by Tony Bulmer
‘Welcome to New York,’ I said. ‘Are you guys ready to move?’
‘Hell, yes!’ They said it together, looked at each other and laughed. Inez laid her black travel valise on the bed and snapped it open, revealing a CIA issue burglar’s kit.
‘We got to move fast,’ I said, ‘There are only nine hours until Slycorp goes global, and we have to make every one of them count.’
‘Rules of engagement?’ asked Joe.
‘We make those up as we go along,’ I said. ‘Same as usual, but let’s please try not to damage the soft furnishings; this is a ritzy joint, and they might not welcome us back.’
Inez threw me a tight smile and headed out the door.
‘Hey, Santos, wait for me,’ called Joe.
‘Sunglasses,’ she said.
Are you crazy? It is the middle of the damn night…’ grumbled Joe, as he lumbered after her, ‘Not only that, there is a typhoon raging…they call this lousy weather a typhoon in these parts right? Or maybe it’s a hurricane?’
‘Close your eyes, while I take out the security cameras.’
A blinding flash.
The contrast bomb would fuse the ceiling cam in white out mode, for just as long as we needed to make our entry.
Inez moved fast, She inserted a credit card shaped device into the lock of the Barrington suite and in five seconds, the door-coder had worked through every possible permutation for the lock. The door snapped open. She stepped inside, followed closely by Joe and myself.
‘Ain’t nobody here,’ said Joe, disappointed.
Inez pulled a face, ‘Of course there’s no one here, lunkhead,’
‘Hey, be nice, I was only saying.’
‘Are you going to help us sweep the place, or are you going to stand there all night jawing?’
‘You need my help huh? I never thought that day would arrive—expert.’
I cast my eyes over the scene, a panoramic view fifty floors above Madison Avenue a rain-washed curtain of dark concrete and neon floating in the gloom. The Barrington’s suite was plenty nice, the kind of place you could organize a designer label orgy and not be pushed for elbowroom. Swank furniture, and tasteful lighting figured big. A large collection of LVMH luggage had been arranged by artful hands, in anticipation of the Barrington party’s imminent return. I stood behind the door, called Barrington on auto-dial, as Joe and Inez flipped the room, and scanned for electrical readings.
‘Where you at?’ I asked, as Barrington picked up.
‘What the hell you want to know for Costello?’
‘Your life is in danger.’
‘My life is always in danger, has been since the day I was born.’
‘Big talk, Barrington. You seen Roxy recently?’
‘Sure I have, she’s right here with me. You didn’t think it would be any other way did you? And just so as you know I told her about your concerns…’
‘You did?’
‘Hell, yes, but you wouldn’t want me to talk to you about that on an open telephone line now would you?’
‘No problem—I’ll come over. Where you at?’
‘Taking in the sights Costello. You didn’t expect me to be sitting out the most important day of my career in some damn hotel room did you?’
I took a look at my smart phone, flipped screens to the GPS friend finder, watched as the view enlarged cover Manhattan West. I smiled, as the application honed in on Barrington’s location: The Harvard Club on 44th street between 5th and 6th.
‘I will be watching Barrington, just so you know.’ Maybe he heard me, maybe he didn’t. He had already closed the phone. The dead line felt cold and final, as the rain washed heavy against the penthouse windows. ‘He’s at the Harvard Club.’ I said, replacing my phone in the breast pocket of my shirt. He says the girl is with him.’
‘How the hell does a street corner guy like Barrington get an invite to the Harvard club? That place is old money snooty, you got to know people to get an invite there.’ Said Joe. He frowned, ‘You say he has the girl with him? We better get over there fast. There is no telling what that crazy bitch might do, or who she will do it to. In fact, I am going over there right now.’
‘Throttle back lieutenant; that is a job that needs social niceties.’ I said.
‘Social niceties, are you kidding me, Roxy Barrington is a stone cold killer, her father too.’
I gave Joe a tight look. ‘He is also a celebrity, with a degree from Harvard business school, who in just a few short hours will be one of the richest men in the world.’
