The Directive: A Novel

by Matthew Quirk

  Chapter 3

  WE MET ANNIE’S father a half hour later for dinner at a French place with three Michelin stars. He was drinking champagne and talking on his cell phone at the center of an empty banquette. He ended the call, then greeted Annie and Vanessa. Finally, he looked at me, then Annie, and said, “You still wasting your time with this guy?”

  No one responded.

  Then he barked a laugh and crushed my hand with his. “Joking! Sit!”

  Larry Clark, actually Sir Lawrence Clark, is an English ex-rugby star who now works in high finance, running a hedge fund. He radiates aggression and good health, and favors the sort of humor that involves putting you on the spot or lying and then laughing at you when you believe him.

  He’d maintained his dense rugger’s build into middle age and shaved his bald head daily into that gleaming pink power orb a lot of chief execs are going for these days. It went well with the scowl he always wore when looking my way.

  I was still so wound up from my close call with the cardsharps that I didn’t mind breaking bread and trading a few jabs with Clark. After the second course, I excused myself and tracked our waiter down in the labyrinth of wine racks. I intercepted the bill before Clark had a chance. It took a bit of coaxing, but I managed to get our server to let me pay.

  The pleasure of outplaying the hustlers that afternoon was nothing compared to seeing Larry’s face at the end of the meal, when the waiter explained, with a look in my direction, that “the gentleman has taken care of it.”

  As we walked back toward the park after dinner, Vanessa said that she was tired and asked Annie to walk her back to the hotel. Clark asked if he could “borrow me for a moment.”

  I smelled a setup. Annie lifted her shoulders.

  “I’ll get him back in one piece,” Clark said, but after my move at dinner and his barely concealed rage, I wasn’t so sure. I went along with it. This wedding was a done deal. Maybe he finally wanted to make peace.

  We strode toward a section of Fifth Avenue that was lined with McKim, Mead and White behemoths, Gilded Age hotels and robber barons’ clubs.

  Clark turned the knob and led us through the heavy wooden door of a town house. I didn’t see a sign. Maybe it was his club, and we would hammer out a peace treaty over brandy and cigars. I didn’t particularly look forward to club talk, though I’d learned to have fun playacting it over the past couple of years—laughing along with guys as they complain about being “horse poor” and what a hassle their sixty-foot steel-hulled yachts are. But if it meant ending my troubles with Lawrence, I was all for it.

  He led me into a library, and we sat down on a pair of leather chesterfields. There was no small talk. He leaned forward on the couch and started in.

  “I know your family, Mike. I know the kind of people you are. It’s out of my hands. Annie has made her decision, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  This is what I get after those years of hard work: the navy, then putting myself through college and Harvard Law, nights so broke and hungry I just went to bed at eight. It could have been that I was having trouble adjusting to this world, but as I sat and endured Clark’s glare, I realized that some part of it was due to the fact that this decent life was having trouble with me. He thought I was some delinquent, my whole life one long con.

  “Larry,” I said. I knew he hated the familiar tone. “Your daughter and I love each other. We look out for each other. We take care of each other. It’s a sweet thing, and rare. I really wish you and I could start over and find a way to get along. It’d make everything easier and make Annie happy. What do you say?”

  He didn’t respond, just knocked his heavy ring against the marble table beside him twice. The door opened. Two men joined us. “These are my attorneys,” Clark said as he introduced them.

  So much for brandy and cigars. What bothered Clark most was that he and I were so similar. He came from nothing, and started his fortune with some very shady real estate deals in London. When he first tried to scare me away from Annie, I had hinted that I knew about the dirt in his past. That bought me some breathing room, but it also earned me an enemy. He’s always resented me for outmaneuvering him.

  If you hustle long enough, you can buy all the stage dressing you need to look legit, even the manners. But Clark, I feared, had finally convinced himself. That sort of hypocrisy is dangerous, and I—by who I was and what I knew and who loved me—threatened him deeply. No matter how much he talked me down to Annie, I tried to stay above it. I didn’t tell her about his past. It would just look petty.

  “There’s some business to settle, Mike,” he said. “I’m heading to Dubai tomorrow, so unfortunately I have to fit it in this evening.”

  One lawyer handed Clark a sheaf of papers. Another held a thick leather-bound binder that looked like a corporate checkbook.

  “Are there any incentives that might make you rethink this relationship? To see that it’s in your and my daughter’s best interest to take separate paths?”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  He stared back at me. He was totally serious.

  I rubbed my chin for a second, took in the mahogany bookshelves and my three inquisitors.

  In my jacket pocket, I had a white card that the check had come in back at the restaurant. It was nice linen paper, blank and folded once down the middle. I took it out, along with a pen, then leaned forward and jotted something down inside. I slid it across the table, sat back, and crossed my arms.

  For a moment, Clark seemed pleased that I was on board, that he could play his favorite game: haggling over money. Then he read the note.

  He breathed hard through his nose in anger, and dropped it on the table.

  I could see what I had written: There’s a seed in your teeth.

  I saw his tongue working behind his lips to extract it as he glowered at me. After I left my last job, a lot of firms had sought me out to come work for them. So I had a fair amount of practice shooting people down when they tried to buy me. Clark placed the sheaf of papers on the table in front of me.

