“Outside the window,” Pete says.
Laurie says, “My mistake was in not telling Marcus which side of the window to put him down on.”
“The guy was having trouble breathing,” I say, “and Marcus has heard Edna mention that the air is fresher out there. He was doing him a favor.”
“After this, Quintana’s going to send people after you in bunches,” Pete says, injecting some depressing reality. “Is Marcus always going to be there?”
I look at Marcus, who shrugs. It’s not the most reassuring shrug I’ve ever seen. Marcus can stop a lot of people, but eventually, one is going to get through. To me. And if one of them gets through to me, it’s game, set, and match.
Pete leaves, and Laurie, Marcus, and I talk about how we should proceed in light of this new, very disturbing development. Laurie is concerned for my personal safety, and while I pretend to be stoic about it, I certainly share that concern. Our hope is that Ugly’s visit, while embarrassing to Quintana, might be thought to have served its purpose. I’ve been warned, and although our collective reaction to the warning was to toss Ugly out the window, Quintana can at least be sure the warning was delivered.
Almost as disturbing was Ugly’s claim that Kenny had something belonging to Quintana, and his demand to get it back. If true, Kenny certainly hasn’t shared the news with me. If not true, Quintana is just going to get more upset when he doesn’t recover whatever it is he’s missing.
We agree that Marcus will keep an eye on me for now, though from a distance. He’s very good at it, and it makes me feel safer, at least for the time being. But the trick is not to throw all of Quintana’s people out the window. The trick is to get Quintana to stop sending those people in the first place.
There is only one person who can do that.
* * * * *
PAUL MORENO’S personal assistant is so cute and perky she could be a cheerleader. She greets me at his office at PTM Investments with, “Hello, Mr. Carpenter, and welcome to PTM. My name is Cassie. It’s so nice to meet you.” If I gave her some pom-poms, I think she’d jump in the air and yell, “Give me a P! Give me a T!” I can’t tell if she’s completely sincere, but so far I like Moreno’s staff a hell of a lot better than Quintana’s.
There’s a lot I don’t know about PTM Investments. For instance, I don’t know what the “T” stands for, and I don’t know what they invest in. But I can find out that stuff some other time; right now my goal is to convince Paul Moreno to prevent me from being killed.
In the next five minutes Cassie announces my presence to Moreno, fields two calls, brings me some delicious hot coffee, and gets me in to see Moreno. All of this she accomplishes with a smile. She is the anti-Edna.
Moreno’s office is done in chrome and steel, ultramodern to the point that it looks like it was furnished in the last couple of hours. His desk has only a phone on it; paper and writing instruments are nowhere to be seen.
Moreno’s window looks out at Van Houten Street in downtown Paterson, and it seems incongruous considering the obvious expensiveness of the office furnishings. The street is not a slum, but nor is it the kind of view that’s going to make Ritz Carlton buy up the adjacent land.
When I enter, Moreno is standing behind his round bar, making a couple of drinks. He gives me a warm smile. “Mr. Carpenter, welcome.” For a ruthless drug dealer’s office, things are pretty friendly.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I say.
He comes around the bar, holding two drinks. The liquid in them is pink, almost red. “Try one of these,” he says.
“It’s a little early in the day for me.”
“Not for this. It’s made from fruit trees at my home. They’re crossbred, unlike anything you’ve ever had.”
I take one and sip it. It hits me with a jolt; it’s one of the best and most distinctive tastes I’ve ever experienced. “This is unbelievable,” I say, and guzzle down the rest of the glass. He laughs and heads back to the bar to pour another.
“So what can I do for you?” he asks.
We’re about to get to the unpleasant part of the visit; I briefly wonder if I should wait until he gives me another glass full of that great juice. I decide to go ahead. “Tell Cesar Quintana not to try and kill me.”
I guess I haven’t offended him too badly, because he hands me the drink before responding. “Who is Cesar Quintana, and why would he want to kill you?” he asks.
He’s either playing a game with me or worried that I’m wearing a wire. Either way, I have to go along with it. “He’s a drug dealer whose name came up in connection with the Kenny Schilling case. He sent an emissary to my office to warn me not to mention him again.” I decide to leave out the part about Schilling having something that he wants; Moreno is probably very aware of it, but just in case, it gives me something to hold back.
“Why are you telling this to me?”
“Because he is either your partner or your employee, and I’m told that you can control him.”
“If that were true, and I’m certainly not saying that it is, why would I want to control him? How would that be to my advantage?”
“To keep your own name out of the press. Bad publicity, no matter how unfair, is bad for investments. Think Martha Stewart.” I hold up my glass. “Although you make a better drink.”
Moreno walks over to his desk, picks up his phone, and says something I can’t quite hear. Within five seconds the door opens and two very large men in suits come in. I would have preferred perky Cassie.
Before I can react, they have ahold of me and push me up against the wall. One of them keeps me pinned, unable to move, while the other frisks me, no doubt checking for a wire. Finding none, they leave as quickly as they came. If there was a secondary goal to leave me feeling intimidated and vulnerable, Moreno has achieved that as well. Physically, I’m okay, except my heart is pounding so hard I don’t think I’ll be able to hear over it.
“Mr. Carpenter, do you have any idea how much you will shorten your life span by threatening me?”
I try to compose myself, to not look as frightened as I am. “I didn’t intend it as a threat,” I say. “I see it as a negotiation… a deal.”
“With all the publicity surrounding this football player’s case, killing you now could bring unwanted attention to my business, but it would be a manageable inconvenience.”
My mind flashes to my future headstone: “Here lies Andy Carpenter. He was a manageable inconvenience.” I decide not to mention my headstone image to Moreno, for fear that he’ll make it come true. “Think how inconvenient it would be for me,” I say.
He smiles. “That’s not really my concern. Cesar Quintana is not someone who can easily be controlled. Especially after the embarrassment in your office yesterday.”
I return the smile, which is difficult, since my lips are shaking along with everything else. “Maybe you can reason with him. As one businessman to another.”
He shakes his head, as if I just don’t get it, but I decide to push it. “Look, after all this, the police would know where to look if anything happened to me. They’d come straight for Quintana and for you. Probably you could handle it, but maybe not. I’m just suggesting it’s not worth it to find out.”
He thinks for a moment, as if deciding what to do. My hunch is that no matter what decision he is about to announce, he had made it before I even walked into his office. “I would strongly suggest you hold up your end of the bargain,” he says.
“So we have a deal?” I decide to be explicit. “You call off Quintana, and I keep your name out of it.”
He nods. “We have a deal.”
I look toward the bar hopefully. “Let’s drink to it.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Goodbye, Mr. Carpenter.”