The Big Wheel

by Scott Archer Jones

Two of the men glared at him, and the third faltered in his narration. O’Brien smiled at Thomas and wagged his fat finger at the other three men. “It’s okay. I invited him. If I didn’t, I should have. Can you back up, please, for Tommy’s benefit?”

  The mouse that had been talking began again. “Well, as I said, we’ve gotten two pieces of information. Our local security contractor provided one. He’s been able to tell us there is only one crew planning a large job in the City. Our guy tells us the crew chief has hired surveillance people and worked for at least six months. They’re angling something that sounds like corporate espionage. Two independent informants confirm it. The snitches were, and I quote, ‘Impressed by the guy but can’t figure out what kind of corporate theft would be big enough.’ This criminal normally does banks or diamond exchanges, so it’s a change-up for him.”

  Thomas asked, “Does this organizer have a name?”

  Garland, his voice heavy, said, “Not from this intel—just a nickname. He’s known as the Gray Man. Highly respected, never caught, and his people are seldom arrested.”

  Thomas looked at Garland—standing there in front of the desk he appeared dog-eared, half-whipped. Thomas asked, “Does his style match our break-in?” LeFarge shot him a look—what did that mean, that LeFarge thought he was meddling?

  The mouse piped up. “Well, yes and no. The Gray Man is known for technical types of theft—he likes to tunnel in, or come through the ceiling, disarm alarms, and make invisible exits. He doesn’t often use violence or run a confidence game, and his jobs display simplicity. Another interesting thing is his style. He’s not afraid to handle big materials. He’s supposed to be the guy who took the four pallets of money off the dock at the Chicago Federal Reserve two years ago.”

  O’Brien pushed on. “You said you got two pieces of information.”

  “Yes.” The mouse nodded three times at O’Brien, tock, tock, tock. Everyone could see his Adam’s apple swallowing. “People following the money traced it out of your accounts in four jumps. It is now in an account listed under a Carl Dupont, a Canadian in Montreal. We got lucky—the money shipped offshore but circled back.” His voice cracked. “Dupont’s bank is ready to cooperate with your bank—after your CFO called and cranked up some pressure. The Canadians placed a watch on Dupont’s account, but they’re not ready to freeze assets. That requires the right US government requests. Mr. Garland here,” and the mouse nodded sideways at his boss, “asked us to hold off.”

  Thomas wanted the question asked and LeFarge obliged. “Did our security team find this out?”

  “Oh no, Acquisitions’ contract firm in London found the money.” Garland winced and O’Brien threw Thomas another toothy grin.

  O’Brien asked, “What do we know about Carl Dupont?”

  The mouse added detail. “A low-level VP at the bank in Montreal gave us Dupont’s phone number and address.” Thomas thought there might be some Canadian regret over that disclosure. “When we back-trace the number, it’s an import-export company named Ultra-World Trading.”

  O’Brien pressed. “Is that all you have? After twenty-four hours?”

  The mouse ducked his head. “That’s all we’ve got now.”

  O’Brien swung his chair around to stare out the big window. He hummed, quiet, detached.

  “Well, we could—,” began Garland.

  O’Brien said, “Wait.”

  “—It’s plausible Dupont —,” Garland said.

  “Wait, goddamn it!” O’Brien tented his fingers and hummed across them. Four men hovered in an uncomfortable pause. O’Brien swung his chair back to face them. He looked at Garland. “Well, you wanted to talk.”

  “If we can get a photo of Dupont, we can try to match him to the surveillance footage in the building. We can hire people in Montreal to watch his house and business.”

  “A start.” O’Brien’s jowls were mottled with extra blood. “Egan?”

  “My team will be ready by tonight. If Dupont is our guy, he’s more likely to be in New York than Montreal. If we can find him, we can send the team in.”

  “Thomas?”

  “Since he’s a business, we can crack him open. I can use the same techniques we do in Acquisitions. If he’s legit, we’ll know it. If he’s dirty, we’ll know that too. If he has holdings in the US, I can find them.”

