by Davis Bunn
Ethan rose from his seat, filled with an electric sensation of things coming together. He knew what he was going to do.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Adrian’s firm was located in the Allstate building. The high-rise had been sold after Allstate stopped insuring homes in hurricane-struck Florida. But of course that wouldn’t happen for another twenty years.
Ethan parked in one of the law firm’s guest slots, took the elevator to the fifteenth floor, and exchanged hellos with a receptionist who was clearly disappointed when he did not remember her name. He wore the best clothes he had found in the packing crate he used as a clothes cupboard—unironed chinos, scuffed boat shoes, and an Izod knit shirt so ancient the lizard was frayed around the edges. Ethan ignored the stares shot his way by the Armani brigade clustered to one side. He soon lost himself in the Time magazine article.
His brother stepped into the reception area and announced, “Okay, everybody, can I have your attention? This young stud here is Ethan Barrett, who just won the Florida Pro-Am in killer surf.” Adrian did his version of a television game-show hostess presenting the car of the day. “Beat last year’s runner-up for the world title in the quarters, no less. All hail the conquering hero.”
The shock was worse than he had imagined. There alongside Adrian’s grin was the misery of loss, the pain of seeing his brother’s coffin lowered into the ground.
Ethan barely managed, “I came in second.”
“Don’t pay my modest brother any mind. He was robbed. NBC says so.”
Adrian hauled him back through the arena of researchers and legal aides and secretaries, one arm locked around Ethan’s neck, introducing him to everybody, taking great pleasure in Ethan’s embarrassment. When they arrived in his office, Adrian said, “There’s half a dozen young lovelies out there who’ve semi-volunteered to have your children.”
“Lay off, man.”
“What, lay off? You’re the closest to a famous face these people are likely to see.” Adrian dropped into his leather executive chair. “Take a load off, bro.”
Ethan gripped the arms of his chair and struggled desperately to maintain control. “It’s good to see you.”
“Did you call to say you were coming? Because I don’t recall seeing that memo.”
“I didn’t know where I was going until an hour before I left.” His voice sounded strangled to his own ears. “I needed to get away.”
“Sure, I get that. Only, I’m leaving in . . .” Adrian checked his watch, a gold Rolex. Naturally. “Eight hours.”
“New York. I know.”
Adrian’s sideways glance took Ethan straight back. It was his brother’s tell, a hard inspection that was partly masked by how fast and indirect it came. Adrian became overly casual. “Must be important, whatever brought you north.”
In that instant, Ethan realized that his brother already knew.
The first time around, he had been too preoccupied with all he had bottled up inside to notice. But as he sat there and studied the man he thought lost and gone forever, he realized his brother was waiting to hear that Ethan was checking out.
That could only mean one thing. Ethan had been laying down hints for some time. Planting seeds. Why? Had he suspected all along that he would lose the contest? Had he planned this departure in advance of the contest, regardless of what happened? His head spun with the sudden flush of fear that everything this time around was actually different. What he remembered no longer applied. Events were not the same, his memories didn’t mesh . . .
Adrian began shifting his chair in tight quarter circles, an unconscious motion that mirrored the billing clock he was always tracking. “Sorry, bro, but I’m due to meet opposing counsel in a big case.”
The words were exactly what Ethan needed to clarify his direction. He did not have time to doubt. If the threat was real, he needed to act. He needed to act now.
Ethan said, “The situation involving Sonya’s company.”
“You’ve been paying attention. Yeah, the attorneys for the opposition are coming in today. Basically their goal is to tell us our case isn’t all that great. But Sonya insists we take them on in court.” Adrian glared at the blank yellow pad on his desk as if angry the page did not hold answers. “I can’t say I blame Sonya. Her life’s work is on the line.”
Ethan did not remember his brother being so stressed over his wife’s court case. He knew Sonya had been working on an alternative method for treating chronic pain and her investors had suddenly decided to buy her out. But Adrian’s raw blend of fear and pressure and anger was something new.
Ethan pushed away the uncertainty and said, “About New York.”
Adrian slowly refocused on the room and his brother. “I’m flying up with the partners today. Sonya follows tonight. We really need this break. We’ll have two days together, then it’s back to the trenches for us both.”
“Can I come?” Ethan said what he had decided on the drive. “I won’t attend the matches. And I guarantee to stay out of your way. I have an investment opportunity. Something that’s just happened.”
Adrian studied him a long moment. He had been trying for years to get Ethan to join him for the US Open, Adrian’s all-time favorite sporting event. He lifted the phone, punched a button, and said, “Gloria, call the hotel and see if they can add one more room to our booking. I know . . . Still, try to sweet-talk them. That’s my girl.” He hung up the phone. “So what’s your business plan, a new line of bikinis?”
“This is real, Adrian.”
“Is that so.”
“Real enough that I’m investing all my winnings.” Ethan showed his brother the second-place check.
“What? All of it?”
“Every cent. And I need your help. I don’t have time for this to clear, and I need the money tomorrow.”
“You’re asking me to give you”—he took the check and inspected it carefully—“twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“In cash. Please.”
