Jordan’s triple-glazed suite at the Carlyle was further distanced from the donkey-bray wail of emergency sirens by being back from East 76th Street and, although he didn’t then feel tired, having fitfully dozed in his first-class sleeper-bed during the last BA flight of the day out of London, Jordan went directly to bed after an omelette from room service, not having eaten on the plane. He was determined against any overhanging jet lag during his Monday meeting with Daniel Beckwith. Despite his noise precautions Jordan slept badly, sub-consciously always aware of where he was. And why.
Since the stomach-lurching letter from Brinkmeyer, Hartley and Bernstein he’d actually thought little of Alyce Appleton, beyond her ever present name. But in a dream-cluttered half sleep his mind perfectly pictured her hunched over the official-looking papers in the Carlton lounge in Cannes and again, in the bikini wisp that had made it necessary for him to briefly remain in the sea, off the He St Marguerite, and most vividly of all of her lounged naked, languorously offering herself, on the bed of their tower suite at the St Tropez hotel. She’d said something to him then, something he couldn’t now remember but wanted to because he thought it was important and therefore something that he should recall. Jordan finally awoke, completely, still trying to recollect the remark she’d made. But couldn’t.
Daniel Beckwith was a towering, hard-bodied man well over six feet tall whose blond hair Jordan guessed to be longer than Lesley Corbin’s. A thrown-aside tie lay on top of a carelessly discarded jacket puddled in a side chair to expose on the lawyer a check shirt more at home on the ranch than a lawyer’s office; the large, three-pinned oval buckle of the man’s embossed leather belt was actually centred with the head of an animal, a bison maybe, and Jordan wondered if there were stables somewhere in the building for the lawyer’s horse. The man was halfway across the office as Jordan entered, hand already outstretched in greeting. Jordan tensed expectantly and just managed to avoid a wince at the knuckle-cracking shake.
‘Good of you to come, Harv: very good. Got a lot talk about.’
‘After speaking tc Lesley and you I didn’t think I had much of a choice,’ said Jordan, taking the chair to which the lawyer gestured. Jordan thought there was a tinge of an unidentifiable accent in the laid-back, measured voice. Jordan’s right hand actually ached.
‘There was a choice and you made the right one,’ assured Beckwith. ‘You want to toss your coat, make yourself comfortable, go right ahead.’ He jabbed an intercom key, declared, ‘When you’re ready, Suzie.’ And clicked off before there was any response from the other end. He smiled a perfectly sculpted, white-toothed smile and said, ‘Coffee, to help you stay awake after your trip over. Drink it all the time myself.’
‘I’m OK with my jacket. Coffee would be good, though.’ Jordan had begun work immediately after the bad night at the Carlyle, walking the length of Wall Street to identify conveniently grouped banks for what he intended in the immediate future – and avoided any alcohol – and isolating three possible short-lease apartments. His favourite was on West 72nd Street. Despite the exertion he’d slept badly again and been awake since five so he welcomed the coffee, which arrived on a tray with two mugs and a pot holding at least two pints. The titian haired girl whom Jordan guessed to be Suzie wore a clinging red sweater and a tight cream skirt to display pert breasts and rounded slim hips to their best and obvious advantages. She said ‘Hi’ to Jordan as she passed on her way out.
Beckwith said, ‘We keep Suzie on the payroll as a warning to clients what they’re allowed to think but not do.’
Jordan heard the girl laugh behind him at what he guessed to be a well rehearsed joke, wondering if it didn’t constitute sexual harassment. He smiled because he knew he was expected to and accepted the coffee the lawyer poured, mildly impatient at the irrelevance. Or was it irrelevant? he asked himself, remembering the American’s warning against losing his temper.
Beckwith patted the dossier on his desk with a heavy hand and said, ‘Got all your stuff. And Lesley tells me she’s set up an escrow account with the deposit.’
‘I don’t understand how you can move that much cash without fulfilling some financial regulations.’ Jordan hadn’t expected to talk about money so soon but was glad the lawyer had introduced it early on. As always it remained one of the foremost questions in his mind, the more so after his bank identification the previous afternoon.
‘There are regulations and they will be fulfilled,’ guaranteed Beckwith. ‘And we’re not transferring it all at once. I draw upon it, as and when it’s necessary, supported by a federal bank agreement to prove to your English authorities that it’s a bone fide, government agreed exchange for legal purposes upon the sworn oath of Lesley’s firm and my own. All expenditure and receipts have to be exchanged between the Fed and your Bank of England. But it’s between firms, not individuals. So your name never appears. It’s covered by multinational trade legislation but we qualify under it. And there’s nothing in the legislation requiring duplication with your Inland Revenue and our IRS. I guess there will be one day, when the loophole’s discovered, but at the moment you’re lucky we can utilize it.’
‘I’m glad it exists for the moment. And that I can draw on it. I’d like an initial cash advance of $25,000.
The lawyer frowned. ‘That much?’
‘I’m thinking of some working trips to Atlantic City. Maybe Las Vegas even.’
He’d carried just short of $10,000 into the country and wished it could have been more, although the immediate intention didn’t include casinos.
‘OK,’ agreed Beckwith reluctantly.
‘Let’s hope my luck holds.’ Jordan was sure that in addition to it preventing any discrepancy between his income tax submission and the money he was making available here was Beckwith’s need to ensure he could afford to pay for his defence. Jordan made a mental note to check the scheme when his current problems were finally over. There might be an advantage he could use, although he couldn’t at that moment imagine what it might be.
‘You’ve got to depend more upon me than upon luck,’ warned the lawyer.
‘I know that,’ accepted Jordan. ‘I can’t believe how I’ve come to be caught up in all this.’
‘People can’t – or don’t – until it happens to them.’