Saving Jason

by Michael Sears

  My phone beeped at me. Another incoming call. I checked. Marcus Brady.

  “I’ve got Brady calling me now.”

  “You should take it,” Larry said. “Call me later. We can still make this work.”

  “How the hell are we going to fix this, Larry? Everyone at Becker will cut me dead after this.”

  “I’ll call Virgil. He’ll listen to me.”

  “Well, that’ll be nice. I’ll have one person on my side.”

  “Talk to Brady and call me later. I want to know his take on this.”

  One of the last strongholds of privacy in New York City—the backseat of a yellow cab—had succumbed to the siren song of the Internet sometime during the previous administration. The same Napoleonic mayor who wanted to control how much salt and sugar I consumed apparently thought it important that I view ads for Blue Man Group every time I rode in a taxi south of Fourteenth Street. Why hadn’t New Yorkers risen up in revolt against this assault? Sadly, because most of them secretly liked it, I thought. The damn thing started nattering at me moments after I closed the door.

  Unless the taxi was an unusual vehicle in some way, the Kid usually just sat back and watched whatever inanity was being broadcast from the screen facing us. Not today. He had wrapped his arms around his shoulders and was squeezing hard. His face had the teeth-bared grimace he made when he was angry.

  “Later,” I said to Larry, and switched lines. “Brady? Hold on just a sec. I’ve got to talk to my son.” I held the phone to my chest to mute it. “Hey, Kid. I see you’re upset. Can I help you? Is it because I’m a little upset, too?”

  He gritted his teeth and growled.

  “Okay, okay. I’m more than a little upset. I agree. Out of control? Maybe, but I’m okay now. Can we talk about it?”

  He spoke through the gritted teeth so that his voice came out sounding like someone possessed by demons. “You said a bad thing.”

  I reviewed my conversations with Roger and Larry. I had said a great many bad things.

  “You’re right. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t use those words. I will try very hard not to say them again. I’m having a hard time. You understand that, don’t you? When someone has a hard time, they don’t always act the best.”

  “It’s bad to kill.” His voice sounded a bit more normal.

  The cabbie looked back at me again in the mirror.

  “Well, I didn’t mean it,” I said, trying to be quiet enough to exclude the driver.

  “Kill. K-I-L-L. Kill.”

  Wonderful. Two years of school and my son was just learning to spell. And his first word was kill.

  “Really, Kid. I don’t want to kill anyone.”

  He pointed to the Post in my hand. “Rat. R-A-T.”

  And his second word was rat. I needed to have a word with his teacher. “Very good. I need to talk on the phone now.”

  “’Kay.”

  He wasn’t okay, he was still upset. He just wasn’t in extreme crisis mode. But it was a window—a small one—and I needed one right then.

  “I’m going to talk to Mr. Brady. Remember him?”

  “The FBI man,” he said. He had lost the growl, but none of the volume. The cabbie’s eyebrows shot up again.

  “Well, he needs to tell me something, so give me just a minute. Okay?”

  He mimed biting down on something; he had once bitten Special Agent Brady. It had been justifiable self-defense. “’Kay,” he said.

  I punched up the volume on the television.

  “You can watch until we get to school,” I said. He was already mesmerized.

  27

  Brady? You still there?”

  “I’m here. You saw the paper?”

  I had it in my lap, but I hadn’t opened it to look at the story. Roger was right. The picture was not flattering. I looked a little like one of the bad guys in an old Charles Bronson movie, but I couldn’t remember which one.

  “I have it here.”

  “I want you to know I had nothing to do with that. Blackmore is in charge and I’m out. He thinks I’m contaminated because of our history.”

  “Look, Marcus, you’ve been straight with me in the past and I’m sorry for your troubles, but today I just don’t have any more room on my plate. Know what I mean?”

  “I’m not looking for sympathy, goddamn it. I’m calling to warn you.”

  “A little late. You think? My life just got flushed down the drain. I figure the circle of people who will still speak to me just dropped into the single digits. I don’t know if I could round up enough to man the infield.”

  “I told Blackmore that he just put a bull’s-eye on your back. Someone went after Barstow. Two shooters. They screwed up and Barstow fought back, wounding one of them. They took off when the cops arrived. Barstow was wounded and confused. He fired at the cops and put one in the hospital. The other one took him out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this the other night?”

  “Because the conversation ended abruptly when you kicked us out.”

  “Did they ever find the two shooters?”

  “One. He washed up on Fire Island.”

  “How’d they know it was him?”

  “Shotgun wound in the upper back. Blood matched to the scene. But that wasn’t what killed him.”

  “No?”

  “No. Someone put a twenty-two-sized hole in the back of his head before dumping him in the bay. He went out with the tide. By the way, you might not want to eat any local-caught blue crabs for a while.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Small-time punk named Figundio. A nobody. Suffolk County cops are ‘making all appropriate efforts,’ which you can take to mean they’ve got more pressing concerns.”

  “Was he mobbed up?”