‘I don’t care what he is, or who he is either—Barrington is letting that daughter of his get away with murder.’
A knock at the door.
‘Expecting someone?’ wondered Inez, as she scanned the fixtures in the room, with a level-five explosives detector.
Joe peered through the spy hole, ‘Some hotel flunky. Probably come to turn down the sheets…’
Again the knock.
‘He ain’t going away,’ said Joe.
‘Nearly through,’ called Inez from the master bedroom suite.
The knock grew more insistent, the sound of a pass card running through the lock and the door opened wide. Things happened fast then, so fast I was still leaning against the wall, when not one, but two automatic rifles were thrust in my face. Black clad figures swarmed the room—all of them with guns—all of them barking instructions.
I smiled pleasantly, raised my hands a fraction of an inch, in the approximation of surrender. ‘Good evening gentlemen.’ I said brightly.
Special Agent Buchanan gave me a wet grin, patted down his side parting hair and said, ‘We got you this time Costello, and that is for damn sure.’
‘Good to know the FBI are getting someone Special Agent, but I think the Barrington’s have slipped through your fingers once again.’
‘You just don’t get it, do you Costello, we been keeping Barrington close for years, and in just a few short hours from now, he is going to pull the biggest financial scam in wall street history—least he thinks he is, so you think you can come barging into my investigation with your Jackass friends, you are stupider than even that prick Charles Jardine said you were.’
‘I got a red,’ called Inez, from the master bedroom suite.
Special Agent Buchanan, swung around, ‘Will some one deal with the girl?’ He called, looking back at me quickly.
‘You might want to discuss this situation elsewhere,’ I suggested helpfully.
‘Like jail you mean? We got a real nice jail cell ready for you and your pals Costello, and tomorrow, when the Barrington score comes down, maybe your mouthpiece lawyer can tell you all about it, because you are fucking done my friend.’
‘I gave him a pitying look, ‘I understand your point of view, really I do, but my colleague has just found a bomb in the next room.’
‘A fucking bomb?’
‘You good with wires Buchanan?’
Buchanan swallowed. ‘Everyone out!’
Dead Famous 59
We took the service elevator down to the Parking level. The Feds had set up a cordon sanitaire around the entire area, to keep their movements sub rosa, but as we sat in their unmarked van, sipping scalding coffee of the most unappetizing sort, it was very clear that, the operation at the Palace Hotel wouldn’t be secret for long. Sirens howled in the night. Emergency lights strobed. The hotel fire alarm kicked into gear.
‘They are evacuating the building,’ said Inez.
‘And here we are sitting in the basement,’ grumbled Joe, peering out of the tinted rear window, to see what he could see. He tried the door handle, but it was locked down tight.
‘I would rather be in the basement than out in the street right now,’ said Inez, ‘Because that timer I found was strapped onto ten pounds of military grade explosive; that baby goes off, it will send an avalanche of shrapnel and broken glass into the street below. I hope they got good people on it, because whoever placed that thing knew what they were doing.’
<
br /> ‘We got to get out of here and now,’ snapped Joe, ‘There ain’t no way I am sitting in the back of this van, while some buck-toothed Fed and his college boy buddies hijack our job.’
The sound of keys in the lock turned our conversation silent. Special Agent Buchanan appeared in the doorway. He climbed into the back of the van, looking pasty white around the gills, like he had just had a nasty fright.
He sat down on the bench seat opposite us, and gave me a bug-eyed look.
‘Real smart Costello, you finding the bomb like that, almost like you knew it was there all along.’
I laughed in his face, ‘That tricksy cop psychology bullshit is never going to wash Buchanan, and we both know it.
Special Agent Buchanan said, ‘We decide what washes and what doesn’t Costello. You might have had big shot credentials when you worked for the Secret Service, but you are just a private citizen now.’
‘Hey, you want to keep it civil goofball. You can’t keep us locked up in here for ever,’ growled Joe.
‘We are Agents of the Federal Government bigmouth, we can do whatever the hell we want.’
