“I’m calling Mr. Pickering.”
“Be quick,” said Sally, and he turned and walked away back past the boardroom.
The woman hit a series of numbers and then waited.
“Mr. Pickering, some men are here demanding entry to your office.”
She listened for a second, and then said, “No, of course not, but they are threatening to smash windows. No sir, I don’t know who they are.” The woman frowned at me, and then said, “No, they don’t look Russian. Yes, sir, I’ll ask.”
She put the phone handset to her shoulder. “Who are you?” she said.
“Tell him it’s Redshirt.”
“Redshirt?” She frowned again and then lifted the handset. “He says his name is Redshirt.”
I heard yelling coming down the line. The woman offered me the handset.
“He wants to talk to you.”
I smiled and took the phone.
“Brett,” I said.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“Meeting at your office, as agreed. You do remember, right?”
“You don’t just barge into my office when I’m not there—”
“You’re supposed to be here, remember?”
“First thing is 9 a.m.,” he said, “It’s still only . . .”
“Brett, I work for a living. I’m here.”
“Well I’ll be there in about an hour. We can talk then.”
“I’ll be here, looking at your books.”
“You’ll do no such thing. Wait in the boardroom.”
“Brett, I thought you got it on Saturday, but I must have been mistaken. So get it now. I will be in your office within ten seconds of hanging up this phone. You can choose how. The nice lady here can use a key and open the door, or I will smash the window and leave the mess for you to clean up. Your call.”
There was silence as he considered whether I was serious or not. He must have decided I was, because he asked to put the woman back on the phone. She listened for a moment and then placed the handset back in the cradle.
“He says I should let you in.”
“Less messy that way.”
“He says he’s coming straight in.”
“Glad to hear it.”
The woman stepped around me like I was a wild coyote, never breaking eye contact, until she saw Sally returning with a large red fire extinguisher in one hand and his doctor’s bag in the other. This caused her to move more quickly, and she used a key to unlock the door to Brett’s office. Then she stepped back.
“Don’t ask me to unlock any of the cabinets, I don’t have the key,” she said.
“We’ll be fine,” said Sal, leaving the extinguisher outside and stepping through the door. I followed him and closed the door.
“She’s right,” I said, “there’s not a lot we can do without keys to the cabinets, and we don’t have his passwords to get into his computer.”
Sally nodded and dropped his bag onto Brett’s desk with a thud. He unclipped the clasp and opened it, and then he rifled through the bag and pulled out a long flat screwdriver. He then set about opening each of the filing cabinets by wrenching them open. It made a hell of a noise and rendered the locking mechanisms useless.
“You don’t think we could have waited?” I asked.
“Your friend doesn’t really seem to appreciate the gravity of his situation. This visual display will help him get there. Besides, I don’t like to wait.”
Sally began pulling out files and putting them in a pile on the desk. Then he took off his coat and hung it and his scarf and hat on the coat stand by the door, and returned to sit at the desk. He opened a file and began reading.
I did nothing. I asked him if he wanted coffee and he said he’d had his fill if he didn’t want to pee all day, and I asked if he was hungry and he said no, and I asked if there was anything else I could help with and he said shutting up would be most appreciated. So I stood in the office and looked out the window at the silver water. Small waves crashed against the shore across the harbor. It didn’t look like a good day to be out.
Sally was through the first cabinet and well into the second when I heard the commotion outside in the open plan area. I stepped to the door of the office and saw Brett storming around the perimeter. He pulled off his coat as he went and threw it into the arms of the woman who was pacing behind, trying to explain how these madmen had finagled their way in.
“You’ve got a hell of a nerve,” said Brett.
“No, Brett. You’ve got a hell of a nerve. You just don’t get it, do you?”
He glanced over my shoulder and then pushed his way into his office. His eyes stuck on Sally, who hadn’t even looked up from the papers he was reading.
“Who the hell are you?” Brett turned to me. “Who the hell is this guy? You bring some stranger into my place of business?”
“He’s with me,” I said. “And he’s here to help you, despite your attitude.”
“My attitude? You break in here—” He made to gesture around the room but he stopped when he noticed the filing cabinets, the drawer of each having been mangled beyond repair.
“What the hell? You broke into my files?”
“You were supposed to be here, Brett.”
“These files are private and confidential. I should call the cops.”
“Go ahead,” said Sally, still not looking up. Brett spun to him.
“What?”
“I said, go ahead. Call the cops. Get them in here, because I think they’ll be very interested in what you’re up to. In fact, I would be very surprised if they didn’t call in the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“What?”
For the first time, Sally looked up from his reading. He had put on glasses, and he looked over the top of them at Brett.
“This is very interesting reading, Mr. Pickering. Very interesting indeed. It is, what we call in the business, a house of cards. The New York Times will call it a Ponzi scheme, if they report on it at all, because it all looks rather small potatoes compared to some of the shenanigans that goes on in Manhattan. But the FBI doesn’t care so much about the amount. They’ll prosecute all the same, and you’ll spend a little time in a minimum security prison. Do you like roommates, Mr. Pickering?”
