by Stephen Frey
Hewitt smiled to himself. His plan was working perfectly. Benson was going to go straight to Laird and Massey. “Downside of a democracy, huh? Majority ruling and all that.”
“Yeah.” An owl hooted in the distance as they gazed into the darkness of the trees. “Samuel, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” said Benson quietly. “It’s got to do with our caretaker here on Champagne. He was spotted talking to someone in Southport a few weeks ago.”
Hewitt raised both eyebrows. “What?”
“I’m not sure it’s something to worry about yet, but the guy wasn’t anyone the caretaker’s been seen with before. It was strange.” Benson began coughing again. “How long have he and his wife been the caretakers?”
“Three years.”
“That’s a long time.”
Hewitt knew exactly what Benson was saying, and it was good counsel. You could never let yourself get too comfortable with people. “You’re right. I’ll look into it.”
“What did you think about Mace Kohler tonight?” Benson asked.
“The same thing you thought. He isn’t a hundred percent with us.”
“McDonnell isn’t either.”
“I know.”
“We’ve changed the course of history before,” Benson pointed out. “Lincoln, the campaign against the Indians, Martin Luther King, Bobby Hutton, taking down the Enron boys because they wouldn’t play ball. And we would have taken care of Jack and Bobby ourselves if the others hadn’t. But this is the first time in a while that we’ve gotten involved in anything of this magnitude. I mean, we’re always influencing things—a judge here, an election there—but this is different. This is the biggest thing we’ve ever taken on.”
“I know.”
“And, damn it, I don’t want to see Mace Kohler—” Benson couldn’t finish. Another coughing spell set in.
“That sounds awful, Jim. You better see someone.”
“I’m fine,” Benson wheezed. “Really.”
Hewitt put a hand on Benson’s shoulder, catching a quick glance of a pearl-handled Colt revolver hanging inside the older man’s jacket. A sudden wave of sadness overtook Hewitt. Something must be very wrong, probably cancer.
“Will you personally take care of my tapes when I’m gone?” Benson asked after a few moments, his voice barely audible. “I wouldn’t want Claire or the children to ever see or hear them. You know, if somehow the tapes got into the wrong hands, it would be…” His voice drifted off.
“Of course I’ll take care of them.”
They stood on the porch for several more moments, listening to the trees rustle in the night breeze coming in off the ocean.
“You should get inside, Jim,” Hewitt finally suggested. “It’s cold out here. That won’t help the cough.”
Benson turned to the side, revealing the revolver. “I think I’m going to take a walk, Samuel.”
Hewitt looked away. The old soldier didn’t want any part of a hospital bed, tubes, or morphine. “Just come inside.” The old man was going to end it here, on the island he loved. “Please don’t do this, Jim.”
Benson glanced back at Hewitt. “Why not?”
“Because…” Hewitt didn’t know how to say it. Finally he reached out and touched the gun beneath Benson’s jacket. “That’s why.”
A curious expression came to Benson’s face, then he broke into a wan smile. “Oh my God.” He pointed at the gun. “You mean you thought…?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, why else would you be carrying the gun?”
Benson chuckled. “I always carry it when I take a walk at night. I like the way it feels, and, hey, you never know. Even out here.” He shook Hewitt’s hand. “Thanks for caring,” he said, turning to go, “but you know me, I’ll fight to the bitter end. See you in the morning.”
Hewitt watched the old man descend the lodge’s front steps, then fade into the darkness. To the bitter end, Hewitt thought to himself, heading for the door. To the bitter end.
Fifteen minutes later a single gunshot shattered the stillness of the night.
5
WHEN CHRISTIAN ARRIVED at the Las Vegas office of the Nevada Gaming Commission on East Washington Avenue, he’d gotten a polite smile and a sealed envelope from the receptionist—not the invitation to follow her into Alan Agee’s office he’d been expecting. Inside the envelope were printed instructions to go to another address for the meeting with Agee, this time in an industrial section of the city.
“That was quick.” Quentin moved over as Christian climbed into the limousine and sat down beside him. “How’d it go?”
“It didn’t.” Christian pushed the intercom button and called out the new address to the driver. “Agee wasn’t there.” Agee had called late yesterday afternoon to say he could meet today at the Gaming Commission’s headquarters. “The receptionist gave me this.”
“Let me see.” Quentin reached for the envelope. “I don’t know,” he muttered after scanning the note and seeing that Christian had had to tear open the envelope. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“Why? I mean, it sucks that Agee’s making me drive all over the city to meet him, but I don’t think there’s any more to it than that.”
“You should let me check the place out before you head over there.”
“It’s probably just his business address. All these guys have real jobs because they don’t get paid much to be on the commission, not even the chairman.”
“Then why do they do it?”
“Personal publicity. They’re appointed to the commission by the governor.” Christian took the envelope back from Quentin and slipped it in his jacket pocket. “Agee probably had something come up at work and couldn’t make it downtown in time. Maybe he’s doing everything he can to help me.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Do you have his cell number?”
“No.”
“Does he have yours?”
“His secretary does. Debbie sent my e-card to her last week.”
