The fix bn-1

by Tod Goldberg

  "Couple hours. What about that other favor? The loans? Or did that idea get shot up?"

  "Funny," I said, again trying with the limited words thing. "I want you to set up an account for Eddie Champagne. See if you can fund a loan for him using this address as financial collateral," I gave him the address of Longstreet. I then gave him all the information contained on the police report Sam had finagled out of his guy at the FBI, which was enough to set up a legit account, except that Eddie Champagne's felony sheet would never allow him the loan without some fudging on Barry's part. "Run it through a real bank. Just keep yourself as out as possible. This is going to wake up some heat."

  "Heat I can handle," Barry said.

  "IRS heat," I said.

  "Those guys are puppies," Barry said, but he actually had a touch of uneasiness in his voice. "Took them a decade to catch up to Barry Bonds. What do you think they'll do with me?"

  "I appreciate it," I said.

  Barry told me everything would be up within a few hours. "I'll text you all the numbers," he said, "but this phone is in the Atlantic. You need to find me, you know where to look."

  "Keep whatever you can for yourself," I said.

  "Implied," he said and was gone.

  I had one more call to make. To Natalya.

  "You think that's a good idea?" Sam said.

  "It's not an idea," I said. "It's a trigger."

  "You should just use a real one," Fiona said.

  I dialed the hotel's general number, opting not to use the 800 number provided for me earlier. I told the operator I was calling from Palm Life magazine about doing a photo shoot at the hotel the following month and absolutely had to speak to the GM.

  "This is Ms. Copeland," Natalya said, her accent perfect again.

  "I have your money," I said.

  "Smart," Natalya said. "Better for everyone that you come clean."

  "Six o'clock," I said, "poolside at your lovely establishment. That way everyone goes home alive. I assume you have an account I can wire to?"

  "Of course," she said.

  "Good," I said. "And, Natalya, just so you know? I'm bringing my pit bull with me." I turned to see how Fiona took that.

  Elated.

  "What a nice reunion," Natalya said. "I haven't seen her since you and I slept together, Michael. At least not up close. We'll have much to discuss. Does she know about that spot under your left ear?"

  "She knows them all," I said. "There's only going to be the two of us, so maybe call your friends at Longstreet and tell them they can leave their Hecklers at home for the night shift. We'll move the money and then I don't intend to ever see you again, correct?"

  "It depends," Natalya said. "You seem to be doing well in business. Maybe you'd like to extend your reach?"

  "Six o'clock," I said and hung up.

  Now, all I'd need was the money, Dixon Woods and Eddie Champagne.

  I looked at my watch. "Let's go," I said to Sam.

  "What about Dixon?"

  "He'll follow the money," I said. "That's what assholes do. Plus, he knows I took care of Eddie. Or at least that I told him I had." The truth was that I thought by the time I heard from Dixon that Eddie would no longer be a problem. "My guess? He's just taking some time to find out what Eddie has been doing. When he finds out he's been using Dixon's name, Eddie might stop being our problem entirely."

  "Where to?"

  I pulled out Stanley Rosencrantz's card and handed it to Sam. "Here." If I was going to get Cricket's money back, I was going to make sure I saw it happen.

  12

  If you decide to involve yourself in economic malfeasance, even on a small level, you should pay attention to the people you're doing business with. The odds are fair that if you've surrounded yourself with people willing to commit high-level subterfuge, there's a good chance they are actively planning their own exit strategies.

  It would also be wise to think about keeping a low profile. Limit the number of business cards you print, and never give a spy your business card, even if you think the spy is a gun-toting maniac who shot one of your friends and beat the other down. This is particularly true if you intend to actually go to your office and attempt to conduct business as usual when your friends are in the hospital.

  White Rose's offices took up the fifteenth floor of a steel-and-glass thirty-three-story office building on Brickell Avenue, which means rents were high and the kind of people coming in to do business with the principals of the company very rarely carried guns.

  "When you open your own security firm," Fiona said as the three of us rode up in the elevator, "you should definitely look into space in this building."

  "I'd never have my own security firm," I said.

