“I did. Criminal trial. A redneck pederast from Everglades City who raped a little Hispanic boy in Immokalee.”
Garza lit a cigarette as they walked into the house.
“I remember the story. As if those poor people out there don’t have enough trouble. What happened?”
“The guy pleaded out before it went to the jury. Lucky for him. We were ready to kill the bastard ourselves.”
“Don’t worry; it’s a death sentence for him. They don’t mess around with that kind of scum down here. The cons at Raiford will deal with it. But tell me, Christian, what do you say in court when they ask about your occupation? I’ve always wondered.”
“Pest Control Specialist.”
They both laughed.
CHAPTER 10 – AN ADORING PRESS
“Watch your ass in Miami,” Dudley Mack said as he drove Scarne to catch the 7 A.M. ferry to Manhattan Monday morning. “It’s a rough town, despite all the Chamber of Commerce bullshit. Third world. If you get jammed up, I know people who owe me down there. Big time”
“I’m sure you do. Some of them may even be out on bail. If I spot anybody following me wearing a ski cap, I’ll call 911.”
“Anybody ever tell you you’re an asshole?”
“You, all the time,” Scarne said as he got out of the car and with a wave waded into the throng of half-somnolent commuters.
He was in his apartment by 8 A.M. He had purchased the one-bedroom at 2 Fifth Avenue, just above Washington Square Park in the East Village, with most of his inheritance. Now, he probably couldn’t afford to sell it. The flats in the 40-year-old, 18-story building apartment were almost twice as large as those in newer buildings. Scarne had almost 1,600 square feet of living space, and that didn’t include all the closets, two of which were walk-ins. To get comparable value, he’d have to move back to Montana.
The apartment was sparsely furnished. He told people it was “manly” or “Spartan.” In truth, he couldn’t make up his mind on the décor. Living in the Village didn’t make a decision easier. There were so many antique and specialty shops around he found himself changing his mind every week. The women who occasionally slept over were not Spartan in their opinions or suggestions. A couple had even “dropped off” paintings or accent pieces, most of which quickly took up residence in the back of a closet (unless the gifter was scheduled for a return visit). That didn’t happen often. Scarne valued his privacy. Besides, the majority of his flings preferred their own beds.
The apartment was not totally bereft of refinement, thanks to the burnished St. George Rosewood chess set on a Staunton pedestal game table in his living room. He had debated putting the set in his office, but thought that would be a bit much. Both table and set had belonged to his grandfather and were nonnegotiable in any redecorating scheme. At the moment Scarne, a good college player whose game had improved under fire in pick-up games in Washington Square Park, was engaged in a tough battle with an Internet player who was using a confounded Ruy Lopez defense. It was Scarne’s move, and he had been mulling it for days.
He was just getting out of the shower when Evelyn called.
“I just got off the phone with a fellow named Nigel Blue.”
“As in red, white and…”
“Yes. He works for Randolph Shields.”
That didn’t take long, Scarne thought.
“What did he want?”
“Mr. Shields would like you to be his guest tonight on the corporate yacht. La dee dah.”
“That’s the name of the yacht?”
“No, you goose. That’s my comment on your recently exalted status. The name of the yacht is Emerald of the Seas and she is supposed to be a beauty. Anyway, Randolph is hosting some sort of party. Starts at six. They can send a car for you. What do you want me to tell Mr. Blue?”
“That I will be delighted. It will give me a chance to wear my tie with the little sailboats on it.”
***
“The 52-story New York Times Building, designed by noted Italian architect Renzo Piano and constructed almost exclusively with recycled steel, is the seventh-tallest building in the United States and one of the most energy efficient in the world. Located on the east side of Eighth Avenue between 40th and 41st Streets across from the Port Authority Bus Terminal, it features a natural gas cogeneration plant, an exterior tinted-glass curtain wall that gives the illusion of transparency and 18,000 individually-dimmable fluorescent lights. It also has under-floor air distribution, a free-air cooling system that brings outside air inside and mechanized shades to reduce glare.”
