With that, Torres stood and walked into the hall. She was excited about the weekend with her family, the first one in a long time when she was not on call. Movie and a spaghetti dinner at Luigi’s. Afterward, Torres and her husband would put the kids to bed, drink too much wine, and watch Jay Leno. Not a bad way to spend the evening. She should have been jubilant.
But for all her enthusiasm about the new life, Torres was racked with guilt. Moreno, Ricardo, all the other scumbags—there was too much unfinished business to feel great about leaving the FBI.
Some end to my career.
“Hey, Torres,” Walker called from his office. “I’m getting my coat.”
She raised her right hand and waved good-bye, never turning around. “It’s Izzy.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
NEW YORK CITY
MONDAY
That morning, I meandered my way to the Red Flame Diner and ordered a lumberjack breakfast. The pancakes came with scrambled eggs and enough bacon to worry my arteries into their fifties. I drank two large orange juices and substituted a bagel and cream cheese for the buttery toast.
I was pissed at Katy Anders and Percy Phillips. Neither of them had called me over the weekend, even though my story made all the newspapers. The New York Times. New York Post. Daily News. Now everybody knew who I was. A stranger in the diner asked me, “Are you that guy?”
“Yeah.”
Even with the pending sale of SKC’s brokerage to Morgan Stanley, Wall Street could wait. I read the paper and took my time eating breakfast. I didn’t care who said what about the Dow Jones Industrials.
* * *
It had been an ordeal getting back. Customs. Immigration. Fortunately, the American embassy took care of logistics in the Turks and Caicos. I had no passport to leave the country, or to enter the USA for that matter. And there was no going off the grid with Girl Louie or Air Ricardo this time.
I arrived in Miami and hopped a flight to Charleston. Claire drove me to the hospital, where the doctors diagnosed two broken ribs. She chanted over and over, “I’m so glad you’re back.”
“You paid too much for me,” I teased her—half jest and half gratitude. The foundation’s money was safe. But I kept reminding myself that Claire Kincaid, whatever her weaknesses, risked $200 million to secure my release.
“Let me take care of you,” she offered.
“I’ve got to get back.”
Annie took over in LaGuardia. Her face turned gray when she saw mine. I was a wreck, the bruises, the nightmare of purples, greens, and ugly yellows, the stitches over my right eye. She asked, “What am I going to do with you?”
That’s how it was all weekend long, nothing quite so glorious as my girlfriend pampering me for two days running. But I still had unfinished business, and no idea how the smiling, dialing cash registers at Sachs, Kidder, and Carnegie would react.
* * *
Around 8:45 I arrived at the office. Today was the day. Now was the time. I was about to initiate my plan. To my surprise, the pieces were already falling into place.
The buzz was fairly typical of a Monday morning. Every stockbroker jabbered into his or her phone—each one regaling clients with different advice from the proud brain trust of SKC.
Casper said, “Buy.”
One desk over, Scully blasted loud enough to wake the dead. “Sell.”
Patty Gershon confessed, “I don’t have a fucking clue.” Her honesty was noble if you ask me.
But so much for SKC’s positioning. Our television ads say we’re “one firm with one firm voice.”
Yeah, right. The divergent opinions, all the talk, talk, talk with no coherent direction, only increased my resolve. No matter how big the gamble, my decision was the right one. I wondered what Percy would say.
As I walked toward my workstation, the fearsome hum of 149 stockbrokers ended. The world stopped. The eerie silence reminded me of the Bahamas Banking Company, when I yelled, “Everybody freeze.”
Colleagues checked out my face, the stitches, the kaleidoscope of bruises. A few clapped me on the back, which bothered the hell out of my broken ribs. Suddenly, the floor returned to normal. Noise erupted everywhere.
There is a certain blackness to our camaraderie. I heard:
“Nice face, Grove.”
“Did Goldman do that?”
“Your clients asked me to say hi.”
I had seen this rodeo before. Loosely translated, the other stockbrokers were saying: “Glad you’re back, man. Really. But would you hurry up and sign the noncompete, so we can close the deal with Morgan Stanley and get our retention bonuses?”
At our workstations, Chloe hugged me hello. Gentle. She knew about the ribs. Same with Zola. “Katy just called,” my partner said. “They want us in her office now.”
They?
To our surprise, Percy was waiting with my boss. “Sit down,” the CEO said. “We owe you an apology.” He eyed Anders for a moment and then read a letter from Torres.
I was surprised. And I wasn’t.
Over the weekend, the agent had left a short message on my answering machine. “You’re off the hook. Let me know if you need anything else.” I knew something was up.
But Torres never mentioned the letter. And, clearly, the words were not her voice. During our time together, she never lavished praise on anyone.
When Percy finished reading, he passed me the letter. And seeing Biscuit’s name at the bottom, I understood. The big attorney had my back. I owed him one.
The CEO turned right to business. “Can you complete Morgan’s paperwork today?”
Translation: “Or you’re fired.”
Anders handed me the documents, and I looked at Zola. “You signed, right?”
“Waiting for you.” She winked, subtle, quick so the others didn’t notice.