  "Of course you wouldn't," Fiona said. "You'll be the world's oldest spy. Ninety-nine years old and still trying to figure out who burned you and why."

  "Every day I'm closer to knowing," I said. If anything, what this Natalya situation informed me of was that I was making headway in D.C., enough that there were people fighting to keep me quiet without too much involvement of their own. In the last year, I'd seen so much, learned that every lead, even in failure, provided something: Phillip Cowan, the man who wrote up my dossier and filled it with lies? He was just a clue, and he was already dead. And who before him? Agent Jason Bly, who'd come to Miami to silence me, and whom I eventually had to blackmail, using my own bad reputation as the grist. And of course the others: the assassins from my past, alerted to my location and my lack of support; the assassins from my present, sent to portray bureaucrats like Perry Clark, who came to Miami to get me off the books, just a signature was all he needed… while he attempted to garrote me. What was he left with? A gut shot, a nameless death.

  And now Natalya. At least she came at me with evidence first, probably out of unwarranted respect. Maybe she didn't want to believe any more! than I wanted to die.

  "You and Sam can take on jobs finding lost dentures and libidos to fund your search. One day," Fiona said, "you watch."

  "Day my pension comes through," Sam said, "I'm on a boat. Change in latitude. Change in attitude. Did you know, Mikey, that there is very affordable beachfront property in Nicaragua now? I'd have to keep my hat down in case any Sandinistas recognized me, but it would be a risk worth taking-"

  The elevator doors opened, and the three of us stepped out into the reception area of White Rose Partners. I still had my sunglasses on. Kept things mysterious.

  As per usual, there was a receptionist sitting behind a desk prepared to greet us. As per usual, the receptionist was a young woman who looked like she'd be appearing on a reality show about a tanning salon with three of her wacky stripper friends before next Christmas.

  In the last week, I'd dealt with more receptionists than in the previous ten years. Most terrorist organizations, warlords and assassination targets worked without receptionists, so I still didn't have the method of dealing with them down to a precise science, but I figured I'd give this one my best game. So when she asked if she could help me, I flashed her a grin as wide as the sea and said, "Could you tell Mr. Rosencrantz that the gentleman who shot his friend Burl and permanently disfigured… uh…" I couldn't remember the third fellow's name. I'd have forgotten him entirely if I hadn't had to pull bits of his tooth and bone from my skin using tweezers that morning.

  "Mr. White?" the receptionist said. Her expression belied no fear. No comprehension, either.

  "Danny?" I offered.

  "Oh, yes," the receptionist said, eminently cheery. "I know him as Daniel, but yes, same person."

  "Great," I said. "So if you could tell Mr. Rosencrantz that the man who shot Burl and beat up Danny is here to see him, that would be excellent."

  "And your name, sir?"

  "Hank Fitch," I said.

  The receptionist picked up her phone. "Mr. Rosencrantz, I have Hank Fitch to see you. Okay. I'll tell him." She hung up and smiled at us sweetly. "It will be just one moment, if you'd like to take a seat."

>   "How do you do that?" Sam said once we were sitting aside one another on a plush leather sofa.

  "What?"

  "That simple declarative bit where you say exactly who you are, what you've done and who you'd like to see. I mean, you told that girl you shot one of her bosses."

  "I smile a lot," I said. "The sunglasses help."

  "He smells nice, too," Fiona said. She was flipping through a brochure detailing precisely what White Rose had to offer its clients.

  "That helps?" Sam said.

  "It's all sensory," I said. "Posture. A sense of confidence. That receptionist doesn't really think I shot her boss." To prove my point, I shouted across the lobby to the receptionist: "Any word on who shot your boss?"

  "No, nothing yet," she said. "Can I get you coffee while you wait?"

  "Beer?" Sam said. He tried with the smiling and the posture, which was met with a coy hair flip in return. "Perky girl."

  Fiona handed me the brochure she was reading. "This sounds like a very enticing package," she said. In a glossy brochure featuring the stylized photos of representative properties, I learned that White Rose specialized in preforeclosure properties, which would mean, in essence, any property, and that they used funds derived from equity partners of which, if you were reading the brochure, you could now become one of. And what was promised? Securitized first mortgages. Interest above market rates. A full equity balloon payment and bonuses on resale of properties.

