Tyler reached down into the duffel and removed a small boxlike device. He held it in the air and gazed at it. "You know, I always used to think a gadget like this was strictly the stuff of secret agents. Lo and behold, now every Joe off the street can own one. Spy stores, I tell you, they're amazing. Veritable meccas for James Bond wanna-bes everywhere." He pushed a button and began to wave the. device over my legs.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" I said, recoiling.
"Hey, you're the one with the recording fetish," he replied, moving the device up to my arms and torso.
I assured him, "I don't have a tape recorder on me."
"You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it. To be on the safe side, this little baby vibrates if you do. Pretty nifty. It also picks up wires. You ought to look into getting one."
"I'll make a note of it."
Tyler finished up on me with his little toy. He turned it off and put it back into the duffel bag.
"Are you sure you're satisfied?" I asked him sarcastically.
"Think of it this way," he said. "The choices were making you strip down, frisking you, or this. Be glad that it was this."
What a guy.
Sitting there listening to him, I happened to look over at the nurse and the elderly woman. The nurse had been watching us. Caught in the act, she quickly dropped her eyes back into the book and resumed her reading.
"Shall we talk money?" asked Tyler, cutting to the chase. It was the setup line for which I'd been waiting. I figured it was my last chance to reason with him.
"Seriously, Tyler, how do you expect me to pay you a hundred thousand dollars?" I asked.
"I don't," came his response. "I expect you to pay me a hundred and twenty-five thousand."
"What the hell are you talking about?! You said—"
"I know what I said. Except that's before you decided to flex your dick and walk out on our little lunch. Yes, the original price was a hundred thousand. The thing is, if you'd stuck around, you would have known that it was a one-time-only offer. You didn't stick around, though, did you? So now the new price — cha-ching! — is a hundred and twenty-five thousand. Ain't life a bitch?!"
That crazed look in Tyler's eyes, which up until that point had been dormant, was back, as well as his love of the interjection. Cha-ching?
"Tyler, there's one thing I've got to know," I began, trying to invoke my most sincere tone. "Why the hell are you doing this to me?"
"Doing what?"
"This! The whole blackmail thing. Why are you doing this to me?"
"I tend to think you did it to yourself."
"The affair? Okay, yeah, I fucked up. As for what the hell it has to do with you, though, I have no idea. If it's only about the money, then fine, I'll pay you the stinking money. But the more I think about it, the more I think there's something else going on here… some other reason for you doing this."
Tyler had but one thing to say. "Care to make it one fifty?"
I wisely backed off for a moment. Silence ensued. Again, I caught the nurse watching us. I still couldn't make out the book she was reading, though whatever it was, it was obviously nowhere near as interesting as the two guys talking on the bench across from her. I couldn't begin to imagine what she thought the little box was that the thin one with the duffel bag had been waving around.
I pressed Tyler again, this time on a different front. "C'mon, Tyler, is this really what you're all about, your reason for living?"
He wasn't buying. Not for a moment. "You know what your fucking problem is?!" he snapped. "You're not asking me this bullshit out of concern for me. You're asking so you might weigh on my conscience, that I might have a change of heart — two things that I lost a long time ago. It's you and only you that you're worried about, Philly, and don't think I don't know that. Guys like you give selfish a bad name. Me? I'm just out for some money. But you? You're out for it all. Fact is, I'm doing this to you because I can, Philly, and don't even try to pretend you can't relate to that philosophy. Fuck, you are that philosophy."
It was time to cut my losses. I knew a losing cause when I saw one. Including when it was my own.
"Okay, I'll pay you the money. We'll split the difference on the extra twenty-five and round up," I said matter-of-factly. "Call it one fifteen."
Tyler let go with a short laugh. "This isn't a flea market, you schmuck. The amount isn't negotiable. One hundred and twenty-five thousand to the penny, and I want it tomorrow. Certified bank check."
So much for saving myself ten grand. As for the part about the certified bank check, I had expected as much. The part about the next-day delivery, however, was out of the question.
