"An equity partner," Stanley said.
"Right, an equity partner." When the Feds came sniffing, Cricket wouldn't be liable for anything. She'd have invested millions and taken at least a slight loss. Just like everyone else was about to. "And one last thing," I said. "I'm interested in getting started quickly out here, so I'd like a capital infusion of my own."
"How much?" Stanley said.
"Three," I said. I handed him Hank Fitch's Dominican account information, too. "And that you can cut from the investors, Stanley."
Forty minutes, several calls to bankers, all of whom seemed to be more mail willing to do whatever Stanley asked, and which buttressed the claims Sam's IRS contact had, and two darkening rings of sweat under Stanley Rosencrantz' armpits later, it was done. Cricket O'Connor had five million dollars, legally. Hank Fitch had three million, illegally, but I didn't plan on keeping it. I just needed it for evidentiary purposes.
"Have you heard from Dixon?" Stanley asked casually after he printed out all of the appropriate documents.
"I haven't," I said.
"He said he was going to deal with you," Stanley said. He made a shooting motion with his hand. "Said something about you being in the wrong on the California deal, but that he'd settle it once and for all and that I had nothing to worry about. That after he got back from Afghanistan again, he'd deal with everything."
Afghanistan. Right. "He's wrong," I said. "About everything." Stanley nodded. He looked rather grave. He would look worse in a few months when he was doing federal time. "You have an address for Dixon?" I asked.
Stanley said he didn't, and for some reason, perhaps because there was no reason for him to lie, I believed him. "All I have is his cell," Stanley said, which I took. "You'll take care of him, right?"
"Didn't I say I would?" I said.
"Yes, Mr. Fitch. And in terms of Ms. O'Connor, I can presume she's still alive? That that issue has been cleared up to your satisfaction, and we can continue forward in our business dealings one to one with no fear of reprisal?"
"For now." This satisfied Stanley, as much as Stanley Rosencrantz could feel satisfied about anything, knowing, as I'm sure he did, that he was in with people way beyond his real estate training. "Do me a favor, Stanley," I said. "Send Burl and Danny fruit baskets in my name. Let them know there're no hard feelings, that I look forward to purchasing preforeclosure properties alongside them for many, many years. You can do that, right?"
Before Stanley could answer-and really, I don't know if he had a suitable answer, since he probably saw the course of his life and realized he'd need to cut and run as soon possible-we walked out of the conference room and left Stanley with what were probably his considerable thoughts.
"That went well," Sam said.
"Eight million dollars," Fiona said, "and you only shot one of them?"
"It's all posture," I said.
Ten minutes after we got back into the car, Nate called. "Were you expecting guests over at Cricket's?" he asked.
"No," I said. "What does the guest look like?"
"I can't see his face," Nate said. "He's wearing camo pants and a white T-shirt."
"Does he have a gun?"
"I can't tell if he's strapped or not."
"Do you?"
"I'm always packing," Nate said. I was afraid of that.
"Where are you?" I said.
"Upstairs. He just docked his boat. He's sort of pacing around, trying to act nonchalant. Taking a lot of time to tie it up. He just nodded at a woman walking her dog."
"What are you doing upstairs?"
"Cricket said she left some earrings up here that she wanted, so I thought I'd look for them."
I'd hold off on commenting on that until a later point. It would take us at least forty minutes to get out to Fisher Island, and that was if the ferry was just waiting for us to board. "We'll be right there. If you can," I said, "don't let him in, but don't let him leave if he gets in."
"On it," Nate said.
"Wait," I said. "Don't hang up." I told Fiona to call Eddie Champagne's phone, just to make sure that it wasn't the real Dixon Woods showing up to Cricket's, a situation that would be beyond Nate's limited scope.
"Ringing," Fiona said.
"Tell me what you see, Nate."
"Okay," Nate said. His voice turned official, which made me sort of want to climb through the phone and shake the life out of him, but you take what you can get in these situations. "Perp is fishing in his pocket for something. Perp is pulling out a cellular phone device. Perp is looking at cellular phone device. Perp is hurling cellular phone device into the ocean."
Hello, Eddie.
"I'll be there," I said. "Don't do anything stupid."
"Why would I start?" he said.
Shit.
In a situation where it seems like the best course of action is to call the police and let them protect and serve, you should call the police. Seems is a nebulous emotion one should ignore. You should deal with certainty. You should know that if there is a man who has swindled a woman out of millions of dollars, a man who has swindled many others out of much more, you should be certain that that person needs to go to prison.
Unless, of course, you need to use that person as a pawn.
The facts were simple: We had Cricket's money back, but if I wanted to get out of my situation with Natalya, I needed Eddie Champagne. And I needed him alive or at least in reasonably decent shape. I needed him to have a paper trail.
I should have mentioned the reasonably decent-shape aspect to Nate. Because, after an hour of driving across Miami, waiting for the ferry and then finally making the slow crawl across the island back to Cricket's home, all without any word from Nate, I began to have concerns.
So when we walked into Cricket's house and found Nate and Eddie sitting at the kitchen table having a drink of Old Grand Dad, I must admit I was surprised.
That Eddie was bleeding from his head and had a package of frozen peas ACE bandaged around his neck, not so much.
"This is the guy I was telling you about," Nate said to Eddie when I walked into the kitchen. "We've been getting to know each other. I gotta say, Eddie has lived the life. He wrestled a polar bear once. Right, Eddie?"
"God's witness," Eddie said. He tried to raise his hands to give the Boy Scout salute, but I saw that Nate was smart enough to plastic flex cuff Eddie to his chair. Which explained the straw Eddie was using to drink with.
"Nate," I said. "A word?" I dragged Nate into the backyard and let Fi and Sam watch the drunken and beaten Eddie.
It was the afternoon and by all accounts another beautiful day in Miami, high in the eighties, a light breeze, blue sky, and my brother holding a bloody and beaten Eddie Champagne hostage in the kitchen of, in a way, his own home.
"You care to explain?" I said.
"I did as you said," Nate said, "except I amended the plan."
"Yeah, I see that."
Nate said that when he got off the phone with me, he started thinking about how awful he felt for Cricket, and for all the other people he was sure Eddie had rooked, and just couldn't control his emotions any longer. So he walked downstairs, unlocked the front door and, when Eddie came though a few minutes later, hit him in the back of the head with his gun.
"But then he started gushing blood," Nate said, "just prodigious amounts, and it was all matted with hair, and I thought, Oh, no, I don't want a stiff on my hands. So I tried to dress his wound the best I could."
First perp. Now stiff. I didn't know if I'd be able to handle Nate in his new crime-fighting mode for much longer. "Frozen peas?" I said.
"The freezer was all out of ice," he said. "And then he came to and was really complaining about the pain, crying, moaning, the whole experience, so I figured, you know, a swab of old Old Grand Dad on the wound would dull the sensations and keep out infection, like in those Westerns Dad used to watch."