“Excuse me,” he said.
“Hmm.”
“Vieux Carré, a difficult drink to make.”
Heavenly continued to stare at her cell.
“I hadn’t noticed,” she said.
The bartender returned with her old-fashioned and a tab. Heavenly signed it, using Riley Brodin-Mulally’s account number. ’Course, Reinfeld didn’t know that.
“Are you a member of the club?” he asked.
“I’m not a joiner. However, my”—she deliberately hesitated as if she didn’t know which word to use—“friend is.”
“Boyfriend?”
“You’re being a little personal, aren’t you?”
“I’m just trying to find out who I have to kill.”
“Oh my, what a clever line.” Heavenly lifted her glass. “Impress me some more, will you?
Reinfeld mounted a stool one removed from hers and set down his own glass.
“I apologize,” he said. “I can’t recall ever meeting a woman as attractive as you before and for a moment my brain turned to mush. Please forgive me.”
Heavenly wagged a finger at him.
“That was much better,” she said.
“I’m Justus Reinfeld.”
“Heavenly Petryk.”
“That’s a lovely name and very appropriate, if I might add.”
Heavenly grinned and shook her head.
“Two steps forward, one step back,” she said. “Maybe you should quit while you’re ahead.”
“I didn’t know I was ahead. Ms. Petryk, you must admit that Heavenly is an unusual name.”
“I was christened after a character in a play called Sweet Bird of Youth. My mother was very much a cultural maven; very interested in classical music, the ballet, theater. She adored Tennessee Williams. I’m only grateful that she didn’t name me Blanche.”
“Blanche DuBois from A Streetcar Named Desire.”
“Did you see the play?”
“No, but I saw the movie.”
Heavenly laughed as if that was the funniest thing she had ever heard.
“An honest man.” She tapped Reinfeld’s hand. “Another step forward. Excuse me.”
Heavenly gathered up her cell phone and bag, slipped off the stool, and made her way toward the restrooms. Reinfeld watched her go. As soon as she was out of sight, he waved the bartender over and told him what he wanted. Next, he went to his own smartphone and Googled Heavenly’s name.
’Course, that’s exactly what Heavenly had expected him to do; the reason she had spent an hour uploading business profiles for him to find.
She gave him seven minutes to do it.
When she returned to her stool and set down her cell and bag, the bartender placed a squat glass filled with dark liquor and a lemon peel on a coaster in front of her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Vieux Carré,” the bartender said.
“I asked him to make you one,” Reinfeld said. “He had to look up the recipe.”
“I did,” the bartended admitted.
Heavenly took a sip.
“Nicely done, sir,” she said. “Thank you.” She turned toward Reinfeld. “Thank you both.”
“You’re welcome,” Reinfeld said. “I was named after my grandfather, by the way. On my mother’s side.”
Heavenly raised her glass to him and took another sip. Afterward, she picked up her cell phone, tapped a couple of icons, and set it upside down on the bar in front of her. Reinfeld took that as a good sign.
“So, what do you do, Justus?” Heavenly asked.
“I’m chairman and CEO of All Uppercase Investments. We’re a venture capital firm that provides early stage funding for technology firms.”
“Such as?”
“Twitter, Lyft, Netflix, Instagram, Kickstarter, Zoom…”
“No kidding?”
“We have about $3.5 billion in assets under management.”
“At the risk of sounding mercenary, that’s a very big step forward.”
“What do you do?” Reinfeld asked as if he didn’t already know.
“I’m an economist. I do analysis for an investment bank, researching potential opportunities mostly in agriculture and energy.”
“Oh? What should I invest in?”
“Solar. You smirked, don’t pretend you didn’t. But consider—fifteen years ago, coal cost between seven and fourteen cents per kilowatt hour depending on where you lived, natural gas was priced between seven and ten cents, wind four and nine cents, and nuclear came in at fifteen cents. At the same time, solar power cost more than a dollar per kilowatt hour and everyone laughed. I would have, too. Today, this morning to be precise, fossil fuels were priced at between five and seventeen cents, wind was six cents, and solar—solar was four cents per kilowatt hour. You don’t need to fight the environmentalists in court every single day to produce it or build pipelines to ship it, either.”
“Solar is cheaper than coal?” Reinfeld asked.
“Coal is dead. They just haven’t buried it yet. For one thing, you can’t go just by its kilowatt price. There’s an additional three-point-four cents in adverse health impacts according to the National Academies of Science and another two-point-two cents in climate change–related damages.”
“I’m impressed.”
“You’re not going to say something insulting like I’m too pretty to be this smart or I’m too smart to be this pretty?”
“I would never say that.”
“Because I’ve heard it before. Consider it a deal breaker.”
“I’m still trying to make up for my first dumb line.”
“So far so good.”
“Should I be honest?”
“Better now than later.”
“I researched your name while you went to the restroom. You have a very impressive curriculum vitae.”
Heavenly made a dramatic sigh and took another sip of her Vieux Carré.
“I should be insulted, but I’m not,” she said. “I suppose a man in your position needs to be careful.”