  O’Brien leaned back beaming. “Something to work with! Don, I want you to try to match Dupont with the Gray Man. Egan, if we do get an address, I’ll send you in, but if it’s in Canada, you have to have transport across the border. Arrange the proper trucks to get your gear into Montreal without calling attention to the—you know. Thomas, you’ve got half an hour to get me Dupont’s financials on my desk.” The bear turned his chair to the window. They had been dismissed.

  Thomas made it back in the thirty minutes. He dropped into a chair in front of the desk and tossed a memory stick across the polished surface to O’Brien. “Dennis, we’ve got credit checks, annual statements to shareholders, and a photo from the company prospectus. Ultra-World Trading has received several fines from Customs, both US and Canadian, and has had one of its employees arrested for ‘suborning’ a Canadian official—it’s a good guess that he bribed a customs agent.”

  O’Brien set a cut-glass tumbler down on a coaster and picked up the memory stick. He jacked it into a pad. “Where did you get the bribery thing?”

  Thomas could pick up the faint, smoky scent of Scotch. “Easy. All that comes from an Internet search of the news agencies.” Thomas went on, “The annual reports show the company recording high cash flow, exceptional return on capital investment, and its margins are much higher than its industrial sector.”

  O’Brien gave him a hooded look, his prominent brow hanging over his eyes. “All that means what I think it does?”

  “Dupont is dirty and is flushing money through his company. Taking the company public was his first mistake—looks good on paper, but opens you up to scrutiny.”

  “Don needs the photo.”

  “Angie Tommo is flashing it down to him now. Dupont looks to be about sixty, and he has gray hair. Ties into the Gray Man nickname. He graduated from McGill in ’80 with a technical degree.”

  “He’s our guy.” O’Brien sounded certain.

  “Looks likely.”

  O’Brien picked up his glass, swirled the Scotch, scanned Thomas over the rim. “Do you have anything else?”

  Thomas grinned. The Governor would always push for one more step. “I saved the best for last—the company does business in the US, and they have assets here, in New York. He has a long-term shared lease with another importer down on the harbor and an apartment listed as his US business address. There’s a shed out at the airport in Queens.” Leaning forward across the desk, Thomas handed O’Brien a slip of paper with addresses on it.

  “It’s the apartment.” O’Brien swiveled his chair and spoke to his desk phone. “Allen, get LeFarge in here now.”

  Thomas rounded off. “We’ll have more later, Dennis, but it’s liable to be down in the noise, not critical stuff”

  O’Brien grunted. “Okay. Better get back to it, Thomas. I want the safecracker too, and his colleagues, so start looking at employees. Besides, you shouldn’t hear the next part. Deniability.”

  ***

  Robko had landed at the Montenegro Club. He drank anise and vodka, rather than doing the stone. He stood shoulder to shoulder with old acquaintances, guys that didn’t mind his buying one little bit. His mobile rang in his pocket, over the boom of the music. He turned from the bar and pushed his way back into the hallway to the restrooms. He wobbled a bit and grabbed the doorjamb with one hand. “Yes?”

  “Robert, it’s….”

  Robko couldn’t make out the words, but he recognized the Gray Man’s voice. “Wait.” He pushed into the bathroom, glanced around, and went into one of the stalls. The stench of urine rose around him, but now he could hear over the club noise. “Yes?”

  The Gray Man’s voice soun
ded tense, cracking. “I don’t have much time. There’s a team of men breaking in. I think it’s the Feds. I don’t know what they have on me, but they’re not trying to serve a warrant. They’re just crashing in.”

  “Christ, get out of there!”

  “Can’t. They’ve got me blocked front and back. They even have men on the roof across the way.”

  “You’re caught. Lay down on the floor spread-eagled. Don’t get shot by accident.”

  “No accidents here. They know what they want. Robert, take care of her for me, if you can. Get her out safe, drive her where she says. If you can find her, it will only take you a couple of days to do as I ask.”

  Robko stared at the stall’s partition. It was painted chocolate, with obscene figures gouged into the paint.

  “Are you there? I don’t have much time.” The Gray Man’s voice was high and tight.

  Robko coughed. “Why should I get involved?”

