by Stuart Woods
“I know that.” Stone hung up and told the doorman to expect Viv, then went home.
59
MARSHALL BRENNAN was working at his computer when his secretary buzzed. “Dink is here to see you. Do you want me to reschedule him? I know you’re busy.”
“No, send him in.” Marshall turned away from his computer and rose to meet his son. “Hello, Dink.” They shook hands.
“Good morning, Dad,” Dink said. He was dressed in a tweed jacket, khakis, and a necktie. “I got your message, and here I am.”
“Thanks for coming,” Marshall said. He leafed through some papers on his desk and came up with a copy of Dink’s brokerage account. “The computer flagged your account yesterday because of a large cash withdrawal, wired to your checking account. Mind telling me why you suddenly need half a million dollars?”
“Oh, this and that,” Dink said, looking evasive. “I’m looking at apartments downtown.”
“Find something you like?”
“Not yet, but …” Dink’s voice trailed off, and he began to look irritated. “Mind telling me why you’ve flagged my account for withdrawals?”
“Just about every client’s account is flagged for withdrawals over a predetermined amount,” Marshall said. “It’s a security precaution, designed to thwart someone who might have gained unauthorized access to an account.”
“So I’m just like everyone else here?”
“As an account, yes. I just wanted to know if you made the withdrawal, and if so, why?”
“I think I just explained that,” Dink said.
“I think you just avoided explaining it,” Marshall replied. “Try again.”
“I’m of age, Dad, and I don’t have to explain things to you anymore.”
“You do if you want my investment skills to remain at your disposal.”
“What is it that so annoys you about my withdrawing half a million dollars?”
“It occurs to me that a sum that size might just be for a big drug buy.” Marshall watched as beads of sweat appeared on his son’s forehead.
“Nothing like that,” Dink said.
Marshall swung back to his computer and brought up a new screen. “And I see that as soon as the funds were received in your checking account, they were wired to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands. Mind explaining that?”
“I just happen to be doing business with someone who has an offshore account.”
“Well, you’d better be ready to explain that to the Internal Revenue Service, because you’ve flagged more than your account with me, you’ve flagged an automatic disclosure from your bank to the IRS about the transfer. That pretty much guarantees you an audit.”
“An audit?” Dink asked weakly.
“Welcome to adulthood, son. It’s a place where you are held responsible for your actions.”
“Even private financial transactions?”
“Especially private financial transactions. Tell me, do you have an offshore bank account?”
“Well, ah …”
“I was afraid of that,” Marshall said, rubbing his forehead. “You should have discussed all this with me before proceeding.”
“You’d have just told me not to do it,” Dink said.
“And in so doing, saved you tens of thousands of dollars in accounting bills. Who is your accountant?”
“I, ah, don’t have one yet,” Dink admitted.
“Would you like me to recommend one?”
“No, Dad.”
“Then you should ask your private banker to recommend a good firm and schedule a meeting with them immediately. If they take swift action, they might be able to head off this thing at the pass, before you have IRS agents knocking on your door.”
“It doesn’t seem like all that big a problem. Anyway, how could an accountant help?”
“An accountant, having dealt with the IRS for his whole career, will know to call someone there quickly and explain that he has a young and inexperienced person for a client, and that he has done something foolish, but wants to clean up his mess.”
“Oh. And that can happen?”
“Possibly. What won’t happen is to get your name off a watch list for every sort of transaction you can dream of. You will now be known personally and permanently to agents of the Internal Revenue Service whose only task in life is to catch American citizens avoiding taxes by money laundering and hiding funds in offshore accounts. Even Swiss banks are now cooperating, in an attempt to save themselves millions of dollars in fines and accounting fees, and they are happy to throw a client overboard if that’s what they have to do to please the IRS.”
“I had no idea,” Dink said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief and loosening his tie.
“By the simple act of turning twenty-one and gaining access to your trust, you have entered a whole new world, son, one with a complex set of rules and regulations that govern the way you will earn, spend, and pay taxes. You had better accustom yourself to playing by those rules, and an accountant, along with your private banker, can help you understand how to do that.”
“I see.”
“Moreover, any profit on the sale of the securities that was necessary to raise your half-million-dollar withdrawal will be subject to ordinary income tax at the full rate, whereas if you had sold something you’d owned for more than a year, you’d have paid the much lower capital gains tax, so you cost yourself some more money there.”
Dink was sweating profusely now.
“Something else, Dink. If that money ended up in a drug dealer’s account in the offshore bank, it is very likely that either the IRS or the FBI, perhaps both, has an informant in that bank who will, you should excuse the expression, rat you out. So there is another federal agency you’ll be scrutinized by in the coming weeks and months. I strongly suggest that, in addition to an accountant, you call Herb Fisher and ask him to recommend a criminal lawyer.”
