The handgun Kurnit took from his pocket now was smaller than the one Mesh had used, and older, too, but still powerful for all that, and it frightened him to look at it, to hold it, to point it at another human being. Strangely, Steinbach didn’t seem frightened at all. A little exasperated, maybe; a little angry.
“Come on,” Steinbach said. “Think about this rationally. There’s zero chance that you could shoot me and get away with it. Literally zero. And what do you stand to gain?”
“A little peace of mind,” Kurnit said quietly.
“Peace of mind?” Steinbach shouted. “You’ll be on trial, you’ll be in jail, you’ll be on the front page of the fucking New York Post—what do you think the odds are that you’ll have anything like peace of mind?”
Kurnit found himself crying again as he pulled the trigger.
“Thirty percent maybe,” he said, though Steinbach could no longer hear him.
MAKE ME RICH
BY LAWRENCE LIGHT
257 W. 36th Street
Make me rich.” Russ Ickes, newspaper reporter, whispered the code words into his cell phone. His heart began to thump faster. The insider trading scheme had been going so well. But things had changed.
“And?” Trip Pennypacker’s cool drawl sounded in Russ’s ear with the tiniest hint of impatience. You wouldn’t detect it if you didn’t know Trip well.
Russ felt himself starting to sweat. “Make me rich,” he stammered again. He didn’t understand why Trip insisted he still use the identifying code. Surely after all these years, Trip knew his voice. Russ himself would know Trip’s voice from just one syllable.
“You’re repeating yourself. You’re calling me late, after the market close, and I’ll have to use after-hours trading. That’s more conspicuous. What’s up, champ?”
“We have to talk, Trip.” Russ could actually hear his heart. His eyes zipped around the busy newsroom. No one seemed to be noticing him.
“I’m a little tied up now.” Trip had been too busy for Russ ever since they were in college. “What do you have for me?”
A squall of perspiration had erupted on Russ’s forehead. He took a shaky breath and choked out the red-alert code. “Trip, there’s Barney Rubble.”
“Barney Rubble?” Very little ruffled Trip, the guest of honor at the unending party that was his life, but he was ruffled now. “Barney Rubble, you say, champ? What kind of Barney Rubble?”
Russ grimaced from the saltwater sluicing into his eyes and from a sudden, stinging memory. Right after college, and before he started on Wall Street, Trip and his friends had jetted over to London for a fling. During their whirlwind of intoxication and fornication, they had encountered cockney rhyming slang, where “going to the Jack Tar” meant “going to the bar,” and “having Oedipus Rex with a twist and twirl” meant “having sex with a girl,” and “brown bread” meant “dead.”
When Russ picked up Trip and his pals from their return flight—Russ hadn’t been invited to the London blowout—they were joking away in rhyming slang. The revelers, who hadn’t bothered to bid hello to Russ or thank him for the lift home from the airport, suddenly started calling their driver “jam roll.” Russ laughed along, as if he was in on the joke. He stopped laughing when Trip playfully told him it meant “arsehole.”
Years later, when they set up their deal, Trip decreed they use cockney rhyming slang as an addition to their code, although he didn’t remember many of the rhymes. Russ did. They were burned on his brainpan as if by sulfur. “Barney Rubble” meant “trouble.”
“Big trouble, Trip, federal trouble,” Russ whispered. His heart slammed in his chest like an industrial press about to overheat. Huge wet blobs from his forehead rained on his keyboard. He skidded his chair back from the desk. “The U.S. Attorney’s office called. They want me to come in.”
The flat-out uncoded statement hung spinning in the air. Trip stayed eerily silent for a full minute while Russ listened to his hyper heartbeat. Russ was about to ask if Trip was still there when Trip said, “Come see me right now.”
The familiar self-possession was back in Trip’s tone. He might have been telling one of his female admirers to pay him a late-night visit. No one refused Trip.
“I’ll be right over.”
“Didn’t you forget something?”
“What? Forget something?”
“What do you have for me?” Trip asked nonchalantly.
“A time like this, do you think that—?”
