Thus it was that she entered the conference room to face the Baron and his lawyer with her knees knocking together and her mouth as dry as dust. Louis held the chair for her. Whatta guy, she thought crazily as she put her briefcase on the massive conference table. She sat down and prepared to do battle with her nerves and the big fat Baron. Behind him was a huge window, through which she could see the golf course and several bridle paths. Ah, to be out there with no cares, dallying among the sand traps instead of here, where traps big enough to fall into waited at every turn. What a life.
A waiter in red and a wine steward in white came in and placed delicate wineglasses on the table, then stood by, waiting for the Baron to order. He made idiotic faces while he debated what year and brand to choose, finally coming up with an ’86 Cabernet Maison Rême. The steward went out and came back several minutes later with a bottle nestled in a chrome sleeve. He stood by, calmly waiting for the Baron to get around to having the bottle opened for the mandatory taste test. Julie resisted the urge to charge over and snatch the whole thing out of its bed of ice and slug it down, but no, her entire future might hinge on that bottle.
Katz propped his elbows on the table and stared at Julie. She squirmed inside. This was one of the Big Guys, hard as Krupp steel. His pale eyes seemed to gleam with a malevolent hatred. Still staring at her, he laid out his proposition. “We want to be reasonable here,” he said. “We indicated we were interested in selling the pier frontage, and we are indeed interested. But frankly, Herr Von Hoffenstein will not be robbed. Seventy-five strikes us as a fair price for this parcel. We’re ready to conclude a deal here and now at that price. Do you follow me, Ms. Hastings?”
She gave him a false smile, fighting the urge to stick her tongue out at him. “Indeed I do, Mr. Katz. It seems we are missing only one element in this deal.”
“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “What might that be?”
“An interested party.”
Louis pressed a hand over his mouth, hiding a smile. He tipped Julie a wink. The Baron sat looking old and frumpy and fat. He snapped his fingers and the waiter began to assault the cork. When it was out, he poured the Baron a sip and stood back, the bottle wrapped professionally in a white towel, awaiting a verdict. Von Hoffenstein made more faces as he checked it out. He swallowed and nodded. Wine was served around the table.
“Mr. Katz,” Julie said, “I’ve found that in the real-estate business there are three factors which determine a property’s value.”
Katz seemed interested.
“Number one, location. Number two, location. And three . . . well, I’m sure you’ve guessed it. Location. Unfortunately you have none of the above. Your price is fair for midtown commercial, not for riverfront.”
Katz did not flinch. “It’s worth more than that to your client, considering his plans for the area.”
“If my client can spin straw into gold, he’ll still pay market price for the straw. Our offer stands at forty-eight million.”
The Baron smiled, nodding. “Very well, then. Business is business, and deals will come and go. But the world will pause for a beautiful woman and a fine wine. Now, let us toast a sale at the price of sixty million.”
The elder Strack started to lift his glass, doubtless glad to see the price just where he wanted it. Julie stomped on his foot and he almost spilled his glass. “You’re moving in the right direction,” she said, “but our offer stands firm at forty-eight.”
She sipped the wine as Katz and the Baron held a whispered conversation. She frowned and turned to the wine steward. “Sir, there’s been a mistake. The Baron ordered a bottle of ’86 Cabernet Maison Rême. Isn’t that right?”
He bowed slightly. “Oui, madame, that is what I have served.”
She took another sip, frowning harder. “No. You have served us an ’87 or ’88. California Beaujolais. Pleasant, but hardly worth what you must be charging the good Baron.”
Old Strack examined his glass as if a fly had crash-landed in it. He made a face.
The wine steward looked stricken. “But madame! I have served the Rême!”
Strack took a sip. “Tastes okay to me. Let’s get on with this.”
Katz spoke up. “Ms. Hastings, the wine is fine. You’re way out of your league here, and I’m sure the wine steward knows more about fine wine than you ever will.”
Von Hoffenstein plucked the bottle out of the ice. He pulled the towel away from the label, then smiled and showed it to everyone. “California San Meduso 1988. The lady is correct. Steward!”
The steward stared at it, aghast. He snapped his fingers at the waiter, who began snatching up glasses. “Please forgive us,” the steward said. “We will bring the Rême at once. Gratis, of course.”
“Of course,” Julie said, then turned to the Baron. “At any rate, our offer still stands at forty-eight.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “Gentlemen, if we can’t toast to a deal closed, we prefer not to drink at all. We have other business to attend to, so if you’ll excuse us, we’ll go.”
The elder Strack got up, grumbling. “I thought I told you to make this deal,” he snapped at her as he passed. Louis got up, unperturbed. They went to the door just as the new wine was brought.
“Wait!” the Baron called, and they turned. “As you say, the price is indeed forty-eight million, for this is too fine a wine not to use for a toast.” He raised his glass. “Prosit? Zur Gesundheit?”
“Zur Gesundheit,” Julie said, mentally shaking hands with herself. “And to everything else as well.”