“Dad, let me explain all this.”
“Dink, it’s very important that you not explain it to me, because communication between us is not subject to any kind of privilege, and I could be forced to testify against you before a grand jury or in a court of law. You can explain it to your criminal lawyer, with whom such communication is privileged. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, is there anything else I can do for you today?”
“No, sir,” Dink said, rising. “I’ll go see Herb Fisher right now.”
Marshall watched his son leave and tried not to weep.
60
THE EVENING of Mark Hayes’s party at High Cotton Ideas arrived, and Herbie hired a driver and picked up Marshall Brennan on his way there.
“No date tonight, Herb?” Marshall asked.
“You’re my date tonight, Marshall. How are you?”
Marshall sighed. “I’m afraid Dink may have gotten himself into some new trouble. Did he call you?”
“No, I haven’t heard from him since he stopped by my office for a drink last week.”
“I was afraid of that. He’s going to need a criminal lawyer.”
“What has he done?”
Marshall explained about Dink’s half-million-dollar error in judgment.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Herbie said.
“What scares me is that the money might already have been paid to a drug dealer, and that Dink may be taking delivery of something that could get him life in prison.”
“I understand your concern, Marshall, but I can’t pursue this with him unless it’s his idea. I hope he’ll call me, and if he does, I’ll do everything I can to help him out of this mess.”
“Thank you, Herb.”
They arrived at the High Cotton building and drove into the garage, then took the elevator to the penthouse apartment. Herbie was stunned when the doors opened to a huge living room, beautifully designed and furnished. Everyone, even Mark’s young colleagues, was in black tie, and the women were gorgeously dressed.
James Rutledge, the ar
chitect, came to greet them. “Good evening, Herb, Mr. Brennan. Your son arrived a few minutes ago.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Marshall replied.
“Jim, you’ve done a spectacular job on this place, in an amazingly short time,” Herbie said.
“There are half a dozen design writers here tonight,” Rutledge said. “Architectural Digest has already committed to a multi-page spread on both the offices and the house. Be sure and see the upper floor.”
“Will do,” Herbie replied. He and Marshall got drinks and wandered around the room. Herbie spotted Dink, there with a beautiful girl, and so did Marshall, but neither made a move to speak to him.
Stone Barrington walked over with Marla Rocker in tow. “Hey, Herb.” He swept an arm. “See what you have wrought.”
“I’m terribly impressed with myself,” Herbie said, and everybody laughed.
Mike Freeman joined them. “Hello, Herb.”
“Mike, how are you?”
“Just great. Did you spot my security people around the place?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Then I’ve done my work well. You’ll probably run into Josh Hook, who is personally supervising the crew. All the cameras are in operation, too, so none of the guests had better lift anything.”
Dino Bacchetti got off the elevator with a beautiful woman in what Herbie thought must be an Armani dress. Dino’s arm was still in a sling, but he looked well. Greetings were exchanged, and drinks were snagged from passing waiters. He shook Herbie’s hand. “I’d like you to meet Vivian DeCarlo,” he said, and she offered her hand.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, and thank you for saving Dino’s ass last week.”
“It was my pleasure,” Viv replied, smiling.
“No date tonight?” Stone asked.
“Just Marshall,” Herbie replied.
“No Allison?”
“Allison bowed out,” Herbie said, shrugging. “She felt that having an office relationship wasn’t good for her career.”
“She’s probably right,” Stone said.
A waiter passed, paging the guests to a large buffet dinner set up in the dining room. Everyone got a plate and a glass of wine and found seats.
Mark Hayes came by and welcomed everyone. “I want to thank you, Herb,” he said, “for making this happen.”
“It was more of a pleasure than I can tell you,” Herbie replied. “And you’re welcome. How’s the software going?”
“We’re out of beta and on the market,” Mark said, “and the reviews have been amazing.”
“I smell an IPO coming,” Herbie said.
“You have a good nose—hang on to your stock.”
“I certainly will.”
“The IPO is going to be something,” Marshall said. “There’s great anticipation in the industry and in the investment world, too.”
“Then maybe I’ll hang on to my stock for a few years, instead of dumping it on day one,” Herbie said.
“Good idea.”
AFTER DINNER, Herbie and Marshall climbed a broad staircase to the upper floor of the penthouse and wandered around. They found themselves alone in the master bedroom.
“I’m sure there’s a john around here somewhere,” Marshall said. “Excuse me while I find it.”