"I can't do it by tomorrow," I said.
"Why not?"
"It's not just getting the money," I explained, "it's getting the money so it's not missed. Big difference. I've got to shuffle around some accounts, three-card monte the balances. This isn't exactly an ATM withdrawal, you know?"
"When, then?"
"End of the week. I'll call you," I said.
He nodded. "The beautiful thing is I know you will. Otherwise it's show-and-tell time with Tracy and the pictures."
"Which reminds me, I'll want all of them and the negatives, of course."
"Why? You don't trust me?" He laughed.
"Can't imagine why not."
"Fine. Pictures plus the negatives," he said. "Hell, I've already given you one of the shots back."
"Yeah, I saw. Nice of you to have stopped by my office like that."
"Nice of you not to have been there. You know, while you're at it, you might also want to think about a combination lock briefcase."
Better to ignore him. "As for the pictures… how do I know you didn't make an extra set to keep for yourself?" I asked.
"You don't, ultimately — it's not something I can prove to you. Blame it on Kodak, not me. In lieu of that, however, I thought I'd show you this." Tyler again reached down into the black duffel. He pulled out a business envelope. "Here," he said.
"What is it?"
"A little peace of mind, perhaps."
I opened the envelope. The first thing I saw was a big Delta Airlines logo. It was a one-way ticket to Bali in the name of Tyler Mills. First class, no less.
Tyler stuck out his arms and made "whoosh!" like an airplane. "I've got places to go and things to do, Philly. When our deal is done, I'll be out of here for good."
I put the ticket back in the envelope. "You're going to have to do better than that," I told him.
"That's where you're wrong," he said. "I don't have to do anything. You can take my word for it or you can take your chances and walk away again. Though I think you've learned by now that I'm not the bluffing type."
He had a point. There didn't seem to be much of a choice.
"Okay," I conceded, "but one more question. What if Tracy calls you before the end of this week to get together with you?"
"I set it up for the following week, naturally. You come through with the money and I postpone. After that, I disappear like I said, never to resurface again. She'll get over it, and you can continue to fuck Jessica all you want. By the way, did I mention how wonderful it was to meet her? I mean — wow! — she's even more lovely in person. Of course, I imagine her husband, Connor, must feel the same way. Man, the set of cojones on you, Philly! All of you breaking bread together like there's nothing going on. Pretty fucking amazing."
I'd had about enough. "Are we done here?" I said.
"We're done. Just don't disappoint me again."
I stood up and looked over at the elderly woman and her nurse, except they were no longer there. The bench was empty. I thought for sure that I would have seen them leave.
Before walking away I turned back to Tyler. "You know, there was a time when you and I were friends," I said to him.
Replied Tyler, "You were never my friend."
I called Gwen from the street and told her that I wouldn't be returning to the office. "Is everything all righ
t?" she asked me. It was a question I'd been hearing a lot in the last week. I told her that I appreciated her concern although none was needed. I could tell she knew I was lying.
Twenty blocks, I must have walked. The nine-to-fivers were beginning to spill out of the office buildings and fill the sidewalks on their way home. I, on the other hand, had no destination in mind. That is, until I looked up and saw the sign for an Irish pub. I ducked in and took a seat at the bar. Never was a drink-and-think session more in order.
The place was nearly empty. Hollow was more like it. Scattered patrons, mostly male and mostly older, talking either to each other or themselves. After the bartender set me up, I tried to sort through the events that had brought me to where I was — the proverbial back against the wall.
I got to thinking. To pay or not to pay?
If not paying was going to cost me my marriage and nothing more, maybe I could cope. Tracy and I didn't exactly have a never-ending love story going on. Losing out on the loft and all the money where it came from would be a tremendous kick in the wallet, but when all was said and done, I'd still be making a good living at Campbell & Devine.
Were it only that simple.
