"You and Sam can take on jobs finding lost dentures and libidos to fund your search. One day," Fiona said, "you watch."
"Day my pension comes through," Sam said, "I'm on a boat. Change in latitude. Change in attitude. Did you know, Mikey, that there is very affordable beachfront property in Nicaragua now? I'd have to keep my hat down in case any Sandinistas recognized me, but it would be a risk worth taking-"
The elevator doors opened, and the three of us stepped out into the reception area of White Rose Partners. I still had my sunglasses on. Kept things mysterious.
As per usual, there was a receptionist sitting behind a desk prepared to greet us. As per usual, the receptionist was a young woman who looked like she'd be appearing on a reality show about a tanning salon with three of her wacky stripper friends before next Christmas.
In the last week, I'd dealt with more receptionists than in the previous ten years. Most terrorist organizations, warlords and assassination targets worked without receptionists, so I still didn't have the method of dealing with them down to a precise science, but I figured I'd give this one my best game. So when she asked if she could help me, I flashed her a grin as wide as the sea and said, "Could you tell Mr. Rosencrantz that the gentleman who shot his friend Burl and permanently disfigured… uh…" I couldn't remember the third fellow's name. I'd have forgotten him entirely if I hadn't had to pull bits of his tooth and bone from my skin using tweezers that morning.
"Mr. White?" the receptionist said. Her expression belied no fear. No comprehension, either.
"Danny?" I offered.
"Oh, yes," the receptionist said, eminently cheery. "I know him as Daniel, but yes, same person."
"Great," I said. "So if you could tell Mr. Rosencrantz that the man who shot Burl and beat up Danny is here to see him, that would be excellent."
"And your name, sir?"
"Hank Fitch," I said.
The receptionist picked up her phone. "Mr. Rosencrantz, I have Hank Fitch to see you. Okay. I'll tell him." She hung up and smiled at us sweetly. "It will be just one moment, if you'd like to take a seat."
"How do you do that?" Sam said once we were sitting aside one another on a plush leather sofa.
"What?"
"That simple declarative bit where you say exactly who you are, what you've done and who you'd like to see. I mean, you told that girl you shot one of her bosses."
"I smile a lot," I said. "The sunglasses help."
"He smells nice, too," Fiona said. She was flipping through a brochure detailing precisely what White Rose had to offer its clients.
"That helps?" Sam said.
"It's all sensory," I said. "Posture. A sense of confidence. That receptionist doesn't really think I shot her boss." To prove my point, I shouted across the lobby to the receptionist: "Any word on who shot your boss?"
"No, nothing yet," she said. "Can I get you coffee while you wait?"
"Beer?" Sam said. He tried with the smiling and the posture, which was met with a coy hair flip in return. "Perky girl."
Fiona handed me the brochure she was reading. "This sounds like a very enticing package," she said. In a glossy brochure featuring the stylized photos of representative properties, I learned that White Rose specialized in preforeclosure properties, which would mean, in essence, any property, and that they used funds derived from equity partners of which, if you were reading the brochure, you could now become one of. And what was promised? Securitized first mortgages. Interest above market rates. A full equity balloon payment and bonuses on resale of properties.
Basically? Horseshit.
Stanley Rosencrantz stepped into the lobby then and filled it with unbridled enthusiasm. "Hank," he said. "A pleasure. Won't you and your associates come into my office? I was just thinking I needed to contact you."
"Of course you were," I said.
After the next great plague, or after the ice caps melt and the world floods, or after the sun superheats our planet to 145 degrees in the shade, the only humans left standing to tend to the roaches, rats and flesh-eating zombies will be real estate agents. Stanley Rosencrantz might have his very own religious faction in his name by then.
The four of us-Stanley, Fiona, Sam and I-sat in a conference room together. Stanley had insisted on showing us his entire office, which seemed odd, until I realized he actually thought I just might be the kind of guy who wanted to come into an office every day, check on my criminal empire. Dixon Woods, I'm sure, never bothered to show up. Not if Eddie Champagne was smart.
Stanley made a great show of where Fiona and Sam could have their offices, too, though he had no idea who Fiona and Sam were and never bothered to ask, only referring to them as my associates. There were at least twenty-five people working in the office that morning-file clerks, secretaries, that sort of thing- who didn't look to have any idea what they were a part of. That Stanley, Burl and Danny did the collecting made sense, finally: keep the circle as closed as possible, only involving those who needed to be involved. Outsourcing muscle just to collect from Cricket would be expensive and unneeded-Eddie knew that. Best just to send his business partners.
We passed the offices for Burl and Danny as we walked-their names etched in glass on their doors- but Stanley didn't even mention them before finally opening up a conference room filled with bagels, coffee and juice, where we now sat.
"First thing," I said. "New rules." Stanley visibly flinched, but didn't bolt. I felt like I owed him just a little reassurance. "Don't worry. I'm not going to shoot you."
I told Stanley that he was going to transfer five million dollars into Cricket O'Connor's account in the Dominican and gave him the account number Barry had texted me for the Banco Leon. "But before you start, here's the new rule, Stanley," I said. "I don't want that money coming from any of our investors' accounts."
"I'm sorry," Stanley said. "I'm not following you."
"How much liquid do we have here, Stanley?" I liked using our and we as each time it made Stanley wince.
"Liquid. Well. That depends on several factors."
"Just give the man a number," Fiona said. The thing about Fiona, she's done this sort of thing before, and not in the Robin Hood sort of way.
"Eight million dollars," Stanley said. "Maybe nine. Things have been difficult lately."
"Okay," I said. "And what about in your personal accounts. You, Burl, Danny, Dixon. How much do you four have?"
"Well, I don't have access…" Fiona reached into her purse and pulled out her gun, set it on the table. We hadn't really talked about this precisely, but that's what I loved about Fiona: She understood things as they were happening, adjusted on the fly, made things happen. "Another ten. Maybe twelve. Dixon kept his money elsewhere."
Of course he did. "Good," I said. "You transfer the five million dollars from your personal accounts."
"But that's money we've earned, Mr. Fitch," Stanley said.
"Really?" I said. "Is this a time to start arguing, Stan? Aren't I going to take care of your problems? Aren't I going to get rid of Dixon for you? That's not your investors' problem, now, is it?"
"The potential for a red flag to go up is…," he started to say, but this time Sam, feeling emboldened by his conversation with Lenore no doubt put a hand up to stop him.
Sam put on his own sunglasses, which made his face look sort of round, put a stick of gum in his mouth and started snapping it with his tongue. Before it got to the level of performance art, Sam leaned across the table and extended a finger toward Stanley. "You want to know what a red flag looks like? I'm a red flag."
I had no idea what that meant, but Stanley seemed to know and that was enough. "Fine," he said. "Fine."
"And let's make it look right," I said. "I want you to set Cricket up as an investor in your company. What do you call them?"