The Job (49 page)

“Do not worry about Caryl Jenkins saying anything to the fund’s lawyer, Mr. Parkhill, regarding your business here tonight. I chose Caryl because I know he can’t stand Parkhill.”

“I cannot thank you enough,” Meg said, touching MacGuire’s arm.

“It has been a most instructive night,” he said.

“And do get the court order sent to me as soon as possible. Once it arrives I can transfer the account into your name, and you can have immediate access to its funds.”

At the airport, I pumped MacGuire’s hand, and asked him, “Why did you let me get away with the stamp and the deposit book?”

“Because I figured that whatever you did with them wouldn’t bring the bank into disrepute.”

“How could you be so sure?”

He shrugged.

“Instinct. Trust. And sympathy. Especially for someone in way over his head.”

“You helped. A lot.”

He adopted a mock formal tone.

“As long as I am not asked to break any laws, I am always happy to assist our customers in any way I can. Everything you requested me to do was basically legal, “You’re still a friend.”

He smiled.

“Yes, but I’m also a banker.”

Inside the terminal building, I didn’t like the look of the ancient X-ray machine they had for hand luggage, fearing that it might wipe the tapes clean. So I asked the security officer on duty to inspect the bag by hand.

“What’s inside the bag?” he asked before opening it.

I glanced at Meg Peterson. And stopped myself from saying, “Dynamite.”

As soon as we stepped off the plane in Miami my phone rang.

“Ned, it’s Oliver here at the bank.”

“Didn’t I just say good-bye to you?”

“I would have called you half an hour ago, but you were in the air at the time.”

He sounded uncharacteristically tense.

“Is something wrong?”

“Remember when you asked me to ring you if Excalibur’s lawyer ever called me to check on the balance of the fund?”

“Oh, Jesus …”

“I’m sorry, Ned. But he phoned as soon as I arrived back at the bank. And I had no choice but to give him the official balance. He does represent the account, after all.”

“Okay, Oliver-thanks for warning me.”

“Watch yourself.”

I turned to Meg and told her what had just transpired.

“So the lawyer will report to Schubert that the account is a million dollars short?” she asked.

“That’s right. And he’ll think I’ve embezzled it myself….”

The phone rang again.

“Ned.”

It was Lizzie. She didn’t sound relaxed.

“Don’t go home,” she said.

“What?”

“Don’t go back to the loft. They’re waiting for you.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Jerry’s goons. They know exactly who you’re with and where you’ve been, and they’re after whatever it is you’ve got. And tell Mrs. Peterson not to go home, either. There are people waiting there for her as well.”

“How do you know this?”

“Jerry told me.”

“Did he sleep over?” I said, immediately regretting it.

“You are a total jerk.”

“Sorry.”

“Now listen to me, please. Jerry arrived unannounced to tell me that he’d just heard some news: The Connecticut cops have a witness who will finger you as the man who killed Peterson.”

Oh Christ. It was Jerry who sent them the reception photos.

“Now it was pretty clear why he showed up on my doorstep to tell me this news-he was hoping, in his own dumb-shit, high-school-jock-romantic way, that I’d suddenly drop you and fall into his arms. But I have never given up on you, Ned. Never. Even though, Christ knows, I’ve wanted to…. “Anyway, I played along, acted like I was almost relieved you were going to be busted, flirted with the jerk, but pulled the ‘time-of-the-month’ routine when he started to think it was his lucky night. And I would have called you back as soon as he left if I knew where you were, or if your cellphone had been on. I was absolutely frantic. Especially when he called me last night to say you’d disappeared with Peterson’s wife, and fed me some lie about how the Connecticut cops had men posted at the loft and Mrs. Peterson’s house, waiting to pick you up. And how I should call him immediately if you showed up here …”

“Calm down, Lizzie. Calm down.”

“I can’t calm down-they’re going to kill you.”

“Here’s what you do. Call Jerry back, say you heard from me, and that I’ve decided to lay low in Miami for a few days. Tell him I’ve checked into the Delano. Let him send a search party down here….”

“Okay, okay… what are you going to do?”

“Get to New York and sell my way out of this corner.”

“Don’t get hurt.”

I hit the “off” button. Meg Peterson was looking at me, worried.

