by Stephen Frey
“Excuse me,” he called to a woman passing by.
“What?” she snapped.
“Which way is the promenade?”
She pointed. “That way. Just keep walking. You can’t miss it.”
Mason sat down in front of Strazzi’s desk. As usual, Strazzi was smoking a big fat cigar. Mason hated smoke, especially cigar smoke. “Hello, Paul.”
“Mr. Strazzi.”
Mason’s eyes flashed to Strazzi’s. Yesterday, Strazzi hadn’t wanted that. “Huh?”
“Call me ‘Mr. Strazzi’ today.”
“Why?”
“Because I feel like it.”
Strazzi was certifiable. Mason already sensed that others at Apex thought the same thing but weren’t willing to say so because they were afraid they were being listened to. Mason had heard rumors about the office being bugged. But Strazzi was paying him $3 million in salary. Guaranteed for one year, thanks to the employment contract he had signed yesterday. If Strazzi wanted to be called ‘Buddha,’ so be it. “Um, okay, Mr. Strazzi.”
Strazzi took a long drag off the cigar. “It’s time for you to earn that big salary I’m paying you, Troy.”
“I thought I already was.”
“Do you enjoy Vicky, boy?”
Mason glanced up, his head suddenly pounding. He and Vicky had gone to the Parker Meridian Hotel three times this week: two lunches and once after work. “What do you mean?” he asked innocently.
“You know exactly what I mean. You and Vicky are screwing like rabbits.” Strazzi was smiling broadly behind his cigar. “I bet your wife would go ballistic if she found out you were banging a secretary.” Strazzi laughed harshly. “After less than a week here, too. Nice, Troy.”
So pissed off she’d leave him immediately, Mason knew. Melissa had already told him if there was one more incident, she was gone. And that she’d pry as much out of him as the flamethrower lawyer she hired could pry. Running up big legal bills in the process. “Mr. Strazzi, I don’t—”
“Don’t waste my time, Troy.” Strazzi tapped the cigar on the round ashtray. An inch-long ash tumbled to the glass. “I know what’s going on, but your secret’s safe with me. I just want information.”
“Information?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of information?”
“About the Everest portfolio companies.”
Mason tugged at his collar. “What about them?”
“I need to know where the problems are.”
“Problems?”
“The dirty laundry, boy,” Strazzi said, exasperated. “Every private equity firm has problems in the portfolio. I want to know about Everest’s.”
Mason gazed over the desk at Strazzi. He should have guessed. This was the real reason he’d been hired. “Why?”
Strazzi shook his head. “That’s a need-to-know issue, and you don’t need to know.”
Strazzi was trying to cripple Gillette’s attempt to raise a new fund. That had to be the objective, Mason thought to himself. He took a deep breath. What the hell. He didn’t have any loyalty to Everest. Donovan was gone, and he hated Gillette. The prick had tried to ruin him. “I might be able to tell you a few things.”
“I need more than that, Troy. I need hard data. I need proof. I need files.”
“I can’t get into Everest.” Mason sensed an opportunity here. He’d made copies of several files the day after the chairman vote had taken place. “I’ve been barred from the place permanently. I can’t get to the files.”
“Use your imagination.”
“Why don’t you use your rat at Everest?” Mason suggested, certain Strazzi had already tried that. But those files were locked up tight. The Everest chairman and the other person on the board were the only ones with access. Which was why they were having this conversation. “Wouldn’t that be easy?”
Strazzi’s eyes narrowed. “You know damn well my rat can’t get to all the files.”
All the files. Strazzi had said all the files. Which meant his rat could get to some of the files. Which also meant his rat was at least a managing director, not some low-level associate. Only managing directors and above sat on boards.
“I might be able to help you out,” Mason said, thinking about the file copies locked up in the wall safe in his apartment. “But I want a million bucks.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Gillette gave me a million to leave Everest, but I had to sign a separation agreement to get it. One of the terms of the agreement was confidentiality. According to the agreement, I can’t convey anything to anyone about the Everest portfolio unless a court makes me do so. I’d be taking a big risk telling you these things.”