“Didn’t you Google me?”
“No, I spent most of my time trying to find out why my date stood me up.”
“At the risk of taking another step backward, anyone who stands you up is a damn fool.”
“I’m glad somebody thinks so.”
“May I buy you another Vieux Carré?” Reinfeld asked.
Heavenly paused before answering as if to carefully consider her words.
“Time and experience has taught me to maintain a low risk profile,” she said.
“Meaning?”
Heavenly held up her still half-full glass.
“I’ll just keep sipping this one for now,” she said. “Safer.”
Reinfeld smiled as if he admired her caution.
“I tend to be more high risk,” he said. “More opportunistic.”
“You can afford to be,” Heavenly said. “So tell me, Justus Reinfeld, who was named after his grandfather, what should I invest in?”
Reinfeld paused for a moment like a Texas Hold’em player before he goes all in.
“KTech Industries,” he said.
“I’m not familiar.”
“Based here in the Cities, specializes in artificial intelligence designs…”
Heavenly snapped her fingers.
“What’s-his-name, umm … King Charles.”
“Charles King, yes.”
“That’s really not my field, but they’re up-and-coming, aren’t they?”
“Very much so. You say solar power is the future. Believe me, AI is a few steps in front of it.”
“How much are you putting into KTech?”
Reinfeld grinned.
“What?” Heavenly asked.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I’m going to buy it.”
“I didn’t know it was for sale.”
“It’s not.”
Heavenly grinned back at him
.
“You’re a pirate,” she said.
“I like that, thank you. It sounds so much more appealing than corporate raider. People hear that term and they think of Michael Douglas in the movie Wall Street.”
“Who claimed greed was good.”
“I’d much rather be Errol Flynn in Captain Blood.”
“Wouldn’t we all, but, Justus”—Heavenly leaned close and lowered her voice as if she was now part of a grand conspiracy—“isn’t that dangerous? A hostile takeover? Charles King is the face of KTech in the same way that Steve Jobs was the face of Apple. After the board fired him in ’85 the company nearly tanked. Twelve years later, they had to bring him back in order to save it.”
“Yes, but how has it done in the decade since Jobs passed?” Reinfeld asked. “Pretty good, I’d say, since it’s one of the ten most profitable companies in the world. I believe KTech could do exceptionally well even without Charles; I’m betting on it. It might be a moot point, anyway. Rumor has it that he’s very ill.”
“How do you know?”
“Let’s just say a little birdie told me and let it go at that. When word gets out about Charles, I’ll probably be hailed as a white knight by the other shareholders.”
“You’ll make sure word gets out, too, won’t you?”
“After I take over the company.”
“What’s keeping you then?” Heavenly made a production out of glancing at her jeweled wristwatch. “The markets won’t close for another six minutes.”
“There have been a couple of glitches. For one, word about what I was attempting got out prematurely.” Reinfeld tapped his chest. “My fault. I was careless. Fortunately, that seems to have been taken care of.”
“How?”
“The man who guessed my plans was shot. He’s in a coma.”
Heavenly backed away, an expression on her face that could be interpreted as a mixture of both surprise and delight.
“You had a man”—Heavenly lowered her voice and leaned in again—“you had a man shot? Oh, now you are Captain Blood.”
“Except, I didn’t do it,” Reinfeld said.
“Don’t think that’s a step backward. You had a man shot. Wow.”
“I honestly didn’t do it, Heavenly. I called him; I threatened him. I’m not proud of that. Later, I sent a man to discuss the issue with him and his wife; threaten them again or buy them off was my intention. Only I didn’t shoot him. I didn’t have him shot.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. I thought about it. I mean, that was the first thing that came to mind, killing the asshole. But no, no, no—what kind of a man do you think I am?”
“I think you’re like most of the men I’ve known,” Heavenly said. “You meet a pretty girl and—what was it you said? Your brain turns to mush?”
She spun back to the bar and turned her cell phone right side up. She leaned forward and spoke into it.
“Do you need anything more?” Heavenly asked.
“No, that’ll do,” a male voice replied. “I’m satisfied.”
“All right. See you in a minute.”
“What?” Reinfeld was speaking loudly enough that the bartender and half the patrons in the joint turned toward him. “What the hell?”
Heavenly slipped off the stool and gathered up her cell and handbag.
“For the record,” she said, “if you had been responsible for hurting my friend, I would have obliterated you. You and your business. I would have made it my mission in life.”
“Who are you?” Reinfeld wanted to know.
Heavenly drained the Vieux Carré and held the glass up for the bartender to see.
“Needs work,” she said.
* * *
Bobby Dunston was sitting in his car in the parking lot of Club Versailles, Shelby at his side. They both slid out of the vehicle when Heavenly approached. She tossed the cell phone. Bobby caught it.
“I know now that Reinfeld had nothing to do with McKenzie’s shooting,” he said. “Saves me some time and effort. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she answered.
Shelby was less subdued. She hugged Heavenly who hugged her back.
“You look fantastic in that dress, by the way,” Heavenly said.
“It actually belongs to Nina.”
