The Protégé (10 page)

“Why don’t they fire Hughes?”

“Faraday asked the same thing. If they do, their investors will pull out,” Gillette answered, “and Apex would die on the vine. The good thing for us is that a lot of Apex’s investors are our investors, too. I’ve spoken to a number of them, and they’d support an Everest takeover of Apex. They wouldn’t pull out if we were in charge.”

“You mean if
you
were in charge,” Wright said.

“I don’t have time,” Gillette replied, “I have to focus on our new fund.”

“You can’t keep Hughes around.”

“No,” Gillette confirmed. “Not for the long term, anyway.”

“You going to bring in someone from the outside?” Wright asked.

“I’m bringing you in,” Gillette said, smiling. “This is going to be your first assignment as a managing partner. You’re going to be the next chairman of Apex Capital.”

“My God,” Wright whispered.

“We’ll need to talk at least five or six times a day, maybe more at the beginning,” Gillette continued. “Which is why I can’t have another episode like this morning.”

“I told you, it’ll never happen again.”

“The other managing partners may have a problem with this.” Gillette rose from his chair. Stiles was about to finish Wright off without even letting him take a shot. “They’ll think they should have been tapped. Especially Maggie. But I—”

“Screw her,” Wright retorted sharply. “She couldn’t handle Apex. You know I’m better than her. Better than Blair and O’Brien, too. They couldn’t handle this assignment, either. I doubt even Faraday could. But you know I can.”

Gillette glanced over at Stiles. “I’m worried about his self-confidence, Quentin.”

Stiles smirked as he dropped the eight ball, winning the game. “I know what you mean. He just got his ass kicked at pool.”

“Big fucking deal,” Wright snapped, his bravado back. “I’ll alert the media, I’m sure it’ll be front-page news.”

“Come on, Quentin, rack ’em,” Gillette ordered, ignoring Wright. “Let’s go.”

“You sure you want to do this?” Stiles asked. “Sure you want to have your unbeaten streak on your home table go bye-bye?”

Gillette smiled, paying no attention to Stiles’s attempt to get in his grill. “Just rack them,” he repeated calmly, and turned back to Wright. “Where are the Hush-Hush offices?”

“In the garment district, down on Thirty-eighth Street near Penn Station.”

“All right, we’ll leave here at nine-thirty. You can brief me on the big issues on the way. After the meeting, we’ll get a bite somewhere and talk about how we’re going to handle the Russell Hughes meeting.”

“Why even bother meeting with him?” Wright wanted to know. “Just go around him.”

“First, the Strazzi Trust people asked me to meet with him. Like everyone else in the world, they hate confrontation, so they want me to let him know what’s coming. As if he doesn’t already,” Gillette added. “Second, as poorly as he’s run Apex, he knows more about it than anyone else simply because he’s chairman. I want to get as much of a debrief out of him as we can before we lower the boom. He won’t help much after that.”

“Are you going to let him know he’s gone tomorrow?”

“Haven’t decided yet, but I will let him know that you’re the new sheriff in town.” Stiles had finished racking, and Gillette reached in his pocket for a quarter. “That’s all, David, I—”

“There’s one more thing I forgot to tell you, Christian,” Wright spoke up, interrupting again. “I’ve got a line on another big investor, a Bermuda-based insurance company. I know you said Everest Eight was closed at the meeting, but these guys are looking to invest five hundred large. You should think about letting them in like we did with the Wallaces. They could probably do even more in Nine.”

Gillette broke into a wide smile and moved to where Wright stood. “This is why I promoted him, Quentin,” he said, touching the younger man’s shoulder. The same way his father had done when he’d done something well. A couple of light pats, then a squeeze. “He’s the only person at this firm, besides Faraday and me, who’s raised a dime for the new fund, and he’s got us going in to see the Hush-Hush CEO tomorrow. Impressive, huh?”

Stiles grunted.

“What do you think about the Wallaces coming into the new fund?” Gillette asked Wright.

“The more the merrier,” he answered immediately.