“What?”
“Roommates? Like in college? The prison will assign you one. He’ll probably be an okay guy. They don’t put murderers in those places, after all. And I’m sure your wife will survive the shame and wait for you, while you’re in the big house. Although I suppose I shouldn’t say that, since I don’t know her at all. She might be the type to cut and run on a jailbird husband.”
“Cut and run? What?”
The menace had gone from Brett’s face. He looked like Sally had slapped him, physically rather than just metaphorically, and his jaw fell open.
“Or we do it another way,” said Sally.
“What other way?” whispered Brett.
“Cooperatively. Open up this computer and show me your files. Then get out and let me work. And maybe, just maybe, against my better judgment, we’ll see if we can save you from prison, from the people who will kill you if you lose their money, and from yourself.”
Brett looked at me and then back at Sally, and then he moved around the desk and typed his password into the computer.
“Now give me some peace. And get me a pastrami sandwich. There must be a half-decent deli around here somewhere.”
I led Brett back into the boardroom and closed the door.
“What about his sandwich?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about the sandwich. We’ll find the sandwich. Let me ask you something first. You’re married, right?”
“Yes,” he said, sitting at the big table. I stayed on my feet.
“Kids?”
“Yes. Two girls.”
“Did you tell your wife about this?”
“About what?”
“Come on, Brett. Get with the program. Did you tell your wife
about bursting into tears in the tunnel at Yale Bowl?”
“Why would I tell her about that?”
“Because she’s your wife.”
“She doesn’t want to hear about this stuff.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Why would she?”
“I’ll say it one more time. She’s your wife.”
“You don’t get it. This doesn’t affect her.”
“Doesn’t affect her? You don’t think that something that could land you in prison affects her?”
“I’ll deal with it.”
“Not so far.”
“Who is that guy, anyway?” Brett asked.
“He’s a friend. He knows about this stuff. He knows about your Kazakh friends.”
“The who?”
“The Russians you owe money. Except they’re not Russians. They’re from Kazakhstan.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Plenty. As in, if you call them Russians to their face, they’ll probably kill you.”
“They kill me, they don’t get their money.”
“You don’t think they can get money from a dead man?”
Brett glared at the table. I had thought he had understood when he had broken down at The Game, but now I saw that the cockiness in his own abilities ran deep.
“You need to listen to what Sal tells you,” I said.
“Who?”
“Sal. The guy at your desk.”
“His name’s Sal?”
“Brett, right now death or prison are your options. If you want a third option, you’ll listen to what he says.”
He jutted out his chin. “You’re not going to turn me into the feds.”
“I’m not, huh?”
“No. I thought about it. If you turn me into the feds, then no one gets their money, including Coach. You see? So if you want to save Coach’s retirement, you can’t turn me in.” It wasn’t the logic that annoyed me; it was the smug grin that followed it. I nodded and moved slowly around the table until I was behind him. He kept his eye on the window and the harbor outside.
Then I slapped him in the face.
I wound up and drove it home and connected with the side of his head so hard that he nearly fell from his chair. I kept the palm open because a fist would have broken his cheekbone—and my hand—and I didn’t want a busted hand. Blood rushed to his face and he took on the hue of a glass of Cabernet, and then he tried to stand but got tangled in his chair. The chair spilled over and Brett clawed at the table to hold himself up, and then he stood and turned to me with fire in his eyes.
It had been a long time since anyone had hit him. I figured it hadn’t happened since high school, and then he had worn pads and a helmet. People in polite society don’t hit each other, or least the men don’t hit each other. I knew plenty of men from polite society who hit their wives behind closed doors, and I’d broken one or two noses over cowardly acts like that. I wasn’t above breaking bones in Brett’s face, but it wasn’t where I wanted to start. A hard slap is like a flash-bang that police use in raids. It’s loud and painful and shocking in its intensity, especially for people who aren’t used to it. It isn’t so effective on a guy who boxes in his spare time, but that wasn’t Brett Pickering.
“I need you to understand something, Brett,” I said. “I need you to understand that I don’t care about you. I don’t want to see you get hurt, and I don’t hold any malice toward you. What I do want is for Coach Dunbar to get the retirement he deserves. And as it happens, he won’t be happy if something bad happens to you. I don’t get it personally, but that’s how it is. So plan A is to get him his money without destroying you. But I will get his money back. And if I have to destroy you to do it, if that’s the only way, then that’s plan B. So don’t kid yourself that you’re Teflon, pal. This stuff sticks. I stick. If you rot in jail and I have to rob a bank to get Coach’s money, that’s how it will be. So you can help yourself by helping me, or you can go down in flames. It’s your choice.”
Brett took his hand from his face and looked at his palm as if he expected blood. My friend Lucas had shown me a trick that involved bursting a person’s eardrums. Well, he hadn’t exactly shown me as much as done it to a guy while I was there, and that guy’s ears had bled after. I figured I could replicate it on Brett, if it came to that. But right now there was no blood on his hand, so he looked at me with a snarl.
