "I don't know what's going on, but I plan to find out. This is very, very irregular."
"I'm sure the CEO makes more than the Chief Counsel, so if I were you I wouldn't look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth."
I excuse myself, with Blumenthal not knowing whether to thank me or call the cops.
All that's a step in the right direction.
But the payouts are not over.
Toby Bartlett was an innocent in the missing airplane fiasco, paid the ultimate price in a horrible way, and left a young mother to raise two kids. I'll deliver a quarter mil cash to her as well, as Toby was a player in the scenario, albeit an unwilling one. I owe Carmen eight grand and will deposit an even ten in her American account, which is probably not enough as she took far more risk than she signed up to take. We were welcomed with open arms into a very deserving orphanage, Solange del Argentina Norte, and I'm dropping a check in the mail to those folks for another ten grand. So, what the hell, nine hundred thirty grand ain't bad, and I'll pay tax on that, which will knock it down to a hair over six hundred thou, spendable, for a month's work. I can live with that.
And hell, I didn't even get shot once.
The good news—not that six hundred thou spendable isn't good news—we learn when we wander into Pax's Vegas office. The repairman has been contacted by a wealthy investor who's headquartered in the big city of New York, and it seems his daughter has failed to return from the University of California at Berkeley, and he wants her found…as well as the seven million that's disappearing out of the trust fund her grandfather left her upon his demise.
Sounds like it might be worth a few bucks, and besides, I've only spent one weekend in New York.
Gee whiz, I'm going to the big city.
IV
Who’s On Top?
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
1
The irony of this world, and particularly of my country, oft time befuddles me.
Here I am having just finished a repairman job which took me to South America where the use of a number of firearms, including an RPG, was necessary to accomplish the recovery of a fifty million dollar G5 for a client, one of the world's finest business aircraft. Upon my return, I find I'm being hired—if I accept the assignment—by one of America's foremost anti-gun advocates. I'm sure I was not recommended to him because of my pacifist ways. And he's a guy who could afford to hire two divisions of pacifists to try and return his errant daughter. I'm on my way to the Big Apple to meet with J. Cornelius Remington. Another irony, an anti-gun advocate named…Remington.
It seems he figures words won't accomplish the recovery of the young lady. Maybe words have been tried adinfinitum…as they have, to no end, so many times in the history of the world.
I'm eager to see if Remington wants me to forgo the use of firearms, and if so, why hire me? There are plenty of bloodhound types out there who'll track someone down if someone else needs them found, and probably for far less money than I'll require. I get paid well because I take big risks, most of which involve being shot at, and if I stand the risk of being shot at, you can damn well bet I'm shooting back.
Should be an interesting meeting.
Why does my country befuddle me? The reasons would fill a book, but it's pretty well summed up by the fact that we've elected a leader who proclaims to the world that the most prosperous, productive country in the world, by multiple times, is not exceptional. Duh! Unlike others, I've always been proud of my country, even though my country, like all of her citizens, has often been wrong, mistaken, overeager, thoughtless, and lethargic. But never so much as the other countries in the world, and she's saved most of their butts from annihilation more than once. Just count the number of American boys and girls buried on foreign soil.
So, I'm on my way to meet with a guy whose name is Remington, a third generation plutocrat whose fortune is now well over a billion dollars, who's benefited almost beyond belief by the fact that the nation was founded by folks who revered personal freedom, who's benefited beyond belief by the founding document, our Constitution, and like our president, wants to change it.
Befuddled is not a strong enough word.
But if I can find a father's daughter who's gone missing I'll set my condemnation aside and do what I've always done…my job. This guy can afford to pay handsomely for the effort, and I'll enjoy taking his money.
New York is served, among other airports, by Newark Liberty International, a New Jersey airport, and that's the destination of the six AM flight I'm deplaning. Of course I've had to leave my Glock at my mini-storage—the nearest thing to a home I occupy, other than my Ford 250 and camper—but I have my mace pen which sneaks through Homeland Security and their TSA division. The last time—the only time—I was in New York City was during the Bloomberg years, and the streets were safe and fairly clean, not so much, I understand as during Giuliani's years when he drove all the panhandlers and crazies underground, but Bloomberg allowed them to creep back up and de Blasio is encouraging it. While there a short time I was, however, accosted by a couple of females with ulterior motives, and never felt the need for mace or a Glock. There are some tasks that require a different kind of weapon.
