Red Shirt

by A. J. Stewart

  The driver followed Joe’s direction into the lot by one of the no-name warehouses, and we came to a stop. The kid made to get out and open the door but Joe put his hand on the driver’s arm to stop him, so he just passed back an umbrella.

  I took it and opened the door and got out into the rain. The lot ran down from the train tracks and the water sluiced away around my feet. I opened the umbrella and offered a hand to Sally, which he swatted away. He didn’t swat away the umbrella, though—he was proud but not foolish.

  The driver had parked the town car just far enough away from the warehouse to ensure we got drenched by the time we reached the door. There was a solitary door with a single lamp over the top of it, and I knocked.

  “Let me do the talking,” said Sal, and I nodded as if that had been my game plan all along.

  The door opened and a short round man filled the doorway. He had a thick head and no neck, and no eyebrows or hair.

  “No,” he said.

  “I’m here to speak with Nurlan,” said Sally, ignoring the round man’s opening gambit.

  “I am Nurlan,” he said. “What you want?”

  “My name is Sal Mondavi, from the Bronx. If you could go and tell the real Nurlan that I have a proposition for him, I would appreciate it.”

  The guy slammed the door closed. Sal didn’t move, as if he had expected this to happen. I just wanted out of the rain. We waited about thirty seconds and then the door opened again. The same bald, round man stood aside. I assumed that meant we could come in, but I waited for Sally to go first.

  We walked into an anteroom, like a lobby but without any of the features that suggested we were welcome to stay. I closed the umbrella and expected to be patted down, but the round guy didn’t seem to care about weapons, or maybe he figured bringing guns would have been beyond stupid. On most occasions I would have agreed. This was not most occasions. The round guy opened a door set into the drywall opposite and held it for us. Sally walked through and I followed again, and then the round guy stepped in behind me and closed the door. He didn’t move any further.

  We were in the main warehouse. There were two lines of collapsible picnic tables with stacks of computers on them. Floor fans were blowing already cold air onto the computers, and subsequently onto Sally and me, and I shivered as the breeze hit my wet legs. In the background were more computers on racks and in cages. I could see lights flickering from them and the low-grade hum they emitted.

  At the end of one of the rows of tables sat a haggard old man. His cheeks were hollow and his hair was thinned to the point of extinction, and he had a beak of a nose. What I noticed most were his eyes. They were vaguely Asian, but not Chinese or Japanese, almond-shaped as if the Asian DNA had cross his lineage a good few generations before. The eyes had bags under them, as if he were storing water there in case of emergency, like a camel.

  He didn’t say anything, but this wasn’t Sally’s first time at the rodeo. Sal stepped forward and took the only chair across from the old man. I stayed where I was. I felt like one of those guys, the dudes who always stand at the back, like a minder or a henchman. Perhaps that was my role. I really hadn’t thought about what I was adding to events, but I became acutely aware that it was always the nameless henchmen who copped it first in movies. I put the point of the umbrella between my feet and held my two hands in front on the handle. If things broke out into a dance number, I would be ready.

  Nobody looked like dancing, though. Sally and the old guy sat looking at each other as if the first to speak was the loser.

  “Mondavi,” said the old guy.

  “Nurlan,” Sal replied.

  “You are a long way from home.”

  Sal nodded. I wasn’t sure if an hour’s drive up I-95 constituted a long way, or if the guy knew that Sal lived in Florida.

  “I am.”

  “Too far, I think.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What is it you want from me?” Nurlan spoke slowly, with an accent that suggested English was not his first language, and deliberately, which suggested that he had no trouble with English but that he had a problem with having to repeat himself.

  “I have a proposition for you,” said Sal.

  The man called Nurlan lifted his head slightly. “I see.”

  “You have a mark on your books. I’d like to buy it.”

  “What mark?”

  “A man called Brett Pickering.”

  Nurlan might have frowned, or it might just have been the industrial lights flickering.

  “What is your interest in this man?”

  “I’m not interested in him. I’m interested in his debt.”

  “Your people know you are here?” asked Nurlan.

  Sally took a shallow breath. I wondered how he would play it. His people knew, but they didn’t want Nurlan to know that, and they certainly didn’t want Sally involving the family in this business.

  “No,” Sal said. “This is not a matter for my people.”

  “Then I find it an unusual request.”

  “I’m doing a favor,” said Sal. “Cleaning his books.”

  “A favor for who?” Nurlan’s eyes flicked toward me. I saw no color in them.

  “For you?” Nurlan asked, eyes burrowing into me. “A favor for you?”

  “He’s mine,” said Sally. “The favor is not for him.”

  Nurlan leaned back in his seat and moved his eyes slowly back to Sally.

  “You want to buy a debt. So either you know it will make you money, or you know it will get you something else. Either thing is good for me, yes?”

  “I can offer advantageous terms,” said Sally.

  “I already have advantageous terms.”

  “Perhaps I can better them. An immediate return. No waiting.”

