Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1)

by Randall Reneau

“Yeah, well, eclectic is a damn sight better than dead,” Will chimed in. “Anything new from Monroe on the investigation into Rosy or Malcolm’s deaths?”

  “Well, Agent Monroe said they now know for sure that the guy who killed Rosenburg died in the botched, first attempt, on Malcolm,” I replied. “The bombing of Malcolm’s plane is still under investigation. Monroe won’t tell me too much, but he did say everything they’ve uncovered so far seems to point to our shareholders, in New Orleans.”

  Jim Lee took a sip of his brandy, “Trace, I wish you’d sell IUC your block of shares. We’d tell Lei Chang to bugger off, and we’d make the Pantellis an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

  I smiled and looked around the table.

  “First things first, gents. Let’s get this puppy trading on the TSX, and then we’ll deal with the Chinese and the Pantellis. Hell, you never can tell. The FBI may bust the Pantellis for the deaths of Rosy and Malcolm. And I believe they still have the death penalty, in Louisiana.”

  “And, Jim,” Cyrus added, “if you do end up with the Pantelli’s’ shares, don’t forget yours truly owns their voting proxy for nearly three more years. Of course, I’d be glad to transfer the proxy to IUC for what I paid for it, plus a small profit.”

  We all laughed.

  “Thank you, Cyrus,” Jim said with a grin. “You’ll be the first one I call should we buy out the Pantellis.”

  The next morning at nine sharp found us all decked out in our Sunday-go-to-meeting best. I rang the opening bell, and Montana Creek Mining, under its new symbol of MCM.TO, was off to the races.

  I made a short promotional speech to the assembled brokers, who, I could tell from their expressions had heard it all before. But they were gracious listeners and gave all of us a rousing hand as our symbol posted and the first trade was completed.

  The IRS and the FBI hit the Comstock Casino like it was Normandy on D-day. Full-meal deal, guns out and up, and enough yellow crime tape to wrap up an elephant. The agents sealed off the cashier’s cages and counting room, and grabbed every computer in sight. They also arrested as many casino employees as they could catch.

  When the dust settled, Agent Allen called Special Agent Monroe.

  “It went off without a hitch, Beau. We seized all the computers plus hand-written ledgers in the counting room and about seventy-five employees. We also got a court order ordering the casino to cease operations, until further notice.”

  “Damn good work, Wilson,” Monroe said with a chuckle. “Hell, we may not have to arrest Al Pantelli. He’ll probably have a heart attack when he hears about the raid.”

  Special Agent Monroe wasn’t too far off. One of the dealers who’d evaded arrest called Mr. Pantelli.

  Al hit Pino’s call button on his phone.

  “Pino, come down to my office. The Comstock just got hit.”

  “Robbed?”

  “No. A federal raid. IRS, FBI, local cops, a whole fuckin’ army of badges. Get down here.”

  Pino sprinted down to his brother’s office and burst through the door.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know, but my guess is the feds couldn’t find enough evidence to pin Rosy and Trueblood on us. So they went after the casino.”

  “The skim?”

  “That, and our ownership interest.”

  “Hell, our ownership is through Black Chip, LLC. They’ll never penetrate the Cayman corporate veil.”

  “Don’t be too damn sure, Pino. If the feds can prove illegal funds were funneled to the Caymans, all bets are off.”

  “So what’s the plan, brother?”

  “Two things,” Al said. “We need to find out what the feds have. Something or somebody must have tipped them to the skim. And secondly, we need to raise a shit pot full of dough. This is going to cost us a hell of a lot of money.”

  Pino nodded. “Hey, let’s call our buddy, Lei Chang. Tell him we’ve changed our minds and sell him our Montana Creek Mining shares, before he finds out we’re in deep shit.”

  “Damn good idea, brother. I’ll call that condescending son of a bitch myself. I’ll squeeze every dime I can out of him.”

  Chapter 64

  I was just back from the Toronto listing ceremony when Special Agent Monroe rang me up.

  “Trace, Agent Beau Monroe. Got a sec?”