“Then why wouldn’t he just call you? Why printed directions inside a sealed envelope without a signature?”
“Procedure—I don’t know.” Quentin wasn’t convinced they should be speeding off to the address on the page, and he was probably right. They probably should be more cautious. But, the way Christian figured it, he didn’t have any choice. He had to get the casino license, and he had to get it fast. If that meant seeing more of Las Vegas than he wanted to, so be it.
“Well,” Quentin spoke up, “I’ve got some preliminary stuff on Samuel Hewitt.”
“Already?”
“Like I said, it’s preliminary. I’ll have more before your meeting with him.” An expectant expression spread across Quentin’s face. “You know, I was thinking Hewitt might be able to help us with the Laurel thing. Maybe he’s so far up the ladder at U.S. Oil he hasn’t heard that Laurel’s for sale. When he does, when you tell him, maybe he can get his people to take a close look.”
Christian had assumed Samuel Hewitt knew Laurel Energy was for sale. Hewitt was the savviest energy executive around, maybe the savviest executive around period. But if somehow Hewitt didn’t know about Laurel, Quentin was right: There might be an opportunity. And if Hewitt did know about it, Christian could get some good market intelligence about why the big guys weren’t biting.
The more Christian thought about Laurel Energy not selling, the more it frustrated him. An investment banker from Black Brothers Allen had called a few days ago asking if he could replace Morgan Stanley and “get the Laurel Energy deal done” for Everest. Christian hadn’t called back yet. Morgan Stanley had done a lot of good work for Everest Capital in the past, and he was loyal to them. But Laurel had been on the block for a long time, too long, and Black Brothers Allen had a reputation for finishing assignments other investment banks couldn’t. Plus it was starting to get out that the Laurel deal was going stale, that Everest had a bomb on its hands. Which was the kind of publicity that really stung in the financial world, no matter how
good your track record was.
“I’ll mention it to Hewitt.” Christian noticed they were getting into a warehouse district. “So, what did you find out about him?”
“He’s Texas all the way. Into promoting the state as a great place to do business, travel to, all that kind of stuff. He’s tight with the whole political crew down there, too, particularly to ex-senator Massey. They try to keep their relationship low-key, but my source tells me they’re close.”
“Why do they try to low-key it?”
Quentin shrugged. “I don’t know. My source didn’t either. I told him to dig into that one.”
“Just so no one figures out it’s me behind the digging.”
“Of course.” Quentin flipped back and forth in his notepad for a few moments. “As you know, he’s chairman of U.S. Oil.”
“Right.”
“Runs the ship with an iron fist, and his shareholders love him. Been in charge for almost two decades and the company’s reported profit increases every year.”
“Background?”
“Blood runs black, as in oil. Granddaddy was a wildcatter who went boom and bust more times than a Vegas showgirl. Sent Hewitt to Princeton while he was on top of one of those waves, then lost it all a few years later so Hewitt had to get a real job after graduation. Started with U.S. Oil as a grunt in the finance department, but it was a rocket ride to the top from there. He was head of the North American division at thirty-eight, head of worldwide exploration at forty-six, and head of everything at forty-nine. Handed the CEO job over to a younger guy a few years ago, but he still runs the place. The CEO move was just for Wall Street, to show investors that there was a succession plan in place.”
“Family?”
“Wife, three children, and seven grandchildren, one he’s very close to.”
“Let me guess. The one named after him. As in Samuel Hewitt the third.”
Quentin nodded. “He calls the kid Three Sticks. How the hell—”
“Only makes sense. Hewitt wants his namesake to be the smartest one of the crew, so he spends the most time with him, tries to pass on his experience and knowledge.” Christian had seen that trait before in successful older executives: the desire to pass on what they knew. He’d had a few mentors along the way. “What’s Hewitt like?”
“He knows when to use the hatchet and when to turn on the charm. He was a political animal during his younger days at U.S. Oil—did whatever it took to move up the food chain and didn’t care who he screwed on the way. There’s a rumor he secretly videotaped one of his bosses having sex with a secretary, then anonymously dropped the tape off at the personnel department so the guy would get fired and he could get the guy’s job. Never substantiated, but the guy resigned under a cloud and Hewitt ended up getting his job.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t gone into politics,” Christian said, “especially with all those connections.”
“Sounds like he has for all intents and purposes. Just hasn’t bothered to run.”
“What do you mean?”
“My source says Hewitt pulls a ton of strings,” Quentin explained. “In return he gets a ton of favors.”
“Plenty of people do that.”
Quentin shook his head. “Not like this, robo, not on this scale. I’ll give you an example. A couple of years ago one of U.S. Oil’s big tankers ran aground off Alaska. Spilled millions of gallons of crude, wiped out wildlife up and down the coast for miles—it was as bad as the Valdez. They’ll be feeling the effects of that accident way after we’re dead and gone.”
“I never heard about it.”
“Not many people did. It was kept very quiet. Alaska’s politicians didn’t say a word, the Coast Guard never said anything, the media never got hold of it. Hewitt had everybody in his pocket.” Quentin paused. “One local reporter tried to do a story on it. He’s been missing since two weeks after the accident and nobody knows what happened to him.”