I remember New York as a fun town, although I was only there long enough to see a tiny fraction of the city.
It's good to have a close buddy—Pax Weatherwax in this instance—who's a wizard with computers, as he's produced a tome on J. Remington Printers, a one hundred fifty year old Manhattan company which, as I read, I find is now worth several billion good old not so exceptional greenbacks. Its CEO and heir to the company, founded by his great grandfather, Jasper Remington, is personally worth over a billion. The company is involved in not only printing but the manufacture of ink and paper, with operations in the U.S., Canada, and China.
A bi
llion, and he didn't bother to send me a first class ticket so I bought my own cattle car version, next to a young man who should have been required to fly in the cargo or luggage section, or at least to have purchased two seats. He overflows into my space, but as fat guys are reputed to be, he's jolly and keeps me entertained with fascinating tales of the sundries biz—the sale of advertising pens and knickknacks. Why couldn't they have seated me next to a Victoria's Secret fashion model as you would expect when flying to New York? That, of course, would require being in first class.
Newark Liberty is crawling with folks as we deplane at three PM after circling the metropolitan area for an extra half hour. As I only pack a carry on, I go straight out to public transportation and grab a bus to the city, then to my hotel, which is a place I've always wanted to stay, the Waldorf Astoria. Even the name is a class act, and although my room is not large, it manages to be very expensive. Every great once in a while I splurge, and this is one of those times. After all, I'm in the Big Apple.
It's a little after six by the time I'm settled in, so I walk over to a renowned steak house on 3rd, Smith & Wollensky, which is to my liking as it's a man's joint, with oversize portions to match its oversize prices. I take it easy on the booze with only one Jack Daniels, then one beer with my supper, return to the Waldorf and visit the Bull and Bear there, another famous joint and watering hole for my second beer, then hit the sack by eleven. It's kind of a kick to watch all the metrosexual boys with their five grand English tailored suits, five hundred buck loafers, two hundred dollar shirts and one hundred dollar ties being careful not to stain any of their outfits with meat juice or Worchestershire. All that, and I saw more than a few with four days' growth of beard…a Hollywood affectation which has spread east like a virulent flu. An affectation which I can only presume is to establish their manhood, either for their own reassurance or for attraction to whomever they may wish to bed for the night, Jim or Jane. Or at least to establish the mere fact that they possess the male gene. To my way of thinking, it's not the same thing…manhood and the possession of a male gene.
I would have thought that a prestigious company like J. Remington Printers would be located in the financial district, somewhere near Wall Street, but on inspection of the map find they are in the opposite direction, on the upper east side; too far to walk for my nine thirty appointment, so I decide to have a leisurely breakfast at Oscar's in the hotel, then cab it. As I climb in the cab, I have to laugh as I'm wondering, in my Wrangler jeans—although with a stylish crease—my open collar twenty buck Costco shirt, and my tweed sport coat with the patches on the sleeves, not to speak of my Tony Lama Ostrich boots and matching belt…will I get past the doorman? If he glances at my NRA belt buckle, I may be banned from the state.
Particularly since I've discovered that the Remington family is not only among the country's leading antigun advocates, but they're major contributors to PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. It might have been wise to see if I could find plastic cowboy boots…now ain't that a hoot?
I'm surprised to see that the office is a five-storey brownstone which looks as if it wwere built in the mid-nineteenth century, with cast-iron columns, lions flanking a marble stairway, and a brass door befitting a major bank. And when you say 'major bank' in the Big Apple, you mean a multi-multi-billion dollar, fifty storey, edifice.
And I'm further astonished when the doorman not only welcomes me, Ostrich boots and all, but the smiling black guy who looks a little funny in a brown suit with yellow piping all nicely draped on an impressive New-York-Giant's-tackle sized body, escorts me into a spacious room. A lovely gray haired lady, who looks as if she stepped out of the pages of Vogue, escorts me onto an elevator and even pushes the fifth floor button for me. I'm not sure if she's being doubly polite or thinks I'm so much of a country bumpkin I may not know the operation of the lift. I can't help but smile as, at least, she gives me a look from my buzz cut to my boots.
I'm wondering if the rest of the morning will be so pleasant.
2
Another well dressed and stylishly coiffed lady meets me when the elevator doors open. This one's a redhead with eyes like emeralds, and to my admitted pleasure she's considerably younger than the first and has bumps and bulges in all the right places. She escorts me across marble floors to the outer office of J. Cornelius Remington, or so the gold letters on the door announce.