  “Yeah, sure, Agent Monroe. What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to give you a heads-up. The FBI and the IRS raided the Comstock Casino in Vegas. I’m telling you this because it may cause you some problems with the Pantellis. Off the record, Trace, we think they’ve been skimming profits from the casino and sending the money offshore.”

  “How could it affect Montana Creek Mining?” I asked.

  “Well, if we indict the Pantellis, they may seek to get liquid to pay their defense lawyers, or fund a little vacation.”

  “You’re thinking they might dump their Montana Creek Mining shares?”

  “Could be, Trace, but I don’t think they’d sell it in the market. A block that big might drive the share price down. No, I think they’ll be looking to make a private sale. Sell the whole block in one fell swoop. Anyway, just a heads-up, Trace. As you know those fellows are unpredictable, to say the least.”

  I was way ahead of him.

  “Listen, Agent Monroe. I really appreciate the information.”

  “No problem, Trace. One other thing. If you do see some selling on their part, I’d like to know about it.”

  “The least I can do, Agent Monroe. Good luck in nailing those bastards.”

  *****

  It took Al Pantelli a couple of hours to track Lei Chang down. He finally caught up to him in London.

  “Mr. Chang, it’s Al Pantelli, in New Orleans. Sorry about the late hour on your end.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. Pantelli. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, in our last conversation I told you I’d get back to you, if we changed our mind on selling our shares in Montana Creek Mining.”

  “And have you changed your mind?”

  “Yes, sir, we have. Pino and I don’t know a damn thing about uranium mining, or any other kind of mining, for that matter. We operate in totally unrelated fields.”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “So, after reconsidering your generous offer, we are prepared to sell you one hundred percent of our holdings.”

  “How many shares in total?”

  “Five hundred thousand we acquired in a private transaction, and another two hundred fifty thousand we’ve purchased in the market.”

  “I see. Well, Mr. Pantelli, I’ll make you a onetime offer, good until this conversation is over. I’ll pay you twenty percent over the last thirty days’ bid price. Stand by please,” Chang said, as he checked his stock charts. “The average price of the shares over the last thirty days is five-eighty. A twenty percent premium would bring it up to six-ninety-six, Canadian dollars. I need your answer now.”

  “I calculate a total purchase price of five million two hundred twenty thousand dollars. Do you concur, Mr. Chang?”

  “Canadian dollars, and yes that is correct. Do we have a deal?”

  Al smiled. It was a hell of a profit. Especially on Rosy’s shares.

  “Yes, sir. You’ve got a deal, but it has to be in cash. Delivered to our office here in New Orleans. Is that going to be a problem?”

  Chang had expected it would be a cash deal. The Pantellis, after all, were criminals.

  “No, not a problem. I’ll have a courier in New Orleans three days hence. Have the stock certificates and signed, signature- guaranteed, stock powers ready to hand over. And no funny business, Mr. Pantelli. I am well connected with a Hong Kong triad. It will go badly for you should you try anything stupid.”

  Al hung up and looked over at Pino, who’d listened in on the call.

  “Triad, my ass,” Pino growled. “Who the hell does that slant-eyed bastard think he is . . . Bruce fuckin’ Lee?”

  Al smiled. “I think
we may need to teach Mr. Chang a little lesson in messing with the Outfit.”

  Jim Lee called me the day after I’d spoken to Agent Monroe.

  “Trace, remember when I joked about calling Cyrus if we, IUC, bought the Pantellis’ Montana Creek Mining shares?”

  “Yes,” I said, wondering if Jim was going to say what I thought he was going to say.

  “Guess who called me this morning?”

  “Vito Corleone?”

  Jim cracked up. “No, but you’re pretty close. None other than Albert Pantelli and his sidekick, Crispino.”

  “No shit. They pitched you a deal to buy their shares?”

  “Lock, stock, and barrel. Seven hundred fifty thousand shares.”

  “At what price?”

  “Seven dollars and fifty cents per share.”

  “Damn, Jim, that’s about a thirty percent premium to where we’ve been trading. What’d you tell them?”

  “I told them I’d have to run it by my board. But the SOB’s only gave me twenty-four hours to make a decision. I’ve already sent the details to all our board members and asked them all to get back to me, before the deadline.”

  “What do you think?”