  “You owe me.”

  “You don’t believe that. But I’ll slide by to take a look-see. After you’re arrested.”

  The Gray Man’s words tumbled out. “Okay, this sounds like it. I’ll leave the phone on… chunk it under the couch!”

  “No, don’t! Kill it! They can trace—” Robko heard a long sliding sound, a thump, shuffling. A loud bang. Feet pounding, a voice shouting. Crashing.

  He hung up. The Gray Man had made a disappointing mistake.

  Robko ran to the bar and emptied his front pockets of money. “Got to go,” he said to the bartender. Once outside, he ran several blocks back to his place. Fumbling in his haste, he synced his vidi to his desk tablet. Once he had his data on the tab, he scrubbed and ruined the vidi’s memory. Still wound up, on a nervous edge, he took a cab to Central Station, crossed through, and took a bus. He left the phone on, jammed down between a seat and the wall. He got off where he saw a taxi rank. The Gray Man had been caught. Robko had covered his tracks, but what if his boss gave him up?

  Chapter Four: Poverty and Power Melt Like Ice

  Wearing a Yankees ball cap tugged down low and a pizza joint delivery jacket, Robko slid around the corner to take a gander at the Gray Man’s building. In the morning light, the block showed off the same dull thirties style that lined the entire neighborhood. The front showed nothing out of the ordinary. If he went straight in, they could box him up in the stairwell or elevator—if they were there.

  He ducked around the block and found the building behind the Gray Man’s. He entered the foyer. He pushed all the doorbells at once, leaned away from the camera, and someone buzzed him in. He hiked up seven flights to the roof. Ducking, he crabbed to the back wall and peeked over. His eyes found the Gray Man’s living room. A large bulging web disfigured the glass; something substantial had been thrown into it from the inside. Robko grunted. “Of course he’d have armored glass.” Yellow tape fluttered across the window that led onto the fire escape.

  Robko clattered down all the stairs and cut through to the back, into the alley by the communal dumpsters. He couldn’t reach the ladder to the fire escape, so he dug his fingers and toes into the cracks of the bricks and scrambled up to the first landing. He took the metal stairs to the Gray Man’s apartment. The kitchen. He held his hands around his face and peered through the glass to see into the gloom. He saw an ordinary room, not trashed or tossed. Robko glanced at the yellow tape that read “FBI Crime Scene No Admittance.” He tried the window and found it locked.

  He moved across the back of the apartment, sidestepping down the window ledges. At each window, he checked for signs of life. He saw something disquieting in the living room—a chair sat in the middle of the open space.

  He found no window open. He saw no girl present. He could jimmy a window, but the alarms were visible—a hassle. But across the room he spotted something wrong with the front door. He took the fire escape up to the roof and strode to the roof’s door. A screwdriver got him in. He crept down the stairs. When he reached the Gray Man’s place, he found more police tape. The door lay inside the entry on its back. He stared at the huge split in the wood where the ram had struck and at the broken jamb where the locks had torn through. He whistled softly—this had taken some effort. He flipped the switch, but no light flicked on. The steel door at the other end had been blown off its hinges and sat propped up against the side, blackened on its edges. He could smell something like cordite—stinking, sharp. Gray light illuminated the living room beyond. He slipped under the tape and picked his way through the room. It took him fifteen minutes to work the place. Paperwork in a briefcase showed him the Gray Man had a name—Carl Dupont. Robko didn’t find a name for the girl. She wore interesting underwear. He found a disturbing amount of blood in the living room, spattered up the wall and under the chair out in the center. Interrogation. That didn’t feel like FBI or NYPD. Someone had sifted through everything in the apartment but repositioned it all instead of wrecking the place. They had been discrete when they searched the place—why, when they left the blood? Two teams? No PCs or phones, only dangling wires that went with them. Any digital records of the Gray Man’s life had been taken from the apartment. A bust. All this sneaking around, just for a name. And they might or might not have the girl.