‘That ain’t constitutional,’
‘Fuck the constitution and you too,’ snapped Buchanan nastily. ‘Far as I am concerned you have broken so many laws tonight, I will be filling forms from now until Thanksgiving, before I clear the bullshit back log, and that makes me very unhappy indeed.’ Buchanan’s eyes flickered, his mouth turning down at the corners like he had just encountered a rotten smell. ‘So, to mitigate this nasty little cluster-fuck situation we got going on here, you are all of you going to, do exactly as I say.’
‘Sounds like you are going to make a very tempting offer,’ I said evenly. ‘But before you do that, you might like to know that we take orders from no one, especially not the Federal Government.’
‘A real maverick, huh, Costello? Well, here’s the thing, we wrangle mavericks for a living, so you fuck with us, we will throw you in jail tonight, get one of our cute little typing pool assistants to write you up—problem there is it might take six months minimum…’
I nodded with faux sympathy. ‘The wheels of justice turn slowly in this part of the world, so I understand.’
Buchanan beamed, ‘So you do understand Costello.’
‘Of course I understand. You want us to keep quiet about the bomb.’
‘On the contrary Costello, you can tell anyone you want how you witnessed Federal Agents discover the explosive device in Mr. Barrington’s suite.’ Buchanan’s eyes glistened with happiness, as he let his ideas unfold.
I raised an eyebrow, nodded.
‘Then, in a couple of hours from now after Barrington launches his business on the stock market, you and your jackass friends can ship off back to LA-LA Land and tell everyone who will listen about life in the big city.’
‘Real genius idea Buchanan—problem is, that isn’t going to work.’
‘What do you mean it won’t work?’ raged Buchanan, his beaver teeth flecking spittle.
A knock at the door.
The rattle of a key and Special Agent Washington poked his head in. ‘We got the press conference set up skipper, you ready to talk?’
Buchanan stared at me, said, ‘Oh I’m ready.’ He pointed at me, his finger real close to my face.’ Now you and your friends stay right her Costello I will be back directly.’
I looked at the pointing finger. The temptation to snap it off was almost unimaginable. I resisted. Instead I nodded, watched him climb out the van and close the door behind him.
Joe peered out the window, ‘It is good and busy out there,’ he said.
‘That will work for us,’ I said, my voice quiet and even,
‘Now, open the door if you would Inez, we are getting out of here.’
Inez gave me a melting Latin smile, ‘About time too,’ she said, pulling her skeleton key hairpin out of her french twist.
Dead Famous 60
I drove the Feds van out of the out of the parking structure, giving a friendly wave to the NYPD beat cop working point on the garage entrance. I was wearing Buchanan’s FBI windbreaker and his hat too. The hat was kind of damp, and smelled icky, but it hid my features well.
Outside, the rain had finally stopped, for the moment at least. The cop who waved me through the barricade looked miserable. A night in the rain can do that to a guy. I headed down East-Fiftieth and on to Park Avenue. The Met Life building loomed large. I headed west, around the Grand Central Terminal, cutting through the yellow cab throng, then parked up the van in a no parking zone around back of the Terminal. I left the keys in the ignition, and the door open, knowing that pretty soon every law enforcement agent in the city would be looking for the vehicle. Either someone would steal it, and buy us time, either that or the cops who found the missing vehicle would be extra pleased that it was keyed up and ready to drive away.
I strolled around the back of the truck, to let Inez and Joe out.
‘What now?’ growled Joe, ‘I been in this damn town five hot minutes, and already I been kidnapped by a wanted fugitive.’
‘He means you Dan,’ said Inez, with the sweetest smile.
‘Nothing but bellyaching, and it ain’t nice.’ I said. ‘But I suppose it is understandable under the circumstances, that’s why I am going to take you to a club by way of compensation.’