“Are your kids definitely at your sister’s?” I asked.

She turned white.

“Oh Christ, don’t tell me…”

“Jerry has posted a ‘welcome-home’ party outside your house. So get on the phone to your sister and tell her not to go near your place… and suggest she take a drive out of town with the kids today.”

Meg scrambled inside her bag for her cellphone.

“A land line, Meg,” I said, pointing to the pay phone on the wall of the transit lounge.

“I read you.”

Our flight to La Guardia was called. Meg was still on the phone when the final boarding announcement was given. A flight attendant approached us.

“Sir, ma’am, please-you must board now.”

Meg ended her call and we were hustled aboard the plane.

“They’re fine, thank God,” she said as we walked down the jet-way.

“And they’re all heading off to see a cousin of ours in Milford for the day. Oh-I have to tell you: The local papers have been saying that the police plan to arrest someone for Ted’s murder by tomorrow.”

“You mean, as soon as Mr. Hyatt Regency IDs me.”

We found our seats at the extreme rear of the plane. Almost immediately we pushed back from the gate and began to taxi toward the runway. My phone rang.

“Here’s what you do. Call Jerry back, say you heard from me, and that I’ve decided to lay low in Miami for a few days.”

I felt a deep chill run right through me as I heard Jerry mimic, verbatim, my conversation of five minutes earlier.

“What did I tell you about cellular phones, Allen? I mean, if someone can listen in on Prince Charles’s cellphone, you don’t think they can tap yours? Not that you need to worry about stuff like phones anymore. Because you’re dead. As in D-E-A-D. And as for that duplicitous bitch you call a wife…”

A stewardess came running up the aisle.

“Sir, turn that cellphone off now. They interfere with navigational instruments.”

I did as ordered. And whispered to Meg:

“We need to get off this plane before it takes off.”

“What?”

“That was Jerry Schubert. He’s been listening in. And I promise you, he’s going to have a greeting committee at La Guardia. So we’ve got to

…”

Suddenly the plane turned a corner and, without hesitation, shot down the runway.

“Forget that idea,” Meg said.

I noticed a credit card phone in the arm of my seat. I turned around to where the air hostess was strapped into a jump seat.

“Can I use this?” I said, frantically pulling the receiver out of the armrest.

She nodded her approval. I whipped out a credit card and slid it through the little groove on the edge of the receiver. Nothing happened. I slid it through again. A message appeared in the little window on the receiver: INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered. Meg Peterson tapped me on the shoulder with her AMEX card.

“This might just work.”

It did-and I reached Lizzie at her apartment.

“Get out of there now,” I said.

“He’s been listening in. He knows you’ve been leaking everything he’s said to me. And he’s really pissed off.”

“Oh, Jesus…”

“Don’t go to the office. Don’t go anywhere he might think of looking for you. Just get out of there. And don’t call me again. Go somewhere safe…. a museum.”

“Remember that benefit we were at in October?”

“Gotcha.”

My next call was to Phil Sirio.

“You in a plane, boss?” he asked.

“I’m in deeper than deep shit.”

“Tell me how I can help.”

I explained the problem. He had an instant solution. He’d grab his brother and his brother’s car and meet us at La Guardia-whereupon they’d whisk us off to the safety of Ozone Park for as long as necessary.

“You can whisk Mrs. Peterson off. I’ve got some business in the city.”

“Whatever,” Phil said.

“When do you land?”

“Just before eleven. We’re on American flight eleven-thirty-two.”

“We’ll be there, boss.”

I turned to Meg and informed her that we now had protection in the shape of Phil Sirio and his brother. Then, talking in a near whisper, I took her through the scenario I was going to enact as soon as I reached Manhattan-and how I would call her when she was needed. She scribbled down her number in my notebook. Then we lapsed into tense silence. And stayed that way until we touched down at La Guardia.

We were last off the plane. Phil and his brother Vinnie (a squat bear of a guy, with a silk open-neck shirt and several gold chains) were waiting for us at the gate. As we waved in acknowledgment, I saw I’m From Upstairs walking rapidly toward us. Just as he was about to grab my arm, Vinnie tapped him on the shoulder. I’m From Upstairs pivoted and instantly encountered Vinnie’s fist. The blow landed between his eyes, and he landed on the floor. People scattered. Vinnie then quickly rammed his boot between the guy’s legs, just to make certain he really wasn’t going to pursue us. And the four of us ran for the street.

