Book of Nathan (16 page)

Was there any more powerful motivating force than a man’s
testosterone? Nothing came to mind.

“Something else,” Yigal added.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“The guy driving the blue car that was burned—”

“Juan Perez?”

“Juan Perez was who he was. Nothing much left of him because
of the fire.”

“We know all that,” I interjected. “What’s the point?”

“My uncle plays golf with a Kissimmee detective. I have
connections, you know.”

“So you’ve told me. Go on.”

“Perez was from Caracas. Visiting a cousin in Orlando.”

“Caracas, Venezuela?”

“That’s where he was from. ”

“What else?”

“Venezuelan police says he’s a mercenary.”

“You mean like a gun for hire?”

“That’s what he was, is what I was told.”

I mentally translated. A South American hit man comes to the
U.S., chases a van with Benjamin Kurios stuck in the back. He runs the van off
the road and into a bridge abutment, gets into a fistfight with the van’s
driver, and then ends up charbroiled in a one-vehicle crash. I could just hear
Yigal using this cockamamie story in front of a jury. Zeus might as well place
an order for his last meal now.

“What else do you know about Perez? Is he connected to any
other Venezuelans in Orlando?”

Coincidence can only go so far. The two fee-for-service
assassins who had tried to kill me were probably working for whomever had hired
Perez. The threat level just went up a notch.
 

“Didn’t hear about anybody else from Venezuela,” Yigal said.

“If something else comes up about Perez, let me know,” I
told Yigal.

“Okay. Will be there in the morning. Staying at the Hyatt.”

“The Hyatt?
The
New Brunswick Hyatt?”

“Yes, that’s where I’ll be.”

And that’s where I would be registering Twyla in about two
hours. I gathered Manny’s niece had slipped Zeus’s lawyer this information.

“You can find a cheaper room on Route One.”

“Gafstein and Rosenblatt can afford a good hotel.”

“Yigal—” I began with such a moralistic tone of voice that I
could almost hear Rosenblatt drifting away.

“Have to leave.” End of conversation.

I cursed Doug and spent the next hour and a half catching up
on office work. Then I made the short drive to the Middlesex County
administrative offices where I found Twyla standing outside with her parole
officer.

“Five minutes late,” the officer said.

“Sorry.”

Twyla bounded into the car.

“You run the men’s shelter in town, right?” the officer
asked.

“Yup.”

“That place is full of drunks, hopheads, perverts, and
thieves.”

I shrugged. “Can’t deny that.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I was told you’re on the up-and-up. That you
wouldn’t do nothin’ to, shall we say, complicate Miss Tharp’s probation.”

I faked a smile. “Nope—I try not to complicate.”

The woman chewed on her lower lip. “I also heard you got
friends in low places. But they’re not the kind of friends I want Miss Tharp
associating with.
Capeesh?”

“Well, let’s not call them friends. But I c
apeesh
all
the same.” I put my Buick in drive, leaving Twyla’s parole officer at the curb.

A few minutes later, we pulled up to the Hyatt Regency. I
escorted Twyla to the registration desk where I ran into the hotel’s general
manager, Robert Gonzales, known to most of New Brunswick as Four Putt. Since he
had arrived in the city five years ago, Gonzales and I had played in a dozen
charity golf outings, some of which included Manny Maglio. I learned early on
how the hotel’s top executive earned his nickname.
  

Gonzales pulled me into a corner. “Look, Bullet, I want
nothin’ to do with this.”

“With what?”

“With her.” Four Putt jerked his head at Twyla who was now
the center of the universe for the hotel’s two male registration clerks.
“Maglio’s people told me they needed a room and I came through. But they didn’t
tell me who it was for. I don’t want nobody in the ‘business’ stayin’ here!”

I tried putting some spin on a bad situation. “It’s just for
a few days.”

Four Putt wasn’t buying. “Damnit. You remember what’s across
the street? Johnson & Johnson’s worldwide headquarters, is what. Those guys
find out I got a hooker on board and my career’s shot.”

Actually, Four Putt’s career had been pretty much put on
hold when Hyatt’s management sent him to New Brunswick. Word was that his
performance had not been stellar at two previous properties.

“Why are you unloading on me?” I complained. “You played
golf with the devil and for that little bit of bad judgment, you’ve got no
choice but to give his niece a room and a king-sized bed.”

“His niece.” Four Putt gasped. “Jeez, I didn’t know it was
his niece.”

Uh-oh. “That’s classified information you didn’t hear from
me,” I said. “As a matter of fact, if word gets out that you know about the
blood connection between Twyla Tharp and your golfing buddy, you’ll be teeing
up in hell.”

Four Putt threw back a confused stare. “Twyla Tharp?
She picks a Broadway choreographer for
her alias?”

“Not an alias. She changed her name a few years ago,” I
explained. “She’s a dancer.”

Four Putt slapped his head with one of his large, hairy
mitts. “What she is—is a prostitute.”

“Who’s looking to make a career change.”