“I love it,” Gillette said, beaming. “You worried about Allison Wallace being on the ground here at Everest?”

“Only if she starts to distract you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I got a load of her the other day. She’s pretty, and she’s worth billions. You two would make a hell of a couple.”

First Debbie, then Faraday, now Wright. This was getting old. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he assured Wright.

Wright shrugged. “Okay.”

“Let’s go,” Stiles called impatiently. “I’m going to show you how to play pool, Chris.”

Gillette picked up Wright’s wallet off the table. Wright took it with him everywhere he went, even if he was just going to someone else’s office at Everest. “You can go now.”

Wright grabbed the wallet. “I want to stay. I want to see you—”

“Let him stay,” Stiles said, laughing. “Every protégé needs to see his mentor go down once in a while.”

Gillette smiled thinly. He knew what Stiles was trying to do, but it wasn’t going to work. In fact, he was going to turn the tables on Stiles, take him where he didn’t want to go. “Okay, David, you can stay. Tell you what, Quentin,” he said, “let’s make this interesting.”

Stiles stopped chalking his cue. “What do you mean?”

Gillette grinned. Stiles knew exactly what he meant. “You’re about to come into some money,” he said. “Let’s bet.”

“How much?”

Gillette’s grin widened. He had Stiles right where he wanted him. “How about a hundred grand?” A lot, but not too much.

Wright’s eyes flashed to Stiles’s.

“A hundred grand?”
Stiles glanced at Wright, then back at Gillette.

Gillette shrugged apologetically. “Fine, fine. Let’s make it two hundred.”

Stiles swallowed hard. “I thought this was about pride.”

“It was until you got cocky.”

“Isn’t pride more important than money?”

Gillette shook his head. “Pride’s for pussies.”

Wright laughed out loud, happy to see Stiles sweating.

Stiles leaned on the table with both hands and dropped his head. “Two hundred grand, huh?”

“Unless you want—”

“No, no. Two hundred’s fine.”

“Good.” Gillette held up the quarter he’d pulled from his pocket. “Flip for the break?”

“Sure.”

“I assume you want heads.”

“Of course,” Stiles confirmed. “Coins always come up heads more often than tails. That’s a fact.”

Gillette tossed the quarter in the air so it landed on the pool table. It bounced several times, then rolled to a stop.

Wright leaned over the table. “Tails,” he announced.

Stiles glanced at the quarter and shrugged, as though he didn’t really care. “Go ahead, Chris.”

It was over quickly. As Stiles had done to Wright, Gillette didn’t even give Stiles a chance to shoot once. He ran the table cleanly, dropping all seven solid balls, then the eight.

“Double or nothing?” Gillette asked as the eight fell into a side pocket, watching Stiles try to figure out how he’d let himself get taken for two hundred grand so easily.

“Nah.”

Gillette placed his cue back in the wall rack and picked up his coat off the back of the chair. “I’ve got to get going, I’m taking Allison to dinner to talk about our new working relationship.”

Wright whistled. “I hope Faith doesn’t find out.”

“Easy, David, that’s how rumors get started.” Gillette took a few steps toward the door, then stopped. “By the way, I want both you guys to come out on the boat this weekend. We’ll board over on the West Side around noon, at the Forty-fourth Street pier. Plan to spend the night. Bring wives or sweethearts.” He winked at them. “But not both. I’m inviting Nigel, too. We’ll celebrate your promotion,” he said, pointing at Wright.

“Thanks, Christian.”

“Come on, Quentin,” Gillette said, waving at Stiles. “Let’s go.” He followed Stiles out, then stopped at the door and leaned back in the room. “By the way, David. Call me Chris.”

6

“
WHERE’S ALLISON
staying?” Stiles asked as they pushed through the crowded Park Avenue sidewalk toward a black limousine idling in front of the Everest Capital building.

“Parker Meridien,” Gillette answered, checking for the two sedans—one in front and one in back of the limousine, his full security detail. They were there.