Christian wagged a finger. “You can’t assume Samuel Hewitt had anything to do with that guy’s disappearance.”
“I’m not assuming anything,” Quentin spoke up quickly. “I just thought you should hear about it.”
“Uh-huh.” Christian wasn’t buying into that kind of speculation. He’d called some friends who’d gone to Princeton, and everything they had to say pointed to Hewitt’s being a model citizen: a man who gave lots of money to the school as well as to a number of charities. “Anything else?”
“You were right about poker. It’s Hewitt’s passion. Plays as much as he can and plays for big stakes.”
“Good.” Christian pulled out his cell phone when it started to ring. “Hello.”
“Christian, it’s Ray Lancaster. Remember that quarterback I told you I wanted?”
Lancaster had called earlier to tell Christian he was targeting Buffalo’s second-string quarterback as a replacement for Ricky Poe. “Yeah.”
“In return they want one of our all-pro linebackers, our placekicker, and five million bucks in cash.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Christian said angrily. “A second-string quarterback can’t be worth that much.”
“He isn’t,” Lancaster agreed. “Problem is, he’s the only decent guy available in the whole league. We know it, they know it, and you said you wanted a quarterback.”
Christian went through the options. Give away the farm to get a good quarterback, or give up on the play-offs this season, go with Ricky Poe, hope for 0 and 16, then take the top quarterback with the first pick in next year’s college draft. “Wait a few days, then try one more time if you don’t hear from them first,” he instructed. “Call me after you talk to them.”
“Got it.”
“So, what did you and Allison do last night?” Quentin asked as Christian hung up.
Allison had convinced Christian to go to the casino after dinner. Quentin hadn’t gone—he was tired—but Christian had been wide awake and hadn’t felt like heading back to his suite to work. Odd, too, now that he thought about it. Normally he would have felt guilty doing something fun like that on a business trip, something that wasn’t in any way related to creating value for his investors. But the entire time he and Allison had been in the casino he hadn’t thought about Everest once. Maybe he really was burning out. Or maybe he’d just enjoyed his time with Allison so much that he’d been able to block work out. No woman had been able to make him do that for a long time, and it wasn’t because the women weren’t interesting. He’d just been too obsessed with Everest.
“I watched her play the craps tables,” Christian said slowly, bothered by both answers to the question that was eating at him. “Turns out she’s good at that, too. She won a bundle.”
“Figures. The rich always get richer.”
“Hey, pal, you’re not doing too bad yourself these days.”
Quentin tapped the leather seat. “You didn’t have a copilot last night, did you?”
Christian glanced over. “What?”
“Did you sleep with her?”
Allison had looked incredible last night in a tight top with a plunging neckline, short skirt, and spike heels. Every guy in the place had stopped to stare. She kept grabbing his arm every time the dice came up right, throwing her fists up in the air and shouting when she won a few grand on a single roll.
Quentin rolled his eyes and groaned when Christian didn’t answer right away. “Oh, no.”
“She looked good last night, pal. I saw a couple of guys actually drooling in their drinks.”
“Jesus, Chris, the investors’ll go nuts if they think the chairman of Everest is having an affair with one of his managing partners. Especially when it’s the managing partner who represents the single biggest investment in the fund. Not to mention how Faith will feel,” he added.
“Everybody’s going to feel fine,” said Christian. “I didn’t sleep with her.”
Which was the truth. But it was also true that he was finding himself more and more attracted to her. They had so much i
n common, and he liked her wild streak. Plus, it seemed like he and Faith never saw each other anymore anyway. Faith was always off on concert tours and he was always on the other side of the globe on business. At least he saw Allison. But Quentin was right. A romantic relationship with Allison was probably out of the question.
“It’s almost a pain in the ass to be out with a girl like Allison,” Quentin remarked. “Every guy in the place is trying to snake you. She’s so damn hot.”
Christian patted Quentin’s shoulder. “That’s why you’re around,” he kidded. “To keep them away.”
“Well, one reason anyway.” A curious smile moved Quentin’s lips. “Tell me something, Chris. You think Allison had a boob job? That top she was wearing last night wasn’t covering much, and, I mean…well, you know. Wow. Has she ever told you anything about that?”
It was one of the first things she’d told him on the way to that first dinner, how she’d had her breasts enhanced, and how she’d felt completely different afterward—so much better about herself. He’d been speechless for a few seconds when she told him, taken completely by surprise—which rarely happened to him. “I have no idea.”
“Oh, come on,” Quentin complained, “you do, too. You’re just not saying.”
“I’m being the same way I’d be if anyone asked me something personal about you.”
“Okay, okay.” Quentin snapped his fingers. “Hey, did you talk to Faith yesterday?”
He’d been about to call twice, but someone had called him each time he was dialing her number. “No,” Christian admitted. “I will today.” He thought about a call he needed to make and started to reach for his cell phone, then stopped. “Quentin?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah?”
“You’ve always told me you think I’m too intense, that I work too hard.”