by Chris Knopf
I hung the next right, hurtling down a primitive sand road toward the Little Peconic Bay. I knew the neighborhood well, having jogged through there a hundred times in the last few years. The Mustang was still hard on my tail, but he was holding his fire. The headlights bouncing in my rearview told why—the closer we got to the bay the more the road resembled an amusement park ride. I tightened my seat belt, slouched as low as I could into the leather-covered bucket seat and fought to control the steering wheel.
Somehow I started to open up some air between me and the Mustang. Though sprung like a drunken goose, the sheer mass of the old Pontiac held it closer to the earth than the new Mustang. As long as the struts, springs and tie-rod ends could withstand the punishment. To say nothing of the driver.
The curves were getting tighter, and as the gap opened up I could see the chaotic dance of the Mustang’s headlights lighting up the woods. It gave me an idea.
After careening like a psychotic porpoise through a particularly tight turn, I shut off the lights, eased up on the accelerator, jammed the transmission into first and stepped hard on the emergency break. The rear wheels locked up, sending the front end into a barely controllable frenzy, which actually helped to slow and eventually stop the big car. I checked again to make sure Eddie was wedged down in the passenger seat foot well, banged the shifter into reverse and floored it.
The concussion knocked the breath out of me, as if a fist the size of a Volkswagen had hit me in the back. Or more like a new Ford Mustang as it exploded into the vast, heavy-metal trunk of the Grand Prix.
The sound was more startling than the impact—a subterranean thud mixed with the wet spray of glass and the scream of rending sheet metal.
It was a jarring moment for me and Eddie, but a lot worse for the guys in the Mustang.
From the crouched position I took before the crash I reached for Eddie, feeling around for injuries. His ears were back, and when he jumped up on the seat his tail was down, but otherwise he seemed okay. He barked out a single, emphatic bark, which I knew meant, “What the fuck was that about?”
I dug a small flashlight out of the glove compartment and pushed open my door, shutting it quickly behind me to keep Eddie in the car. I stayed low and tried to adjust my eyes to the darkness—the Mustang’s headlights having followed the rest of the front end into oblivion. Its windshield was also blown out, so I could clearly see the driver sitting behind the wheel. His head was resting on the top of the deflating airbag, his face hidden behind a mask of blood. Another guy was more out than in, his body flopped across the mangled hood, twisted into a shape that could only be comfortable if you were past feeling it.
Panning around with the flashlight, I saw an automatic nestled in the accordion folds of the Grand Prix’s freshly compressed trunk. I picked up a stick, slipped it in the barrel and plucked it free of the mangled metal. I dropped it into my jacket pocket and went to take a closer look at the driver.
My entire rib cage, front to back, felt worked over, but the adrenaline kept me alert. I opened the door of the Mustang and shot the flashlight in the driver’s face. His eyes blinked open.
While I kept him in the light, I fumbled around my jacket for the cell phone to call 911. I told the dispatcher to call Joe Sullivan, who was probably only halfway to Hampton Bays by then. I could only give a rough description of the location, but when I asked if anyone had reported a loud explosion in the area, she had our exact position.
“Please don’t leave the scene of the accident before the officers arrive,” she said.
“No danger of that.”
I heard a faint sound from the driver. I reached in and gently pulled away the empty airbag. Tiny crystals of glass rained down, pattering against the dashboard and steering wheel. Some remained, glimmering like jeweled studs on the guy’s brown sport coat and black turtleneck.
“Don’t move,” I said to him.
His eyes stretched open so that the whites encircled the pupils, made even more stark by the blood streaming down his face. I moved in closer to look for the gusher, which I found—a deep slice an inch below his receding hairline. I pulled a crumpled paper towel out of my back pocket and stuck it on the wound.
“Who you working for?” I asked conversationally, like I was asking who he bet on to win the Eastern Conference playoffs.
The injured man closed his eyes, then opened them again, and seemed to smile.