“What do you have for me?”
“I … Okay, Chimera Genetics. But if we’re accused of insider trading—”
Trip hung up on him—to arrange, Russ knew, for the purchase of shares of Chimera Genetics. Chimera was an under-appreciated stock that had been flatlining at ten dollars for the past year, but when investors read Russ’s bullish story in the next morning’s newspaper, extolling Chimera’s new wonder drug in final clinical testing with federal approval imminent, that would change fast. They would bid the stock price up much higher, and Trip would be there to sell his shares to them, and to skim a creamy and very illegal profit.
“Are you all right, Ickes?”
The words were like an electric shock, and Russ swung round in his chair. John Featherstone loomed above him, disdain contorting his face as though he’d bitten into bad meat. “Are you all right?” his editor asked again.
“Who, me?” Russ sputtered. “I’m fine. Fine, fine, fine.” He shook his head to banish a disorienting image.
On the fifteenth of every month, outside an exclusive and vaguely dangerous club called Inferno, Russ met Trip’s business partner, Mr. Abercrombie. Abercombie, a Gothic beast of a man, would emerge from the club with a fat envelope of cash for Russ. He scared Russ witless, and seemed to know it, as he always asked the same question before disappearing back into Inferno: “Are you all right, Ickes?”
Hearing those words from his editor was an unnerving jolt. Unlike his old editor, forced into retirement now, Featherstone didn’t appreciate Russ’s journalistic talents, and usually treated him the way a cop does a juvenile delinquent. Concern wasn’t part of the equation.
“Well, you don’t look fine. You’re sweating like a pig, Ickes.”
“Uh, I’m not feeling well,” Russ said, aware that vast wet blotches had spread from his armpits. “I better go home.”
“First you’re fine, then you’re not—what am I going to do with you, Ickes?” Featherstone examined his waterlogged underling with gimlet eyes.
“I-I better go then,” Russ said. He got up.
“Well, your column is in, and it was … adequate. So Chimera Genetics is about to skyrocket, huh?”
“That’s what they say.” Russ grabbed his Italian suit jacket from the hanger hooked to the cubicle partition. He slipped it on to hide the damp stains mottling his handcrafted shirt.
“Hmmmm.” Featherstone tilted his head skeptically and peered at the reporter with the intensity of an engineer searching for a fatal structural design flaw. “Nice threads. You’re certainly dressing better lately. How much did this suit cost?”
Bile rose into Russ’s throat. He swallowed back the burning acid. “Uh, it was a gift. My birthday was last week. The big three-oh.”
“You used to dress like you shopped at the Salvation Army.”
The khakis Russ once wore were innocent of pressing and dry cleaning. Now his tailored trousers had creases sharp enough to slice a finger. “Things change, I guess.”
Slumping through the newsroom, Russ passed a cluster of other business reporters near the Bloomberg machine. None of them liked him, and he suspected they were jealous of his having “Street Talk.” Someone muttered, “Brain Distrust,” and they laughed.
Eighteen months ago, when Russ was angling for the “Street Talk” stock tip column, he’d sought visibility by telling people he was the great-grandson of Harold Ickes, the FDR Brain Trust guy. For whatever reason—maybe for his pedigree—the paper’s top brass gave him the column. But the pub
lication had its share of nasty people, and they all had long memories, and not long ago—just after Labor Day—Russ had learned why lying to journalists was unwise. Someone on staff dug up that Russ Ickes was no relation to Harold. It was late October now, and when Russ passed through the newsroom, he ignored the snickers and walked
There was a bustle around the Metro desk, and Russ paused there. Another young woman—another pretty blonde—had been pushed off a subway platform onto the tracks and into the path of an oncoming train. This made it five. The murders had happened randomly at stations throughout the city, always late at night and with few witnesses. The cops had no leads. Russ thought about the trains roaring out of the darkness and the helpless figures on the tracks. A shiver went up his spine.