  “None of our people knew him. But that could just mean he was too far down the roster for us to notice.”

  “All right, I’m scared. But as long as I stay clear of Blackmore, no one has any reason to come after me.”

  “That’s not a strategy. Blackmore will just keep squeezing. He has something else cooking, I know it. This is just a feint.”

  “A powerful feint,” I said. “What does he follow it up with? A nuclear strike?”

  “Like I told you. I’m no longer on the inside track on this. But he and his people looked like a wolf pack following a strong scent of wounded prey. There’s more coming.”

  “What’s your idea? How do I fight this thing?”

  “You can’t. Come in. Let me get you and your son into WITSEC. I can make it happen with one call. Then you can work with Blackmore or not. You’re untouchable.”

  “I go into any kind of witness protection program and that’s admitting I’m a rat. I can’t do that. I don’t have a lot of friends, I admit, but that makes the ones I do have that much more valuable.”

  “Not one of them would want you dead.”

  The cab was edging up the queue in front of the school. I started fumbling for my wallet. “I’ve got to go, Brady. Thanks for your concern. And I need to watch my back. But I still have a job to do. And I think that once all the facts are out there, no one will have any reason to shut me up.”

  “Then they’ll take revenge.”

  “There’s no profit in revenge. A guy back at Ray Brook told me that.”

  I swiped my credit card, added the biggest precomputed tip on the screen, and jumped out. The Kid was still watching the television. “Brady? We’ll talk later.” I tucked the phone in my pocket and looked back into the cab. I found myself staring back at my own face. It was an old photo. An earnest young black woman in a cutout in the lower corner of the screen was relating some of the high—and low—points of my life. The word RAT scrolled across the bottom banner.

  “Damn it,” I said. I covered the screen with the newspaper. The Kid turne
d and scowled up at me. “Sorry. Time to go to school, bud. Come on.”

  His teacher was waiting for us out front. I tucked the Post under my arm so as not to draw attention to it. I doubted that she had seen it, but some of the parents might have. Ms. Wegant didn’t smile at me, but then she never did. The Kid and I performed our hand-sniffing ritual and he surprised me by skipping into the building.

  Despite Brady’s warnings, I felt relieved. The school would keep the Kid safe. For today, at any rate. One step at a time.

  28

  On the way down the hill to Broadway, I called the main number at Becker and asked to be put through to the branch manager out in Stony Brook. He was an old warhorse named Yazinski. I’d met him, but never had any dealings before.

  He answered with the branch code. A true company man. “Becker. C-3.”

  “Mr. Yazinski?”

  “Speaking.” There was a deep whiskey-gravel in his voice.

  “This is Jason Stafford. I work for Virgil—”

  He cut me off. “I know who you are.”

  “Good. I need to speak with one of your people. Today. In my office.”

  “I see you made the paper this morning.”

  I ignored him. His tone was polite, even slightly amused, but I didn’t have the time or the inclination. “Joseph Scott. I checked. If he takes the Ronkonkoma line, he can be in my office by ten-thirty.”

  “What do you want with Joey?”

  “You’ll be informed if there is anything relevant.”

  “Because if this is about those penny stock trades, he’s been cleared by compliance. They’ve been all over it.”

  “Just have him report to me. I’m in conference room B just off the trading floor.”

  “Does Nealis know about this?”

  I was getting tired of his resistance. I had the bigger club. “Nealis is banking. I work for Virgil. So do you. You’d better go talk to Scott, otherwise he’ll miss his train.”

  29

  Virgil deserved to see me in person when I made my attempt to explain the Post headline. I didn’t call; I took the subway and made it downtown in ten minutes. A light mist was in the air on John Street when I came up the stairs. I hustled across the street and into the familiar building.

  I swiped my security card at the stile and walked through. The rolling bar moved an inch and stopped, landing a lateral punch just below the belt, but not low enough to do any damage.

  Still smarting, I stepped back and swiped it a second time before pushing. Nothing. It still didn’t work.

  I held up the card to the guard in hopes that he would buzz me through, but instead he waved me over.

  “Good morning, Mr. Stafford. May I see your card, sir?”

  “What’s up, Jerold?”

  Without answering, he ran the card through an electronic reader and kept his attention on the monitor in front of him. When he spoke, he avoided eye contact. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Stafford, but I have to confiscate your card.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what the system tells me.” He swung the monitor around so that I could see the message. I didn’t bother reading it.

  I held back a sigh of annoyance. “Who do I talk to? Is this a security snafu?”

  He swung the monitor back and read the message again. “Compliance, sir.”

  “What the hell? Jerold, why would compliance have anything to do with building security? What’s going on?” And what had I done to piss off Aimee Devane?

  He had still not allowed himself to look directly at me. Now his face shut down entirely. “I can give you the number, sir.”

  “Keep it,” I said with a petulant sneer, which I instantly regretted. Jerold hadn’t done this to me, he was just the unfortunate bearer of bad news. “I have it,” I said with an effort at keeping my tone neutral. “I’ll be back when I get this straightened out.”

