The Chairman (19 page)

“Rich, good-looking white boy plucks vulnerable Hispanic girl out of poverty and they end up riding off into the sunset together on a white horse. I know how you think the book reads. Seems romantic, but the reality is very different. She won’t fit into your world. Both of you will end up being sorry.”

“You’re jumping the gun a little. I haven’t even gone out with her.”

“Don’t.”

Gillette chuckled. “Quentin, you’re jealous. That’s what this is all about.”

“You’re wrong. I’m just trying to give you good advice.”

“I thought you didn’t talk to your clients.”

“I usually don’t,” Stiles agreed hesitantly.

“So, why me?”

“I don’t know,” he answered lamely.

“Well, she and I are going to dinner tonight.”

Stiles shrugged. “Fine. I don’t give a shit.”

They were quiet for a few minutes.

“Are you married?” Gillette finally asked.

“Divorced.”

“Kids?”

“No.”

Gillette hesitated, thinking about the best way to ask the question, but there was only one way—directly. “Was your wife white?”

Stiles’s expression remained impassive for a few moments, then he nodded.

“Was she wealthy?”

“Not like you, but her family lived in a nice part of town. You know, big brick houses and Mexican maids.”

“Any black families in the area?”

“Not within a mile.” Stiles looked over. “I checked.”

So Stiles had experienced it firsthand. No wonder he was ringing the warning bell. “My mother was an alcoholic,” Gillette said. “On good days she just scared the hell out of me stumbling around the house. On bad days she got her kicks chasing me with a belt.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Gillette paused. “When my father died, my mother cut me off from the family money. She closed my checking account, canceled my credit cards, everything.” Gillette looked over and saw that Stiles was suddenly hanging on every word. “I was riding my motorcycle cross-country after graduating from Princeton when my father died. I got the word when I was in western Pennsylvania visiting my grandfather, my father’s father. He was poor all his life until Dad made lots of money and made sure he was okay. But he stayed in the same little mining town even after Dad gave him the money. So I’m staying there when my mother called to tell my grandfather his son had died. She called to tell me I was off the payroll. That I was completely on my own. From that point on I had to beg and borrow until I got on my feet.” He smiled grimly. “That’s when I picked up pool. It took me almost six weeks to get back to California, and I played every day for food money. You get good fast when the price of losing is starving.”

“Why did it take you six weeks to get back to the West Coast? I thought you said you had a motorcycle.”

“The clutch burned out right as I got to my grandfather’s place. It was in the shop when my mother called to cut me off. All I had on me was a hundred bucks, so I sold the thing for a grand to the mechanic who was working on it, and I road freight trains back to California.”

Stiles gave Gillette a look that suggested he thought Gillette was truly insane.
“What?”

“Yeah. There was a Conrail main line that went through my grandfather’s town. I jumped on an empty box car one afternoon while the train was dropping off coal cars at the electric plant at the edge of town. Six weeks later, I was in L.A. I love trains now.”

“Why didn’t you ask your grandfather for cash? You said your father gave him money when he sold the investment bank.”

Gillette shook his head. “He didn’t know how things were between my mother and me. It would have killed him to find out. Besides, I don’t ask
anyone
for money.”

“Then how did you pay for Stanford Business School?”

“Worked two jobs and took out a student loan.”

“But I thought you didn’t ask anyone for money.”

“When it’s their business, I don’t care.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I paid back every cent of that loan. Early, too. I wasn’t one of those kids who welshed.” Gillette hesitated. “I’m telling you all this because I want you to know I’ve made everything I have on my own.”

Stiles was quiet for a few moments. “Why did your mother do it?” he finally asked. “Why did she cut you off?”

Gillette took a deep breath. “Because she wasn’t really my mother.”

Stiles gave Gillette a confused look. “What do you mean?”

“You asked me if I kept in touch with my brother and sister. I told you that I didn’t.”

“Yeah, so?”

“They’re actually my
half
brother and
half
sister,” Gillette answered, his voice a whisper. “My father had an affair with a young Hollywood actress.”

“And your
step
mother couldn’t handle it.”

“It drove her insane.”