You’re the best.
Percy noticed my hesitation. “We need your signatures.”
“Why? The deal gets done regardless.” The other three gaped at me. Nobody ever questioned our CEO.
And Percy didn’t like the pushback. “Nobody’s asking for a favor, Grove. You sign. You get paid. It’s that simple.”
“Not to me.”
Anders shifted uncomfortably.
Percy resembled a blank LCD screen. “We followed the FBI’s orders. You’d do the same.”
“Maybe. But I had a similar problem with SKC two years ago. You remember that thing with Charlie Kelemen?”
“I wish we had handled things better. Now and back then.”
“Me too.”
“I’m asking you to move on.” Percy rubbed his hands. They looked soft, almost effete. “And sign the deal.”
“What you mean is suck it up.” I was too much of a veteran to give in, not yet anyway. On Wall Street, the word “yes” is just another security. We trade it for whatever we can get.
“Zola’s and your signatures are a matter of optics.”
“Optics?”
“We want complete approval from all our brokers.”
“Is the deal contingent on everybody signing?” I asked, direct and to the point.
“It sends the right message to investors. Both theirs and ours.” Percy shrugged his shoulders. “No deeper than that.”
Nobody said anything at first, including me. The person who fills the silence generally makes concessions that sweeten the pot. I didn’t expect Percy to be the one.
“Maybe there’s something you want.” He looked at his watch.
“Actually, there is.” I smiled at Zola.
She looked baffled.
“Name it.” Percy felt his power returning. He waited, his bearing like the proverbial genie with three wishes to grant.
“Who’s running our division after the merger?”
“Not clear yet.”
Anders’s face clouded over.
“Why not me?” I asked.
“We can run it together.” Anders leaned into the conversation, suddenly worried, angling for her slice of a
deal.
“I’m not interested in sharing power, Katy.”
Anders blanched at my reply.
Zola could not believe what she was hearing.
“You have no management experience.” There were question marks written all over Percy’s face.
“I’ve broken in fourteen bosses in ten years.”
“Not funny.”
“Not meant to be. Every time there’s a problem, you throw stockbrokers under the bus. Which is one reason for all the turnover. We don’t trust management.”
“Keep going.”
“Our discards are working for Morgan.” I was referring to Frank Kurtz, the guy who left our shop to join theirs.
“You’re willing to trade your book for management?”
“Zola and I can work something out.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
That’s how the meeting ended with Percy. We all left with a few bruises to our egos, except for Zola, who came out unscathed. Which was a good thing, because partners watch each other’s backs on Wall Street.
Until we don’t—but I digress.
* * *
“You cool with our meeting?” I asked Zola after we left the boss’s office.
“It’s kind of a surprise.”
“Let’s talk. Away from the office, okay?”
Back at my workstation, I called Biscuit first thing. “Torres’s letter had your fingerprints all over it.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Its tone. The way she CCed you.”
“Yeah, I knew you’d put it together.”
“You’re a good friend,” I told the big man. We spoke for another fifteen minutes, and I invited Biscuit to visit New York City. “You can stay with Annie and me. Bring your wife.”
He declined at first.
But I persisted. “What about Thanksgiving?”
“What about it?”
“The parade passes our condo.”
“All those balloons?”
“Bullwinkle’s my favorite.”
“We have kids.”
“Bring ’em.”
“Done,” he confirmed. “Under one condition.”
“Okay?”
“You visit us and we buy you dinner at Phil’s Polynesian.”
“Done.”
Afterward, I followed up with the victory lap every broker knows. I sent Biscuit a box of Omaha Steaks. It was, I think, the right way to seal our friendship. Something tells me our paths will cross again.
* * *
Later that morning, I called Claire. The last few weeks had been interesting. Perhaps the better word is “shattering.” After all the drama, I wanted closure.
Not with Claire per se. I’m done with all that Daisy Buchanan nonsense from high school. Annie and I are a team, and Claire will always be a friend. Nothing more than that.
I was closing the books on the illusory perfection of Charleston. For so long, it had been my dream to gain admission into the inner circle. To pattern myself after Palmer. The lure was acceptance, the sense of being an equal in the Camelot of the South.
Now I regard Charleston as a place just like any other, full of warts and foibles and complicated lives where secrets cannot remain hidden over the long term.
Palmer and JoJo Kincaid hid behind stucco-and-brick walls built in the 1700s, inside the colonial colors that had grown softer and more seductive with time.
But Charleston is a front unlike all others. It’s the sense that everything is perfect even when it’s not. I find it ironic that everybody was looking at the Kincaids. And no one saw what was inside.
Including me.
I often wonder how much Palmer knew about JoJo’s past. Whether he named me as the third trustee to sort out his mess or to protect his daughter. Over the past few weeks, she had come undone.
“Hey, you,” said Claire, answering my phone call. She was in good spirits, light, full of Southern bubbles. “You feeling better?”
“I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
Claire never commented. “Did you hear about JoJo?”
“What happened?”
“She caved.”
“Confessed?”
“Over the weekend. JoJo admitted Ricardo was her first cousin. That he killed Palmer on the boat.”
