The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott (16 page)

Doug shook his head. "I just don't get it. I think it's simpler than that." He looked up at the face of Swann's statue, peering down with an almost lascivious élan. "I think these guys fought tooth and nail to get where they are, and now they have to dominate everything and everyone around them or they feel threatened."

"What control do they really have, though? It's all imaginary. They could die tomorrow of a heart attack."

Doug laughed. "Especially with all the gourmet cheese cake they eat." He pointed up at the statue. "This guy's a special case, though. See that? Even in stone he's ripped. Unlike
Aazad
, who has a pot belly. It's like Trump living next to his clone, too. Two superstar ball players facing off on the gridiron. Only their arena is the streets of Dubai, viewed from on high."

"Why do they think they have no choice but to lock horns, though? Just to keep the illusion alive?"

"Well, there's another rumor, you know," Doug said.

"What's that?"

"Insider trading on Wall Street, back in the day. A tip and trade that proved a lie, and set the other one up to lose millions."

"Which one?"

"Only their brokers know for sure. Or maybe not. Anyway, you sure seem to know something yourself that you aren't saying."

David tilted his forehead backward, looking up at the high tiled ceiling. "You know, this is all kinda like observing those blue white
supergiants
I overheard you talking about with
Aazad
, isn't it? Like those in the Eagle nebula? They burn fast and hot, blasting through all the dust lanes, inseminating the clouds with planets. We call it the Eagle nebula, but we could call it the Ego nebula. And the ego killer? That would be Messier 87. A sword beyond the sky, slicing and dicing through a thousand stars like a torch through butter." He looked up at Swann's statue again. "Who are we, anyway? Who are any of these moguls or sheiks? Grains of sand on Mars. Yeah, I know what he's going to do, if he gets a chance. He has no choice because he won't face the truth. Neither of them can afford the truth."

Finding his words amusing, Etherton smiled before glancing at his watch. Then David was aware of how his words must have sounded. Like casual conversation to pass the time. Not the tip of any inner iceberg reaching deep into his isolation. Again he thought about his own truth, and wondered how he might have stopped his mother from becoming a victim of such men, if only he'd paid more attention to her. Might she might still be alive if only he'd corrected her unsteady steps as she walked downhill in the dark toward their tripping feet, their hands clutching at her purse as she fell?

"Listen, Doug," David said, leaning forward, "I'd like to ask you a favor."

Cashman
approached the limousine from the entrance of his condo tower like an aging eighties rock star on holiday. His tailored beige suit and open white collar offset a bronzed, weathered face and flaming red hair in the light cast by the overhanging portico. A pair of amber tinted glasses hid his eyes and emphasized his
stuporous
half smile. He ducked into the back as the Asian driver held the door, and sat opposite David with a self confident air, as though he'd been routinely chauffeured between parties, and now expected to be offered a flute of champagne or a Cuban cigar, if not a line of coke.

"Mr.
Cashman
," David said formally, holding out his hand reluctantly, his heart thumping audibly in his left ear. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," he lied.

Cashman
seemed startled to find him sitting there in the dark inner recesses of the limo, sitting opposite the main seat. Ignoring the offered hand, he said, casually, "Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Quinn," David replied, letting his hand fall limply away. "I'm a representative for Alliance Books."

"Never heard of them."

"You will. We're a new imprint of Random House."

Cashman
perked up a bit, taking off his shades to reveal an inquisitive squint. "Really," he said, his tone not quite neutral.

"Yes," David insisted, "and like you were informed on the phone, we're here, or rather
I'm
here, to discuss a ghost writer for you. To work with you in developing a book to be written in the first person. For which we are prepared to offer an advance of one million dollars. If you sign tonight, that is."

"Oh yeah?"
Cashman
said with a gutsy laugh. "And you're so sure I'll sign onto this plan there's a party waiting for me?"

"That's right. Call it a signing bonus. With a surprise guest, who would like to meet you. Someone. . .famous."

"Really," the ex-TV preacher said, the word now more prominently weighted. "And would I know this person?"

"If you go to the movies."

Cashman
stared out the side window as if they were passing a night carnival. David imagined throwing a surprise punch when he turned back, projecting the nasal cartilage of his big nose up into the gray matter that passed as his brain. But the anger for it was oddly missing. There was pity instead.

"Why me?"
Cashman
said, looking back with faint suspicion. "Why not Benny
Hinn
?"

"He's still working. You're retired. You're more likely to be honest and open about what went on."

"What exactly do you think
went on?"

"You'll tell us. Or rather the ghost writer we assign you. You can spill the beans on the whole industry, say whatever you like. Vindicate yourself in the process."

"Now why would I want to do that?"

David looked out his own side window at the imaginary circus. "We figure the potential of an exposé on televangelists, coming from you, would net millions. You'd have a bestseller. If you like, you could do talk shows, go on a world book tour. . . You'd be on Letterman, the Today Show. And you'd be richer and
much
more famous than you are now."

"You have a writer that can. . . make this happen?"
Cashman
sounded skeptical.

David looked back at him---back at this man who'd already bilked millions out of the public, and who now, offered a chance to bilk more by turning the game around the other way, was secretly eager for it. Eager, just as David knew Jeffrey Innes would be eager to take more money from the naive and ignorant dupes who'd believed all their press releases and emotional appeals. "We have access to the best," he replied at last, with tutored sincerity, recalling
Cashman's
TV persona. "An author who has taken less dramatic stories and turned them into gold." He gestured one open hand toward
Cashman's
widening paunch. "You must have a million anecdotes to share, any one of which would make fascinating reading. Mind you, though, we're looking for a confessional, not just an autobiography. We need controversy to sell. The more outrageous the better. The more--"

"Wait,"
Cashman
interrupted, lifting a hand. "Let me get this straight. You want me to sit in a confessional booth with your guy? Air my dirty laundry, hang myself out to dry?"