Lawrence Metcalf could giveth and he could taketh away. My screwing over his Precious would cost Campbell & Devine dearly. Beyond the clients that Lawrence had initially helped bring to the firm, he and his old-boy network would see to it that others walked as well, or never came aboard at all. You could bet on it. It was how the game worked. It wouldn't matter that we were the Green Berets of law. When you're blackballed you're blackballed, and as much as Jack Devine could be sympathetic to my plight as a guy caught with his pants down, he'd know there'd be only one way to halt the carnage. He may have thought of me as a son, but I had little doubt that when it came to his law firm, it was billings before any perceived bloodlines. I'd be out on my ass for sure.
Then there was Connor. It was bad enough that I was sleeping with his wife. As far as being a friend to him, I had no delusions. Still, how could I add insult to injury by allowing him to find out? There was no telling how hard he would take it.
No telling at all.
So I pay, right? As much as I loathed the idea of giving one penny to Tyler and being taken advantage of in that way, I'd suck it up. A hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars was a lot of money, but it was money that I had. Or at least had access to. Give it to him and be done with it.
Again, were it only that simple.
The only assurance I had that paying Tyler off would be the end of the ordeal was Tyler himself. It wasn't much of an assurance. A one-way ticket to Bali? Nice touch. It didn't mean he wasn't coming back, and if he did, who was to say he wasn't coming back for more? After all, as Tyler had pointed out to me himself, he no longer had a conscience.
I was starting to know the feeling.
Who the hell was Tyler Mills to think that he could waltz into my life and take it over? And what kind of life did I have if I simply rolled over and let him do it?
Time for a change of plans, I thought.
The beautiful thing about desperation, I mean real desperation, is how it manages to lift every self-imposed barrier from your being. It washes away every line drawn in the sand and erases every preconceived notion you may have had about yourself. In other words, it's complete freedom.
I knew I wasn't a saint, but I didn't see myself as capable of killing. Not that I didn't feel a certain justification. I was being blackmailed, after all. So after a little rationalization and a lot of Jameson whiskey, it was settled.
Before he could take away my life, I would take away his.
TWENTY
"Son of a bitch!" said Paul Valentine.
"Motherfucker!" said Danny Markelson.
"Cocksucker!" said Steve Lisker.
Yeah, it's pretty amazing what a little green felt spread out over an innocent round table will do to the vocabulary of grown men. Jack Devine had just thrown down a full boat to best a king-high flush, a Broadway straight, and trip queens with an ace kicker. It was something like his twentieth pot of the night. As Jack raked in the chips with his arms spread like he was hugging a California redwood, he couldn't resist rubbing it in. "You know, you guys should really check out my instructional video." The quip got a chuckle out of Davis Chapinski, the only other guy not in the hand other than myself. He knew to fold when Jack first raised. Then again, Davis Chapinski played so tight he could have shot golf balls out of his ass.
All in all, it was quite the cast of characters. Wealthy clients and other influentials gathered together at Keens Steakhouse in a private back room that up until that evening I had never known existed.* The dinner tab, as was apparently the custom, had been picked up by Jack. Although it was no doubt a magnanimous gesture on his part, I couldn't help thinking that it was more akin to putting bait on a hook. Feed 'em for five hundred dollars at the start of the evening. Fuck 'em for five thousand by the end of it. If not a lot more.
My playing experience was limited to the occasional game back in college, as well as a couple of sit-ins with the grinders down in Atlantic City.
Footnote *Old-line New Yorkers will remember that the restaurant used to go by a slightly different name: Keens Chop-house. I never knew officially why they changed it, though I had a hunch that some marketing consultant probably sat down with the owners at one point and explained that they could capture more of the ever-lucrative, expense-account-toting, meat-eating male demographic if they dropped the "Chop" in favor of "Steak." Never mind that the place had been called Keens Chophouse for roughly a century. Such was the restaurant business on the island of Manhattan that you'd do pretty much anything if it meant even a mere .07 percent increase in gross receipts.
While that and a token could get me on the subway, I knew enough not to waste my time sizing up the competition as we were eating. There was no point. Only when we got down to dealing the cards could anything worthwhile be gleaned. That was the beauty of poker. The Great Equalizer. It didn't matter if you hailed from the mail room or the boardroom, were handsome or butt ugly, the game was the game and you either played it well or you didn't.