  ***

  At home, Robko made quiet enquiries. A woman he had once known returned his call. She worked dispatch for a police precinct nearby. Things had been good between them; she told him NYPD had not responded to any call at the address he gave. He made the second call to a friend, the one person he trusted who had also worked with the Gray Man. Robko asked for the name of the Gray Man’s woman. The friend turned out clueless. Robko rang the morgue and checked if there had been any corpse named Carl Dupont delivered. He called all the hospitals.

  Without a contact in the FBI, he had nothing left to try. Hungry, he could have eaten. Instead, he fueled himself on coffee and downers. Lying on his back on the couch in his warehouse, he stared up into the dusty rafters and the dimness above him and conjured his way through the problem.

  The girl wouldn’t know how to reach him, and he didn’t know how to contact her. He didn’t know who had taken the Gray Man. He didn’t know if this was about the O’Brien rack. He didn’t know anything.

  All the scenes of the past four days rolled like a wheel through his head, around his tranked memory. He dropped a yellow jacket onto his tongue. Sooner or later, Robko thought, the drugs would unlock his mind. He felt himself slipping into an insensible stone as midnight crept into the warehouse.

  ***

  Thomas escorted Angie into the usual New York bar, if there was a usual. Set up for couples and for twenty-dollar drinks, it illuminated everything from below with blue light, made double chins disappear, and gave everyone a glam-fabulous Mediterranean tan. Thomas smelled an air thick with a mix of very expensive colognes and perfumes. She sat across from him and did the interview on him. “Phillips Exeter and Yale? Or was it Groton and Stanford?”

  “Neither, I’m afraid. University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and Wharton. Before that, the high school was pretty snotty, but still public.”

  The blue light showed her off as quite beautiful, with dark, dark eyes, black hair pushed back on one side behind her ear, a gold earring glittering in the light. “Not my fault you come off like an ad for an East Coast finishing school. The horn rim glasses. The expensive suit and the regimental tie. The golden hair so casually hanging down across your manly forehead.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d believe I buy all my clothes on the Internet?” He stared down the front of her white silk shirt, down to where a lacy bra pushed her breasts up towards him.

  “No.” She stirred the olive in her drink with the swizzle stick. “How did you get in with O’Brien?”

  “O’Brien Investments hired me out of a mutual fund to do valuation analysis. When O’Brien bought a couple of companies rather than just their stock, we worked the deal for him. Then he made me into a general fixer for a while. I traveled around helping with comp
any re-orgs. I moved into Acquisitions three years ago.”

  “Sweet. You know Acquisitions is known in the hallways as Rape and Plunder.”

  “A calumny. We’re all saints in Acquisitions.”

  Her eyes narrowed; she scrutinized his face… all part of sizing him up. “If you don’t mind my asking, why is a young guy from out in the divisions in so tight with the Governor?”

  “Beats me. I’ve been lucky. What’s better, O’Brien thinks I’m lucky.”

  “Well, soon you won’t have to do real work. O’Brien will bring you in from Siberia and make you VP of Knitting or something. You can begin infighting to see how close your office can move towards the Governor’s, and how fast.”

  “What I want to do is stay out in the field, run a small company, work up to a big one. That’s pretty much what my father did.”

  She rolled the stem of her glass between her fingers. “How dull. I thought you would be more interesting.”

  “You’d prefer I was a dancer, like my mother?”

  “Really? Anyone I’ve heard of?”

  “Alice Lisolotte Rinser Steward? If you say yes, you’re either from Germany or Illinois.”

  “I’m from Staten Island. The Italian Staten Island.” Her teeth flashed white in the blue light. “We have toe-tappers there, too.”

  “You’re not dancing for a living up on O’Brien’s floor.”

  “No, I’m a babysitter.”

  His babysitters had never looked like Angie. “And who’s the biggest baby?”

  “Not you… although you did hit on me on Day One.”

  “Sorry if I misread the signs.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. Unlike the Governor I don’t make up my mind in a hurry.” She flicked her cool glance up and down.

  He could sense the scale’s swing from hopeless to hopeful. He channeled the conversation back where he wanted it to go. “O’Brien does judge the quick and the dead.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve noticed he changes his mind at least once a month. Who’s getting the hammer now?”