“You and I both know it would be almost impossible for Gillette to prove anything in court.”
“Still.”
“I could tell your wife about Vicky if you don’t help me.”
“What good would that do? Then I definitely won’t get you anything.” Mason paused. “A million dollars, Mr. Strazzi. It’s pocket change for you.”
Strazzi said nothing for a few moments, then nodded. “Okay.” He eased back in his chair. “Now give me a taste.”
“What do you mean?”
“Give me an idea of what kind of problems Gillette has on his hands.”
A little preview wouldn’t hurt. And he wasn’t going to give Strazzi enough to figure anything out on his own. “Everest owns a waste management company.”
“Regent Waste. I know that.”
Strazzi had done his homework. Of course, you didn’t get to be worth $5 billion being unprepared. “One of their landfills has bad contamination problems. The EPA doesn’t know.”
“Which landfill is it?”
Mason shook his head. “You can read that in the file. After I get my million.”
“Half a million now,” Strazzi said, “half a million when I have the files.”
Mason thought about it for a moment. “All right.”
Strazzi took another long puff from the cigar. “What else is there?”
“We—” Mason interrupted himself. “I mean, Everest owns a records management company in California. Drivers licenses, credit histories, employments records. There’s an issue there, too. Again, government agencies haven’t been informed.”
“Good.” Strazzi smiled. “Half a million will be in your account by close of business today. And I want the files on my desk by seven tomorrow morning. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Say, ‘Yes, sir’ to me, Troy.”
Mason swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
Strazzi pointed at Mason with the cigar. “If you try to run with my money, my people will find you. And it won’t be pretty when they do.”
Cohen sat on one end of the bench looking out over New York Harbor at Lower Manhattan. “Hello, Tom.”
McGuire sat at the other end of the bench, ten feet away. “Hello, Ben.” He didn’t look in Cohen’s direction either.
“I understand your meeting with Gillette didn’t go well,” Cohen began.
“Nope. He wouldn’t budge. Wouldn’t even consider 300 million for McGuire & Company.”
“It’s because we’ve got investment bankers telling us they can get five hundred.”
“I know.”
Cohen continued looking straight ahead. “And Christian was smart enough to hire Stiles. He didn’t like you being in charge of his personal security while you were trying to buy the company back. He figured that if he pissed you off, you might tell your boys not to be as diligent as they otherwise would be.”
“Did he actually say that to you?” McGuire wanted to know.
“In so many words.”
“Fucker.”
“Smart fucker.” Cohen chuckled. “I told him I’d never really trusted you or Vince.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Hey, you’re the one who said there couldn’t be any proof of connections when this was done. I thought it was a nice touch.”
> “I did say that. And it was a nice touch,” McGuire added. “Look, you’ve got to make sure Gillette doesn’t sign a deal with the investment bankers before we can get this in motion.”
“All you have to do is execute on your end and there won’t be a problem, but you’re starting to make me think Christian is untouchable. Our guy is getting very frustrated. When we first decided to start this, I told him you were the best. I sold him hard on you. Now he’s wondering. First, you guys blow up that limousine in front of the church, and, second—”
“Hey,” McGuire broke in angrily, “you told me I had a green light.”
“I also told you I wanted to know before you made any attempts on Christian’s life. Christ, I would have been killed in that explosion, too.”
“How was I supposed to know you were going to be riding with him?” McGuire snapped.
“All I’m saying is that our backer’s getting angry. I told him you guys were the best. Don’t embarrass me. Get this thing done.”
“Gillette’s a dead man,” McGuire said quietly. “Count on it. We’re bringing in the best.” He winced. “The problem is that this guy’s worked for us before, so there’s a connection issue. But he’ll get it done,” McGuire said confidently. “Despite Quentin Stiles.”
