On the second ring the receptionist answered, “Manhattan Fertility Clinic.”
Thirty seconds later, the hell of Muzak on hold, I heard soothing sounds of stretching syllables. “This is Nurse Pinckney. May I help you?”
“I’d know that accent from anywhere. You’re from Charleston.” It was impossible to continue until we played the do-you-know game. It turned out we both knew Bubba Condon, a kid from Bishop England High School I had not seen in years.
Rita, Nurse Pinckney’s first name, finally asked, “So, Grove, why’d you call?”
“It may be silly.”
“Fertility problems are a way of life,” she said kindly. “Would you like to make an appointment?”
How would I know? I haven’t slept with a woman for eighteen months.
“Actually, I want to cancel one.”
“Really?”
“Charlie Kelemen was a friend, and—”
“It’s just horrible what happened,” Rita interrupted.
“I thought you might know already. I wanted to err on the side of caution by calling.”
“That’s sweet. Nobody called, but we all saw the television reports.”
“You haven’t heard the good news then?”
“What good news?”
Odd.
“Whatever you did for Sam, it worked.”
I remembered Sam’s words from Live Bait, as though it were yesterday:
The fertility drugs kicked right in. And wham bam, hello, Sam.
“Sam wasn’t the problem.” Rita immediately checked her outburst. I was not a family member. Sharing the Kelemens’ medical information had been a mistake.
For a moment neither of us said anything. Then the nurse’s words registered like a magnitude-seven earthquake. “Charlie was impotent?” It took all my self-control not to say “firing blanks.”
“I’ve already said more than I should.”
I refused to overlook the slip. “Rita, you don’t know me from Adam. And I apologize for putting you in an awkward position. I’m in serious trouble, though. I may lose my job, and I have problems with the police. When I called you, I never expected to learn anything personal about the Kelemen family.” I paused to let my words take hold. “What you just said may fix my problems.”
Perhaps it was the sincerity. Perhaps it was the sound of a familiar accent, one Charlestonian to another. Whatever, I will always be indebted to Rita Pinckney for her response.
“Sam’s pregnant?” she ventured, still deliberating about how to respond.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t hear this from me,” she announced.
“Hear what?” I confirmed.
“Do you remember the name of that Catholic school on Coming Street before it merged with Bishop England High School?”
“You mean Immaculate Conception?” I asked tentatively. Then her meaning registered. This time I could not hold back. “Charlie was firing blanks?”
“I have to go.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
“Now you want to talk?” Mandy Maris demanded over the phone. “Weren’t you the one who called me a cobra fucker?”
“Guilty as charged. I have this thing about the press.”
“So it seems. The Kelemen story runs tomorrow.”
I had just finished speaking with Nurse Pinckney. The back-and-forth with Maris could not have started worse. The
New York Post
had its deadlines, no matter what bodies were left behind.
Hard to court favor from somebody you called a “cobra fucker.”
“Mandy, I treated you like dirt. I’m sorry. There’s probably no way to take it all back.”
“I’m not changing a comma.”
“Don’t blame you. And don’t touch the periods, either.” Dealing with the press suddenly felt like selling—agree with the objections and reposition. “But let me ask one thing.”
“Okay.”
“How come you didn’t print anything about the police coming to our office yesterday?”
“We decided it would make a bigger splash in tomorrow’s feature.”
“My involvement with the beautiful widow, Sam Kelemen? And of course, my involvement with Charlie Kelemen’s death?”
“You catch on fast for someone who never talks to the press,” she confirmed. “I’m kind of busy if you don’t mind.”
Now for the bait.
“Wouldn’t the Ponzi scheme make a bigger splash?” I asked innocently, replaying her words.
“What Ponzi scheme?” She was all ears.
“You get the exclusive under one condition.”
“Which is?”
“Hold any reference to me until Thursday.”
“Not happening,” she stated. “I can get details from Kelemen’s investors. Patty Gershon already told me everything I need to know about you.”
“You spoke with her?”
“She called Monday afternoon,” Maris replied. “What did you do to piss her off?”
Don’t say it.
“Patty has her own agenda. And Charlie’s friends don’t know what I know, Mandy. The other half of the story plays out tomorrow. You can be on the scene thirty minutes before any of your competitors have a clue.”
“Only the references to you?” She bit. “What do I need to do?”
“Be at your desk at noon tomorrow. At twelve-thirty you’ll get a sign where to go.”
“What’s with the cloak-and-dagger? How do I know you’re for real?”
“You don’t. How do I know you won’t print nasty stuff about me?”
“I need something to convince my editor.”
Thirty seconds later we wrapped up. I sealed either a deal or my fate. It still wasn’t clear. I had two more calls to make, one to Romanov and one to my secret weapon.
I hope this works.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
As far back as I can remember, the Red Flame has been slinging hash near the corner of Forty-fourth Street and the Avenue of the Americas. Crowds jam into wood-veneer booths throughout the day. The menu features scrambled eggs, meat loaf, bacon, and potatoes fried a dozen different ways. It’s a place where hyper-tasking New Yorkers savor comfort food combos, oblivious to the snap, crackle, pop of their arteries with every grease-laden fork.
“Surly” is not listed anywhere among the entrées. But the waiters shovel up king-sized helpings of attitude at no extra charge, and the busboys hover around the Formica tabletops as if they cannot wait to clear dishes and send patrons packing. I eat at the lunch counter sometimes, more for the clamor of the crowd than the flavor of the food.
The Red Flame was the perfect place to meet Romanov. There would be plenty of people around when we spoke.
It was Wednesday, the second full day of my forced exile from SKC, another twenty-four hours for Gershon and others to poach clients. On Tuesday Romanov had agreed to pick up the MRI folder in person. But the arrangement annoyed him.