“Give her my love.”
“Give it to her yourself.”
“I need to go now. I’ll call in a few days after McKenzie’s up and around. I presume he’ll be up and around.”
“You don’t need to go anywhere,” Shelby said. “You’re just being your usual aloof self.”
“No, I do. I need to catch a plane for Edinburgh.”
“What’s in Edinburgh?” Bobby asked.
“A brooch that once belonged to the Queen of Scots that’s now on display in Holyrood Palace at the bottom of the Royal Mile. Rumor has it that it’s about to go missing.”
“Heavenly…”
“I’m not a thief, Commander Dunston.”
“Yet you have no qualms about acting as a go-between for thieves.”
“An acquaintance of McKenzie once accused me of being a mercenary bitch who profited off the misfortune of insurance companies. Do you have a problem with that?”
Bobby didn’t answer.
“At least stay for dinner,” Shelby said. “Nina and I have told the girls stories. They’d love to meet you.”
“You’re very kind, but I really do need to go.”
“Ms. Petryk,” Bobby said. “Justus Reinfeld looked you up on the internet and then you spoke convincingly about the energy industry…”
“The key to a successful grift is backstory, Commander. You should know that.”
“Perhaps one day you’ll tell me yours.”
“If I haven’t told McKenzie, what makes you think I’d tell you?”
Heavenly pivoted and started walking away. Bobby called to her. She turned her head, yet didn’t even slow down.
“Be good,” he said.
SEVENTEEN
Como Park in St. Paul was one of my favorite places. It sprawled out over 384 acres and included a large zoo where you could see all manner of creatures large, small, wet, dry, and in flight for free. The Marjorie McNeely Conservatory was the most spectacular public garden between Philadelphia and San Francisco (in my opinion) and everybody had their wedding pictures taken there. There was an amusement park complete with a hundred-year-old carousel, an eighteen-hole golf course, public pool, athletic fields (where Bobby and I played softball back in the day), historic sculptures, picnic shelters, a seventy-acre lake surrounded by hiking trails and plenty of foliage, and the open-air Lakeside Pavilion.
The pavilion had a roof but no walls and had been built on a slight incline overlooking Lake Como. It was large enough for several hundred people to sit on benches facing the stage where music, amateur theatricals, and dance recitals were performed. A couple of the benches were filled with retirees even though there were no performances scheduled. A few of the metal and wooden tables scattered along the back railing and on both sides of the benches were also occupied by people eating early dinners and by mothers, grandmothers, and a few grandfathers engaged in supervising children who had just been released from school.
Chopper noticed them all as he wheeled his chair up a ramp into the pavilion.
“I don’t like this,” he said. “Too many people.”
“Or not enough,” Herzog said. “We could cancel.”
“We here now…”
Herzog directed Chopper to a table nestled against the back railing more or less in the center of the pavilion. Chopper was ready to settle himself at the head of the table, his back to the stage, only Herzog cleared space for him on the side so that he could park against the railing, the stage on his right and the lake on his left.
“Better view,” Herzog said.
He was right about that. The rear of the pavilion was a good story and a half above glistening Lake Como and Chopper
found himself resting his chin against his hand and staring wistfully at the piers jutting out into the lake and the pedal boats, kayaks, paddleboards, and canoes people were using to navigate it. Herzog left him to it, excusing himself and crossing the pavilion to the entrance of the Spring Café, the name of the restaurant that was attached to the pavilion and located directly behind the stage. He returned with a couple of IPAs and two menus.
Chopper spoke as he sat across from him.
“When I was a kid, during the winter, they used to clean the snow off a big part of the lake so you could skate,” Chopper said. “Right over there. Speed skaters used it before they built the oval in Roseville. There was a shed next to the pier where you could rent skates. We’d come down here on Saturday afternoons and skate for hours and hours, drink hot chocolate with marshmallows…”
“You can skate?” Herzog asked.
“Used to.”
This is where most people would say something; say I’m sorry, recognizing that Chopper wouldn’t happily skate away a Saturday afternoon again, ever. That’s not something you said to him, though. He didn’t take sympathy kindly, especially when your compassion reminded him that there was something he was no longer able to do. Herzog knew this, of course and studied his menu without speaking. Eventually, Chopper did the same.
“I am not eating here,” Chopper said. “I don’t care what this tenant of RT’s has to say ’bout it.”
“I don’t know. The Cubano looks good.”
Chopper tossed the menu on the table.
“It’s picnic food, man,” he said.
“Look where we at.”
“Don’t mean we gotta eat slop.”
Herzog let the conversation drop. He knew that it wasn’t the menu that his friend was upset about.
Chopper glanced around himself some more, paying particular attention to the children who were using the pavilion as a playground. A few of them dashed to the railing not far from where he sat, looked down at the lake, giggled, and ran back to their mother. Chopper didn’t know what was so funny, yet he giggled, too. Herzog caught him out of the corner of his eye and wondered briefly if Chopper was physically able to have children. He didn’t think now would be a good time to ask, though. He didn’t think there would ever be a good time to ask.
What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel Page 24