Adrian gave Ethan another dose of that tight courtroom gaze. “Is it drugs?”
“What? No, Adrian, this is totally legit.”
“Is it.”
“I have never lied to you.”
“No, that’s true enough.” When his phone rang, Adrian answered while still staring at the check. “Yes, Gloria. Did they. A last-minute cancellation. What do you know. Okay, book it in my brother’s name, please. And try to get him a seat on our flight up. Thanks. No, wait, Gloria, I need you to do something else. Come in here, please.”
When he hung up the phone, Ethan said, “Thanks for trusting me. It means a lot.”
“Sign the back and make it out to the firm.” Adrian watched his brother. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Ethan struggled through several responses, then settled on, “This could be a major breakthrough.”
“Seeing as how you’re investing the first real money you’ve ever had, I sure hope so.” Adrian looked up at a knock on his door. “Come in, Gloria. I need a draw from petty cash, please.”
“Okay. Congratulations, Ethan.” She accepted the check. “How do you want this?”
“Whatever. Hundreds would be fine. Thanks.”
Adrian continued to show Ethan that hard courtroom stare. “Add another five thou and put it down to my account, Gloria.”
“Right away. Oh, and downstairs reception just phoned. You asked to be informed when Jimmy Carstairs and his team arrived.”
“Put them in conference room B, please. And call Hank and say my brother’s coming over. Tell him I want Ethan made ready to meet clients, and Hank is to put everything on my tab.” When the door shut, Adrian said, “Three things. First, I insist on sharing some of the risk. You can’t just go and dump it all. I want you to hold a little back as a buffer. And don’t argue with me.”
Ethan fought down yet another surge of emotion. Adrian had always been there for him. Up until their final confrontation. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m not done. There’s a men’s shop across the street. I want you to go over there and buy a jacket, a suit, dress slacks, a sweater, some dress shirts, shoes, a couple of ties . . . No arguments, Ethan. Ask for Hank.”
Ethan had to swallow twice before he could say, “And number three?”
“Get a haircut. You’ll be traveling with the big dogs. You need to look the part.” Adrian was already rising from behind his cluttered desk, shifting through the piles of papers and coming up with a couple of thick files. “We meet downstairs at four. Cars will take us to the airport. Be on time.”
“Thanks, bro,” Ethan said. But he was already talking to an empty room.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Ethan flew to New York in an outfit unlike any he’d owned before. The trip itself was part of a growing divide between his memories and the new reality.
His brother had captained the University of Florida tennis team through two winning seasons. Adrian’s passion for professional tennis was real and enduring. Every year since joining the firm, Adrian traveled to the US Open in New York. Big firms like his had at least a couple of events they used for client stroking. Adrian happily served as the firm’s official host whenever his caseload permitted.
The clients kept Adrian occupied throughout the trip. When their plane landed at LaGuardia, a pair of black town cars swept them into Manhattan, where they had a block of rooms at the Waldorf Astoria. Ethan had been there once, on a holiday with his ex-wife. It had been a last attempt at patching things up, an expense they could not really afford. But they had gone anyway, and it had been a miserable failure. Now he stood in the art deco lobby, filled with remorse over things that had not yet happened.
Adrian guided him into the bar, where the firm and their clients took over a trio of tables and regaled each other with tales from other moments on the tennis world circuit. Ethan listened to them take excited pleasure in what everyone assumed would be America’s year.
World tennis had become increasingly dominated by foreign players. But this year would be different. Everyone said so. John McEnroe and Chris Evert Lloyd were expected to bring the trophies back where they belonged.
Only Ethan knew it would not turn out that way.
The first go-round, Adrian had phoned Ethan most evenings, offering a quick recap of the day’s events. But really what his brother intended with the calls was to be there in the midst of Ethan’s own contest loss. Adrian had done what he always did in the bad times. He made sure Ethan knew he wasn’t alone.
Those phone calls had formed the last significant bond the brothers ever shared.
The next morning, Ethan met with Adrian’s group before they headed out for the first round at Flushing Meadows. As he walked with Adrian to the door, his brother offered, “I could probably get you tickets for the early-round matches.”
“I told you,” Ethan said, “I’m here on business.”
“What happened to taking time off to celebrate?”
“I am, in a way.” Ethan followed his brother out the Waldorf’s front door. “Have a great day.”
“Watching Jimmy Connors clean the decks, you kidding? What could be better?” Adrian gave him five seconds of the laser stare. “You sure you’re doing the right thing?”
“Yes. I am.”
Adrian nodded and kept whatever concerns he had inside. “You’ll tell me what’s going on when we can kick back alone?”
“Everything you want to know,” Ethan replied. “Everything you can handle.”
“Well, you clean up good, I’ll give you that much.” Adrian strode to the limo’s open door, then turned back and said, “Be careful. Do that for me. You’re the only brother I’ve got.”
Ethan waved him off, then went back upstairs for the Samsonite briefcase he had bought the previous evening. He spent another long moment at the bathroom mirror, inspecting a man he had never seen before. He had not owned a decent outfit until he returned from his global trek. Now he stood in a Hugo Boss jacket and gabardine trousers, polished Bally loafers, and a haircut that was a vast improvement on his previous unkempt style.