“Jeez, this could really do it to me. A damn streetwalker of
all things.”

“I feel your pain. And since we’re talking about people of
ill repute, there’s a lawyer who’ll be checking in tomorrow.”

“So what?”

“Give him a room as far away as possible from wherever
you’re stashing Twyla.”

“Oh, my God,” Four Putt whispered. “What’s going on?”

“So far, nothing. And I need your help to make sure things
stay that way.”
 

Chapter 10

Yigal
Rosenblatt showed up at the Gateway around noon, looking more disheveled than
ever. The first words out of his mouth told me that the long drive from Orlando
to New Brunswick had done nothing to dampen his caffeinated personality.

“Here they are—I have them here,” Yigal announced between
bounces. He held up a legal-sized manila envelope and tore it open. Three
scraps of metal each about the size of a silver dollar fell onto a coffee
table—one of the newer furnishings in the Gateway’s common room. All three
metal pieces were painted blue on one side.

“You’re positive these came from the burned-out car?”
 

“That’s where they came from. Had them cut out of the
door.”
 

“Your partner’s brother-in-law—”

“Morty Margolis.”

“We can rely on him?” I deliberately let my skepticism eke
out.

“Called him yesterday. Says he’ll do what he can.”

I gave Yigal as earnest a look as was feasible. “Look, I
don’t know whether these paint chips and the paint samples we scraped off the
stanchion in Orlando add up to evidence or just two handfuls of junk. But what
I do
know is that your partner’s brother-in-law
is the man we’ll be relying on to give us the answer.”

“That’s what he’ll do.”

“Remember—whatever Margolis finds or doesn’t find could
either set Zeus free or put him in the electric chair.”

“Maybe I could say hello to Twyla,” Yigal suggested. “Before
I go to Weehawken to see Morty Margolis.”

A one-track mind knows no detour.

“Business first.” My cell phone saved Yigal from a
protracted sermon.

“This is Abraham Arcontius.” Silverstein’s assistant had a
voice that matched his reptilian look. Sound hissed through his distended
throat like steam from a vent.

“Something I can do for you?”

“We understand you’ll be attending the
Quia Vita
meeting tonight.”

It took me two seconds to figure out how Silverstein and
company knew I would be at the Grand Hyatt. Doug Kool
.

“That’s the plan,” I admitted.
 

“We want a full report tomorrow.”

“No one said anything about daily briefings.”

“Please be at Mr. Silverstein’s estate tomorrow, Mr.
Bullock.”

“With all due respect, I’m not on call. If you want to schedule
a meeting, that’s fine. But I need more lead time if you expect me to show up.”

“Perhaps you don’t quite get what’s going on here,”
Arcontius said.

“Educate me.”

“We’re giving you a chance to show us what you’re really up
to.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“That’s something we can discuss tomorrow.”

My dislike for Arcontius was growing like a cancer. “Look, I
had a couple of checks stuffed into my pocket as payment for feeding your boss
information. I wasn’t comfortable taking the money in the first place and now
I’m thirty seconds away from mailing them back.”

Arcontius wasn’t rattled. “The money is incidental. There
are bigger issues on the table.”

“The only issue I’m aware of is a man who might be getting
the shaft in Florida.”

“If that’s the case, you’ll be here tomorrow, and you’ll
tell us whatever you learn at the meeting tonight.”

“Us?”

“A collective us
.
The
Silverstein team is extensive.”

In my line of work, it’s not uncommon to run into
disagreeable, distrustful, and dislikeable people. Arcontius bundled up all
these undesirable qualities into one slimy package. He used Silverstein’s power
base to pump up his own importance. When I didn’t roll over on command, the man
wasn’t happy.

“Anything that happens tonight can be summed up in a phone
call,” I said. “I don’t expect to walk away with any big news. Remind
Silverstein I’m starting at the low end of a learning curve. The reason I’m
going to the
Quia Vita
meeting is to get a better handle on the organization. End of story.”

“Mr. Bullock, I don’t think I’m making myself clear. We want
you at the Silverstein estate tomorrow. A phone call won’t do it. There are
things we need to discuss face-to-face. Don’t push aside a chance to play by
our rules. Because if you do, you’ll deeply regret it.”

“Define ‘deeply regret
.’ 
”
 

“
Occasio aegre
offertur, facile amittitur.
”

“What?”
 

“It’s a Latin saying. It means: ‘Opportunity is offered with
difficulty but lost with ease.’ I know you’ll show up tomorrow.”

The
Grand Hyatt has a lot in common with Yigal Rosenblatt. With over 1,300 guest
rooms and 55,000 feet of “function space,” the place is in a perpetual state of
hyperactivity. When Doc Waters and I walked into the lobby around six p.m., it
was 100 percent bedlam.
 

We checked the hotel TV monitors for meeting information but
there was nothing posted for
Quia
Vita
.
Doug Kool had instructed me to go to the front desk and ask for an account
manager named Jane. She would meet us in the lobby.