The Capitalist

by Peter Steiner

  Dimitri cursed Larrimer, and cursed himself for not having just gone right for Larrimer to start with and squeezed the son of a bitch until he coughed up the money. He should have taken Larrimer’s wife—Dimitri was sure she was in on it—and made her tell him what he needed to know. Or the Usher woman—he was more and more convinced that she was part of the whole scam. Instead he had pissed away precious time on Jeremy Gutentag or Charanjeet Kapoor or whatever his name was.

  Dimitri had slipped into the Fine Fabric Works factory and waited until morning tea time was over. When Hashinur had left the office, Dimitri had gone in.

  “Hello, Jeremy,” he said.

  Charanjeet’s face went pale. “Who are you?” he said. His mouth hung slack, his eyes were wide with fear.

  “Let’s go, Jeremy. You and I, we take little ride.” Dimitri took Charanjeet’s arm in one huge hand and the laptop in the other.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want my money back.”

  “I … I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Larrimer, Ltd. is what I mean.”

  Charanjeet tried to get free as they left the office. “Stop fighting,” said Dimitri, and when he didn’t stop, Dimitri punched his nose. A small river of blood ran onto the floor. Dimitri felt sorry. It was as if he had punched Jürgen. “You stop or next time I shoot you.”

  Charanjeet stopped struggling. “Please don’t hurt me,” he said. “Just tell me what you want.”

  “I want my money back.”

  “But I don’t have your money. I don’t know where it is. That’s all Larrimer’s doing. I just worked for him.”

  “You ran his trading. You got to know something.”

  “I did what I was told. Please. I’m in love.” Charanjeet didn’t know why he had said that last thing. He didn’t even know if it was true.

  Charanjeet had been gone for months now; he had vanished without a trace. Tests had shown it was his blood on the factory floor. Mohan and Golapi Kapoor were inconsolable. “You’ll see: He will come back,” said Mohan, always hopeful even when there was no reason for hope.

  “He is dead,” said Golapi.

  “No, no, no,” said Mohan, “he will come back. He always has.”

  Mohan had recovered his health, but his recovered health meant nothing to him. His recovery gave him no joy. And because Charanjeet had been in love with Abinaash, and Mohan had therefore come to imagine Charanjeet and Abinaash as a couple, had come to anticipate their marriage and children, his grandchildren playing in the garden, now his daily walks with Abinaash became bitter reminders of his son’s absence.

  With time Mohan almost came to blame her for Charanjeet’s absence and for whatever misfortune might have befallen him. He could no longer bear the sight of her, and so one morning he called Caritas and told them he no longer wanted Abinaash as a nursing aide. Caritas sent a representative to inform Abinaash that she was no longer wanted in the Kapoor household.

  She was of course astonished. “Have I not performed my duties satisfactorily?” she asked.

  “That is not for me to say,” said the representative. “But you must gather your things and leave by this afternoon.”

  Abinaash tried to approach Mohan. “Have I not performed my duties to your satisfaction?” she said. He turned and ran when he saw her coming. “I must have done,” she called after him, “since you are running, and you could not even walk before I came.”

  Abinaash went to Caritas and asked for a recommendation for another nursing aide position. “We are sorry,” the person in charge said, “but Mohan Kapoor is a very powerful and influential man. And without an endorsement from him, we are unable to recommend you to others as a nursing aide. You must understand that.”

  “And what about my studies?” Abinaash said.

  “Because you have been summarily dismissed from a good position with a very powerful and influential family, the Caritas Foundation can no longer subsidize your studies or recommend that you be allowed to continue. We suggest you seek a job in another line of work, perhaps one where people skills are less important. I see from your paperwork that you were once a seamstress. Why not look for work as a seamstress?”

  LIX

  ST. JOHN DECIDED TO GO see his attorneys instead of bringing them to Terre-de-Haut. He was certain he could get into New York unimpeded, though it did not seem a prudent thing to do. But he had to. He had been bamboozled in France by Louis Morgon, and had been feeling trapped on his little island ever since. He needed to feel his old invincible self again. “Into the lion’s den,” he said. He thumped his chest with his fist. Nigel looked at him with raised eyebrows, which St. John took to be a look of concern. “It’ll be fine, Nigel. Don’t worry.”

  St. John’s plane landed at Long Island Islip Macarthur Airport late one night, dropped its two passengers, and took off again. St. John and Nigel sped into the city in a hired car. They drove to an exclusive boutique hotel. St. John had rented the penthouse suite under an assumed name.

  Wallace Jimrey and his team of lawyers were ushered upstairs the following morning. St. John had arranged for a bar and sumptuous buffet in the conference room. The men talked preliminary strategy, but mainly St. John wanted to take the measure of the team Wallace had assembled. He told them about the payments he had made to his victims. He exaggerated the number of payments and the amount of money involved only slightly.