“I still can’t believe the finger. Or the beatings she took.” Every time I pictured her face, all I could think was, Yeesh.
“According to my spies at the police station, Ricardo got the idea from the Yakuza.”
“The Japanese gangsters?”
“Right. They perform a ceremony known as yubitsume. It means finger shortening. And they start on the left hand just over the knuckle. The gangsters use it as a way to atone or apologize. But JoJo and Ricardo used it to throw us off the scent.”
“Good thing Biscuit smoked out the truth,” I ventured.
“Puddin’ to the rescue.”
“That’s nasty.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” Claire offered no explanation and changed the subject again. Perhaps her reticence was her way to inject some distance into our friendship. “You think Daddy knew about JoJo?”
“Actually, I wanted to ask you the same question. But I know Palmer figured out Ricardo.”
“Why?”
“That last Friday. Your dad was upset when he called me. I think he confronted Ricardo, who preferred his chances with somebody else.”
“I have my own theories about that,” Claire said.
“What do you mean?”
“I think JoJo told Ricardo you’re a nice guy. That you’d be a pushover. A family friend who doesn’t want to make waves.”
Maybe Claire was tougher than I thought.
We both fell silent for a while. Then she asked, “Are you staying on our board at the Palmetto Foundation?”
I considered the question, took too long.
“We need you,” she urged.
Staying was the right thing to do. “I get to name JoJo’s successor subject to your veto?”
“Done.”
* * *
That night, Annie and I hopped a cab to Chinatown. I’m a sucker for Asian food, with one notable exception. Something’s just not right about glazed ducks hanging by their necks in restaurant windows.
“What will I do with you?” she asked more than once, scrutinizing my face.
I avoided discussions about my career and would have been happier for Annie to talk about hers. But she kept asking questions about the last few days. “What happened to the fake priest?”
“Last I saw, he was bleeding in the diner.” I omitted details for the sake of our dinner.
“You think he’ll come looking for you?”
Maybe.
“No way.” I didn’t want Annie to worry. That was my job. “The police will grab him the second he enters the USA.”
“But he’s out forty million dollars.”
“Forty million versus forty years. Ricardo made the choice. He won’t come looking.”
“What about the pilot?” she asked.
“Same thing. He’d go to prison.”
“I don’t know, Grove. Claire has all that money. I bet those two guys hold her responsible.”
“The FBI took the forty million.”
“I know. I mean Palmer’s bequest.”
“Don’t worry. I’m helping her find a bodyguard.”
“Which is not your highest and best use.” Annie brushed the sutures over my eye, her touch a gentle caress.
We drank too much wine. We relaxed with each other. And our discussion drifted to her career in creative writing. But underneath the light banter, I felt misgivings about my new acquaintances. I was uncertain whether Ricardo would pay a visit. Or whether Moreno, a man I knew only by name, would come in his place.
CHAPTER SIXTY
TURKS AND CAICOS
THE PREVIOUS WEDNESDAY
Providenciales to Port-au-Prince, Haiti, is forty-five minutes by air. Ano
ther fifteen minutes, and you’re in Kingston, Jamaica. It seems like all destinations within the Caribbean are just a short hop from one another.
Travel times are brief. But the minutes add up when your seaplane is a good twenty, say twenty-five minutes away. And the journeys are punishing when you’re hurt, bleeding, and fleeing from the authorities who put the kibosh on a $200 million heist.
Up in the air, your mind plays games. You’re either looking over your shoulder or wondering what’s waiting on the other side.
* * *
The angry diners swept Bong and Jake into the street. The two men were bleeding, the pilot from his broken nose and Bong from his pulpy eye. They had expected to trade punches with the crowd. But to each one’s surprise, the fury was aimed at O’Rourke.
“Get him.” Jake pointed at the stockbroker, who bolted pell-mell for the bank.
The mob chased O’Rourke down the street. Bong never moved as the swarm jostled past.
“Come on,” Jake screamed at Bong.
“Forget it.”
“He’s got our money.”
“O’Rourke was right. Your brain is toast, man.”
Jake bristled forward, his stance smug and menacing, the serrated knife in his right hand. “And you’re a regular George fucking Clooney. You want the other eye to match?”
Bong, no matter his severe injuries, was still capable. He poked his index finger into the pilot’s chest. “Game’s over. We gotta get out of here.”
Jake backed off, unnerved by entrails and socket. “What about the money?”
“What about twenty years?”
“Moreno’s gonna be pissed.”
“I’ll get the money. Is your plane fueled up?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Let’s go.”
“Your eye looks like shit.” It made Jake wince.
“O’Rourke’s a dead man.”
The two men stopped at the house first. Bong shredded a clean white bedsheet and bandaged his eye. The blood stopped flowing. And his face stopped throbbing after he downed a few painkillers, which were never in short supply in his line of work. Forty-five minutes elapsed before the two men took off in the battered old seaplane.
“You need to get that thing checked out,” said Jake. “I’m telling you, man. It looked like fucking Cyclops.”
“I got resources in Port-au-Prince.”
The Trust Page 33