4
Stracks
WALKING TOWARD THE lobby, past gilt-framed paintings of one hundred years’ worth of past superintendents of the Felix Heights Hunting Club, Louis Strack, Jr., was in high spirits. That cute lawyer, that Julie girl—man, what a performance. The mistake with the wine—pure genius. Von Hoffenstein was as good as putty in her hands. Even his shyster lawyer, Katz, had wound up speechless. Yet Julie had been terrified, Louis knew. Her hands had been cold and shaking when he walked her upstairs. She seemed to have difficulty swallowing. But once things began to roll, once she was allowed to take the ball, some kind of inner resolve had turned her nervousness into authority. She even had been able to make an ass out of that Katz guy, and did he ever deserve it.
He heard the whisper of feet behind him and slowed. Julie caught up and beamed at him. “Satisfied, Louis?”
He nodded. “More than that. You saved us twelve million bucks. Pappas is a fool for not using you before. I assume this was your first taste of a multimillion-dollar real-estate transaction.”
“How’d you guess?” She laughed when he rolled his eyes.
Louis said, “How much of a bribe did you give the wine steward?”
She looked shocked. “Well, I never!”
“I’d say you’ve already started. Down the road to petty crime, I mean.”
She laughed again. The wine steward came down the stairs, and she stepped aside to talk to him. Louis saw a flash of green that had nothing to do with her suit. She came back, looking a little too nonchalant.
“Fifty bucks?” he asked her.
“I’m not that cheap.”
“Hundred?”
“Do you really think that man would sell his reputation for a hundred dollars?”
“I do.”
“Well, he did too.”
They laughed together. Louis’s father was already at the door, looking no less crabby than he had before the deal was clinched. Louis knew one thing for sure: The old man was getting grouchier and more senile every day. His idea of making money for Strack Industries dealt only with real estate. There was a fortune to be made out there with stocks, commodities, gold, silver, bonds, you name it. The old guy was a fossil, a detriment to the company he had founded so many years ago. If he would ever retire, Strack Industries could branch off in new directions, make bigger profits. Not that Louis needed the money. It was the power money could buy that he was interested in, though he had only vagu
e ideas what to do with it once he got it.
He turned back to Julie. “Could I meet you for dinner tonight?” He looked at her left hand. “I don’t see a ring, so I hope you don’t mind me being brash like this.”
“You’re not brash at all,” she said. “But I already have plans.”
“What’s his name?”
“Peyton. Peyton Westlake.”
“Weird name.”
“Nice guy.”
He grinned. “All right, I fold. Maybe in a few weeks?”
“Doubtful.”
“Must be one hell of a man. Since you’re a lawyer, can I ask if you’re into his briefs?”
She drew back. “Now that was brash.”
They laughed again. At the doors, old Strack watched them sourly. A long white limousine drew up and he went out.
“Need a ride?” Louis asked.
She deliberated for a moment, then: “Probably better not. I might . . .”
He frowned amicably enough. “Don’t say it, Julie, because then I’ll get my hopes up. And I hate having my hopes dashed.”
She smiled. “Fine, then. I’ll take a cab.”
“Good enough. Can I, um, call you sometime?”
“For business?”
He raised his hands. “Strictly business, madame.”
“That would be fine.” She extended a hand. “Nice working with you, Louis.”
He shook her hand. “My pleasure.”
He opened the door for her and she went out. Louis watched her go, smiling a bit. If that guy with the funny first name ever let this one go, Louis would be there to catch her; he knew that as fact.
The limousine honked. Louis saw the old man poking the chauffeur on the shoulder, forcing him to honk like some damn taxi driver. He ground his teeth. God, but the doddering old coot was getting cranky lately. Louis made a mental note to buy him a bottle of Geritol, if the old man lived long enough to drink it. It was obvious to everyone that he was failing.
He got in the back with Pop and made himself a drink to wash the anger away. The limo pulled out smoothly, and when he finished his drink, Louis buried himself in a fresh copy of the Wall Street Journal. Strack Senior was studying financial reports. The silence between them grew long, but it was nothing new. They had had nothing to say to each other in years, except an occasional brief argument over financial this and financial that.
An article caught his eye. Krugerrands were on the rise again. He read it, almost drooling. Real estate could go to hell; here was real money. He lowered the paper. “Krugerrands are looking attractive, Dad.”
Strack snorted. “Krugerrands. Bah. Strack Industries will stick with real estate. You remember that, sonny.”
Sonny? How swell. Now Pop thought Louis was a kid again. It was a miracle his brains weren’t leaking out his ears.
The chauffeur drove into a small, run-down gas station. Strack craned forward. “What now?”
“Flat tire, sir.”
“Oh, goody. This will come out of your wages, you know. This vehicle is your responsibility. Got that?”
“Indeed, sir.”
The driver got out. He walked to the errant wheel and stooped down. He reached into his uniform pocket and withdrew an ice pick. He drove it into the tire, which was remarkably full of air for a flat tire, pulled it out, then went to the trunk and opened it. A minute later Strack got out, grumbling about his prostate being bigger than a bowling ball. He headed off to find a rest room, stopping long enough to examine the tire.
It was flat.
“Damn tires cost a billion bucks nowadays,” he muttered, blinking under the harsh sunlight. “Damn shitty driver.”