  “Sometimes we must wait for that which is worth waiting for. I am afraid I have no wish to sell this position.”

  Sally nodded but said nothing. He slowly stood.

  “I understand,” he said. “Thank you for taking the time to meet me.”

  Nurlan nodded but said nothing further. Sally turned and walked back to the door. The round guy opened it and Sally walked through. I looked at the old man at the table as I turned to follow. His body was frail and ancient but he looked like he had the wisdom of the ages. He stared me in the eye and I felt myself shiver, which brought a smile to his lips.

  I stepped through into the anteroom and the round guy strode past and opened the outside door. I led with the umbrella, and Sally followed. I heard the door close but I didn’t look back. The town car was in the same place, and we strode across the wet lot. The kid didn’t see us in the dark so I opened the door and stepped aside for Sally, and then I followed him in. The driver watched us and waited for his orders. There was no one in the passenger seat.

  “Where is Joe?” I asked.

  “He’s gone,” said the driver, and he looked at Sally for directions. Sally told him to head north.

  The driver headed up toward the Merritt, and I brushed water from my hair and turned to Sal.

  “What was that about?” I asked. “That didn’t seem to go anywhere.”

  “No, it didn’t,” said Sal.

  “Why?”

  “If I offered you two dollars for your one dollar, would you take it?”

  “Maybe. Unless I thought I could get three dollars.”

  “And if you could get three dollars, but I offered you four?”

  “I guess I’d take that. What’s your point?”

  “My point is, he wasn’t selling. Not for two, not for three, not for four.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means it’s about more than money. You’re friend Pickering offers him something more than money.”

  “He’s not my friend, and what else could Brett offer a guy like him?”

  “That’s the question. Power? Access to power? Something Nurlan can’t buy himself and can’t access any other way.”

  “So what does that mean? Nu
rlan doesn’t care about the money?”

  “Oh, he cares about the money very much. But he cares about what it gets him even more.”

  “But what does it get him?”

  “That’s what we need to know.”

  “How do we find that out?”

  Sally looked at me. “We ask Pickering.”

  “I already did.”

  “We do it one more time, with feeling.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was only about fifteen minutes up to New Canaan, but the rain had really set in by the time we pulled into the circular driveway. There were no vehicles in front of the house, not even the beat-up old Taurus. We pulled right up to the steps, and the kid got out and ran around and opened the door in the rain. He was dedicated to his craft and I got the sense he would go far, in college and beyond. I flicked the umbrella open and waited for Sally to get out. He was moving slower and I wondered if he was tired. It had been a long day.

  I rang the doorbell and then waited. I heard hesitant steps coming across the travertine in the foyer. Brett Pickering opened the door with a grimace and his face dropped further when he realized who it was. He didn’t seem keen to let us in, despite the weather.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “To not be in the rain in Connecticut,” I said, and then I stepped inside. He was going to be knocked out of the way and very wet if he didn’t move, so he moved.

  “Where’s your car?” I asked as I stepped by him.

  “You took it.”

  “The Taurus.”

  “It’s in the garage. You think I want the neighbors seeing that thing parked here overnight?”

  I felt like rolling my eyes, but didn’t. I just moved inside so that Sally could follow me in, and as he did he looked all around the two-story entry foyer.

  “Nice house,” Sally said.

  “Thanks,” said Brett.

  “Who owns it?”

  “What?”

  “Who owns it?”

  “I do. We do. My wife and I.”

  “Mortgage?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because we’re gonna sell it.”

  “This doesn’t belong to the business.”

  “Pal, if you want to stay alive, everything belongs to the business.”

  “What do you mean, stay alive?” asked Mrs. Pickering from the hallway.

  “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” asked Brett.

  “No,” said Sally. “It can’t.” He walked across the foyer and stopped in front of Mrs. Pickering. He offered his hand.

  “Ma’am,” he said. “Sally Mondavi.”

  “Ellen Pickering,” she said, shaking his hand. “You’d better come through.”

  Ellen led us back into the great room. She ushered us into the sofas by the fireplace which was warm and welcoming. Then she asked if we wanted coffee or tea.

  “Do you have anything decaf?” asked Sal.

  “Herbal tea.”

  “That would be fine, thank you.”

  “Mr. Jones?”

  “No, thank you.” I was cold and wet and well on the way to miserable, but herbal tea wasn’t going to improve any of that.

  Ellen Pickering moved into the kitchen and put on a kettle and got tea from the pantry, but the open plan nature of the place meant she didn’t have to take her eyes off us, other than to hit the right switch or open the pantry door. The three of us watched her from the sofas until she was done, and then she returned.

  “Where are we?” she asked. “What’s this staying alive business?”

  I noted that she had lost her nasty edge, and she seemed to have accepted the fact that they were in dire straits and some drastic action was needed. Women can be like that. Once they realize that the situation is what it is, they can become very focused on outcomes, a long time before many men finish trying to dream their way out of their problems.

