“No bonus,” said Jason. “Especially for soldiers who hold out on me.”
“What do you mean? I haven’t held anything back.”
Jason glanced around the lobby to make sure no one was within earshot. He waited for two rich Kuwaitis with their six blond girlfriends to cruise upstairs to the nightclub, then continued.
“I just found out that Michael Cantella got a message two weeks ago telling him that his wife was cheating on him. And that he should beware the naked bears.”
“Right, the text message,” said Nathaniel.
“You knew about that?”
“Sure. Mallory intercepted it. She was paranoid about him finding out about me. She started checking Michael’s text messages, e-mails, and voice mail for about three weeks to see if anyone ratted her out.”
“Did she show the text to you?”
“No, but she told me about it. It was like you just said-a warning to Michael that his wife was cheating and that he should ‘beware naked bears.’”
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“Didn’t think it was important. Mallory and I even laughed about it.”
“Laughed?”
Nathaniel smiled and said, “I’ve never been called a naked bear before.”
Wald smiled back. It was understandable that a guy like Nathaniel wouldn’t know that a “naked bear” was a special kind of short seller. What amazed him, however, was the number of women he knew like Mallory: a graduate of an elite school like Juilliard who was married to a high roller on Wall Street-and who knew absolutely nothing about industry terms. Neither she nor pretty boy had any idea that the warning was about a bear raid on Saxton Silvers-a short-selling scheme that was orchestrated in such a clever way that the world thought Michael Cantella was behind it.
Wald pushed the envelope toward Nathaniel, who peeked inside. He knew better than to count money in a public place, but he didn’t have to do any math to see that it wasn’t enough.
“How much is this?” said Nathaniel.
“Ten grand,” said Wald.
Nathaniel frowned. “You’re five thousand short.”
Wald wrote a name and a phone number on a cocktail napkin and passed it to Nathaniel. “Call him for the balance.”
“Ian Burn?” said Nathaniel, reading it. “Who’s he?”
“Someone I can count on to get the job done. He’ll take real good care of you.”
Nathaniel shrugged, then rose and tucked the envelope into his coat pocket. The men shook hands. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
“Likewise,” said Wald.
Wald sank back into his chair, watching Nathaniel walk to the exit. He smiled thinly, confident that Burn wouldn’t simply make Nathaniel forget about the five grand he was owed.
Soon enough, Nathaniel would beg Wald to take back the ten thousand he’d already been paid.
43
MY HANDS WERE SHAKING AS I RODE UP IN THE ELEVATOR TO PAPA’S hotel room.
The phone call from Ivy had left me somewhere between total confusion and panic. Could I possibly call the police and say that my first wife-for whom we’d held a memorial service four years ago-may have just been shot? They’d think I was nuts.
And what was that about Mallory and a man two weeks ago-in a gay bar?
Probably just having a drink with one of her old dance pals from Juilliard.
The elevator opened. I went to Papa’s room and delivered a firm knock on the door. He answered, dressed in pajamas-or at least as much of the pajamas that he ever wore. When I was little, it seemed odd the way Papa would never wear pajama bottoms to bed-just the top and some boxer shorts. The mystery was finally solved when my great uncle once spent the night at our house and came to the breakfast table wearing an undershirt and-what else?-pajama bottoms. It was then that I learned that Papa had grown up in a family that could afford only one pair of pajamas for the boys. Big brother got the bottoms; little brother, the top. Old habits die hard.
“Hey, Michael,” he said with a smile, even though I’d clearly woken him.
I entered quickly and locked the door as Papa pulled on a robe.
“Papa, I don’t want you to worry, but it’s important for you and Nana to leave New York.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Go back to Florida tonight?”
“No, don’t go back home. I want you to go on vacation.”
“Michael, you’re talking crazy. This is our vacation.”
“I’ve already bought the plane tickets,” I said, which was sort of true. I was still having credit card trouble, so I’d redeemed some of my many frequent-flier miles. “There’s a twelve-thirty A.M. flight to Los Angeles.”
“Los Angeles? Don’t they have earthquakes out there?”
It wasn’t his fault, but I had no time for this. “Papa, listen to me carefully. There’s a limo and a driver waiting downstairs. His name is Nick. A good guy-Italian-you’ll like him. I’ve used him many times. You and Nana are going to get in Nick’s limo, go to the airport, and fly to Los Angeles. I wrote out your flight information,” I said, handing him the paper, “and your hotel reservation. It’s all paid for.”
His eyes clouded with concern. “Does this have to do with that man named Rumsey that the FBI was asking about-the guy who got killed in the Bahamas?”
Rumsey. I’d almost forgotten about that part of the puzzle. “I don’t know.”
I could have elaborated, but it wouldn’t have helped. Papa seemed to understand.
“You be careful,” he said as he gave me a hug. Then he gave me another look of concern. “Where are you sleeping tonight?”
I hesitated, reluctant to tell him that I hadn’t figured that out yet.
“You might as well use this room,” he said. “It’s paid for.” He got the key for me, then gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I left as quickly as I’d come and hurried to the elevator. Papa knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t have comprehended the magnitude of it even if I’d tried to explain. My personal net worth: gone. My wife: divorcing me. My firm: worth $75 billion a week ago, now hours away from bankruptcy. Chuck Bell, the man who had cast me as the scumbag who’d short-sold his own firm down the river: dead. Ivy had returned for a moment, and now she might be dead. Again. Or not.
Run! That had been her only advice to me. Run, or end up like Chuck Bell. But where was I supposed to go? My cell rang as I crossed the hotel lobby. It was my brother-my lawyer. Ex-lawyer. Soon-to-be-ex-law-Whatever.
I didn’t answer, mindful of Ivy’s warning that “they”-whoever they might be-were eavesdropping on my cell. We had security seminars on that kind of thing at Saxton Silvers-how anyone with ninety-nine bucks and no fear of jail could purchase spyware on the Internet, target even the most sophisticated wireless devices, and listen to your phone conversations from across the city. I stepped outside the hotel but couldn’t find a pay phone anywhere on the sidewalk. A college-aged tourist with a backpack was texting on his phone.
“Twenty bucks if I can use your cell for two minutes,” I said.
He seemed skeptical, but Andrew Jackson’s face was staring straight at him. “Sure,” he said, handing it over.
I dialed Kevin, who immediately launched into the bad news.
“I just got a courtesy call from the D.A.,” he said. “She’s giving you the option of surrendering to authorities rather than having the police come out to arrest you in the morning.”
“Arrest?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this. You’re being charged with conspiracy to commit murder in connection with Chuck Bell’s shooting.”