“It’s worked so far.”
“Yeah?” said Steinmetz, thrusting his chin out. “That why you’re here? Tell me how rosy things are at Comstock. Paint me a nice little picture.”
“You were happy enough with how your other investments turned out.”
“Past history. Made it. Spent it. Now I’m looking to make more. Don’t ask me to thank you for doing your job.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Astor walked behind Steinmetz into the living room. A two-story floor-to-ceiling window looked over Central Park. The waning light gilded the trees with a warm orange glow. Stare at it long enough and it would hypnotize you. Everything’s all right. Everything’s all right. Astor looked away.
He’d been here once before. The occasion was Jack Steinmetz’s fiftieth birthday, and he and his Russian wife had turned the place into a re-creation of Studio 54 during its heyday in the late 1970s, complete with a white horse parading down the stairs. That was ten years back, but Astor still had a hard time erasing the image of Steinmetz wearing silver lamé pants, a silk shirt unbuttoned to his navel, and a gold coke spoon around his neck.
“Hear about my latest deal? Vodka?” Steinmetz sauntered to his bar and selected a strangely shaped bottle holding a clear liquid. “It’s Lenin,” he said, catching Astor’s curious glance. “They took the cast from his face in Red Square. I bought the distillery last month. Fifty million lock, stock, and barrel. Forget those other ones from France and Sweden. Real vodka should be Russian. Try it. Goes down like water.”
“No, thanks,” said Bobby. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Suit yourself.” Steinmetz made a show of pulling back his sleeve and checking the time. His gold wristwatch was as large as a deep-sea diver’s helmet. “Okay, Astor, enough of this bullshitting. Spit it out.”
“We’re facing a margin call on the flagship fund. We’re short yuan. The market moved against us.”
“You’re short yuan?” gasped Steinmetz, spraying a little vodka in Astor’s face. “And here I was, all these years thinking you were one of the smart ones. The deputy trade minister stood up on TV last night and confirmed his country’s policy of allowing the currency to appreciate.”
“We think it’s going the other way.”
“You think. And you want me to bail you out so you can hang on and see if you’re right.”
“I want to give you the chance to get in at a good price.”
“Bargain basement, no doubt. And?”
“And what?”
“And what’s the kicker? You expect me to get in line with the rest of the schmendricks you already conned?”
“I can’t give you any preferential treatment. That’s illegal.”
“Now that we have it on record that you’re an honest businessman, let’s talk turkey. What are you looking for?”
“Three hundred.”
“That it?”
“Lock, stock, and barrel.”
“Forget it. I’m not interested in your fund. Too risky. You do get points, however, for having the balls to put it to me like you did. You got big ones, that’s for sure. Tell you what-I’ll loan you the money if it can be secured by your other funds.”
“Fair enough,” said Astor. “I can give you six percent for ninety days.”
“Come again? I thought you said six percent.”
“Six for ninety. That’s twenty-four percent annualized.”
“I can do the math, thank you. Here’s what I’m thinking. Ten percent for thirty days.”
“Thirty million for a month. That’s a hundred and twenty percent annualized.”
“What do you care? You’re the genius who’s going to make a fortune when the Chinese surprise the entire world and decide to depreciate the yuan.”
Astor smiled to himself. Loan-sharking was alive and well and operating in plain daylight on Central Park West. “Can you have the funds in my account by three tomorrow?”
“I can have them there at nine in the morning.”
Astor extended a hand. “Deal.”
Steinmetz regarded him. He smiled cagily, and Astor thought, I knew this was too easy. “One more thing. I’d like you to ask nice.”
“I just did.”
Steinmetz knocked back the rest of the vodka. “You call that nice? I’m thinking you take a knee.”
“Pardon?”
“Hit the carpet.” Steinmetz teetered, and Astor realized that he was drunk.
“That’s enough, Jack. Do we have a deal or don’t we?”
“Actually, two knees. I want to see you grovel.”
“Be serious.”
Steinmetz threw his hands on Astor’s shoulders and tried to force him down. “Grovel.”
Astor hit him. He didn’t know where the fist came from, but his knuckles ached and Steinmetz lay sprawled on his couch, blood trickling from his mouth.
“That’s assault,” sputtered Steinmetz, struggling to get to his feet.
“Actually, it’s battery. Arrest me.”
Steinmetz came at him and Astor chucked him aside, sending the older man toppling onto a coffee table. Astor bent down to help him up, but Steinmetz refused his help. “Where you going to go now? I was giving you a bargain. You’re toast, Astor. Hear me? Toast.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Astor. French fried, with maple syrup.
He left before he decided to hit Steinmetz again.
61
Click.
Mike Grillo stood across the street from the office building on Third Avenue, his eyes on the revolving doors. It was eight o’clock. The evening exodus was long over. Men and women trickled out intermittently alone and in pairs. Grillo marked each departure with a flip of the Zippo’s cover.
Click.
He considered himself a reasonable man. He knew the world was a complicated place. Rarely was an issue black or white. Too often, gray was the palette of choice. He realized that everyone, himself included, had to make bargains from time to time. Compromises. Settlements not entirely to their liking. Still, there were a few lines he didn’t cross. He did not steal from clients. He did not engage in activities that might cause harm to come to a person. He did not lie to his friends. So when one of his friends lied to him, he was upset. He wanted to put that person’s head through a plate-glass window.
Click.
A shadow approached the revolving door. Even through the tinted glass, he recognized the shambling gait, the air of world-weary fatigue. A moment later, an African-American man wearing a rumpled blazer, khaki pants, and crappy loafers emerged from the building and walked north. Grillo dropped the Zippo into his pocket and checked his watch. Eight-oh-three. He couldn’t fault his friend for shortchanging the American taxpayer.
Grillo set off up the sidewalk, following from across the street. The man turned west on 70th Street. The light was with Grillo and he crossed, walking faster now. The sidewalk was crowded. He saw his moment.
“Hello, Jeb,” he said when he reached the man’s shoulder. “Funny running into you again.”
Jeb Washburn barely turned his head to answer. “You smooth, Grill-O. Didn’t see you coming for a sec.”
“You should know that I’ve got a piece on you right now. A little PPK aimed right at your kidney. It’s got one of those Czech silencers we used to use. Don’t work for shit, but in this traffic, it’ll do.” Grillo nudged him with the barrel.
“Guess you’re serious.”