The Capitalist

by Peter Steiner

  “Nothing.”

  “And the postmark is New York?”

  “Does that mean Larrimer is here?” Lorraine wondered.

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” Louis said. “And if the money’s in bonds, it’s as good as cash.”

  “But why did he send it to me?”

  “Maybe he’s afraid of all the information you have. He hopes to buy you off.”

  “Now? All this time later?”

  “You’re right,” said Louis. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Do you have a safe deposit box?”

  Lorraine was the first, but over a period of the next several weeks, St. John sent packets of negotiable securities to dozens of his victims, the value of each packet a percentage of the money St. John had stolen from them. He had selected those to be “compensated” based on his assessment of who was deserving and who was not. Lorraine was the only one to receive the full amount she had invested, not because she was more deserving than the others, but because St. John had felt “bad” from the beginning for having cheated her. The fact that she would be the most damning witness against him had also entered his mind.

  St. John studied the public records of the charitable organizations he had cheated, and deducted his estimate of the percentages they had spent on fund-raising before he had bankrupted them from the amount they had lost. Then he made further deductions based on his assessment of the value of their charitable work.

  Those individuals he reimbursed were evaluated as to his calculation of their deservedness as well, and, to some degree, the wretchedness of their current condition. St. John had spent a considerable amount of time working out his hierarchy of reimbursements. He would have been the first to admit how subjective these judgments were. But he could not pay everyone back; the pot of money he was using was considerably smaller than the amount he had stolen. He had spent many millions while the Ponzi game was going on, many more since it had closed down. Yes, he had tens of millions in his various homes and his yacht, but he thought it reasonable that no man should have to give up his homes. Plus he had to allow for the millions he needed each year just to meet expenses.

  Still, St. John was paying reparations, which he regarded as evidence of a profound transformation tipping the good-evil scale in his favor. He was not an Ebenezer Scrooge or a Jesus Christ, or any other fictional characters. He was, rather, in his estimation, a more realistic, more practical version, a real life version of a “good man.” He was someone who had seen, or at least glanced at, the error of his ways.

  St. John derived pleasure from doing these “good deeds.” He felt a definite sense of joy and relief. He thought the joy and relief came from repaying what he had stolen. What actually gave him his newfound joy was what always had given him joy—playing God, by deciding who would receive bounty from his all-powerful and benevolent hands, and who would not.

  Louis dug out the list Lorraine had given him of Larrimer’s victims. He had decided to call a few of them to discover whether they too had received reimbursement from Larrimer. He began with the charities.

  “This is the Heartfelt Foundation. May I help you?”

  “Yes. My name is Louis Morgon. I am from SIPC, the Securities Investor Protection Corporation.”

  “The what?”

  “We are charged with the task of insuring the losses investors have suffered because of securities fraud. May I speak with Father Ian Wilson, please?”

  “This is Father Wilson speaking.”

  “You are the director of the Heartfelt Foundation, Father Wilson?”

  “The founder and the director, yes.”

  “Our records show, Father, that your foundation lost twenty million dollars to Larrimer, Ltd., and that you have applied to be reimbursed for your losses as well as the money Larrimer, Ltd. claimed you had earned at the moment they went bankrupt. Is that correct?”

  “Twenty million is correct in round figures. It’s actually a bit more.”

  “And have you received any reimbursement recently in the form of bonds or other negotiable securities?”

  Father Wilson was silent for a moment. His foundation—which now consisted of Father Ian Wilson alone—had, in fact, received a packet of municipal bonds worth a total of five million dollars the day before. At first Father Wilson did not know what to do, but his conscience had found a way to think of the money as manna from heaven, a moment of divine intervention, definitive proof of God’s goodness and mercy. And it was just between him and God.

  Considering how much had been stolen from Heartfelt, and considering that the gain on Heartfelt’s more than twenty million dollars should have been almost eight million according to Larrimer’s false statements, Father Wilson had not the slightest compunction about accepting the paltry five million dollars in bonds as his, that is Heartfelt’s, money.

  “I don’t believe we’ve received any reimbursement,” he said. “I will however check with the appropriate department here, Mr. Morgon. Although I’m quite sure there has been none. No, I’m quite sure. Of course, if any reimbursements do come in, I will notify SIPC.”

  “Thank you, Father Wilson. I’m sure you will.”

  “Go with God,” said Father Wilson and hung up the phone.

  LVI

  DESPITE THE DENIALS BY FATHER Wilson and the others Louis called, he believed that Larrimer—or someone—was sending money to his victims, and that Father Wilson, among others, had gotten some. Louis also believed that it was extremely unlikely that any one of them would ever admit receiving that money. It could not easily be proved that they had. He could imagine what they were thinking: They were owed that money, it was their money. They had learned their lesson; they did not intend to ever part with it again. Larrimer’s bonds disappeared into safe deposit boxes all over the world, waiting for an opportune moment to become cash again.

  “Do you know what SIPC is?” Louis asked Lorraine. Of course she knew. She had, like all shareholders, received a packet of papers from SIPC not long after the Larrimer fraud had been discovered.