  Basically? Horseshit.

  Stanley Rosencrantz stepped into the lobby then and filled it with unbridled enthusiasm. "Hank," he said. "A pleasure. Won't you and your associates come into my office? I was just thinking I needed to contact you."

  "Of course you were," I said.

  After the next great plague, or after the ice caps melt and the world floods, or after the sun superheats our planet to 145 degrees in the shade, the only humans left standing to tend to the roaches, rats and flesh-eating zombies will be real estate agents. Stanley Rosencrantz might have his very own religious faction in his name by then.

  The four of us-Stanley, Fiona, Sam and I-sat in a conference room together. Stanley had insisted on showing us his entire office, which seemed odd, until I realized he actually thought I just might be the kind of guy who wanted to come into an office every day, check on my criminal empire. Dixon Woods, I'm sure, never bothered to show up. Not if Eddie Champagne was smart.

  Stanley made a great show of where Fiona and Sam could have their offices, too, though he had no idea who Fiona and Sam were and never bothered to ask, only referring to them as my associates. There were at least twenty-five people working in the office that morning-file clerks, secretaries, that sort of thing- who didn't look to have any idea what they were a part of. That Stanley, Burl and Danny did the collecting made sense, finally: keep the circle as closed as possible, only involving those who needed to be involved. Outsourcing muscle just to collect from Cricket would be expensive and unneeded-Eddie knew that. Best just to send his business partners.

  We passed the offices for Burl and Danny as we walked-their names etched in glass on their doors- but Stanley didn't even mention them before finally opening up a conference room filled with bagels, coffee and juice, where we now sat.

  "First thing," I said. "New rules." Stanley visibly flinched, but didn't bolt. I felt like I owed him just a little reassurance. "Don't worry. I'm not going to shoot you."

  I told Stanley that he was going to transfer five million dollars into Cricket O'Connor's account in the Dominican and gave him the account number Barry had texted me for the Banco Leon. "But before you start, here's the new rule, Stanley," I said. "I don't want that money coming from any of our investors' accounts."

  "I'm sorry," Stanley said. "I'm not following you."

  "How much liquid do we have here, Stanley?" I liked using our and we as each time it made Stanley wince.

  "Liquid. Well. That depends on several factors."

  "Just give the man a number," Fiona said. The thing about Fiona, she's done this sort of thing before, and not in the Robin Hood sort of way.

  "Eight million dollars," Stanley said. "Maybe nine. Things have been difficult lately."

  "Okay," I said. "And what about in your personal accounts. You, Burl, Danny, Dixon. How much do you four have?"

  "Well, I don't have access…" Fiona reached into her purse and pulled out her gun, set it on the table. We hadn't really talked about this precisely, but that's what I loved about Fiona: She understood things as they were happening, adjusted on the fly, made things happen. "Another ten. Maybe twelve. Dixon kept his money elsewhere."

  Of course he did. "Good," I said. "You transfer the five million dollars from your personal accounts."

  "But that's money we've earned, Mr. Fitch," Stanley said.

  "Really?" I said. "Is this a time to start arguing, Stan? Aren't I going to take care of your problems? Aren't I going to get rid of Dixon for you? That's not your investors' problem, now, is it?"

  "The potential for a red flag to go up is…," he started to say, but this time Sam, feeling emboldened by his conversation with Lenore no doubt put a hand up to stop him.

  Sam put on his own sunglasses, which made his face look sort of round, put a stick of gum in his mouth and started snapping it with his tongue. Before it got to the level of performance art, Sam leaned across the table and extended a finger toward Stanley. "You want to know what a red flag looks like? I'm a red flag."

  I had no idea what that meant, but Stanley seemed to know and that was enough. "Fine," he said. "Fine."

  "And let's make it look right," I said. "I want you to set Cricket up as an investor in your company. What do you call them?"

  "An equity partner," Stanley said.