Gillette wasn’t worried about Miles Whitman. He probably wasn’t even in the country. He was probably in South America or Europe, living under an assumed name, living off the money he’d stolen from North America Guaranty as the feds were closing in on him last fall. He was probably much more interested in not going to prison than he was in revenge. When it really came down to it, most white-collars were.

But Tom McGuire was another story.

McGuire had spent years in the FBI as a field agent before founding McGuire & Company. Revenge drove him, he was tough as nails, and he had no fear of prison. The feds had been watching his house on Long Island and listening to his wife’s and children’s telephone calls for the last ten months, but he hadn’t made contact—as far as they could tell. However, Gillette had no doubt that McGuire had been in touch with them somehow. He was clever enough to keep it concealed.

And McGuire had one more big motivator—his brother, Vince. Vince had been co-CEO of McGuire & Company before the conspiracy, and he’d helped Tom with the assassination attempts. He’d been as deeply involved in the plot as Tom and Whitman. But Stiles’s men had caught Vince and turned him over to the feds just as the whole conspiracy was collapsing last year, and Vince had been killed in a prison riot three months ago. Knifed in the back and left to bleed to death on a basketball court.

Gillette climbed into the limousine ahead of Stiles and eased onto the wide rear seat. “What did you think of David?” he asked as Stiles relaxed onto the bench seat along the driver’s side.

“Cocky as hell.” Stiles shrugged apologetically. “Hope you didn’t think I was too tough on him.”

“Tough? You were like a Boy Scout helping a little old lady across the street, for Christ’s sake,” Gillette grumbled. “You were a bigger prick to
me
with all that jawing before our game. Never seen that side before.”

“I was just having fun. Besides, it didn’t do me any good.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“You know, it seemed like something was bothering Wright,” Stiles observed.

“What do you mean?”

“He seemed
on edge.
Preoccupied.”

“How could you tell? You’ve never met him.”

“I’ve watched a lot of nervous people in my career,” Stiles explained. “I’d never met most of them before, but I could still tell they were nervous. To me, Wright seemed like he was about to take a polygraph test.”

Gillette gazed at Stiles for a few moments as the limousine pulled away from the curb, following the lead sedan. He was sorry to hear this, but he’d learned to trust Stiles’s instincts.

“What did Kurt Landry want?” Stiles asked as they headed down Park Avenue.

Gillette had started making notes in a date book, jotting down names of people he needed to call tomorrow before the Hush-Hush meeting. “To tell me he’d spoken to the NFL owners and they were fine with the casino idea. Everything’s a go there.”

“Why didn’t you want Wright to hear that?”

Gillette shrugged as he slipped the date book back in his pocket. “He’s one of those guys who keeps asking questions until he gets answers.”

“Like you,” Stiles said.

That was what everyone always said. “Yeah. Thing is, he wasn’t involved in the bid process, and I didn’t want to have to go through it all again. How the casino works in with the franchise and all that. He would have tried to push me on that, especially after I told him he’d been promoted.” Gillette hesitated. “Hey, do you remember the guy who handed me the shovel at the ceremony this afternoon?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“When he handed it to me, he said they were looking forward to seeing me in Las Vegas. He told me not to make any waves. He said it so no one else would hear, but he definitely said it.”

Stiles had been reaching for a small refrigerator across from the bench seat but stopped. “Really?”

“Think he’s with the Carbones?”

“Maybe.”

“How the hell would he find out so fast?”

Stiles shrugged. “People talk. That’s the biggest problem with them. If they’d just shut up, everything would be fine.” He shook his head. “I’ll talk to my guys. I’m sure they checked everybody for weapons before they let them anywhere near you, but I guess they should have done background checks, too.”

“Don’t give them a hard time about it,” Gillette ordered. “You’re the one who always tells me if somebody really wanted to take out the president, it wouldn’t be that hard.”

“Sure, but—”

“Your guys do a great job. I don’t want you getting on their case for that. Nothing happened. Just run a check on the guy.”

“Right.”

The limousine turned onto Fifty-seventh Street and headed west. Traffic had been heavy on Park, but it cleared as they made the turn.