The air outside was bracing. It was past 8 o’clock, and the evening rush had subsided. With the sodden shirt chilling his skin, Russ moved moodily along the pavement. He had to compose himself before he saw Trip, but he couldn’t slow his pounding heart.
He wandered in slow motion through Midtown, and wondered how to handle Trip. People pushed past him with purpose and places to go. So many of them were stylish and good-looking—so much like Trip.
Russ’s mouth was achingly dry, and he looked down the block. He was approaching Inferno—Trip’s favorite club—and he knew it wasn’t just by chance. He sighed. He could use some liquid courage before facing Trip.
The beefy guard at the velvet rope wore a red greatcoat with black leather lapels. He was as welcoming as Russ’s editor. “We’re full,” he said.
“Come on—this place doesn’t get going until midnight.” Russ produced a hundred-dollar bill. “Come on … please.”
The guard regarded the bill as he might used toilet paper. “We’re full.”
“I was here three weeks ago.” This had no impact on the guard, but Russ pressed on. “I was here with my friend, Trip Pennypacker.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “You a buddy of Mr. Cool’s? He knows people here.” He unfastened the velvet rope and Russ pocketed the hundred and stepped forward. The guard’s face turned stormy. He stopped Russ and reached into his pocket to extract the bill.
The only other customers inside were three Japanese businessmen. The club’s craggy, cavelike walls were red, and paper flames flickered everywhere. By 3 a.m. the joint would be jammed with writhing dancers. Russ ordered a twenty-dollar Scotch from the scantily clad barmaid and remembered that Saturday night with Trip.
It was only because Russ had complained that he never got to see Trip that they had gotten together at all. Trip had grudgingly agreed to let Russ join his friends for dinner at Per Se—with the proviso that Russ not give his real name or say how they knew each other. Russ sat ignored by Trip’s trendy friends, and watched as a devastating blonde ran her hands through Trip’s hair and her lips over his neck.
The only thing Trip said to Russ the entire evening was that the two of them would split the check. Russ’s half was astronomical. Afterward, Russ tagged along to Inferno. He paid for a round of drinks—another enormous sum—and Trip and his friends vanished among the dancers, leaving Russ to get plastered by himself and at a huge price.
As he sat at the lonely bar now, Russ recognized the bartender from that night. Her little outfit was red leather. “Good to see you again,” he said to her as she put the glass in front of him. “I was in here Saturday, three weeks ago.”
“Great,” said the barmaid, who clearly saw nothing great in Russ.
Many men would be staring at her cleavage. Russ fastened onto her bored eyes. “I was here with Trip Pennypacker.”
Her blasé expression changed into something Russ couldn’t read. “Trip, huh? He’s your pal? You like him?’
“Trip? Sure—he’s the smoothest guy I know. Handsome, smart, charming, and the girls all think he’s pretty sexy.”
“Yeah?” she said. “And what about you? Do you think he’s sexy?”
“Me? Well, I, uh … Do you remember me from that night?”
“I remember—you were the little guy who bought drinks for Trip and his worshippers. Who was the bitch with him that night?”
“The blonde? Tiffany something. She’s a model. He has a million of them.”
The woman leaned over the bar, her breasts bulging against the red leather. “Listen,” she said, “Trip has run through too many girls in this place.” She made a fist and Russ guessed that included her. “And some of us are plenty pissed at him.”
Russ’s face burned, and his throat went tight. “Really?” he croaked.
“Really. And the thing we all learned about your pal is that Trip cares about just three things: Trip, Trip, and Trip. When the chips are down, you can count on that asswipe to be first out the door.” The barmaid unclenched her fist. “Why they keep letting him in here is beyond me.”
Russ swallowed hard and forced some air into his lungs. “Is it because he’s friends with Mr. Abercrombie?”
She pulled away from Russ. “Don’t know the guy. Never heard of him.”
He fished another hundred from his pocket. “Tell me who owns the club. Is it Abercrombie? Someone else?”
The barmaid eyed the bill, then held out a hungry hand. “Just a hundred?”
Russ brought out two more bills. “Deal?”