“Do you ever talk to your real mother?”

“I don’t even know who she is,” Gillette admitted. “All I know is that she’s a star now.”

As they turned onto Park Avenue from Fifty-first, a blue sedan darted alongside the Town Car, then slammed into the front passenger door of the vehicle, hurling Stiles into Gillette and Gillette against the door. Gillette’s head hit the window hard, and for a few seconds his vision blurred. When it cleared, he looked up and out the window. Directly into the barrel of a gun.

There was a single gunshot just as Stiles threw himself in front of Gillette.

Gillette strained his neck to see over Stiles’s shoulder, but the assassin was gone.

For a few moments Gillette heard someone moaning on the street outside the vehicle. Then nothing.

16

The Urge to Trust.
Even the most skeptical and cynical among us are, at times, vulnerable to deception. In the same way that we struggle to keep secrets to ourselves, we want to believe that those we’ve chosen to associate or partner with will not hurt us. Perhaps because we want to believe our ability to assess character is superior. Because we want to believe we are so endearing that others would hate to take advantage of us. Or because we desperately want to believe people are inherently good. For whatever reason, even the most experienced and savvy have their moments of vulnerability.

It is then that the enemy can advance.

GILLETTE HUSTLED ACROSS THE SIDEWALK toward the entrance to the Everest building. Stiles was a few feet ahead of him; one of Stiles’s men was close behind.

When they were through the revolving door and inside the elevator, Gillette leaned back against the car wall and let out a long breath. “Well, Quentin,” he said, “I bet you didn’t think the financial world would ever be this exciting.”

Stiles motioned to his subordinate to stay behind in the lobby, then pressed the button for thirty-two. He and Gillette were the only people in the car. “No, I didn’t,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Which reminds me, my fee’s going up.”

“Oh,
I
see,” Gillette shot back, his voice rising. “Things get a little rough and you bail on me.”

“I’m not bailing on you,” Stiles snapped. “I just want to get paid right for the risk. You understand that, don’t you? Just like in finance. Risk, reward.”

“What I understand is you’re changing the deal on me.”

“I didn’t get all the information when I signed on.”

“I told you about the limousine outside the church. That was all you needed to know.”

Stiles pointed at Gillette. “I’m gonna guess that at some point you changed a deal on somebody.”

“Well, I—”

“Besides, I’m not changing the deal,” Stiles interrupted. “I’m in, as agreed.
And I will keep you alive.
” He slipped his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the wall, too. “You sure as hell pissed somebody off, or you’ve got something they want.”

“I’ve got something they want.”

“You’re probably right. In your world people want money more than revenge.”

As the elevator rose, Gillette’s mind flashed back to the image of the pistol aimed at him from outside the window. Of how, for a split second, he’d thought he was dead. How, when he’d heard the gun go off, he’d expected a flash of excruciating pain, then nothing. Then he’d realized that the shot had come from the gun of one of the two men Stiles had trailing them in another vehicle, that the assassin had been hit.

For a brief moment afterward, he had lain sprawled on the seat, wondering if it was all worth it. Wondering if Faith and Stiles were right, if it was time to enjoy life a little. Maybe having an empire wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

“Hopefully the cops will get something out of the guy when he wakes up after surgery.”

“If they do,” Stiles answered, “they’re miracle workers.”

“Why?”

“He died in the ambulance.”

“Oh.” Death. So close. He could almost feel it.

The first two attacks had shaken Gillette, but hadn’t made him consider getting out, or actually think about death. But now it was clear that whoever was behind the attacks wasn’t going to stop until he was dead—or they were. And this time he’d stared right down the barrel of the gun.

“Maybe they can ID him and still find out something. Link him to whoever’s behind this.”

“Don’t count on that, either,” Stiles said dismissively. “My guess is they’ll find out he was some random thug who got half the cash before and would have gotten the other half after.”

“Your cup’s running over with optimism.”

“Comes with the turf.”

The elevator slowed as it approached the thirty-second floor: Everest Capital.

“Quentin,” Gillette spoke up as the doors parted. “I . . .” He dropped his voice. “I appreciate what you did in the car.” He stopped outside the elevator. Far enough away from the Everest receptionist that she couldn’t hear. “You put yourself between me and a bullet.”