  I was angry, of course. I could feel the heft of the knife in my pocket, and for a moment I had a surreal image in my mind: if I poked one of these beautifully upholstered counselors, only wool stuffing would come out. But the truly infuriating issue was that I couldn’t show how furious I was. That would play into his hand, his belief that I was some hood. No, I had to be Bruce Banner. Calm. Stay calm.

  “You may be aware that we have considerable family business interests,” Clark said. “Annie is involved with several trusts and holding companies, and there’s some housekeeping—legal, financial, tax—that needs to be squared away before…” he trailed off in a pained breath.

  I started leafing through the stack. It was a half inch thick and as complicated as a merger agreement, but it was, in essence, a prenup, in case I was trying to gold-dig the lovely Annie Clark for however many tens of millions she was due as Sir Larry’s sole heir.

  “This is a legal document,” attorney two began.

  Thanks. Clark tended to forget that I had a JD/MPP from Harvard. I let his attorney ramble on while I finished reading through and marked the contract in a few places.

  “This is just a draft,” he said. “A starting point. I’m confident we can work something out. You’re free to seek independent counsel, of course. Do you see any problem with that?”

  I tossed the papers on the table. “I do, actually.”

  They exchanged glances. Attorney one’s nostrils flared slightly. I could see their excitement grow. Legal battles were better than sex to these people. The whole contract was a slap in my face, of course, and I’m sure what Clark wanted was a fight. But I wasn’t going to indulge him.

  “There’s a mistake on page nineteen. You were probably thinking of New York. Virginia goes with the Uniform Legal Code on family law,” I said. “But that’s no big deal.”

  “It’s a draft,” Clark’s lawyer stammered.

  “It’s fine. Wh
o wants to witness?”

  “Sorry?” Clark said.

  “I couldn’t care less about money, Larry. If this will get you out of the way, I’ll sign on the spot. It’s fine.”

  “We could work up another draft.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I already corrected it.” I signed three times on the last pages, stood, and handed it back.

  “If you need to do it with a notary, just let me know,” I said. “Have a good night.”

  If getting rid of that prick only cost me a few million and my signature, I’d gotten off easy. I walked out.

  When I made it back to our hotel room, I found Annie sitting up in bed, working on her laptop.

  “How did it go with Dad?” she asked. “Looks like you survived. Olive branch?”

  “Prenup.”

  “What? He never even talked about it with me. He just ambushed you with it?”

  “And two lawyers.”

  “Oh God. What did you do?”

  “What did I do? Nothing. I signed it. It’s up to you, of course, but I’d be fine if you did, too. Just get him out of the way.”

  I don’t know what she expected. That I would throttle the guy?

  She put her laptop down, shaking her head and fuming. “I’m going to go down there and—” she threw the covers back.

  “Don’t even worry about him,” I said. “Though this means that if things go south for us, you won’t be able to get your hands on my Jeep.” The car in question was a twenty-year-old Cherokee, with fading paint and no shocks, that I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of.

  Even Clark’s rude awakening couldn’t completely burn off the pleasant haze surrounding my brain after four courses and a bottle and a half of Chave Hermitage Burgundy that made me finally understand how people could be so obsessed with wine.

  I lay down next to her on the bed.

  “You’d still love me if it meant having nothing?” I asked.

  “What kind of question is that?” She asked it with sympathy, mainly, and a little offense thrown in. After a moment, she softened. “Come on, Mike. Of course,” she said. “Of course,” she whispered in my ear, then moved down to kiss my neck.

  Chapter 4

  I DON’T HAVE very sophisticated opinions about pairings: which wine goes with this or that. But I do have one matchup I feel strongly about. If tonight’s menu involves breaking and entering, life-and-death sprints from the police, or any sort of manic violence, you really can’t go wrong with Steel Reserve in a twenty-four-ounce can and a shot of Old Crow.

  Both of those potables were sloshing along on the Metro seat beside me on my way to my brother’s house. They certainly looked out of place in Annie’s cloth tote bag, which read Tranquil Heart Yoga on the side, over some sort of mandala earth-mother logo. I hadn’t tasted them in years, though they were once the go-to for me and my brother, Jack. You’d drink the top two ounces out of the can of Steel Reserve, pour in the equivalent volume of bourbon, seal the can’s mouth with your thumb, invert once, then sip. Typically this was done while driving (holding and turning the wheel with your knee), very often to the scene of a crime about to be committed. The beer is 8 percent alcohol, but there’s more to it than that, some special alchemy from the combo of cheap bourbon and the medicinal tang of the high-gravity lager. Together they went down like a swallow of burning regret. Within minutes they trashed every restraining impulse in your body and left you an amped-up object of imminent destruction, a teenage hand grenade.

  Tonight was a special night. I needed a best man. I was letting the past back in, no matter how awful it tasted. For a long time my father had been urging me to get back in touch with Jack. He said he had gone straight. Years before, I’d cut my big brother, my only sibling, my old hero, out of my life. However much Jack deserved it, it still broke my heart. I’d been dead wrong about my father’s sins, so maybe Jack deserved another chance, too.