“Our car’s just over there,” Phil said, pointing to a gold Olds, illegally parked near the taxi stand.

“We can run you into Manhattan.”

“Just get Meg somewhere safe. I’ll call you when I need you. And Vinnie…”

“Yo.”

“Nice meeting you.”

I jumped into a cab.

“Forty-fifth and Lexington.”

I collapsed across the backseat. I momentarily closed my eyes. When I opened them again, we were in midtown Manhattan. It took a moment for me to get my bearings. I paid off the cabbie. I entered the stationery shop in which I had rented a mailbox. I dug out the key, opened the box, and removed the envelope stuffed with Bahamian bank receipts and the deposit stamp. Dropping everything into my briefcase, I ran out to the street again, hailed another cab, and asked to be dropped on Madison between 53rd and 54th.

I feared that Jerry might have a goon squad on the lookout for me in the downstairs lobby-but the usual security guard was the only person on duty, and he gave me a curt nod of hello. I rode the elevator up to the eighteenth floor, expecting tough guys in the reception area of Ballantine Industries. However, there was just a secretary. She looked up at me through the glass security door, figured me to be a well-dressed (if somewhat disheveled) executive, and buzzed me in.

“Can I help you?”

“Not really,” I replied, passing her. She yelled after me-but I was now running, my eyes focused on the door at the end of the corridor. Made of massive mahogany, it screamed executive self-importance, and could only belong to one man in this organization. I heard footsteps racing behind me, but I knew I was going to reach this door first. And throwing my weight against it, I spilled right into the office of Jack Ballantine.

He was seated behind a huge Oval Office-style desk. But as soon as I made my crash landing he was on his feet. So was Jerry Schubert, who had apparently been seated in the chair opposite the desk. Jerry dived for the phone.

“Jenny, get me Security….”

But Security was already here-in the form of Thug Number Two, of Hyatt Regency parking lot fame. He had me in a half nelson. Ballantine approached me, shaking his head.

“You disappoint me, Ned. Here I was, thinking you were a guy ready to play pro ball. But, as it turns out, you’re junior varsity-and way out of your league.”

“Get him into my office,” Jerry ordered the thug.

“You made a classic mistake, Ned,” Ballantine said.

“You forgot that non-team players always get trampled.”

I reached into my jacket pocket with my free hand and pulled out a microcassette recorder.

“Before you start trampling me, I think you should hear this first,” I said, pressing the “play” button, and spinning the volume dial up to maximum.

“You’re telling me that Jack Ballantine’s behind this fund?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Which is why, if you don’t play ball with us, you and your family are heading for harm. Because

Jack Ballantine is like an Old Testament god. Cross him and he smites your ass. Permanently.”

Jerry was heading toward me.

“Give me that fucking tape,” he ordered.

“Not so fast,” Ballantine said, approaching me.

“Play it again.”

I hit the “rewind” button and then pressed “play.”

Ballantine listened again. Jerry made another grab for the cassette recorder. But Ballantine blocked his attempted swipe, seizing him by the shirt.

“Back off, son,” he said calmly, “or you might get hurt.”

He pushed Jerry into a chair, then turned to me.

“Who’s the other guy on the tape?” he asked.

“The late Ted Peterson. And if you look in my briefcase there, you’ll see there are twenty other tapes-all containing recorded conversations between Mr. Peterson and Mr. Schubert, and all of a highly incriminating nature.”

Ballantine bent down, picked up the briefcase, and peered inside. I continued talking.

“And I must inform you, Mr. Ballantine, that my associates are expecting a phone call from me in just under fifteen minutes. If they do not hear from me, they will presume the worst-and they will deliver the originals of these tapes to the FBI.”

“This is bullshit, Mr. B.,” Jerry yelled.

I ignored Jerry and stared directly at Ballantine.

“I would advise you to take this situation seriously, sir. And I would also ask you to get this fucking gorilla off me right now.”

After a moment’s consideration, Ballantine flicked his hand toward Thug Number Two. He released me and stood guard by the door.