“Reflex,” Stiles said firmly. “Nothing else.”

“Still, I—”

“That’s what you get from me, Christian. Execution.” Stiles hesitated. “Look, somebody wants you dead, and that won’t be the last time they try. Whoever
they
are,” he added after a beat.

“How are we going to find out who
they
are?” Gillette asked, following Stiles as he headed toward the receptionist. “The cops haven’t been able to.”

As of yesterday afternoon, the New York City Police Department had no leads on who had blown up the limousine, and the New Jersey State Police were still coming up empty on the attack in Hightstown. The car the shooter had been driving in New Jersey—the one that had stopped directly ahead of Gillette’s at the traffic light—had been left at the scene, but it was stolen.

“I’m working on it,” Stiles answered. “Oh, by the way, I’ve implemented a new policy here at Everest.” He acknowledged another of his men who was standing inside the lobby doorway. “And the guy waiting in your office won’t be very happy about it. Also, from now on, I need to be informed at least thirty minutes in advance any time you plan to change locations. No exceptions. Got it?”

“What if I have to go to the head and I can’t wait that long?”

“Christian.”

Gillette held up one hand. “All right.”

Stiles shook his head. “You aren’t taking this seriously enough. A guy just tried to kill you. I can’t believe you—”

“Quentin,”
said Gillette firmly, “I’m taking it
very
seriously. I’m just trying not to let it get to me.” He patted Stiles on the shoulder. “And, again, thanks for what you did out there. You say it was reflex, but I don’t care. It took a lot of guts.”

Stiles shrugged. “I can’t have one of my clients killed. Bad for business. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t be able to get yourself out of the way in time.”

“Why?”

Stiles grinned. “You white guys are too slow.”

“Hey, any time you want to race, you let me know, pal,” Gillette retorted, chuckling as he turned toward his office.

“What happened to you?” Debbie asked as Gillette approached.

“What do you mean?”

She was staring at him intently. “You look like somebody just tried to run you down.”

“Is Tom in my office?”

“Don’t avoid my question.”

“Deb.”

She stuck her tongue out. “Yeah, and he’s irritated about something.”

“What?”

She shrugged “How would I know?”

“That’s helpful,” Gillette muttered, reaching for the doorknob.

“Sorreeee,” she shot back. “Hey, what is
wrong
with you?”

He grimaced. “Nothing. Sorry.” He motioned toward the office. “No calls while I’m with Tom. Okay?”

“Okay.”

As Gillette opened the door, he glanced over his shoulder. Stiles was speaking to the man posted at the lobby doorway. “Except Quentin,” he called to Debbie. “If he needs me, interrupt immediately.”

“All right.”

“Hello, Tom.” Gillette held out his hand as he walked toward the other man.

McGuire was relaxing in one of the chairs in the corner. He stood up as Gillette made it to where he was sitting. “Hello, Christian.”

They shook hands and sat down across from each other, the coffee table between them. Gillette saw instantly what Debbie meant. There was something eating at McGuire. “What’s the problem, Tom?”

McGuire’s eyes shot to Gillette’s “What do you mean?”

“You’re pissed off at something. I can tell. Usually it’s like you’re in the middle of a poker game. I wouldn’t be able to read your expression if my life depended on it.”

“You’d be pissed, too,” McGuire snapped.

“Why?”

“I had to give up my gun to that prick by the lobby doorway,” McGuire fumed, his face turning red. “What the hell’s going on around here?”

The new policy Stiles had referred to. It had to be. Everyone would be searched at the Everest door from now on. No exceptions. “I’ve put Quentin Stiles in charge of my personal security. What he says goes.” Gillette had never even known McGuire carried a gun. “It has to be this way.” Stiles had probably implemented the policy just for McGuire. Just to piss him off. But so be it.

“And you took my people off the assignment. From what I understand, Stiles is totally in charge of your security now.”

Stiles had made that request yesterday, and Gillette had agreed. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“I don’t understand,” McGuire complained. “What’s the problem? Don’t you trust me?”