“Good.” Cohen looked out across the water. “There’s something else we have to talk about,” he said. “Something that could derail everything.”
McGuire glanced over. “Oh?”
“Yeah, and it’s going to mean another job.”
“Christian.”
Gillette looked up from a financial statement he was reviewing. Stiles stood at the office door. “Yes?”
“I have information for you.”
“What?”
“That e-mail you got the other night in New Jersey. Right before you were attacked?”
Gillette sat up in the chair. “Did you find out where it came from?”
Stiles nodded. “From a store location in Los Angeles. Beverly Hills, specifically.”
Gillette put down his pen slowly. Faith Cassidy had stayed at the Beverly Hills Willshire Hotel. She’d told him that when she called earlier.
The phone rang and Gillette recognized the number on his caller ID. “I have to take this, Quentin.”
“Sure.” Stiles backed out, closing the door.
Gillette picked up the receiver after the third ring. As agreed. “Hello.”
“Falcon?”
“Yes. What do you know?” he asked impatiently.
“Give me the response first.”
Gillette nodded, pleased that the informant was sticking to the procedure. “Five.” This was the fifth time they had spoken.
“And.”
“The season is winter. Now, what do you have?”
“The adversary moved. The subject has been played and will deliver in the morning.”
“Thank you,” Gillette said quietly. “Call me right away with anything else. Got it?”
“Yes.”
Gillette hung up the phone, then opened the top left drawer of his desk. The number was scrawled on a piece of scratch paper hidden below two manila envelopes. He gazed at it for a few moments, then dialed.
“Hello.”
Gillette recognized Jose Medilla’s voice right away. There was no need to bother with coded confirmations. “Jose, it’s Christian.” He hesitated. This was a moment he hadn’t been looking forward to. One Jose probably hadn’t been looking forward to, either.
18
Quid pro quo. Literally, this for that.
There’s always a quid pro quo. Nothing comes for free.
GILLETTE MOVED INTO THE LOBBY of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel and headed up the plushly carpeted stairs toward the main lobby. He was surrounded by a security detail—five of Stiles’s men. Stiles was already inside securing the lobby and dining room.
Earlier in the afternoon, Gillette had increased Stiles’s fee to ten thousand dollars a day—over Cohen’s protest. Stiles was dedicating so much of his time and so many resources to the job, Gillette felt it was necessary. And this wasn’t going to last much longer. One way or the other, it was going to be over soon.
As he reached the top of the stairs, Gillette spotted Stiles standing beside a huge vase of fresh flowers on a table in the middle of the lobby. A wire ran from one ear down into Stiles’s turtleneck, and a thin silver microphone curled around his cheek to his lips.
“I don’t like this, Christian,” Stiles said, as the men formed a barrier around them. “I don’t like having you out in the open like this. Not after what happened this morning.”
Gillette moved closer to Stiles and glanced around the lobby. “It’ll be fine, Quentin.”
Stiles’s expression turned grim. “Don’t tell me how to do my business, Christian. And I won’t tell you how to do yours.”
“Like I said, it’ll be fine.”
“Why don’t we set up in a private room upstairs?” Stiles suggested. “That would be more intimate anyway.”
Gillette shook his head. “It’s our first date and I tell her we’re eating in a private room because my head of security is worried someone might try to kill me if we eat in the dining room. That doesn’t seem like a plan to me. Not if I want her to stick around through dessert.”
“Still, I—”
Stiles stopped speaking as Isabelle moved toward them. She was wearing a black, strapless dress with her dark hair up off her dainty shoulders. For jewelry, she had on diamond earrings, a sapphire necklace, and a gold bracelet on her left wrist. Black suede heels finished her outfit. There was a hint of red on her full lips, and her fingernails were the same color.
Gillette gazed at her face as she neared him. Always mystery in those brown eyes—and it seemed more pronounced tonight. Like she was scared of something—or someone.