“El Cerberus,” I heard him say, the words wet with blood.
“Cerberus? You’re kidding.”
“¿Muertos chiste?” he whispered.
Do dead men joke?
“Why try to kill me? What the hell did I do?” I asked.
He leaned his head back on the seat and smiled again. I smelled the sticky sweet smell of alcohol in the car, though I assumed the man’s tranquility had more to do with shock.
I went back to the Grand Prix and got a roll of duct tape out of the glove compartment. I used it to tape some more paper towel to the guy’s head. Then I walked around the other side of his car for a closer look at his buddy. What I found wasn’t the kind of thing you’d want to study too closely. Likely he was doing the shooting, while leaning out the window, which is why he’d unsnapped his seat belt. Proves there’s never a good reason to neglect proper safety procedures.
I went back to the driver, who was now staring out of the destroyed windshield and looking a little less comfortable.
“How you doing?” I asked him.
“Just a little headache. I stop drinking coffee last week. Doctor say it’s bad for my heart. It’s bad for my head when I stop, I want to tell him.”
“So, this Cerberus. Who’s he?”
He turned his head toward me.
“Is that how you say in English? You know who he is. I’m declaring the fifth amendment.”
He spent the next few minutes coughing up globs of oily blood.
“Good command of the U.S. Constitution,” I told him.
He nodded.
“The fifth is a good amendment. In Venezuela the only right you plead for is your life. You think the ambulance is coming? I’m not feeling too good.”
“It’s coming. They’ll get here as soon as they can.”
He nodded again.
“Good doctors here, too. Even if they’re all from India. The U.S. likes to hire Indians. And Indios from Venezuela, like me. Pretty soon Yankees won’t know how to do anything.”
“Except beat the Red Sox.”
I sat watching his breath slow almost to a stop. I couldn’t move him, even though I knew he was going into shock. The way his arms lay limp against his body said he might be paralyzed. Maybe temporarily, and one false move would make it permanent. On the other hand, he did try to kill me, somewhat attenuating my sympathy.
“Were you supposed to scare me or kill me?” I asked when his eyes opened again and he looked over at me. “And if so, why?”
“Make it look like an accident. It was Marcello who lost his cool and start off with the gun. Dumb gordo.”
“Hey, no disrespecting the dead.”
“Marcello dead?” he asked, genuinely surprised, even though the evidence was only a few feet away.
“Yeah. Sorry, man. Went out the window.”
He rocked his head back and forth where it lay against the headrest.
“That’s, like, not what I want to hear.”
“You might be dead yourself. Why don’t you help out your soul and tell me what this was all about?”
“What’re you, a priest?” he asked.
“No, an engineer. We only take confessions based on solid data.”
“Whatever. You one crazy fucking engineer,” he said, which turned out to be his last words. I felt a little bad about that, since he probably would have preferred to thank his mother, bless his children and plea for mercy from the Holy Mother, but that’s timing for you.
Ten minutes later the ambulance roared on to the scene, but all they got to do was certify that the tw
o guys in the Mustang were dead, then wait around for the cops, detectives and forensics people to show up.
Joe Sullivan got there first.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” he said, dropping out of his Ford Bronco and adjusting his sport jacket over the unofficial cannon he kept in a shoulder harness underneath.
“Is this an accident or an act of self-defense?” I asked him.
“Oh, Christ.”
“I’ve got the gun, holes in the glass and, with luck, a slug in the dashboard. I’d really rather stick to the truth this time, as strange as that sounds.”
“What’s the motive?”
“If we knew that we’d be done here.”
“What do they say?” he asked, looking over at the Mustang.
“I don’t know. They’re dead.”
“Terrific. Ross’ll be up your ass a mile.”
“Good. A little more interest by local law enforcement would be a nice change. Present company excluded.”
Sullivan shot his flashlight in my face.
“Are you hurt or anything?”