  "Right, an equity partner." When the Feds came sniffing, Cricket wouldn't be liable for anything. She'd have invested millions and taken at least a slight loss. Just like everyone else was about to. "And one last thing," I said. "I'm interested in getting started quickly out here, so I'd like a capital infusion of my own."

  "How much?" Stanley said.

  "Three," I said. I handed him Hank Fitch's Dominican account information, too. "And that you can cut from the investors, Stanley."

  Forty minutes, several calls to bankers, all of whom seemed to be more mail willing to do whatever Stanley asked, and which buttressed the claims Sam's IRS contact had, and two darkening rings of sweat under Stanley Rosencrantz' armpits later, it was done. Cricket O'Connor had five million dollars, legally. Hank Fitch had three million, illegally, but I didn't plan on keeping it. I just needed it for evidentiary purposes.

  "Have you heard from Dixon?" Stanley asked casually after he printed out all of the appropriate documents.

  "I haven't," I said.

  "He said he was going to deal with you," Stanley said. He made a shooting motion with his hand. "Said something about you being in the wrong on the California deal, but that he'd settle it once and for all and that I had nothing to worry about. That after he got back from Afghanistan again, he'd deal with everything."

  Afghanistan. Right. "He's wrong," I said. "About everything." Stanley nodded. He looked rather grave. He would look worse in a few months when he was doing federal time. "You have an address for Dixon?" I asked.

  Stanley said he didn't, and for some reason, perhaps because there was no reason for him to lie, I believed him. "All I have is his cell," Stanley said, which I took. "You'll take care of him, right?"

  "Didn't I say I would?" I said.

  "Yes, Mr. Fitch. And in terms of Ms. O'Connor, I can presume she's still alive? That that issue has been cleared up to your satisfaction, and we can continue forward in our business dealings one to one with no fear of reprisal?"

  "For now." This satisfied Stanley, as much as Stanley Rosencrantz could feel satisfied about anything, knowing, as I'm sure he did, that he was in with people way beyond his real estate training. "Do me a favor, Stanley," I said. "Send Burl and Danny fruit baskets in my name. Let th
em know there're no hard feelings, that I look forward to purchasing preforeclosure properties alongside them for many, many years. You can do that, right?"

  Before Stanley could answer-and really, I don't know if he had a suitable answer, since he probably saw the course of his life and realized he'd need to cut and run as soon possible-we walked out of the conference room and left Stanley with what were probably his considerable thoughts.

  "That went well," Sam said.

  "Eight million dollars," Fiona said, "and you only shot one of them?"

  "It's all posture," I said.

  Ten minutes after we got back into the car, Nate called. "Were you expecting guests over at Cricket's?" he asked.

  "No," I said. "What does the guest look like?"

  "I can't see his face," Nate said. "He's wearing camo pants and a white T-shirt."

  "Does he have a gun?"

  "I can't tell if he's strapped or not."

  "Do you?"

  "I'm always packing," Nate said. I was afraid of that.

  "Where are you?" I said.

  "Upstairs. He just docked his boat. He's sort of pacing around, trying to act nonchalant. Taking a lot of time to tie it up. He just nodded at a woman walking her dog."

  "What are you doing upstairs?"

  "Cricket said she left some earrings up here that she wanted, so I thought I'd look for them."

  I'd hold off on commenting on that until a later point. It would take us at least forty minutes to get out to Fisher Island, and that was if the ferry was just waiting for us to board. "We'll be right there. If you can," I said, "don't let him in, but don't let him leave if he gets in."

  "On it," Nate said.

  "Wait," I said. "Don't hang up." I told Fiona to call Eddie Champagne's phone, just to make sure that it wasn't the real Dixon Woods showing up to Cricket's, a situation that would be beyond Nate's limited scope.

  "Ringing," Fiona said.

  "Tell me what you see, Nate."

  "Okay," Nate said. His voice turned official, which made me sort of want to climb through the phone and shake the life out of him, but you take what you can get in these situations. "Perp is fishing in his pocket for something. Perp is pulling out a cellular phone device. Perp is looking at cellular phone device. Perp is hurling cellular phone device into the ocean."