Herbie stepped out onto the bedroom’s terrace and was amazed at the view north. It was a cool night, clear of any haze, and the city’s skyline looked like a gigantic movie set. He leaned on the railing and took it all in.
“Well, Herb,” he heard a voice behind him say, so he turned around.
Dink Brennan was standing there, uncomfortably close to him. “Hello, Dink,” he said. He put a hand on Dink’s chest and pushed slightly. “Back off just a little, will you?”
Dink took hold of Herbie’s wrist and twisted a little. “This is good,” he said. “Did you take a look over the rail?”
“No, I didn’t,” Herbie said, trying to free his hand.
“Straight drop, seven or eight stories to the alley,” Dink said. “I’ve been waiting for a moment like this with you.”
Herbie was backed up against the rail, with Dink only inches from him, so he didn’t have much room to swing. He closed his free left hand and aimed a straight punch to Dink’s nose, but Dink saw it coming and turned his head back, and the blow glanced off his cheek.
“Good,” he said. “That makes this self-defense.” Still holding the wrist, he hooked his other hand into Herbie’s trousers and lifted him off his feet. Herbie swung his left again, to no great effect, and he found himself sitting, precariously, on the railing. He grabbed it with his left hand and hung on for dear life. It was clear that Dink was not kidding.
Then, with a push of both hands, Dink sent Herbie backward, off the railing. For a moment, Herbie clung with his left hand, but his body twisted from his momentum, and he lost his grip and started down.
“Bye-bye, Herb,” Dink was saying.
A few feet down, Herbie flailed into a length of pipe jutting perhaps eighteen inches from the building. He had time to think that it must be a drain for the deck. He got one hand on it and dangled, trying to stop his yawing and get the other hand onto the pipe.
“Here, Herb,” Dink said, throwing a leg over the railing, “let me help you.” He put his foot on Herbie’s hand and began to press his weight onto it.
Herbie got another hand on the pipe but couldn’t free his other from Dink’s foot. Then Dink drew back his leg for a kick.
“No stops this time,” he said, “just straight down.”
Herbie was looking up at Dink, and he saw a form behind him. Then, as Dink threw his kick, he seemed to lose his balance. The kick missed, and its momentum pulled him over the rail. “Oh, shit,” Herbie heard him say as he fell.
Dink fell past Herbie and went straight down.
Herbie was still looking up, and Marshall Brennan filled his vision. Marshall had a hand reaching for him.
“Grab it,” Marshall said, and Herbie did, then he heard a dull, crunching thud from below.
Showing surprising strength, Marshall hauled him upward until he could get both hands on the railing and a foot on the edge of the building. In a second, he was lying, panting, on the deck, and then Marshall was helping him up, aided by Stone, who had come onto the deck.
Herbie stood there trembling, leaning against Stone, who put a glass into his hand. “Take a big swig of this,” Stone said, and Herbie did so.
Dino and Mike Freeman joined them. “What happened?” he asked.
Marshall Brennan turned toward him. “An unnatural act,” he replied.
LATER, Herbie sat on a sofa and talked to a police detective, remembering the things that Dino had told him and Marshall.
“Just tell me in your own words what happened,” the detective said.
“I was on the deck outside the master bedroom, then all of a sudden, Dink Brennan was there. He was standing very close to me, and somehow I went over the railing, but I caught hold of a drainpipe that held my weight. Dink was trying to help me, then so was Marshall, but somehow Dink lost his footing and came over the railing and fell past me. Marshall was trying to hold on to him but couldn’t. That’s it.”
“Were you having some sort of quarrel with Dink Brennan?”
“No, I just turned, and he was there. I tried to push him back, but he’s a big guy, and I think I must have just pushed myself over the railing.”
The detective closed his notebook, turned toward Dino, who was standing to one side. “We got a partial view from a security camera that backs everybody’s story,” he said, then he walked away.
Dino came over to Herbie. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” Herbie replied, “but I’m not sure about Marshall.”
“Stone is with him. He just needs a drink.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“Yes, he said ‘an unnatural act.’”
“What did he mean?”
“It’s an unnatural
act when a man kills his son.”
“I see.”
“And we won’t talk about this anymore,” Dino said, “not with Marshall, and not with anybody else.”
Stone and Marshall came over. “I think we’ve done enough for this party, and we should go,” he said. “Do you and Marshall need a ride, Herb?”
“No,” Herbie replied, getting to his feet, albeit a little unsteadily. “We’re in my car.”
A FEW MINUTES later they were headed uptown.
“I’m sorry, Marshall,” Herbie said.
“Don’t be. If it hadn’t ended this way, it might have been much worse.”
“You could be right,” Herbie said.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.
However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.
If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.
Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.
When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.
Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.
Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.