  “In the short term, it’s a stout premium. But in the longer term, I think the shares will blow through seven-fifty without much of a problem.”

  “I do too, Jim, and I’d sure like to get the Pantellis out of our company. But it’s up to you. Just keep me posted, will you?”

  “Will do, Trace. Of course there is also the matter of Cyrus holding the Pantelli’s’ proxy to vote a half a million of those shares. Do you think he’ll transfer or cancel his proxy?”

  “Yes, I do, but you’ll have to pay him what he paid the Pantellis, plus a little profit. Look, if you decide to buy the shares, let me talk to Cyrus. I’ve developed a pretty good relationship with him, and I think I can get him to work with you.”

  “Thanks, Trace, I was hoping you’d say that. It’ll be a big help in convincing our board to move on this. Without the proxy, it won’t happen.”

  Eighteen hours later, Jim Lee had board approval to buy out the Pantellis. He called Al Pantelli, to confirm the deal.

  “Mr. Pantelli, Jim Lee with International Uranium Corp. How are you this morning?”

  “Depends on what your answer is, Mr. Lee. Do we have a deal, or not?”

  “Our board approved the acquisition late last night. We have a deal.”

  “Excellent. How soon can you come to New Orleans and pick up the shares, and pay us?”

  “I can be in New Orleans in forty-eight hours. Please have the certs ready along with an executed, signature-guaranteed, stock power. Just one other item. How do you want the cashier’s check made out?”

  “Don’t suppose you’d consider paying us in cash?”

  “No, we wouldn’t.”

  “Okay, no harm in asking. Make the check out to Albert A. Pantelli. I’ll see you day after tomorrow. Do you have our address?”

  “Trace has it in our shareholder files.”

  “Trace knows about the deal?”

  “Absolutely. He was the first person I called. Is that a problem?”

  “No, it’s not a problem. Hell, my brother and I have grown quite fond of Trace, and we’ll like him even better after we cash your check.”

  “I’m sure the feeling’s mutual. See you in a couple of days.”

  Al hung up and called his brother’s office.

  “IUC will be here in forty-eight hours with a cashier’s check for five point six mil, and change.”

  “Jesus, Al. We’re cutting this a little close, aren’t we? Chang’s courier is due to arrive at about the same time.”

  Al laughed. “I’m afraid the courier’s going to have a very bad accident, and Chang’s dough is going to get stolen. If we’re careful and do this exactly right, we’re going to have over ten mil, and about half of the dough in cash.”

  “Damn, that ought to cover any legal bills from the casino bust.”

  “My thoughts exactly, and Chang’s cash won’t be reported to the IRS, so add another thirty-five percent to the pot.”

  Jim Lee called me back and wanted to know if Cyrus and I could meet him in New Orleans the day after tomorrow.

  “I’d like both of you there to witness the transaction, and we’ll need Cyrus there to transfer his proxy.”

  “Okay, Jim. I’ll call Cyrus and fill him in. I haven’t mentioned anything to him yet. I wanted to be sure the deal was going to happen.”

  “Okay, call me if there’s any problems. This will be an in- and-out trip, Trace. I want the shares out of the Pantelli’s’ hands and into our brokerage account the same day.”

  I hung up and called Cyrus.

  “Cyrus, Trace here. Got a sec?”

  “Yep, what’s on your mind?”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Jesus, there wasn’t another Three Mile Island, was there?”

  I laughed. “No, no, the uranium market is strong. But there is a deal pending that could reach critical mass. I’m going to need a couple of things from you, Cyrus.”

  “You got it, kid. What’d you need?”

  “I need you to transfer or cancel your proxy on the Pantelli’s’ shares. Second, you and I need to be in New Orleans, in about forty-eight hours.”

  “Uh-huh, so who’s taking the Pantellis out of the equation?”

  “IUC, provided you’ll transfer or cancel your voting proxy.”

  “I can and I will. Of course, it’ll cost them what I paid for it, plus a bit for my trouble.”

  “Not a problem, Cyrus. Jim will pay you when we meet in New Orleans.”

  “Can I ask what IUC is paying for the shares?”