Robert Huber looked up from the glossy brochure.
“I really like the next part.”
“There is no on-site parking, although building managers recently established indoor space for 20 bicycles.”
“This is all very fascinating,” Scarne said, passing a coffee and bagel across the desk. “Cinnamon with a smear, right?”
“They never should have built the fucking thing,” Huber said, biting a huge chunk out of the bagel. “They sold the old building for $175 million in 2004, and in 2007 the new owners, a bunch of sharks, resold it for $525 million. This joint cost a billion. Do the math. I warned them.”
Indeed he had, Scarne recalled. With 34 years at “the paper of record” Huber was a true journalistic dinosaur. Even though he favored grey three-piece suits, maroon ties and cordovan wingtips, he had the waspish mien of a tough police reporter. He kept his white hair in a buzz cut and his stocky build hinted more of muscle than fat. All you had to know about Huber was the legendary – and documented – incident when he demanded cab fare from a pistol-wielding mugger who had just relieved him of his wallet. And got it.
He was also a fearless and prescient reporter. In a series of articles in the Times business section he had explained why the nation’s real estate boom could not be sustained. The extensively researched stories noted that even if Manhattan prices held up better in a crash, media companies facing new competition should preserve capital or invest only in new technologies, not bricks and mortar. While he never mentioned The New York Times by name, it was clear who he meant, especially within the walls of the old building at 229 West 43rd Street, where he lobbied against the new edifice. Huber was something of an embarrassment to management, which was now shedding staff and drastically cutting costs to service a huge debt load. Not surprisingly, they offered him a buyout. Also not surprisingly, he refused and with a George Polk business award in his quiver, they had to put up with him. He was moved off the real estate beat, however, and now covered Wall Street. (“Same catastrophe, different pew,” he said.)
Scarne and Huber were sitting in a starship-like newsroom overlooking the ground-floor gardens. All around them were the accoutrements of modern media. Reporters sat in front of the latest computers, working their iPhones, Blackberries or more advanced wireless devices (Scarne found it hard to keep up), occasionally glancing at wall-mounted plasma televisions and their streaming news: An electronic sea of instant information designed to make the organization they worked for obsolete. Some of the brightest minds on the planet were in this building, Scarne knew, and while he often disagreed with the “paper of record,” especially its frequently facile dismissal of the traditions and collective memory of the society that protected it, he believed that its demise would be one more indication that the barbarians at the gate had the code that would unlock civilization’s protective keypad. To his mind, too many people relied on the Internet, which for all its power and promise was becoming a lowest-common-denominator sewer of libel, scandal and vulgarity.
“What’s the pastry bribe for,” Huber mumbled with a mouthful of bagel.
“What can you tell me about Victor Ballantrae?”
“Why?”
Scarne sighed. Over the years the two had traded favors, but Scarne was at least one down to Huber and the reporter wanted to let him know.
“When you ask about someone,” Huber said, “it’s usually because a bowel movement is abo
ut to hit the fan. So, I get curious. It’s what they underpay me for. Why do you want to know about Ballantrae?”
“I think he landed in a spaceship at Area 51 and is really a lizard.”
“Well, that’s OK, then. As long as there’s not a story in it for me.”
“So, what about him?”
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Nope.”
“That’s it? I bend over for a fucking bagel?”
“And I’ll buy you dinner at The Waverly Inn.”
“This century? No way. You ain’t got the clout.”
“Yeah, I do” Or rather, Dudley Mack did. “And I’ll renew my Times subscription.”
“Now you’re talking. Every little bit helps around here. But why don’t you just Google the guy? That’s what these numbnuts do for background.” Huber made a dismissive wave at reporters nearby, making sure he could be overheard. An attractive young woman at the next desk gave him the finger.
“I did. Mostly PR stuff. He’s apparently the second coming. I thought you might provide something more down to earth.”