He retrieved the manila envelopes holding his cash from the hotel safe, took a taxi to Penn Central, then hopped on the next train heading south by east to his new place of business.
CHAPTER
NINE
Atlantic City was a town made for the blues.
That was the strongest impression Ethan had, strolling from the train station to the boardwalk. Behind the rising hulks of the glitzy new shorefront casinos stretched block after block of sheer misery. Even the brightest shop looked tawdry, as if the signs were meant to mock everyone who passed.
The sea breeze was welcoming, but little else gave Ethan any sense that he was where he belonged. The people were pasty white and brash as only New Jersey locals could be. They showed a lifetime’s experience of ignoring everyone else and focusing on whatever it was they wanted next.
Ethan walked through the summertime crowds, utterly alone.
He chose the Trump Casino first. It was still new and glistening and full of promise. The hotel’s bankruptcies and the boardwalk’s decline were all in the future. Atlantic City was busy reinventing itself as a New England alternative to Las Vegas. The day was filled with the sound of jackhammers, and the sky was etched with skeletal cranes.
A smiling hostess greeted him as he entered the vast lobby. He passed through the main casino, the tables already crowded at eleven in the morning. Beside the bar were the betting windows. The only one with no line was for hundred-dollar-plus bets. Ethan approached that window.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to place a bet on the US Open.”
“What round?”
“The finals. Men’s and women’s singles.” He was fairly certain he also remembered who had won the men’s doubles, but he couldn’t be sure. He had decided to limit himself to the two events where his memories were clearest. If his memories applied at all.
The woman was attractive in a hard-edged fashion, with heavily caked makeup and eyes of brown glass. “You want to place one bet on both, or two separate?”
“What’s the difference in the odds?”
In reply, she lifted the phone and dialed. Ethan could not hear what she said until she leaned toward her mike and asked, “Who are you backing?”
Ethan glanced at the line of bettors to his left and hesitated.
The woman had clearly seen it all. Wordlessly she slid a piece of paper and pen through the money slot. Ethan wrote on it and slipped it back.
She spoke into the phone, then leaned forward and asked, “What’s the size of your bet?”
Ethan motioned for the paper again. This time she sighed her exasperation, at least until he returned the page and she read what he had written. She glanced at him, read it again. Then she cupped her hand around the receiver, hiding her conversation. She watched Ethan as she waited for a response. They waited for what seemed like hours.
Finally she said, “Twelve to one on the women’s, fourteen on the men’s. If you go for both, thirty to one.”
“I’ll take them both together.”
She spoke into the phone another time. “One moment.”
Ethan started to object to another round of waiting, but he saw the blockade in her gaze and knew he had to do what she said. He realized he was sweating. His legs were trembling slightly. Eighteen-foot waves were apparently easier to handle than placing a bet.
A door beside the bettors’ windows clicked open. “US Open, right?” The man wore a suit of sharkskin grey and a Countess Mara tie, his silver hair razored to precision, his face mechanically tanned.
“Uh, yes.”
“This way, sir.”
Ethan saw another man lurking farther back, a brute in navy serge, and said, “Thanks, I’d rather stay where I am.”
The guy was as polite as he was firm. “Sir, we’re just trying to protect your interests here.”
&nb
sp; Ethan knew every eye at the counter watched as he reluctantly entered a windowless chamber. It was clearly used for counting the spoils, because a pair of long steel tables and several adding machines were the only furniture.
The guy pulled the door shut, then said, “Five thousand to win, right?”
“Yes.”
“Mind if I see the cash?”
Ethan had no choice but to open the briefcase. The guy saw the additional bands of money, accepted one bundle, counted it swiftly, then handed it to the brute. “He’ll make your tickets.”
“Okay.”
“You planning on laying all that out on the match?”
“I . . .”
“Look, I understand you’re a little spooked.” The guy might have spoken the same words a thousand times already that day, he was so calm. “I’m only asking because we can offer better odds if you lay it all off here.”
The brute returned and handed Ethan a bunch of tickets. He studied them a moment, long enough for his tension to ease a fraction. “Thanks, but I prefer to spread it around.”
The guy cast an experienced eye at the closed briefcase. “Tell you what, you lay out another five with us, I’ll loan you Jeff here. He’ll escort you down the boardwalk, make sure none of the bettors who spotted you here get itchy fingers.”
Ethan had been worried about that very issue. “Agreed. But only if Jeff takes me around, then I come back here.”
“And you lay out our second five at the end. Sure, I can live with that.”
Jeff was a silent mountain who fitted himself a step and a half behind Ethan. He had a killer’s flat gaze, completely uninterested in anything except doing his job. But entering a casino with a bodyguard guaranteed a level of service that few people even knew existed.
Ethan worked his way down the boardwalk, placing five-thousand-dollar bets in the next three casinos. When he returned to the Trump, he counted out everything he had left, then held back seven hundred for expenses.