“Calm down, Tom.”

“
Calm down?
I’ve got a lot of satisfied customers who’ll tell you we’ve done a tremendous job protecting them. But the guy who owns my business fires me. Now,
you
tell
me.
Should I feel good about that?”

“Tom, I—”

“How much diligence did you do on Stiles before you hired him?” McGuire pushed. “How do you know if he’s any good?”

“Oh, he’s good.”

“How do you know?”

“I was attacked again a few minutes ago, and he saved my life.”

McGuire turned his head to the side, as if he’d been struck by something.
“What?”

“Yeah, right out on Park Avenue.”

“What happened?”

“A guy ran his car into mine, then jumped out and tried to shoot me. But one of Stiles’s men nailed the guy. They had it covered.”

“Jesus,” McGuire said softly. “Well, I’m glad you’re all right. But I still don’t understand why my people were taken off the job.” His voice had gotten strong again.

“Too many fingers in the pie, Tom. Simple as that. Stiles wanted his guys on it and nobody else’s. I don’t know much about personal security, but it made sense to me from an organizational standpoint. Consolidation of leadership and all that. I okayed it.”

“What happened to the guy who tried to shoot you?”

“He’s dead.”

“Good. Whoever’s behind all this needs to understand that you’re protected by people who know what the hell they’re doing.” McGuire looked down. “I’m glad Stiles’s people are doing a good job.”

“Thanks.” Gillette stood up and moved to his desk. “You’re here today to talk about buying the company.” He clicked the computer mouse several times as he moved it around on the pad. “Right?”

“Yes, I—”

“Give me one second, Tom.” Gillette punched in the Dominion Savings & Loan ticker and recoiled at what he saw. Dominion’s stock price was off six dollars in overnight trading. Off almost 15 percent from yesterday’s close. “Christ,” he whispered.

“Something wrong?”

“No, nothing.” Gillette moved back to the chair and sat down, wondering what was going on with Dominion. Focus, he told himself. On the task at hand. “So let’s talk. Earlier this week you offered me 300 million for McGuire & Company.”

“Which, according to my backer, is a fair price.”

“Of course he’d say that,” Gillette replied calmly. “He’s on the buy side.”

“Whatever. Look, he’s pretty connected to Wall Street, and he tells me there’ve been investment bankers sniffing around Everest offering to take McGuire & Company public. Tells me you guys are close to signing an agreement with one of the Wall Street firms. He says if you do that, I won’t have a chance to buy the company.”

Gillette shook his head, irritated that the news had gotten out. Probably some young punk associate who couldn’t keep his mouth shut had leaked it. “That’s right,” he admitted.

“What are they telling you they can get for it?”

“Five hundred million.” Typically, Gillette would have kept his cards close to his chest, but McGuire needed to understand how big the difference in offers was. “Two hundred million more than you’ll pay. That’s a huge gap. One I can’t ignore. I have a responsibility to my limited partners to listen to these guys. I’d have a lot of unhappy investors if they found out I had passed on $200 million.”

“You’re telling me the investors wouldn’t be happy if you doubled their money? Which is what $300 million does.”

“Not if I left two hundred on the table.”

“They wouldn’t have to know.”

“Somebody would find out, Tom. Somebody would have a contact at one of the investment banks we’re talking to. Just like your backer does. Then all of our partners would know, and I’d be out of a job.”

“Yeah, well, your investors can kiss my ass,” McGuire snapped. “They don’t see how hard it is to run this company. They don’t see the crap Vince and I deal with. The tough decisions we make on a daily basis. The risks we take. They don’t see any of that. They don’t deal with the stress.”

“And they’re happy not to,” Gillette replied. “They just want to make as much money as they can, and they don’t give a damn about your stress. That’s why they have us hire you. To deal with all that.”

McGuire took a deep breath, trying to keep his cool. “I don’t know a lot about IPOs, but doesn’t the process take a while? Isn’t there a lot of back and forth with the SEC?”

“Usually,” Gillette agreed.

“And isn’t that market unpredictable? One day, IPOs are everywhere. The next, the door shuts and nothing goes public for a year.”