  “I’d rather Jim told you, but it’s more than what Chang offered. Which, if I recall correctly, was a twenty percent premium to our recent share price.”

  “Correctamundo, Trace. Which means IUC is paying north of a twenty percent premium. Kind of makes you feel all warm and fuzzy, don’t it?”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it does. But what really makes me happy is to see an outfit like IUC think our share price is headed north of seven-fifty a share.”

  “Their bean counters would’ve never let them do the deal, if they didn’t think so. Hot damn, son. We’re going to make some serious loot.”

  “Yeah, if we can get Jim out of New Orleans with the shares, and in one piece.”

  “No worries, Trace. We won’t have a problem with Al or Pino. That’s not the way they operate. They’ll be cool. But what I am curious about is our commie buddy, Chang. URAN-China can certainly outbid IUC, so why is Al selling to Jim’s company? If Al is playing both ends against the middle, there could be trouble with Chang.”

  “Some kind of scam, double-cross?”

  “Always a possibility. They don’t call the Pantellis a crime family because they’re straight shooters, no pun intended.”

  Chang’s courier, Ri Wu, boarded the chartered Citation at JFK Airport. Handcuffed to his left wrist was an aluminum brief case holding more than five million Canadian dollars. Wu was unarmed, but he was one of the kung fu mother fuckers Al had joked about.

  In about four hours, Wu’s jet touched down at Louis Armstrong International Airport and taxied to the general aviation ramp. A black limo waited with a uniformed chauffeur standing to the side and holding a placard with Wu’s name neatly printed on it.

  The very attractive flight attendant opened the cabin door, and Wu descended the ramp.

  “Mr. Wu?” the chauffeur asked, holding the rear door of the limo open.

  Wu nodded and climbed in. The limo was empty except for Wu and the driver.

  “I’m to take you directly to Mr. Pantelli’s office. It’ll take about twenty minutes.”

  “Very good.”

  Traffic was light, and less than twenty minutes later, the limo pulled into the underground parking garage beneath the Pantelli’s’ office building. The driver pulled into a par
king space marked reserved for A. Pantelli. The parking space was immediately adjacent to the elevator.

  “Right this way, Mr. Wu,” the chauffeur said, opening Wu’s door. “I’ll accompany you to the main office.”

  Wu nodded and said nothing, but his radar was on full alert. If there was to be trouble, he knew it would likely happen here.

  The chauffeur hit the up button, and the elevator door opened. Wu immediately took a half-step back. A workman in coveralls was in the elevator. His tools were lying on the floor, which had been covered in plastic to keep the surface clean.

  “Sorry, gents,” the workman said. “I’m just doing a little maintenance. Come on in. You can use the elevator. I’ll stop work for a couple of minutes. It’s not a problem.”

  The chauffeur stepped in. Wu hesitated for a minute and then followed.

  “Which floor, gents?” the workman asked.

  “Three, please,” the chauffeur replied.

  The workman pushed the button for floor three and then stepped back and slightly behind Wu. As the elevator passed the first floor, a chime sounded. It was the last sound Wu would ever hear. The two pops from the silenced .22 were barely audible above the chime. Both hollow points hit Wu in the back of the head. He was dead before he crumpled on the plastic liner.

  The chauffeur hit the emergency stop button and locked the elevator between the first and second floors.

  The chauffeur looked at the shooter. “Wrap a towel around his head. He’s bleeding like a stuck pig. And find the key to the cuffs.”

  The shooter tied a dirty towel around Wu’s head and then rifled his pockets. He found the key tucked in Wu’s wallet.

  “Got ‘em, and, hey, lookie here,” the shooter said, pulling several one hundred dollar bills from Wu’s wallet.

  “Come on,” the chauffeur growled, taking the key and unlocking the cuffs. “Quit fucking around and help me get Mr. One Hung Low rolled up in the plastic.”

  Together they rolled Wu up in the thick plastic sheeting. The chauffeur released the emergency stop and hit the parking level button. As soon as the elevator doors opened, the chauffeur looked around the parking garage. Seeing no one, he pushed the trunk-release button on the limo key fob. Together the two men carried the bundle of plastic and deposited it in the trunk of the limo.