"Exactly. That's the only way it would work, Mr.
Cashman
. You can only point your finger at others after you've pointed it at yourself."

"But wouldn't I be opening myself to lawsuits?"

"Only if you've committed murder." He paused. "Have you?"

Cashman
laughed. "Not directly, no."

"Besides, we have a great legal department, and there are things we can do with wording any confessions to make them seem incriminating and sensational while really not revealing any damning evidence. Our purpose is to provide a good read, that's all. Entertainment. Which was your stock and trade too, in a way. Correct?"

Cashman
grinned. "You got it, buddy."

Yeah,
David thought,
I got it.

"Just one thing,"
Cashman
said, his bleary eyes now acquiring a motivational speaker's passionate vision of self-actualization.

"What's that?"

"Do you think. . . I can get on
The Today Show?"

~ * ~

The Chanticleer Club was dwarfed by the looming structure of the
Seacrest
Tower next to it. At ground level, with the underground parking garage behind it not revealing how many guests might be present, it resembled an art deco jazz club, with a wide central column of pink concrete overlaid with five vertical ribbons of blue piping.

They pulled directly in front, and stopped. Half a dozen men with cameras readied themselves as the driver rushed around to open
Cashman's
door.

"This way, sir," he said.

Cashman
stepped out like a celebrity into the limelight. He buttoned his coat, adjusted the tinted shades over his oily eyes. David followed from behind like a bodyguard or a servant, yet he felt a giddy elation at the prospect of the unveiling to come. Everyone inside the main ballroom, he realized, had no idea who Ted was.

Cameras flashed as they approached. The door which the limo driver then opened for them was tall and oddly Arabic in shape, made of smoky glass framed with blue neon. They moved past several burly bouncers or security types, who waved them inside without asking for identification. Smiling.

There was a pause as everyone stared at them, entering.

"Make yourself at home," David said, wondering how many, among the hundred or so people mingling inside, might be on Swann's staff. "I'll see if our ghost writer is here."

He motioned toward the open bar, pretended to look down at his missing watch, then left
Cashman
standing there, stranded in a large parlor amid a small crowd of babbling cocktail party attendees.

He went into the back. The door was locked behind him. He found Doug standing next to
Wurley
and Swann's second Russian guardian, who he now knew was named simply
Peter
. He was about to comment on how the party resembled an art gallery showing when he noticed the machine pistol that lay on a table behind the Russian's blocking stance.

"What's happening?" he asked Etherton.

"We haven't heard from anyone but
Nasheed
. He's going to have his artwork removed from his condo. Then he'll come here."

As he'd surmised, it appeared Swann's retinue intended to infiltrate
Seacrest
Tower, if need be, while maintaining surveillance of the room where they'd seen a telescope trained on
Nasheed's
condo. With
Etherton's
assistance they'd installed a telescoping video camera of their own, and mounted it on the club's roof, where it could be operated by remote control in order to document any movement, and where some of the party had already begun to congregate, next to a second open bar at the opposite end.

Within ten minutes of
Cashman's
arrival at the club, former banking CEO Jeffrey Innes arrived by limousine, and was ushered inside after being photographed by the gathering paparazzi. Already looking confused and distressed,
Cashman
gulped a whiskey at the bar as David watched from the club's discreet one-way security window.

"What do we do with your boys?" Malcolm asked him. "Bounce them as you suggested, or maybe you want to drag them back here and put the fear of God in 'em first?" He winked.

David motioned Etherton over to the security window. "Are you ready for this, Doug?"

Doug stared beyond him at the scene "Birds of a feather, eh?"

"Vultures. Carrion birds."'

"Lovely. Okay, let's do it." He turned to Malcolm. "Now that they've served your purpose with the press, is there a room we can use until the fireworks begin?"

"Don't you mean
if
the fireworks begin?"
Wurley
corrected.

"Whatever."

The room reserved for private parties was twenty by twenty, lit by a gaudy chandelier that seemed made out of upside down rocks glasses tiered in haphazard lengths and lit from inside by fiber optic light. The table was round opaque white glass, with cushioned plastic chairs spaced around it which looked like they'd come from the set of Willy
Wonka
and the Chocolate Factory. In place of windows, Andy Warhol prints hung in glass and chrome frames.

When
Cashman
and Innes were ushered in, it was obvious they'd talked by the way both men crossed their arms simultaneously and stared between David and Doug with chagrin.

"What's going on here?" Innes demanded, his flush and chubby face a reservoir for the rancor to which the tone of his voice had yet to commit.

"Gentlemen," David said, and motioned toward Etherton. "This is Doug Fairchild, the ghost writer we've engaged to pen one of your stories. Will you have a seat?"

"One
of our stories,"
Cashman
repeated, as if expecting a punch line to follow.

"Certainly, and let me explain, won't you?" David waved a hand for them to sit. When they did, reluctantly, he paused before continuing. "Now, you've both been told we want to make you an offer on a book, a fact that is absolutely true. Unfortunately, due to budget constraints, there's only one book offer on the table that has an advance attached, and our job here. . ." He sighed, glancing at Etherton. ". . .is to discover whose story is most compelling, and should be told first. To merit that advance."