  “Did they send a form to be filled out in the event you recovered your money?” he asked.

  “They did,” said Lorraine. “I haven’t sent it in. What will happen if I send it in?”

  “The government will probably confiscate the money and, along with all recovered money, it will become part of a general fund, part of which will be used to repay the victims of fraud.”

  “Part of which?”

  “I’m just guessing here,” said Louis, “but I think much of it will likely go to the agency overseeing the distribution to cover their administrative costs.”

  Lorraine hesitated. “Still,” she said finally, “I think I’ll send in the form.”

  “May I ask you to do one other thing, Lorraine?” he said. “A phone call. To The New York Times. A tip. Alex Purfoy has been covering the story. It would be better if it came from you.”

  Two days later, the article appeared.

  St. John Larrimer Makes Secret Payments

  By Alex Purfoy

  NEW YORK, March 31, 2010. The New York Times has learned that St. John Larrimer, the fugitive financier who defrauded several thousand investors of billions of dollars, has been making secret payments to some of his victims. The Securities Investor Protection Corporation (SIPC), the federal entity that oversees the reimbursement of defrauded investors, has received “several” declarations of reimbursement, according to an SIPC source. The source also said that they believed a “significant number” of reimbursements have been made without having been declared. “Some people may believe the money is theirs and may have chosen not to report it,” an SIPC spokesman said.

  SIPC has notified all of Larrimer’s former clients that they have thirty days from the time they receive any reimbursement to file the appropriate declaration. If they do not do so, they could be charged with a crime. “How could you be charged with stealing your own money?” said one investor, w
ho declined to be named. “Of course, I didn’t receive any money. But if I had, I would consider it mine.”

  SIPC today released a statement reiterating the obligation of those who have been defrauded to abide by the laws and not to engage in fraudulent behavior themselves. There is no conclusive evidence, SIPC says, that the bonds Larrimer’s former clients are receiving actually come from Larrimer.

  “Well, Christ on a crutch!” St. John had just read the piece in The Times. “Who the hell else is the money going to come from?” He had just spent another restless night on the terrace—it was becoming routine. St. John could not believe it; his luck was going from bad to worse. Not only had he recently been blamed for every possible crime and misdeed imaginable, most of which he had not committed, but now, adding insult to injury, he was not getting credit for the good he was doing.

  These good deeds—returning some of the money—which were entirely voluntary, he reminded himself, came at a heavy price. When she heard the news, Carolyne had become furious enough with him to have broken off all communications. St. John was certain she had left the country. And he was now hearing from her lawyers, that same smarmy band who had tried to take him to the cleaners during their divorce. She was probably trying to cut a deal with the legal authorities and would, he was absolutely certain, soon be giving evidence against him. He could hear it now: Yes, she had helped him launder money, but she had done it out of love. He had made her do it, for the boys, and so on.

  And Richard Smythe, his oldest friend and most intimate confidante, had also gone strangely silent. St. John was pretty sure Richard had been siphoning money from his accounts before St. John had emptied them. Even Nigel was looking at him funny.

  St. John called Wallace Jimrey, at Jimrey, Newbawer, LLC. He had not had contact with his lawyers since he had gone from being a money wizard to being a crook. But they took no notice of his changed status. They welcomed his call as though he were a long-lost brother, as he knew they would. The secretary did not bat an eye. “One moment please, Mr. Larrimer.” He was put right through to Wallace Jimrey, who seemed his old self—competent, reassuring, and properly obsequious.

  “A new team is in place, St. John,” he purred. “We’ve been in a ready mode, waiting to hear from you. We should meet soon, somewhere … mmm … convenient. We need to go over the various contingencies, outline possible strategies.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” said St. John. “I want your best people—”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “No … conflicts—”

  Wallace Jimrey anticipated his concern. “Everyone at Jimrey, Newbawer, has diverse and well-dispersed portfolios of assets, St. John. As do our families. We are extremely careful to anticipate and avoid all … inconvenient situations, shall we say? Everyone on your team has been vetted. We’re all at your disposal, St. John.”

  “All?”

  “Three criminal, two contract, and two financial. All partners or senior partners.”

  St. John allowed himself to be reassured. “Excellent.” Who needed friends when you had lawyers? Especially if they were a pack of jackals like Jimrey, Newbawer.

  “Just let us know when and where you can meet. A week’s notice should suffice,” said Wallace.

  “I’ll send the plane,” said St. John. “You’ll be my guests of course.”

  * * *

  Not long after Lorraine had returned the forms to SIPC, two men arrived at her door. One claimed to be a representative of SIPC; the other flashed FBI identification. Lorraine got out the bonds, despite her suspicions. What choice did she have? The men collected the bonds in exchange for a signed receipt. As it turned out, they were not Dimitri’s colleagues or one of the many other thieves who would have loved to get their hands on her little stack of negotiable bonds. They were exactly who they said they were. Their identification cards were genuine and they did exactly what they promised they would do: They took the packet of bonds back to SIPC’s Manhattan office and put them in the safe from where they were transferred into a Federal Reserve safe deposit box.