“I’m fine, but I need to get Eddie checked out.”
As if to punctuate the thought, a bark came from inside the crumpled Grand Prix.
“Ross’ll want me to bring you in.”
“Me and Jackie’ll be there tomorrow. Have him warm up the ashtray.”
I flipped open my cell phone and called Amanda. I didn’t give her a lot of details, though the word “accident” was enough to get her out of the bathtub. While I waited for her to come get me, I called a vet I knew in the Village. He said he’d meet me at his clinic.
“Oh my God, are you hurt?” Amanda demanded as she burst out of her station wagon, her eyes fixed in horror at the unnatural mating of a souped-up Mustang and the ass-end of the Grand Prix.
“I’m fine. A lot better than my car.”
“Where’s Eddie?” she said, near hysteria.
“He’s fine, too. But I want to take him over to Eng’s for a look over. He said he’d meet us there,” I said.
“What about you? Don’t you need a look over?”
“You can do that. Later.”
I got her out of there before she could see all the human carnage, though I gave her the straight story on the way to Dr. Eng’s. Amanda was an adult. No point in hiding anything.
“Don’t think I’m foolish for being concerned,” she said.
I squeezed her thigh, then left it at that.
As promised, James Eng was at his clinic when we arrived. He opened the door to let Eddie run in, as he always did. The only dog in the known universe who liked going to the vet.
“This is why I agreed to do this,” said Eng, as Eddie jumped up and got his ears scratched. “Just to soak in the adulation.”
I described the night’s activities as well as I could as we wound though the hall to one of the examination rooms. Eng felt around Eddie’s body, checked his eyes, ears, nose and throat and let him lick his face.
“I don’t even let my own dog do that.”
After about ten minutes of this, Eng shrugged.
“I could do some x-rays, or hold him here for observation, but I don’t think it’s necessary,” he said. “The only condition he’s presenting is one of an exceptionally healthy animal.”
“It’s all the rotten crap he eats off the beach,” I said. “Builds up the immunities.”
“You’re not far wrong,” said Eng. “Eddie lived on his own for the first years of his life. You joke, but when I see a healthy stray, I see highly successful genes. What doesn’t kill you, makes you strong. Literally.”
“If that’s true, I’m going to live forever,” I said, and then tried to pay him, or at least thank him for the extra trouble, which he’d have none of.
“Go on, get out of here. And take your mutt. I’m always open for the good ones. Just don’t tell anybody, it’ll ruin my practice.”
After Eng lifted him off the table, Eddie did a little spin and wagged his tail, like this was the most wonderful moment of his life. I couldn’t stand much more of that, so I took Eng at his word and got the hell out of there.
“Eddie Van Halen, superstar,” said Amanda.
“He’s going to be insufferable.”
She thought it was my turn to get examined, but I felt fine except for a little soreness in my neck and the upper part of my back, which only bothered me when I took a breath. She pressed the issue until I was forced to propose a compromise.
“If we stop at the bar on Main Street and have a few drinks, will that satisfy you?”
I was still a little nervous about leaving Eddie alone in the car, but he seemed happy enough curled up in the back. It was almost closing time, though I knew bars well enough to know you could always linger through the cleanup. They usually like having a few people sitting there, talking quietly, while winding down the night. It makes me feel like a kind of mascot.
“You’re an impossible man,” said Amanda to kick off the conversation.
“Thank you, dear.”
“If you die of internal bleeding, it’s not on my conscience.”
“Just don’t get distracted by it. I need your concentration.”
“You think there’s a connection between the dead Japanese girl and what just happened?” Amanda asked.
“What do you think?”
“I think there is.”
“So do I.”
In an effort to ward off Amanda’s near-frantic look of concern over my physical state, I got us talking about the good old days at Con Globe.
As I remembered, Iku’s task was basic strategic planning, helping the corporation balance its portfolio of products and services—deciding which to invest in, which to milk, which to jettison. It’s a good consultant’s gig, to analyze the situation presumably free of biases, preconceptions or vested interests.