“If you ever touch me again—”
I lurched at him, stopping just short, but he staggered backward and caught himself on the table edge.
“If I ever touch you again,” I said. “You’ll be eating through a tube for a month.”
We stood there for a long time like two matadors, or perhaps a matador and a bull, or maybe it was just two bulls. Either way, there was way too much testosterone in the air. So I smiled.
“Come on, let’s go find Sal a sandwich.”
Brett wanted to take the car but I insisted we walk. I wanted to give Sal some time to work, and I wanted some fresh air in my lungs and in my head. We walked out through the parking lot and I didn’t see any guys standing beside a town car. We walked back up Steamboat Road for ten or fifteen minutes, back into downtown Greenwich, and we found a diner on Greenwich Avenue. For reasons that I never fully understood, all the diners I ever visited in Connecticut were owned by Greeks. It was like they had a monopoly on the diner business. There were no Greek restaurants, per se, just diners that all had large menus and did all the American fare that diners did all over the country, along with a range of Greek dishes. If an alien missed Greece altogether and had just traveled through Greenwich to Stamford and on to New Haven, they would have noted in their journal that the sole occupation of Greek people was to run diners, and that no other nationality on earth was capable of it.
One thing I knew for sure: Greeks knew a thing or two about lamb. But pastrami was not necessarily their strong point. I bought a sandwich that looked and smelled great to me but which I knew Sally would be disappointed with, and then we wandered slowly back toward Rocky Neck Point.
Sally was still at the desk when we got back. He had piles of folders around him, and he was scratching notes on a pad. I put the sandwich on the desk and he looked at me like it was ticking.
“You getting anywhere?” I asked.
Sally looked at Brett. “You’re in all sorts, my friend.”
Brett did the wise thing and said nothing.
“You got debts up the yin yang and you’re bleeding cash like a gut wound.”
Brett winced at the mention of a gut wound.
“So there’s nothing we can do?” I asked.
“Oh, there’s plenty we can do. First, we stop the hemorrhaging. Everything that’s sucking up cash stops today. Then we turn near-cash and cash equivalents into cash.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we liquidate. We sell. Anything and everything we can.”
“The business has no assets,” said Brett.
“I can see that, genius.”
“That’s why I’ve been trying to get this deal off the ground.”
“Well your deal is officially dead. No one’s buying and it’s sucking you dry. But I’m not talking about business assets.”
“Then what are you talking about?” asked Brett.
“I’m talking about everything you own. I don’t have a complete list yet, but I’ll get there. But first let’s stop the bleeding. You got two cars on lease.”
“Yes.”
“A Lamborghini and a Jaguar, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s blowing through four grand a month.”
“Four thousand dollars a month?” I spat.
“Yeah,” said Sally. “No kidding.”
“You spend four thousand a month on two cars?”
“They’re nice cars,” said Brett. “I need to look the part. Investors have expectations.”
“How many investors have you met sitting inside your Lambo
rghini?”
“Why would I meet them in my car?”
“Exactly my point. Why would they ever see your car?”
“They see it in the lot at the golf club.”
“Whatever,” said Sal. “They’re gone. Today.”
“That won’t work,” said Brett. “You can’t just stop a lease.”
“Yeah, you can,” said Sal. “I know a guy. You two are going to take the cars to him right now. Where are they?”
“The Lambo is in the lot downstairs,” he said. “My wife drives the Jag.”
“And where is it?”
“She’s at home.”
“All right,” said Sal. “You both go to genius boy’s home and get the Jag and then you take both cars to my guy. He’s in Rye. He’ll take care of everything.”
“You can’t take my car,” said Brett. “How will I get around?”
“My guy will fix you up with a ride that better fits your circumstance. Now go.”
“You staying here?” I asked him.
“Yeah, this show is a mess. I could be here for days.”
“Don’t forget your sandwich.”
Sal cast an eye at the wrapped sandwich.
“I’m half an hour from New York and you think I’m going to eat a Connecticut pastrami on rye?”
I shrugged. I thought it smelled good but I kept that to myself. I left Sal to the books and turned to Brett.
“You got your keys?” I asked.
He nodded but said nothing.
“All right,” I said. “You’re driving.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Pickering residence had two things in common with the Dunbar home. The first was that they both had zip codes in the state of Connecticut. The second was that they were both colonial style. That was all. Brett took the Turnpike out of Greenwich and cut up through Stamford into New Canaan. The difference between the Greenwich estates passed and those in New Canaan was that you could generally see the New Canaan homes from the road, whereas in Greenwich they were hidden well back from prying eyes. But the homes I saw in New Canaan were massive nevertheless, and the Pickering residence was no different. The front lawn was the size of a par three golf hole and as smooth as a pool table. The house was built in the colonial style but not the colonial size; it had to have been five thousand square feet if it were an inch.
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