  Lorraine received a letter from SIPC thanking her for her cooperation and explaining yet again that she had done the right thing. Lorraine called Louis and read him the letter. “And what do we do now?” she said.

  “Wait and see,” said Louis.

  “Wait for what? What are we looking for?”

  Evidence of Larrimer’s redemption maybe? Louis thought about it. But he still didn’t believe it, and he didn’t say it. Anyway, what difference could it make?

  “Do you think other people who got money back from Larrimer turned it in?”

  “Not many,” said Louis.

  LVII

  IN EARLY JUNE Louis and Pauline drove to the Dordogne River Valley for a four-day walk—Trémolat, Les Eyzies, Beynac, Sarlat. At the end they joined a tour through the cave at Lascaux. Louis’s eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness, but when they did he was dumbfounded all over again by the ancient bulls and antelopes cavorting across the ceiling in all sizes and colors.

  “You’re right, you know,” said Pauline.

  “About what?”

  “About Picasso,” she said. “It’s all here already.”

  “Yes. Picasso knew that. He was here, you know. He had a private tour. I can see him, taking off his hat and bowing deeply.”

  “Did he really do that?”

  “It’s what I imagine. Of course it would have been in the other cave. The original.”

  “It’s easy to forget this is a reproduction, isn’t it?”

  “A magnificent fake,” said Louis. He laughed, and others on the tour turned and scowled at him. The many visitors after the cave was first discovered had led to the degradation of the original paintings. So the French government had caused this replica to be built. It was correct in scale and configuration down to the centimeter, a remarkable achievement of engineering and art.

  “This red bull.” Pauline pointed above her. “It looks like your Picasso.”

  “It does a little. Yes.”

  “You still think of Larrimer sometimes, don’t you?” she said.

  “Sometimes. Yes.”

  “Do you think anything will ever happen to him? Will he pay for what he did?”

  “Too many people have been stirred up for it to just die. The Russian’s still out there. Peter Sanchez. And Jeremy Gutentag’s yet to be heard from. I think something will happen. Somebody will do something.”

  “But Zaharia is out of it?”

  “Yes. He did what he could; he’s out of it altogether.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I know. I am too.”

  “I hope it’s over.”

  “I know.”

  They squinted against the light as they left the cave. It was raining lightly and they hurried to the car. They drove to a small café on the far side of Montignac.

  “And do you sometimes think of Larrimer?” Louis wondered.

  “No. I think of Jean-Baptiste.”

  “And you hope for justice.”

  “Justice is too much to hope for. And too frightening.”

  “Too frightening?”

  “Well, what exactly would justice be for Larrimer?” Pauline said. “And if one hopes for justice for him, doesn’t one have to hope for justice for oneself? We tend to be well aware of all the suffering we have endured, don’t we? But we don’t know much about the suffering we’ve caused. I’d be very careful about wishing for justice.”

  “I wasn’t thinking in such … biblical terms.”

  “But you of all people should, Louis. You became an avenging angel of sorts. You set forces loose in the world. You don’t know what you may have caused.”

  “What do you think I may have caused?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you hope then?”

  Pauline thought. “Remorse,” she said. “I hope you’ve caused remorse.”

  “My own?”

  “Th
at too,” she said. “But Larrimer’s would be more interesting.”

  “That won’t happen,” said Louis.

  “How do you know?” said Pauline.

  “I’d bet on it,” said Louis. “People like Larrimer don’t work that way. The world doesn’t work that way.”

  “Never?”

  “Rarely. And never with guys like Larrimer. How could he feel remorse now if he has gotten this far without feeling remorse?”

  Pauline studied Louis. She reached across the table and took his hand in hers. “There it is,” she said. “At last.” She smiled.

  “What?”

  “The limits of your wisdom. Your hubris, your idée fixe. Where your thinking ends and your faith takes over.”

  “My faith?”

  “Your faith in Larrimer’s villainy. You’re not open to the possibility of redemption.”

  “The world doesn’t work that way.”

  “Ever?”

  “Rarely.”

  “I agree. Rarely. But rarely means it sometimes does. And when it does, you’ll be blindsided by it. If Larrimer seeks redemption, you’ll be defeated. You won’t know what to do.”

  Louis studied Pauline’s face carefully. “Have you been talking to Zaharia?” he said.

  “No. Why?”

  “Well. When I last talked to him, he asked, out of the blue, really, what if he—Larrimer—said he was sorry? I couldn’t imagine it then. I still can’t.”

  “Maybe you ought to try harder.”

  “I’m too furious.”

  “At Larrimer?”

  “At all the Larrimers.”

  “Furious. Where does that get you?”

  LVIII

  DIMITRI ADROPOV WAS FURIOUS. He had finally found St. John’s bank accounts and had then watched helplessly as the money in them disappeared, like water swirling down a drain. And now—just back from godforsaken Lahore—he had to read in the newspaper that Larrimer was giving money away.