“So there was a tontine,” Teresa suggested. “And the people who were trying to hype Inferno were all in it.”
“That’s a possibility. Plus Josh Jonah and Tom Black, and Jimmy Gaines. Jimmy wasn’t the most sophisticated of creatures. I doubt anyone could have sold him on a tontine. But if they said it was some kind of fancy insurance, one that might give him and Tom Black a tidy return each …?”
“What did Jimmy Gaines have to put into a movie?” Frank asked.
Hank shrugged. “A little muscle, maybe, like that photographer guy. What you have is what you contribute. And what you take out is …”
There he was struggling. Frank looked sceptical.
“Imagine this is true,” he said. “Why would they do it? They’re making a movie. What these people need is money. Money pays people. You don’t pay people, you don’t get the job done.”
“They didn’t pay people,” Teresa interjected. “That’s the point. The money wasn’t there. Nic told me Maggie is still owed most of her salary. Lots of other people, too.”
“I still don’t see it …” Frank sighed.
But she did. Or at least she thought she might.
“Imagine you’re Allan Prime. They come to you. The movie’s nearly finished. You’ve been working for six months, but the big reward is still down the line, when it comes out. They say there’s no money left to pay you what’s owed. But if you’re willing to exchange your fee for something else …”
“Insurance?” Hank suggested.
Frank shook his big, tired head. “Prime would tell them to take a hike! It’s the movie business. Getting paid’s the first thing any of them would want.”
“But if you won’t get paid anyway?” she persisted. “If they say you take this deal or the whole thing collapses? And everything with it? The merchandise cut, the residuals from the TV and DVD rights, the cosy promotional tour around the world? If there’s no movie, Allan Prime loses a lot more than his fee. He loses everything that might come after.”
Frank still wasn’t happy. “I still don’t see how someone like Jimmy would get mixed up in something like that. What the hell would he know about the movie business?”
Barkev came in with some more coffee. Teresa gulped hers down quickly.
“They weren’t dealing with the movie business,” she said resolutely after Barkev left the room.
The two brothers watched her and didn’t utter a word.
“The movie people were dealing with Lukatmi. Don’t you see? We’ve been asking the wrong question all along. When Roberto Tonti needed real money, he went to the mob. They stumped up enough to keep the production alive, barely, but it still couldn’t be finished. We’re pretty sure of that. Dino Bonetti has been taking finance from criminals for years. You don’t need to be a genius to understand they’ll certainly be expecting their return. Lukatmi was different. They came in later, when Tonti saw the whole project collapsing. Everyone’s turned him down. He’s desperate. And Lukatmi turn up offering …”
What? It was clear there was precious little money behind the doors of their hangars at Fort Mason by that stage. Josh Jonah and Tom Black hadn’t bailed out Inferno. They didn’t have the cash.
Frank — practical, logical, rational Frank — got there first, naturally.
“I know what I’d do. I’d go quietly to all the people I owe money, not just the big guys like Allan Prime. I’d say, skip your salary and we’ll give you something else. Something that might be worth a whole lot more than some risky horror flick if you play along.”
She wanted to pinch herself. It was so obvious.
“This wasn’t about investing in a movie,” Teresa said. “It was about cutting your losses. About keeping Inferno alive and getting a chunk of the next big dotcom float coming round the corner. One that could make you richer than you could ever dream of, even in Hollywood. Josh Jonah and Tom Black were paper billionaires. Allan Prime couldn’t even contemplate money like that, and he was a huge movie star. So you put together a secret little scheme to hype Inferno to the heavens and make Lukatmi even more lucrative at the same time.”
Frank was scribbling down some notes. “Whatever paperwork’s involved is squirreled away in one of these funny-money places in the Caribbean,” he said. “A limited number of members with the payout based on status. Obviously it can’t be equal. Allan Prime’s going to expect a whole lot more than poor little Jimmy Gaines, that’s for sure. Martin Vogel thought his efforts merited a bigger cut and started blackmailing Josh Jonah. But it’s still a fund. A secret one. It has to be. You can’t invite in more members, or you go to jail. You get it?”
Not quite yet, she thought.
“It’s a tontine by default as much as by design,” Frank explained. “When the numbers start to fall because people are dying, where else can the money go except to the original members? Tonti could have sold the whole thing to these people without saying the word ‘tontine’ once. It was exactly what he said it was. What Jimmy got told. Insurance.”
Hank put down his coffee cup. He had a sour expression on his face. “This world sickens me. All these people screwing one another. Jonah and Black thinking they were robbing the movie crowd so’s they could keep their tin-pot company afloat. The movie people kidding themselves they’d all get rich on some dumb kids’ dotcom dream. Yuck …”
He looked at the door and yelled, “Barkev! I need a beer!”
The dark face appeared. “Hank,” the man said, “this is a café. If you want a beer, go find a bar.”
“That I shall. Someone going to join me?”
Teresa stared at him in astonishment. “We are about to get some insight into this case, finally, and you want to go to a bar?”
“You can think of a better time? What’s there left to talk about? Half these people are dead. Josh and Tom and Jimmy. That photographer. Allan Prime. Anyone else who’s involved … why would they do anything now? What for? The money’s gone. Lukatmi’s worthless. Their grubby little deal won’t get them a penny. That’s as much justice as any of us can expect.”
She caught his arm. “You’re missing the point. This is offshore. It can’t be part of Lukatmi anymore, otherwise they’d be able to find it. From what Catherine Bianchi told me, even the federal people think they’ll never trace where the company’s assets really ended up.” She needed to get this clear in her own head, too. “That part of things is not dead. It’s very much alive, out there somewhere. Just reversed. Lukatmi’s the turkey and Inferno’s the golden goose. One that’s in the names of a diminishing group of people, who, between them, now own a chunk of the biggest movie in decades.”
“Do the math,” Frank suggested. “Say there’s four of them still alive. One dies. Your share just went from …” He paused to do the sums in his head. “Twenty-five percent to thirty-three.”
“Two left and you just doubled your money,” Teresa added, pulling out her phone. “Winner takes all. It’s worth killing for now more than it ever was.”
5
The call came through as Kelly was driving him through the foot of the Presidio. Costa got dropped off on Chestnut and met Teresa and the Boynton brothers in a tiny café he’d never even noticed before. Outside the grubby windows the light was changing. Fog was reaching the city, bringing with it a filmy haze that dimmed the bright blue sky.