The barmaid took the money; it vanished in the pocket of her little skirt. She shimmied her bare torso. “Some people you never want to mess with own this club, baby. So there—I’ve given you a valuable piece of information.” The Japanese businessmen growled at her and she sashayed off. As she did, she turned back to Russ. “Better run along before I tell them you’re asking questions.”
If the barstool had turned into burning brimstone, Russ couldn’t have scrambled off it faster. He left the club at a near run, and didn’t slow until he reached the subway.
Russ looked up and down the nearly empty platform and remembered the chatter at the Metro desk. Just the kind of setup the city’s latest serial killer favored, he thought. Ten yards away, a heavily pierced, waiflike woman with spiky peroxide hair eyed Russ warily. Was she thinking about the killer, too? Was she wondering if it was him? Russ shook his head. No way, he thought, he didn’t fit the description.
All anyone knew about the killer was that he was white and big. No one had a clue about his motives, but several criminal psychologists opined in the media that he probably felt rejected by women and was striking back. Why pretty blondes was anyone’s guess. Russ didn’t know whether the guy went after peroxide blondes, too, but the pierced girl was taking no chances. She stayed well away from the platform edge—right up against the wall—as most women did these days. Pretty blondes, Russ thought, just the sort that Trip favored.
The Queens-bound train roared into the station with a hurricane rush of air. Russ stepped into the car and sat heavily on a plastic bench. The pierced girl got into another car.
As the subway rocketed into the tunnel, Russ thought about Trip and his ever-present women. He remembered the time, a year after college, when he let himself into Trip’s apartment and found his friend having sex with a girl on the living room floor. Russ had stood there mesmerized until she tarted screaming and Trip started shouting. Trip had never before lost that famous composure. After that, he took away Russ’s key. He told Russ that he didn’t want to see him again; that he was tired of him. This despite all Russ had done for him: the laundry, the errands, the rides to the airport. It counted for nothing, and Russ was cast out.
Until a year ago. Then, comfortably ensconced writing the “Street Talk” column, Russ had called Trip with a proposition. Finding him hadn’t been hard—Russ had followed Trip’s life avidly—but getting up the courage to call was a different matter. When he finally did, Trip treated Russ like a bill collector. “Is it something quick? I’m just on my way out.” It hadn’t been quick, but as Russ explained to Trip how “Street Talk” could bring them fortunes, Trip had found his patience. And that old charm. Now, Trip acted as if the idea was
all his own.
The train slid into the station. Russ sighed raggedly and left the car. The platform was deserted. Long Island City cleared out by nightfall. The station’s old walls were as grimy as ancient evil. He trudged up the stairs. A dark forest of empty buildings greeted him. One sheet of newspaper spiraled spectrally down the deserted street. Despite the cool breeze off the dark river nearby, he was sweating again.
Russ stood before the slab of an office tower that housed Pennypacker Securities. At age thirty, Trip owned his own company. Office rents were cheap in Long Island City. Trip had leased two floors in a good building. Russ unclipped the cell from his Prada crocodile belt and, with shaking fingers, succeeded in stabbing out Trip’s number. He hadn’t loaded it into speed dial for safety reasons. “Make me rich,” he said when Trip answered. “I’m downstairs.”
“Come on up.”
Russ scrawled illegibly in the book, and the wizened security guard didn’t give it—or him—a glance. He took the elevator to the top floor. He had visited Pennypacker Securities only once before. Now, as then, an icily beautiful redhead met him at the elevator and escorted him back. Russ knew her name was Beatrice, and he followed her through a brightly lit area with circles of desks that resembled his newsroom. Young men barely out of their teens were working the phones with demonic energy. Russ recognized one of them from that night out on the town. He had Trip’s confident, preppy panache.
“Sir, this stock is about to pop,” he said. “And we can get you in on it.”
“The road to financial security, ma’am, is built on knowing which stocks are hot,” said another, nearly identical, young man
“Yes, I hear what you say, sir,” said yet another, a clone of the first two. “But understand I am going to build wealth for you. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
Wall Street Noir Page 10