“Can’t you just send a runner? Some of us work, Grover.”
No question Romanov’s remark had been a dig. I held my tongue and kowtowed into the receiver. Deference, it seemed, would be the best way to catch the Mad Russian off guard.
At 11:40 A.M. a mishmash of tourists and executives began filing into the Red Flame for an early lunch. About two-thirds of the booths were already full. Twenty minutes more and a crowd would stand until tables became available. Three thin men, black tank tops and backs turned toward me, sat at the counter in the rear of the diner.
Good thing we got here early.
The greeter bunny, a short woman with Mediterranean features, pointed to an empty stool next to the men. “No,” I said, and asked for a booth at the front of the greasy spoon. “Someone is joining me.”
The hostess flashed a wan smile that may have said,
No problem.
More likely it was,
Fuck you.
One never knew at the Red Flame.
She handed me a menu, crusted with petrified ketchup, and gestured toward a booth sandwiched between a family with three small children on one side and an executive huddled over a portable computer on the other. It was perfect. I could see the door and almost everything inside the restaurant.
The trans-fatty smells of bacon cheeseburgers and French fries hung heavy in the chill, air-conditioned climate of the small diner. The scents failed to soothe my nerves. And I was not the least bit hungry. Tense and impatient, I fidgeted with Charlie’s red folder and occasionally peeked at the guy behind me with the computer. Over at the counter the three amigos in black laughed and hooted.
What’s so funny?
A little girl, much to her parents’ annoyance, stood up on the bench seat and turned to face me. She hid her eyes with both hands and played “Now I See You, Now I Don’t.” I joined the game, first covering my eyes and then moving one hand to the side in order to see. The girl’s laughter pealed through the room. And for a moment, I forgot all about the Mad Russian.
Romanov broke the spell. He showed at noon, right on time. His punctuality always impressed me. Late arrivals were the norm on Wall Street, and through the years I had grown to believe they were premeditated. It was a matter of style. Tardiness implied big deals, more important quests for money, elsewhere. Some executives, in my opinion, ran late just to telegraph
their importance. Not Romanov. Whatever his faults, tardiness was not one. He arrived promptly and planned not to hurry.
Alex wore a gray pin-striped suit, matched with a white shirt and a tie the perfect shade of blue. He circled toward my table with disarming elegance. He moved like a prizefighter stalking an unranked opponent from a smaller weight class.
When I stood to shake hands and say, “Hello,” I noticed Romanov’s companion for the first time. I blinked once to make his escort disappear. It didn’t work. Sam strutted behind him, no longer a shrinking widow, but feral and haughty in her heels.
What’s this?
I had not bargained for Sam. There she was. Her stinging blue eyes commanded my attention. They had gone Arctic cold. Never before had she looked more Siberian husky than now.
Not this.
Sam’s presence unnerved me. I missed Romanov’s clasp when we shook hands. He grabbed my fingers by the middle knuckles, rather than the palm, and shook my hand like a dead fish in all its ignominy.
I hate when that happens.
Romanov’s broad smile made a cameo appearance. Sam tilted her face for a perfunctory peck, and it seemed in our hasty bump of cheeks that a real Siberian husky would have offered more warmth and affection. Her sudden reserve reminded me of Betty’s words.
Sam’s dirty, Grove.
“Sam, I didn’t expect you.” I spoke with every ounce of good humor in my body, hiding profound disappointment. The plan had already gone off track. No one intended to confront Romanov in front of Sam.
What is she doing here?
Sam read my thoughts. “Alex and I are having lunch.”
“With me, I hope.”
“Sorry, Grover,” Romanov said, rolling his
r
’s to the point of annoyance. “May I have the file?” he asked, glancing at the red folder on the booth tabletop. “We have reservations at Le Bernardin.” He spoke with the regal bearing of someone who hates bacon cheeseburgers piled high with pickles, mushrooms, and onions.
No wonder he bugs me.
“Le Bernardin has the best fish in New York City,” I observed. “Do
yourself a favor, Alex.” I waited for my words to register. “Call them and cancel.”
The command, audacious, terse, powerful, would have impressed any drill sergeant. Sam snapped to attention, her eyes opening wide with shock and awe. Romanov’s jaw dropped, just for a second. When he recovered, his lips sealed in taut contempt.
Romanov sat. Sam sat. I sat. For a while the three of us sat and said nothing, sitting and suffering in our increasingly uncomfortable seats. Romanov finally demanded, “What’s on your mind, Grover?” He rubbed his knuckles, like a boxer massaging his fists before the title match.
“I want to review your portfolio,” I said sarcastically.
“Let’s go, Sam.” Romanov scooted along the booth, reaching for the red folder, as he readied to leave. “Grover, we don’t have time to play games.”
With the palm of my hand, I smacked the folder down against the counter. Hard. The thump, flesh against cardboard and cardboard against Formica, rang out over the clamor of the diner. At the counter several yards away, the three men wearing black glanced in our direction.
Sam recoiled before lashing out, “Grover, what the hell is your problem?” She scooted across the bench, moving more quickly now.
“Grover”? She never calls me that.
I ignored Sam and yawned for effect. “Alex, you can speak with me. Or you can speak with the SEC. I don’t care either way.”
They stopped scooting. Stone still. “This is interesting,” Romanov parried. “I’m listening.” He smiled broadly, inviting me to take a shot.
“I’m glad we agree.” I pulled MRI’s printout from the red folder. “Look at the two numbers Charlie scribbled, thirty-one-point-twelve and thirty-point-eleven. I thought they were share prices, but Rugged Computers hasn’t traded over six dollars in years.”
“Would you give me the CNN version?” Romanov growled.
“They’re not stock quotes, Alex. They’re dates.”