  I missed him. No one knew me like he did. And, for all his faults, Jack had looked out for me when I was young and my father was inside. Annie and I had a great crew of friends, but there was a part of my past I couldn’t really talk about with them. I needed someone I could drop my guard around and joke about the old days with. I needed a way to vent without doing something stupid like I had at that monte game in New York; I still had the bruise on my ribs. If people like Lawrence Clark were going to hold my past against me, why bother hiding it? Jack was back in town now. Maybe I could use this wedding to pull us all together. After New York, I called him to meet up, and after a few awkward messages and calls back, we’d decided on dinner tonight.

  When I had looked up his address on the fringes of Takoma Park, just outside the District boundary, all that showed up on Google was a vacant lot with a lady pushing a cart full of junk along the sidewalk. As I neared his house, I passed auto body and pawn shops and storefront churches. This was everything I had pictured for our reunion. It was a mistake. He must have still been running cons. Though I guessed I’d made the right call on what to bring to this dinner party.

  I turned the corner. After a few blocks, the neighborhood changed. The liquor stores became wine shops, the cars rose in price, and then I found myself in front of a row of brand-new town houses, “Starting in the 600s!” a banner exclaimed.

  The shot of the vacant lot must have been out of date, from before they started construction. And the bag lady was long gone, replaced by a very attractive young mother in yoga pants pushing a double stroller the size of a Zamboni.

  Jack’s place was number 108, a three-story house on the corner, the prime spot in the development. As I climbed the stoop, I wondered how Jack had got his hands on that slice of real estate. This cute spread with the marigolds out front actually made me a lot more nervous about what Jack was up to than if I had found him living in a dive next to a vacant lot.

  I rang the buzzer.

  Thirty seconds later a man I barely recognized opened the door. He had brown hair trimmed short, with salt-and-pepper gray just beginning to show around the sideburns. He smiled, showing the lean cheeks and jawline of a dedicated runner. He was wearing a Patagonia vest, chinos, and a newish-looking pair of $130 New Balance running shoes in dull gray. This was not the brother I knew. Jack’s style was disposable flash all the way. This guy reeked of quiet, dignified affluence.

  “You didn’t have to bring anything,” he said, and took the bag of booze as he led me back toward the dining area. “But thank you.”

  A delicious smell drifted over from the kitchen, which was kitted out with high-end culinary toys: Shun knives, a stand mixer, a half-dozen different Le Creuset pots. I was lucky I’d had my crash course in conspicuous consumption at Bergdorf’s.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to try this Thai recipe, but I haven’t had a good reason to go for it until now.”

  A clipping from the Times lay on the counter. I looked out the rear window at the driveway: Audi A6, in gray. A corporate lawyer’s car. Jack always preferred American muscle. When we were younger, he had a ’69 GTO he’d taken two years to restore himself. I felt like we built the damn thing one piece at a time from parts snatched from junkyards, leaping fences and outpacing Rottweilers.

  I turned back to the kitchen to find Jack frowning at the six-pack and the plastic bottle of whiskey I’d brought.

  “Would you like me to pour you one of these?” he asked. He had pulled a crystal pilsner glass from the cupboard and was not doing a great job of hiding his distaste.

  “Are you drinking?”

  “I don’t really drink much anymore,” he said. “But feel free.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “If it’s a recovery thing, I can get rid of those. It was sort of a joke.”

  “No. No cold turkey or anything like that. Just not during the week. I’m so busy with work is all. Don’t bounce back like I used to.”

  “That’s great,” I said, then looked around the first floor—marble counters, stainless-steel appl
iances, new flat-screen—silently tabulating his overhead.

  “You have a full-time thing going?” I asked. “Machine shop?”

  “No,” he said with a chuckle, as if I must have been joking. “Nine to five. Actually more like eight to eight, you know how it goes. Just another wingtipper now.”

  “Good for you. What sort of work?”

  “Security consulting,” he said. “Stuff like that.”

  It was a curious posting for Jack. In the old days, if you wanted to manage risk, step one was to not let a guy like him through the front door.

  “Really?” I said, letting more surprise than I had intended creep into my voice.

  He smiled. “I know what you're getting at, Mike. Wolves and the henhouse. But I’m all clean these days, and some of my past…” he searched for the right word “…experiences actually prove pretty useful. I do some courier work, contracts for law enforcement, investigations, running things to informants. I’m comfortable in that world. Though for the most part I spend my days sitting on my can in front of a computer, running background checks.”

  “Who do you work for?” I knew a few names in that industry.

  “My own company,” he said. “Just a one-man S corporation, sort of a tax dodge.” He reached inside the refrigerator and pulled out a green glass bottle of sparkling water.

  “And who does your company work for?”

  “No can do, Mike. You wouldn’t believe the NDAs I have to sign,” he said. “You probably know what it’s like, right?”

  “Sure.” I wanted to call bullshit, but he seemed so at ease in this habitat. If I had gone white picket fence, why couldn’t he? God. It was almost a letdown. Jack Ford, one of the all-time great con men, had finally been taken by the squares.