Now, the Harvard Club on west 44th might sound schmantzy, but it is nothing to write home about from the outside. The place looks like a nasty low-rent office building, with a couple of cheap bushes in white box planters, to denote the entrance. But the understated tone of the exterior conceals an extravagantly sumptuous interior. The club is, of course, a strictly members only affair, where security on the front door is understandably tight given the high-echelon status of its members.
I didn’t let the heavy security presence distract me.
I flashed Buchanan’s badge at the front desk, told then we had to see one of their members. The head facilitator spluttered a protest, as we strode past his station, and began dialing an emergency number on his telephone, Joe reached in across the counter and snatched the phone out of his hand. ‘You wouldn’t want to interfere with a Federal investigation now would you?’
The doorman shook his head slowly. Joe smiled, placed the telephone back in his cradle. ‘We are looking for a character name of Sly Barrington, you know where we can find him?’
The doorman looked towards the palatial staircase, and choked out a guttural series of directions.
Joe gave him a menacing stare, by way of a thank you, but I was already racing up the stairs. The smell of cigar smoke led me quickly to the bar area. I burst through the doors at a rapid clip and stood there—surveying the scene—an opulent room of oak paneled walls. Above, decadent chandeliers floated menacingly in the high ceilinged room, like monsters from another age.
‘Why, here he is now!’ guffawed Barrington, ‘Gentlemen, I give you Danny Costello.’ They all turned to look at me, a sea of faces, filled with the distilled spirit of pure avarice. These were the men behind the Slycorp deal: the bankers, the brokers, the freewheeling shot-callers, and the hedge fund billionaires— all of them dining out on the flesh of their own success.
‘Not to worry Mr. Costello, I am still very much alive,’ roared Barrington.
I wave of gruff amusement ran around the room.
I wondered if any of these trust fund heroes had gunned down the mother of their own child, or shot a man in the face like Sly Barrington had. I wondered how many of them, with their over-fed, whiskey drenched faces had worked the ghetto on the hard side of town, in the long, bad years before they made membership at the Harvard Club. Not many of them I was betting.
‘Perhaps you will have a drink with us Mr. Costello? Barrington gave me a glittering look of triumph. It was clear the invitation was thrown out as low-end consolation prize. I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t meant to. The master was in his universe, bestowing favors to his court. Sly Barrington was no longer
a bad apple outsider—he was the new mainstream. He was holding the knife to a multi-billion dollar money pie, and his big dollar cohorts would do everything in their power to protect their new friend.
I took a good long look at Barrington, as he sat back in his sumptuous leather chair.
The pressure of eyes consumed the room.
All of them looking at me.
Austere portraits frowned down from the walls: Big men with big agendas and even greater means; men who had shaped America; men just like Sly Barrington.
As the hesitant white-gloved facilitators began to gather, in their starched jackets. I sucked a breath, ‘Your life is in danger Barrington. My people found a bomb in your hotel room.’
A nervous murmur ran through the assembled party, but Barrington quieted them down. ‘As you can see Mr. Costello, I am among friends here. I really have no need for your services. There are those who have tried to assail my company’s progress through the years, all of them have failed, and today, on this historic morning Slycorp will transcend the world of entertainment—it will become a truly global corporate entity. Come—join us! Have a drink in celebration.’
The assembled group roared their approval of these manful words.
I nodded, said, ‘I will see you on Wall Street, Barrington—nine thirty sharp.’
He raised his glass in toast.
The white-gloved facilitators exchanged glances, and edged ever closer. Outside the sound of a police siren screaming past the building, followed quickly by another, I turned to the window, saw the first signs of a slow-breaking dawn edge hesitantly across the skyline. The new day was coming, and with it, the emergence of a new financial and cultural hegemony.
I inhaled a Hapkido breath. Let the roiling tumult flow around me. Trouble was on the way. I would be prepared—whether Sly Barrington felt he needed me or not. So as Barrington’s new colleagues roared and cheered and whooped at the thought of their billion-dollar payday, I smiled. Gave a gracious half bow, and took my leave calmly and quietly, rejoining Joe and Inez at the head of the stairs. ‘We got to leave and now,’ I said.