“To tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking about pitching a piece on Ballantrae to the bullpen.” Huber smiled and lowered his voice. “After I Goggled him, I made some calls. I hear he’s looking to make a big move into the media. Couple of interesting names being thrown around. Tri-City Communications, Shields, even this place, though management insists the Old Grey Lady isn’t for sale.”
Scarne kept his face impassive at the mention of Shields, but Huber must have noticed something.
“Is that it, Jake? You doing some due diligence for a takeover target? I could use some confirmation. My editors get nervous when I look into anything to do with the media.”
“I don’t work for any potential takeover target.” It wasn’t really a lie, Scarne rationalized. “Satisfied? Now can we get to it?”
Huber reached into his desk, pulled out a reporter’s notebook and began flipping pages.
“Victor Ballantrae is 45 years old, born in Australia and a billionaire. He’s also a citizen of Antigua, which may knight him, so he’d be Sir Victor.”
“Antigua has knights?”
“Days, too. Sorry. Yeah. It’s an honorary thing. If you have enough money, you can get the title. You know what I say, at my age once a knight is enough.”
Huber’s cell phone buzzed. He picked it up and listened for a minute.
“Oh, for Christ sake! Just find out who it is and tell ‘em we’ll evict them if they don’t stop. I know it’s a stupid fuckin’ law. But we have to be purer than Caesar’s wife. Caesar. Julius. He was – shit, never mind. Just do it.”
He flipped the phone onto his desk and looked at Scarne.
“My super. Can you believe it? Indian guy in my building is bitching about another tenant smoking. Threatening to go to City Hall. Says it’s coming through the vents.” Huber and a couple of older editors owned a small SRO building in the Bowery. It didn’t surprise Scarne that Huber handled complaints. “Might not even be on his floor. I don’t know how he can even smell it. You can smell the curry crap he makes in Hoboken.” Sighing loudly, he went back to flipping pages.
“Anyway, Ballantrae recently applied for American citizenship. He’s his own fucking UN. Apparently never been married, but his early years are a black hole. According to the corporate bio bullshit he led a hardscrabble life in the outback then made a fortune in mining and insurance before getting into banking. Arrived in the U.S. with a shitpot of money and then branched out into the Caribbean, setting up a big international bank in Antigua. Also very successful in the Texas oil patch, real estate and in insurance again. Over the last five years or so, he has moved aggressively into financial services. He owns homes in Houston, Miami, Colorado, Antigua, and London, and a 120-foot yacht. You ever see it? It’s over at Chelsea pier.”
“No, I haven’t,” Scarne replied. He didn’t mention that he would be on the Shields yacht in a few hours.
“Then there’s the three jets and, if you count all the dough he’s spread around, Antigua and several American Congressmen who oversee offshore banking.”
“Sounds like a self-made man,” Scarne said. “Nothing wrong with that. Anything make you suspicious? Why were you thinking about doing a story?”
Huber threw his notebook on his desk and sat back.
“Ballantrae may have cut some corners moving so fast into financial services. There’s been a few minor run-ins with the S.E.C. But he’s never been accused of any criminality. My sources tell me that he’s getting a reputation on Wall Street for sharp elbows. Could be sour grapes. He’s beginning to grab deals from established players and snapping up their talent. But even his rivals give him credit for his philanthropic work. A lot of people think he’s a breath of fresh air on Wall Street. The new paradigm after what we’ve been through.”
Huber picked up his coffee and tilted his chair back.
“That sets my bullshit antenna tingling. Tell you a story. When I was covering Wall Street the first time in the mid-80’s, I sat in on a meeting with the top editors, people who couldn’t find their asshole with a GPS system now. They wanted their reporters to prepare glowing profiles on the brilliant financiers who were then changing the paradigm – there’s that word again – of Wall Street. They asked my opinion. I said it was a marvelous idea because when the people we profiled got indicted we’d scoop everyone else.” Huber sat forward and laughed, almost spilling his coffee. “You’d have thought I farted in church! I told them that I didn’t know what their superstars were doing but it had to be illegal. Couple of months later, Boesky, Milken and the rest were busted. Twenty-five years later, it was Madoff, Drier, Stanford. All of whom got their balls licked by an adoring press before the cuffs came out. Things never change. Ballantrae may be legit, but he fits my profile for shysterism. He has a piece of a couple of casinos in Vegas and the Caribbean. They say he’s his own best customer and drops two, three hundred grand a night. He’s also a fanatic golfer and plays at all the best clubs, usually for very high stakes.”