“So, you want me to actually sit at the table with you and Allison at dinner?”

“Yup.”

Stiles grinned. “I’m like your chaperone.”

“More like my alibi.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Some people are under the impression that I’m going to be distracted by Allison Wallace. You heard David. They think she’s going to try to make our relationship more than just a business partnership,
and
that I’m going to let it happen. It’s ridiculous, I’m not going to let it happen, even if that’s what she wants. Which I doubt she does. But I want you there so I have a witness that tonight was just business.”

“Okay, son.”

“I know it sounds silly, but I gotta do what I gotta do.” They were almost to the Parker Meridien. Gillette reached into his suit jacket. “This is for you,” he said, handing a coin to Stiles.

“What the . . . ?”

“It’s the quarter I flipped before our pool game, you know, to see who went first. I had it specially made while you were in the hospital. Check it out.”

Stiles turned on a reading light behind his shoulder and held up the coin, then flipped it. “Son of a bitch. Tails on both sides.”

Gillette laughed. “You always call heads when you flip anyone for anything. I’ve seen you do it so many times. And you always say I’m predictable.” He gestured at Stiles. “Keep the two hundred grand, of course. Boy, it was fun to see your face when I dropped the eight.”

WRIGHT TOSSED
a ten-dollar bill onto the front seat of the cab, then hopped out and headed down the shadowy sidewalk toward the entrance of his apartment building.

“David.”

“Jesus!” Wright’s head snapped left, toward the voice, and he staggered back a few steps. Like a ghost, the man who’d shown up at Saks that morning appeared out of a darkened doorway. “What do you want, Paul?” Wright demanded angrily, trying to regain control.

“From now on, I want to know where Christian Gillette is at all times.”

Suddenly Wright was exhausted. He just wanted to go to bed. “Why?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

The man pointed a thick finger at Wright, holding it inches from his face. “Listen to me good, pal. If you aren’t helpful with this, the cops will get answers to all those questions they have. Missing persons questions right now, but they’ll be murder questions real fast.” He grabbed a crumpled piece of paper out of his coat pocket and put it in Wright’s hand, then curled Wright’s fingers around it. “That’s my number. Don’t lose it, don’t be a stranger, and don’t be stupid.”

Wright watched Paul walk away until he faded into the darkness. This had been one of the best days of his life—and one of the worst.

GILLETTE SPOTTED
Allison Wallace the moment he walked into the Parker Meridien lobby. Stunning. It was the only word. She wore a low-cut black dress, high heels at the end of her long legs, and a diamond choker—night and day from the conservative Wall Street outfit she’d worn to Everest. Two well-tailored men were trying to talk to her, but she wasn’t paying much attention, giving them disinterested nods at inappropriate times in the conversation.

“Hi,” she called, waving to Gillette with her champagne glass when she saw him over the men’s shoulders. Spilling a little on one as she sidled between them. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing at the agents standing on either side of Gillette, hands clasped behind their backs.

“Security.”

She raised one eyebrow. “I’m the one worth twenty-two billion, and I don’t have security. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m careful.”

“Think it might be a little much?”

“Nope.”

“Sure you aren’t compensating for a lack of something somewhere else?”

Gillette attempted a coy smile, but it didn’t work. “Quite sure. There’ve never been any complaints about that.”

“What
have
there been complaints about?”

“You can probably guess.”

“Your girlfriends probably bitch about never seeing you, Mr. Workaholic.”

“Very good, Captain Obvious. You win a prize.”

“Which is?”

“Dinner with me.”

“Whoopee. So, who pays for your security?” she asked.

“You,” Gillette answered, noticing that she’d slurred her words slightly. This wasn’t the night’s first glass of champagne. “Now that you’re an Everest limited partner.” He wondered if she’d been drinking because she was nervous about dinner, if this was how she handled being worth twenty-two billion, or if she was just having fun. “Let’s go.”

“You have my office ready yet?” Allison asked as they walked. “I’ll be there bright and early next Monday morning.”