Off he went. Twenty yards away, a man wearing a stuffy-looking blue suit was hurrying toward the station. He held a rolled-up newspaper in his hand. Strack didn’t notice, and if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. Peeing in this fleabag of a gas station was his uppermost worry now. What if germs were floating around in the air?
The man in the suit came inexorably closer, not quite so fast now, pacing himself. He was grinning, showing plenty of white teeth. He hooked a cigar out of a pocket and stuck it in his mouth. He was five yards from old Strack now, on an intercept course. In the car, Louis sat daydreaming about Krugerrands.
The man aimed his newspaper, revealing a dark rod of sorts hidden inside. There was a brief orange flash and a small pop! Strack clutched his chest, staggering forward by force of inertia only. The man caught him. They danced a wobbling tango.
Still in the car, Louis looked up. His view was blocked by the station’s double pumps, and the driver, who was lugging the bad tire around the car. Louis looked back down to his newspaper, unconcerned.
The man dropped Strack, who landed on the cable of the electronic bell. It began to ring, about once every three seconds. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a gold-plated cigar trimmer, freshly washed now, sparkling clean. He bent over and clipped off the old man’s left index finger, squeezed the blood out of it, then stuck it and the trimmer back into his clothes. He ambled away and disappeared around the back of the station.
Louis looked up, irritated by the bell. Why couldn’t this dump have a rubber hose you drive over that rings the bell? Chalk one up to modern science: They finally had invented a better bell but, sadly, one that never shut up.
He got out, wincing as the hot September air enfolded him. He walked around the double pumps and saw his father lying facedown in the dust. Had the old jerk-off finally keeled over?
He went to him, knelt, and turned him over. There was a blot of blood on his chest, an ugly flower. Louis stared at it with large eyes.
Behind him, a midnight-blue Lincoln Continental pulled away, not in a hurry, almost soundless. The man behind the tinted windows had lit himself a cigar.
Louis saw none of this. Robert G. Durant and his vehicle disappeared unharmed and unseen.
Louis cradled his father in his arms, lifting him off the electronic cable. He clutched him tight.
The bell stopped ringing.
5
Julie
THE FOLLOWING MORNING in Peyton’s apartment, Julie made two rather disturbing discoveries. The first was a short article in the morning newspaper that sketchily outlined what had happened to the elder Strack. The other was a single sheet of paper she found in her briefcase, along with hundreds of less interesting documents. It was obvious that it was not intended for her eyes.
Peyton came out of the bathroom wearing a robe, scrubbing his hair with a towel, while Julie pondered the meaning of this particular memo, the one not intended for her. It was the documentation of an obvious bribe paid by Strack Industries to a certain Claude Bellasarious, dated July twelfth of last year. It was not good news.
Peyton drew up behind her while she debated the pros and cons of spilling the beans or keeping her mouth shut. By spilling the beans, she would embarrass the surviving Louis Strack and most likely lose her position of trust—Pappas and Swain would be dumped out of Strack Industries like so much useless garbage. By keeping her mouth shut, she could expect to have a long and profitable relationship with the firm. Somewhere in between lay her own sense of decency and professional ethics.
“Coffee?” he asked.
She didn’t hear him. Christ, a woman busts her ass to make it big, compete with the boys, and then something this nasty chances along and ruins everything. To remain mum or not to? A hell of a question.
“Coffee?”
She nodded without hearing. Peyton shrugged and got her a cup. By then she had set the incriminating memo aside and had her chin propped on her hand, chagrined, bewildered, basically unhappy.
“Just like you like it,” he said, and set the cup on the coffee table, right on top of the memo.
“No!” she cried, but it was too late. She picked the cup up and saw the wet brown ring on the memo. It hadn’t ruined it by any means, but it would make weird evidence in court.
“You’re being eaten alive,” Peyton said, and sat besi
de her. “Inner demons?”
“Outer ones,” she said glumly. “Can you bring me the phone?”
He looked around. His apartment was a catastrophe, obviously the victim of a terrorist’s bomb, so piled with junk that the floor seemed about to collapse. He scouted around, tossing old newspapers and pizza boxes aside. His bare foot clunked against something that rang, and he carried it to her. “When the hell are you going to clean up this dump,” he growled at her. “Surely you don’t expect me to do it.”
She tried to smile but it wouldn’t work. She dialed Pappas and Swain, glad that she was already dressed and ready to go. It might be a long day.
The receptionist connected her directly to Pappas, whom Julie assumed was just on his way out and headed for court. He clicked on. “Pappas.”
“Yeah,” Julie said, thinking hard. “This is Julie Hastings, Mr. Pappas. I found a memo while I was researching the Von Hoffenstein deal I don’t think I was supposed to find. It’s from the late Mr. Strack to a guy named Claude Bellasarious. It’s a record of payments to various people on the zoning commission.”
His reply was curt. “Bribes.”
“Well, they do look like payoffs. What I’d like to do is talk to Strack’s son first, give him the benefit of the doubt. After that we’ll have to decide how to handle this.”
“Fine.”
Click!
She looked at the phone, chagrined. “Nice talking to you, too, fella.”
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