“So what? So do I.”
“Ten, twenty grand a match?”
“Well, no.”
“Didn’t think so, hotshot. Then there’s the broads. Always a model on his arm. Not a bad looking guy. Big bastard. Don’t know what more I can tell you. If you come across anything you’ll let me have it, won’t you? You owe me.”
“I gave you Barnes and Taliger before anyone else,” Scarne said.
“Yeah. Great story. I got to like those fruitcakes. Completely unrepentant. Told me it wasn’t like they put fingers in the chili at a restaurant. Only sued ‘blood-sucking brokers,’ as they put it. Personally, I’m glad they didn’t do any time. By the way, they think you had something to do with that. Did you?”
“I put in a good word for them, but I think their restitution had more to do with it.” Scarne laughed. “They sent me a Christmas card.”
“Me, too. Well, they know real estate. Helped me on a couple of stories. More than you’ve done lately.”
They walked out of the newsroom together.
“I can’t believe it’s so quiet in here,” Scarne said.
“Newspapering went to hell when they switched from hot to cold type,” Huber said. “When I started, it took time for the composing room to punch out the linotype and arrange the words. We had a couple of hours between editions and could run out for a real dinner and some drinks. Hell, I could go to the Village, Chinatown, Little Italy. Mix with people; find out what the fuck was really going on. Now, with computers, there’s maybe a half hour between editions. These kids rarely get out into the real world. They’re glued to their computers. Of course, it may all be academic. We’re facing extinction.”
“Why don’t you take a buyout?”
“And give up my bicycle slot?”
CHAPTER 11 – EMERALD OF THE SEAS
The sleek black limousine pulled up to the 23rd Street dock next to Chelsea P
iers. Scarne got out and gazed in admiration at the Emerald of the Seas, the magnificent seagoing yacht that was the most visible symbol of the Shields media empire. At a time when corporate bigwigs were shedding private jets and other the trappings of their wealth, the family stubbornly held on to the yacht, which for years had entertained advertisers, lobbyists, politicians and movie stars. It had been featured in both Bond and Bourne movies and its lounges and staterooms were the staple of architecture and fashion spreads in two-pound coffee-table books that invariably highlighted the huge oval bed on which Randolph Shields reportedly entertained many starlets half his age.
Other limos and taxis pulled up, disgorging a cross-section of New York’s cultural, media, political and financial elite. Scarne recognized at least two of Wall Street’s recently disgraced CEOs heading up the gangplank with their slim and spectacular trophy wives. Not the gangplank they deserve, he thought.
“Mr. Scarne?”
He tuned to see a thin black man wearing a Hugo Boss suit.
“I'm Nigel Blue, Mr. Shields's assistant. Thanks for coming on such short notice. Please follow me. Have you ever been on the Emerald, Mr. Scarne?”
“No. She’s a beauty. Must be 200 foot.”
“Just under. Mr. Shields named her after his daughter, Emerald...Emma.”
“Beats the hell out of Randolph of the Seas.”
Blue started to say something but was drowned out as a helicopter circled the ship, hovered and finally landed on a small pad behind the bridge.
“Mr. Shields is hosting a short cruise up the Hudson tonight,” Blue explained as the copter’s whine decreased. “It’s the first of the season and rather special. Some guests have flown in. We pick them up at the airports.”
Two white-coated stewards were checking in guests at the top of the gangplank. Both wore little blue berets. Blue nodded at them and he and Scarne jumped the line. As they walked down the length of the yacht Scarne peered into several lounges where bars were already doing a good business and more stewards were passing canapés.
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