“What’s ‘bright and early’ for you?”

“Seven o’clock.”

“Sure it is. See you at nine.”

“I’ll beat
you
in.”

“Are you going to stay here at the Parker Meridien for a few weeks until you get your apartment?” Gillette asked.

“I’ve already got my apartment. I move in next week.”

“Oh, where is it?”

“On Fifth, right off Central Park.”

Gillette jerked back as though he’d been slapped in the forehead. “Hey, I live on Fifth off the park.”

“I know. I’m in the same building as you, two floors up.”

He took a deep breath. “Great.”

“Same elevator and all.” Allison laughed. “What a coincidence, huh?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, “amazing.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Allison said. “Is my office ready? I really am going to be there first thing next Monday morning, maybe sooner. I might not go back to Chicago at all.”

They moved through the hotel’s main door.

“It’s ready. And it’s at the other end of the hallway from mine.”

“We’ll just see about that,” she said, climbing into the limousine ahead of Gillette. At the sight of Stiles, she jumped. “Who’s this?” she demanded as Gillette eased next to her on the backseat.

Stiles leaned forward to take her hand. “Quentin Stiles.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Quentin’s in charge of my security,” Gillette explained as the chauffeur shut the door.

“Fantastic, but what’s he doing here?”

“Having dinner with us.”

“Oh no, he’s not.” She smiled at Stiles politely. “Don’t take this wrong, Mr. Stiles. I’m sure you’re a very nice and interesting man, but I didn’t come out tonight to have dinner with you. I’m here to have dinner with Christian. I need to talk to him about a lot of things, some of which are very confidential.”

“Anything you say to me you can—”

“Don’t give me that, Christian.” Allison looked back at Stiles. “Could you sit in the front?” she asked courteously, reaching up and turning on the stereo. “Driver,” she called over the music, “please pull over.”

Stiles looked at Gillette as the chauffeur steered the limo to the curb.

“Go on,” Gillette said quietly. So the real cost of the Wallace five billion wasn’t going to be monetary, it was going to be something else. Something that might end up being far more expensive—his time and attention. He thought about Debbie’s take on the meeting with Allison and Gordon. Maybe she’d been right after all.

“Just so we’re clear, these aren’t my real boobs,” Allison said when Stiles was in the front seat and they were back in traffic. She put down the champagne glass in a holder in the armrest, then cupped her hands beneath her breasts. “I had the surgery two years ago.”

Gillette searched for anything to look at inside the limousine besides her breasts. “Uh, why are you telling me this?”

“I noticed you staring at them.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“All right, you
glanced
at them a few times. But you would have stared sooner or later.”

“Yeah, well, there isn’t much to that dress.”

“I figure it’s better to be direct, about everything,” she continued. “Full disclosure, you know? I just want the same thing from you.”

“Well, these
are
my breasts.”

“Funny.”

“Thanks.” This Allison Wallace was a firecracker, much different from the one he’d met at the office. Despite all the warnings, including a faint alarm going off in the back of his own head, Gillette kind of liked it.

Allison picked up her champagne again and took a long swallow, then pushed the button that elevated the partition between the front and back. “I was so flat before I got the implants. You have no idea how much better I feel about myself now.”

“You’re very pretty, Allison, with or without them.”

“Ooh, a charmer. I like that.” She held up her glass to him. “So, where are we going for dinner?” she asked after taking another sip.

“I made a reservation at a new restaurant here in midtown called Chez Madam.” Gillette noticed how familiar Allison was with what buttons to push in a limousine. Which only made sense. She’d been riding in them since she was a baby. She probably didn’t even have a driver’s license. “It’s popular, you’ll like it.”

“It’s too quiet,” she said, pushing the button that lowered the partition. “I went there on Saturday and it was a raging bore. I had to eat everything with silverware, and the bloody background music almost put me to sleep. I want to have fun tonight, I want to go off the hook. I know exactly where we’re going. Driver,” she called, “we’re going down to TriBeCa.”