All she cared about was her report—a clinical analysis of the corporation’s financial and organizational health.
As long as she had the support of top management, she didn’t have to care if anyone liked her or endorsed her methodologies. She didn’t have to joke with colleagues, jolly along administrators or wish anyone a happy birthday. She didn’t care if you held the door for her or checked out her ass when you passed her in the hall. The job titles, perks and prerogatives, career ambitions, petty politics, personal dreams and paranoid fantasies of the company’s employees were no more important to her than the mindless behavior of a swarm of ants engulfing an orange peel on the sidewalk.
“Angel was interested in Con Globe,” said Amanda. “That’s the overlap.”
“A bold and trenchant analysis,” I said.
“Thank you.”
“No less so for my having considered it already.”
“Certainly not.”
“But Con Globe ain’t nobody’s target. The corporate charter won’t allow it.”
“Piffle,” she said.
“That’s Burton’s word.”
“Used advisedly. Burton would tell you that corporate charters are as substantial as cheesecloth, and not nearly so aromatic.”
“That’s because he doesn’t know Arlis Cuthright.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Donovan’s wife. Her family owns the largest block of Con Globe voting stock. Not enough to control, but enough to wreak havoc. She doesn’t care about the subtleties of corporate law. All she knows is Daddy wanted the company to stay intact in perpetuity, and bolstered by her interests in half a dozen other companies, she wouldn’t hesitate to tear Con Globe to pieces to preserve its independence. Most people think these big corporate decisions are based on calculation and greed. In fact, it’s mostly heart and soul. Raw emotion.”
“And greed,” said Amanda.
“And greed. Which is sort of my point. Marve Judson said some of the board members thought Donovan was trying to unravel the corporate charter. But why would he do that? What financial benefit could possibly justify a direct conf
rontation with most of the board, the executive committee and the controlling shareholders, who are controlled by his own wife? To say nothing of the legal implications and all the lousy press. Who in their right mind would do that?”
“Who said he was in his right mind? He was, after all, screwing his management consultant.”
“You say Donovan’s a fool in love, but does he have to be a fool?”
She took a sip of her pinot to help her readjust from scold to honored adviser.
“No,” she said. “He could string her along with delusions of financial conquest, if that was her game. Men have been known to do that sort of thing.”
“Can’t accuse me of that.”
“No, dear. Certainly not.”
“Or Donovan’s brain had simply migrated to his dick, just like any other poor idiot.”
“Rich idiot.”
I wondered, was that it? Was it that easy? Angel and Iku make a run at Donovan with a standard honey trap. They think they’ll be able to seduce, manipulate or extort him into breaking the charter, then set up a sale, before which Angel would have Phillip Craig take a big position, and subsequently they’d turn a gigantic profit. The ultimate special opportunity, and one that perfectly fit his modus operandi. Not just calling the play, but making it happen.
Iku’s angle? Money. Plain old money. And the rush of victory, like one she probably got from the oil deal. It’s impossible to overestimate how good something that big feels when you’re on the winning side.
Although she probably felt less victorious than Angel, at least financially. All she got from the deal was a paycheck, albeit a fat one, for her trouble. Nothing else would be possible without huge exposure to insider trading.
Was the Con Globe gambit a chance to make good on all that?
I shared all these thoughts with Amanda, whose focus had shifted toward a more fundamental question.
“What does all that have to do with people trying to kill you?”
Until that night, no one had ever tried to run me off the road and shoot me. At least not at the same time. It didn’t seem like much of a coincidence.
“I don’t know,” I said.
They finally threw us out of the joint, politely enough. Eddie was still alive when we got back to the car—and filled with his usual élan. I let him bark and run back and forth between the two lowered back windows all the way to Oak Point. Amanda held her thick hair to the nape of her neck and rode along in a fugue state of resigned indulgence.