I'm asked to park it in a beautiful kid-leather-soft brown easy chair, one of a half dozen in the waiting room—marble has changed to plush wool carpet. She offers coffee or? I'd like to suggest some 'or'…but don't, and refuse, as I'm coffee'd out after a long wait at Oscar's until time to make what Manhattanites believe is an early appointment. She takes an office chair behind a walnut desk large enough to play football upon…however, eyeing her bumps and bulges as she returns to work, I can think of games I'd prefer.
I wait, absorbed in a New Yorker Magazine, for what seems the obligatory twenty minutes, for a man who obviously wants to prove his busy schedule. Shortly after her intercom buzzes, I'm escorted through a ten foot tall walnut door into an office with a surprisingly good view of the East River. I paused to admire the view and the layer of fog or mist sandwiched between a bright Spring sky and the busy river below—so low that the mast of a passing schooner disappears into the layer. The office is all wood, including the ceiling and flooring, with walls covered with handsomely framed prints that could be 19th century signed Audubons.
He doesn't bother to walk around the monster desk to greet me, but rather rises and offers a hand across the desk. At the same time his left hand caresses a head that's bald and liver spotted, and it's hard to tell if it's roached or the work of the years. He's a short rotund fellow not that much older than me, maybe ten years, maybe late forties. He has to bend and perch his belly on the desk to extend a hand far enough that I can reach it. It's pretty obvious he's never done a day's work with those hands as soft as a woman's. But his gaze is clear and penetrating.
"I appreciate your coming," he says, his voice closer to soprano than tenor.
"My pleasure," I reply. "I've only been in the Big Apple for a weekend a few years ago and am looking forward to seeing some of the city."
He looks a little disturbed, and sinks back into a fancy desk chair equipped with some kind of back support, and motions me to take a seat in one of two lion-footed green upholstered chairs facing him. And I do.
Clearing his voice, he continues, "If we come to an agreement, I'll expect you to go to work immediately."
"When I take a job, recreation is put aside."
He nods, leans on his elbows on the immaculately clean and clear desk, steeples his fingers and eyes me carefully. In a waiting room not unlike his I once picked up a magazine with an article on body language, and it said if you want to look wise and thoughtful, steeple your fingers and give a long stare. He does, but he doesn't.
He sighs deeply, then rises and walks to the window and stands staring out, hands folded thoughtfully behind his back. I remain silent, and he turns to face me. "I hate all this."
"It's a beautiful view," I offer, with a semi-shrug.
"All this. All this intrigue. I don't know why my daughter needs to get involved…"
"How so?"
"She was doing well at U.C. Berkeley, then the wheels fell off and her grades started going to hell and she stopped calling her mother or me."
"Drugs?" I ask.
"I hope not, but who knows. Over two months ago…almost three now…she disappeared and we've not heard from her…except via her trust."
"How so?" I ask again.
"Her trust. Her grandfather set up trusts for her, her brother, and her two cousins. And she's still drawing on hers. Drawing heavily the last two checks."
"Is it enough to interest a kidnapper?" I ask.
"Her portion is a little over seven million dollars, which she came into access to...at least some of it…less than six months ago when she turned twenty one."
"It seems a lot now, but when my father set it up almost sixty years ago, it wasn't so great a sum. He tied it to inflation and the draws to a percentage of the total, and the trust's investments have done rather well."
"You seem to be avoiding the question."
Again, he clears his throat before replying. "She can draw fifty thousand a month, and she's done so for the last three months and can continue doing so until it's zero."
He returns to his chair and flops down, this time looking more than just a little disgusted. I don't respond to the fifty grand a month, so he continues.
"It's got to stop. You've got to find her for me and put a stop to whatever she's doing."
I can't help but get a half smile and shake my head a little. "Mr. Remington, if your daughter is twenty one, there's not much you nor I can do, as she's an adult."
"But is she operating out of her own free will? I believe she's being held, and forced to draw out the funds…operating under duress. These eco-terrorists will stoop to anything."
"Then that's a different matter altogether."
He nods, now looking hopeful. "So, you think you can find her?"
"Obviously you've had the police searching for her?"
"She's been reported missing to the Berkeley police and to the FBI."
"And you're not satisfied with their efforts."