  Smokers had been banned from standing directly outside the front doors of the building, but the aroma from around the corner was thick in the damp April air. I felt ridiculous dialing Virgil to whine about what was no more than a misunderstanding or, at the worst, a turf battle. I dialed the private line.

  The call went directly to a recorded message. “The mail box of the party you are trying to reach is full. Please try again later.”

  A buzz of anxiety began to nag at the back of my brain. There was an unpleasant pattern beginning to form. This was way beyond having ticked off Aimee Devane.

  The mist in the air began to coalesce into an insistent but light rain. I huddled against the side of the building and ran through my options. None were attractive. I manned up and rang the chief of compliance.

  “Mr. Stafford?” Aimee answered. “I’ve just had a call from the manager of C-3. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Why were you following me the other night?”

  “You were told not to pursue that investigation. Are you that incapable of following a simple directive?”

  “Is that why you’ve had me locked out of the building? Don’t turn this into some squabble over territory. I need to talk to this guy Scott. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m getting seriously squeezed by the feds, and getting to the bottom of this penny stock bullshit is the only way I see of straightening things out.”

  “No longer your concern. As of forty-five minutes ago, you no longer work for Becker Financial.”

  “What? Why? Because of the damn newspaper story? It’s nonsense. Yes, I spoke to Blackmore, but I said nothing that would implicate the firm or any senior exec. I just put in a call to Virgil to explain all that, but his private line went straight to voicemail. Trust me, when I get through to him, he’ll understand.”

  “Oh.” She sounded almost sympathetic. “You are not up to date, are you? I had your card confiscated on orders from Nealis, not Virgil.”

  “Nealis? He can’t fire me. I don’t work for him.”

  “As a matter of fact, he can. And you do. Or did. He’s running Becker ever since Virgil was arrested this morning. A little less than an hour ago. And the first thing Mr. Nealis did was to get on the squawk box and announce that you were fired. I heard the trading floor cheering from two floors up.”

  Virgil had been arrested. Blackmore’s one-two. The Post article, as provocative as could be, was still only a feint. It blocked me from being able to help Virgil. Any move I made on his behalf would be seen as suspect by his friends, family, and anyone in the business.

  “Aimee, I need someone to believe me. I didn’t do this. There is no way that I gave up Virgil to that prick Blackmore.”

  “I’ve dealt with Blackmore before. I believe you. It doesn’t change anything, though.”

  “How do I help Virgil if I’m locked out? You’ve got to let me talk to the broker. This guy Scott. He’s the key. There’s more going on than you know.”

  “That’s not an encouraging start, Stafford. I never thought of you as much of a team player, but now you’re straight-out telling me that you’ve been holding out on me. And, you expect me to help you. I’ve dealt with a lot of traders over the years, but that’s a level of chutzpah I haven’t seen before.”

  “This is not about me. I can dig Virgil out of this—I know it—but I can’t do it alone. Talk to me. I’ll give you everything I’ve got. We can do this together.”

  “Trust you? Based on what evidence? I never understood Virgil’s faith in you. You are the epitome of loose cannons. You are also a liar, a cheat, and a crook. I’ve spent my career forcing guys like you out of the business. Why should I give you one iota of trust?”

  “Very simple,” I said. “I get results.”

  She took a long moment to digest that. I let her have the time before I continued.

  “If Nealis is permanent, how long does he let you stay around? Help me get Virgil back and he will never forget it. Write your o
wn ticket. He’ll stamp it.”

  “Stop. I don’t need that. I’ll help Virgil because it’s the right thing to do. I still don’t trust you, but I don’t see anybody else riding to his rescue.”

  “Then meet with me. Now. Come down and we’ll get a coffee around the corner someplace. I’ll give you everything I know, suspect, or imagine. Please.”

  She didn’t answer for almost five seconds. The longest five seconds I had experienced since asking June Schuyler to the senior prom. (June said no. Actually, what she said was “I don’t think so.”)

  “Give me ten minutes.”

  30

  The building across the street had a recessed doorway, where I waited out of the steadily increasing rain. I would be able to see Aimee as she came out the doors, but I couldn’t see much of the street. That was a mistake.

  My cell phone chirped with a text message. Hannay.

  Call STAT.

  I didn’t have time. Aimee would be down in one minute and I wouldn’t be able to stall her while I contacted Hannay and got his latest report.

  Later. Haf hour.

  I looked up. Aimee was standing across the street under a black-and-white New Yorker umbrella and looking up and down for me. The rain was now a torrent and the sidewalk had emptied. She was the only person in sight. I called out and dashed across to meet her.

  “Where to?” I said, raising my voice over the roar of the deluge.

  “Come on,” she said. “No one will be in the Iron Horse at this hour. We can get a coffee at the bar.”

  The umbrella was on the small side for two, but she let me keep my head covered. My back was getting soaked. We turned the corner and headed for the middle of the block, hugging the building and rushing from one awning to the next.