“Hello there,” Gillette said quietly as she moved inside the security detail.
“Hi.” She clasped her hands and looked down.
It was an uncomfortable moment for her, he knew. So he leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss on one cheek. The scent of a pleasing perfume came to his nostrils as his lips touched her soft skin.
“It’s good to see you, Christian,” she murmured.
Gillette slipped an arm around her, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back. He gave her a gentle hug. “It’s good to see you, too.” He nodded to Stiles over her shoulder, thankful Stiles hadn’t searched her. “Did you enjoy yourself today?” He’d arranged for a woman from the Waldorf to spend the day with Isabelle. To take her to Fifth Avenue to buy a dress for tonight, to take her to have her hair done, and to help her pick out jewelry.
She looked up into his eyes. “I’ve never had a better day in my life. Thank you. How can I ever repay you?”
“Have dinner with me.”
She smiled. “Love to.”
“Let’s sit down,” he suggested, gesturing toward the dining room.
Stiles had made arrangements for them to sit at a quiet table in a back corner of the room. When they reached the table, Stiles held out a chair for her.
“Thank you.” Isabelle smiled up at Stiles as she sat down.
He nodded back politely, and, when she was seated, moved away and stood against the wall.
“Aren’t you going to get my chair?” Gillette called.
“Double my fee and I’ll consider it.”
“I just did, remember? Jesus, for twenty grand a day you ought to drive the limo, cook dinner, and play the piano,” Gillette kidded, sitting down across from Isabelle. “Everything okay?”
“Perfect.”
“What would you like to drink?”
“What are you having?”
“Water.”
“No wine?” she asked, disappointed.
“No, but don’t let that keep you from having some.”
“Will you order for me?”
“Sure. Red or white?”
“Red, please.”
When Gill
ette had ordered and the waiter was gone, Isabelle leaned across the table. “Does it bother you to have him watch you eat?” she whispered, motioning toward Stiles.
“No, I’m used to it.”
“Why does he have to be around all the time? Those other guys, too?”
Gillette hadn’t wanted to get into this so soon, but it was stupid to think she wouldn’t ask about it. Anyone would. “Isabelle, in my position I have enemies. Quentin is in charge of protecting me from them. But it’s just a precaution,” he assured her.
“Is that why the men held me last night when they found the knife in my coat? Why they made me stay here in the hotel? Because they thought I was your enemy.”
“They thought you might be working for someone.”
“I hope you know how silly that sounds. How could I possibly be working for anyone? Right?”
“Right.”
A faint alarm went off in Gillette’s head. It would have been easy for someone to find out about his connection to Jose and Selma. He’d been to their house in New Jersey at least six or seven times since moving them down there. He’d met Selma at a charity dinner in the early summer where she’d been the waitress for the table, and when the dinner was over, he’d asked about her family. Ironically, it turned out Jose had been laid off in a downsizing at Blalock, the power-tool manufacturer Everest owned. He’d been working at the Newark, New Jersey, plant—commuting from the Bronx—and lost his job when the factory installed robots. Before leaving, he’d asked Selma if he could meet Jose.
They’d met a week later, and he’d turned out to be perfect. Exactly what Gillette was looking for. A man who would be unfailingly loyal to a person who made his family’s life better. So Gillette had moved them to central New Jersey and gotten Jose another job.
“I mean, the idea that I would come to New York City with a knife to kill you is crazy,” she continued, her voice low. “It’s incredible that the men who work for you could even come up with that. The whole thing is ridiculous.”
Isabelle had shown up out of nowhere. Neither Jose nor Selma had ever mentioned anything about Isabelle until the night last week when he and Jose had come in off the deck and she’d suddenly appeared. Which meant, if there was something going on, Jose or Selma—or both—might be cooperating with someone. Which also meant that his order might not be carried out tonight. But then he’d know what the deal was.