The seals of two brand-new decks were broken promptly at 8 p.m. Buy-in was for three grand. (Thus the envelope of thirty hundreds Jack had given me at the office.) Were I to need more chips over the course of the evening, it was explained to me that a personal check made out to cash was the accepted procedure. Indeed, the rich were always good for it. As for the betting, antes were twenty-five dollars a pop and there was a fifty-dollar ceiling on all raises until eleven-thirty. After that, things were to get a little funky, with pot-limit stakes for the last half hour bringing the game to an agreed-upon end at midnight. It was kind of like a metaphor for life. You could spend the majority of it playing all your cards right, but one wrong move at the wrong time, and like that, you could lose everything.
As for the aforementioned players...
Paul Valentine was the one sitting to my immediate left, the same Paul Valentine as in Valentine & Company, one of the city's premier public relations firms. You name the government official or Fortune 500 company and odds are that Valentine at one time or another counted them among his clients. The word access comes to mind. (For sure it had come to Jack Devine's mind.) Valentine was tall, with a Catholic-school posture that made him seem that much taller. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and a half grin that seemed to imply he knew something good that you didn't. No doubt he did.
Moving clockwise, there was New York magazine cover boy Danny Markelson. Entrepreneur extraordinaire. One record label, two Soho art galleries, and a host of other right-brain-inspired ventures across the country. His latest coup had been developing a line of trendy supermarket-bought pastas intended to create — in addition to huge profits — racial and religious harmony. The Payos Pasta (fusilli) was a big hit. But my favorite by far was the black squid ink fettuccine, or Rasta Pasta, as it was called. Pretty ingenious. Though it may not have played well in Peoria
, in every bustling metropolis the folks were literally eating it up. An avid sailor, Markelson had the look down to a tee. Jeans, docksiders, Polo shirt, gold Rolex. It all matched perfectly with his curly blond, unkempt hair, two-day growth, and Revo-stenciled tan face. If the guy had looked any more relaxed, I would've felt the need to check for a pulse.
To Markelson's left was Steve Lisker, portly CEO of BioLink, the genetic-engineering company. Gruff, hard-nosed, and abrasive. An SOB with a Ph.D. I liked him instantly. A year back Lisker had gotten wind that a certain well-known publication was about to run a critical expose on him claiming that his scientists had already successfully cloned a human embryo. Lisker placed a call to Jack and Jack sprang into action, threatening to plague the parent company of the publication with everything from lawsuits to locusts. Needless to say, the article never saw the light of day. Which is not to say that it wasn't 100 percent accurate. Only that it wasn't in one of our paying clients' best interests.
Next to Lisker sat Jack in his Brioni best, and finally, to Jack's left and my immediate right, was Davis Chapinski. Bought Microsoft at eleven in the eighties, Cisco at fourteen in the nineties. Fucking Nostradamus. If it hadn't been for the fact that he had a face only a mother could love, I would've been insanely jealous.
That was the table.
"Seven-card stud, high spade in the hole splits the pot," said the PR man, Valentine. With his last shuffle he placed the deck to his right, directly in front of me. I promptly cut the cards and prepared myself yet again for his carnival routine of ascribing a catch phrase to each and every card he dealt up. Tremendously annoying. Particularly because he had this overwhelming compulsion to rhyme everything. "The eighter from Decatur, the five to stay alive, the six just for kicks…." I'm sure Valentine thought he was entertaining. Much as I'm sure a Vegas lounge singer thinks of himself as entertaining.
With two down and one up dealt to everyone, I peeled up the corners of a ten of spades and a three of diamonds. Jesus. With my six of hearts door card I was blessed with yet another intriguing combination of nothing. Ten, three, six, off-suit. It didn't get much worse than that. Though with the way my cards were running, I didn't want to speak too soon.
THE UP AND COMER Page 14