  “You took a loan of last resort,” said Sally. He started out looking at Ellen but finished the sentence looking at Brett. Brett squirmed.

  “What if I did?”

  “Okay,” said Sally, “this is how we need to move forward. Miami here believes he has compelling reasons to help you out of your troubles, because of old friendships, and because of your past with this Coach guy. I am here because Miami is my friend and I want to help him. You, I really don’t care about. You have a poor attitude, and you’re too narcissistic to realize how bad this all is. So I’m telling you—drop the attitude. This isn’t a police interrogation. I don’t want to have to drag every piece of information out of you. That will get boring, I will leave, Miami will leave, and the men who we just spoke to who are your lenders of last resort will come and murder you and your family in your sleep.”

  The last part shocked even me. It was as blunt as a baseball bat and Sally was usually a good deal more diplomatic. But I had to admit, diplomatic hadn’t worked with Brett. He was still tip-toeing through the daisies like he was one golf round meeting away from fixing everything.

  “For heaven’s sake, Brett, just tell him what he needs to know,” said Ellen.

  Brett glanced at his wife and then at Sally with a hang-dog look.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “The man’s name was Nurlan, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how much did you borrow?”

  “Only a little.”

  “What was the figure?”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “And why did you borrow this money from this man?”

  “My investor pool was low.”

  “You mean you couldn’t talk anybody else into your Ponzi scheme?”

  “It’s not a Ponzi scheme!”

  “Actually, Brett, it’s pretty much the dictionary definition of a Ponzi scheme. You are using funds from new investors to pay off old investors and all the while there is no actual investment taking place.”

  “There were investments. I mean, originally.”

  “Tell me about them,” said Sal.

  Ellen Pickering slipped back into the kitchen and returned with two mugs of herbal tea that smelled like a cut lawn. She placed one before Sal and he nodded his thanks. Ellen sat with hers but didn’t drink it. She was focused on her husband.

  “After I left Wall Street I was mainly working in funds and futures, but when I moved out on my own, I got into some real estate deals. They went pretty well.”

  “And you got Coach in on that?” I asked.

  “No, not originally. But then I was helping to raise capital for a new strip mall, not that big a project, but the numbers were good and it was around the time Coach retired. We went to his retirement party. You remember?” he asked his wife.

  Ellen nodded.

  “Everyone was there,” said Brett, then he glanced at me. “Well, almost everyone. And it got me thinking. A deal like this could really set Coach up. He’d done a good bit for me back in school, so I invited him in. But you know, he’s an old guy. They have no risk tolerance.”

  I glanced at Sally. He was older than Methuselah and I wouldn’t have challenged his risk tolerance.

  “But he put a little in, and the project wrapped and he made some good money. And I told him, he would have scored big if he’d put more in. So I had another project, and I said I could get him in on it.”

  “What was this project?”

  “It was a mall thing,” said Brett, suddenly very interested in his feet.

  “And?” said Sal.

  “And it was a great project. We would have made a killing. Should have made a killing.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “Westfield announced a big mall project in competition and we lost our anchor tenant, and then another anchor tenant went bankrupt, and the deal fell apart.”

  “And your money?”

  “Was invested in the construction. And we couldn’t get a buyer for a half-built mall. The retail space is challenging right now.”

  “
So you lost your dough,” said Sal. “What did you do?”

  “Infrastructure, that’s where the big money is. It’s huge numbers, plus it’s all backed by state or federal government. It’s a win-win-win.” I saw the light come on in Brett’s eyes as he started to buy the idea all over again.

  “Except when it’s not,” I said. “What happened? You lost Coach’s money but you went back for more?”

  “Investment isn’t risk free, you know? But I knew some guys who were into this new toll road thing happening in Boston. They were putting together a massive fund, a private-public partnership, where basically the state guarantees the returns and the private investors reap the benefits.”

  I looked at Sally. “Who elects these people?”

  Sal shrugged. “You do.” He sipped his tea and looked at Brett. “So you’re trying to get in on this deal?”

  “Right. So it’s a sure thing, and I need some seed money, so I go to a few people. One of them was Coach. He’s gonna make a killing on this, guaranteed.”

  “We’re not buying it, Brett,” I said, “so you can stop calling it guaranteed.”

  “But you need to see, it was. I wouldn’t have gone to Coach if it wasn’t.”

  “Did you tell him you had lost his previous investment at that point?”

  Brett stared at his shoes again. “No. No, I didn’t. There was no upside to that. See, I know he’s risk averse, so I know if I tell him he lost this one but will win the next one, he won’t do it and he’ll just lose.”

  “Okay,” said Sal. “How does Nurlan enter the picture?”

  “We were so close. I had the contacts in place in Boston, with the city and with the state legislature, and with contractors and the like. I just needed to tie it all together.”

  “How would you do that?”

  “Look, you’ve got to understand, we’re talking big institutions and all, but when it comes down to it, it’s just people. The governor is just a guy and the investors are just guys. So at that level, it’s just about the individual.”