  “Congratulations,” said Wallace. “That is a wise and generous and possibly useful thing to do.”

  “Useful?” St. John had not considered how it could be useful.

  “Yes, of course. Generosity is always useful,” said Wallace. “And you have been extremely generous.” He saw it as his purpose to prevent St. John from ever being indicted and, barring that, of ever being tried and, barring that, of ever spending a single day of his life behind bars. A tangible and irrefutable demonstration of St. John’s remorse, such as his retribution payments, would serve admirably in case any of those eventualities came to pass.

  Wallace changed the subject. “You shouldn’t have come here. If you’re found out, it will be seen as a provocation and will be seen as contradicting your avowed remorse.”

  It took St. John a moment to recognize what remorse Wallace might be talking about. “Oh, that. I have no intention of being found out,” said St. John. “And I have business to attend to in New York.”

  “It can’t be done from Terre-de-Haut?”

  “It can’t.”

  “Anything we can be helpful with?”

  “No.”

  After two hours the team of lawyers left, and St. John and Nigel took a car uptown. They found Hamilton Jones at home. St. John was not convinced by Jones’s repeated assurances that he had known nothing in advance about Louis Morgon or his fake paintings. He waited in the front room. He looked over Hamilton’s pathetic art collection while Nigel took Hamilton into the bathroom and pistol whipped him until he was unconscious. Hamilton woke up between the toilet and the tub in a puddle of his own blood. He staggered to the phone. He was taken to the emergency room, where he required several dozen stitches to several cuts on his face. His eyes were swollen and bruised and he ached all over.

  “Robbers,” he told the police. “Two of them. I don’t know how they got into the building.”

  As soon as he was home, Hamilton called Louis to tell him what had happened.

  “And you’re sure you’re all right?”

  “I’ve got a whopping headache,” he said. “But I’ll be fine. I thought you’d want to know he’s here in New York.”

  Louis left a message on Peter Sanchez’s machine that St. John Larrimer was in New York. Louis couldn’t say how he had gotten there or where he was staying. “Good luck, Peter.”

  After hanging up he went back out to the terrace.

  “I suppose,” said Louis, “Larrimer’s remorse hasn’t come into play yet.”

  “I suppose not,” said Pauline.

  * * *

  Lor
raine went to the front door when she heard the knock. Before she could decide whether her eyes were deceiving her, Nigel smashed open the door and came barging in. St. John crowded in behind him. Arthur let out a cry and fled from the room.

  “I’m sorry, Lorraine,” said St. John. “I’m not here to hurt you, okay? But it has to be this way.”

  “Why? What do you want?”

  “Lorraine, I need your help.”

  “Mr. Larrimer, really. You stole my money. You stole everybody’s money.”

  “I gave it back, Lorraine. You got it all back, didn’t you? Did you count it?”

  “That wasn’t mine.”

  “Of course it’s yours. What do you mean?”

  “It was money you stole. Did you give everyone their money back?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Lorraine. Just listen … think of it as—”

  “No.” She crossed her arms in front of her and turned her back.

  “Damn it, Lorraine. I sent that money in good faith—”

  Nigel stepped forward. “Come on, Mr. Larrimer, let’s get out of here.” St. John wasn’t listening. Even a man as rich and corrupt and venal as St. John Larrimer can have moments when the winds of abandonment and loss seem to whistle past his ears, and this was one such moment. Beset by doubts, abandoned and betrayed by Carolyne and then Richard, St. John had somehow convinced himself that Lorraine Usher would be his last true friend. She had been faithful to him longer than anyone. After returning her investment to her, he did not think it unreasonable to expect to be greeted with gratitude and friendship.

  “Please, Lorraine. Please. What do you want from me?”

  Lorraine picked up the telephone receiver and held it toward St. John. “Turn yourself in, Mr. Larrimer.”

  Nigel leapt forward and tore the phone from her hand and crushed it back onto its cradle. Lorraine fell backward onto the couch, hitting the table as she fell. Nigel felt a sharp pain in his leg and looked down to see Arthur’s green eyes looking up at him shimmering with unmitigated hatred. The cat sank his claws deeper into Nigel’s calf.

  “Jesus!” said Nigel and kicked out violently, sending Arthur against the wall with a sickening thud. The cat lay still on the floor.

  Lorraine looked at Nigel in horror. And Nigel looked back at her just in time to see the brilliant muzzle flash, hear its terrible explosion, and feel his right kneecap shatter into a hundred pieces. His leg collapsed beneath him. “Oh, Jesus!” he said and rolled in agony on the floor. “Jesus!” He vomited.

  That was how St. John came to be arrested. It was not Louis Morgon or the Russian, not the FBI or Interpol or the Police Nationale who arrested him, but patrolmen from the nearby station house who responded to Lorraine Usher’s 911 call. St. John pleaded with Lorraine. He offered her a vast fortune. He proposed a partnership in some future enterprise. She sat silently with her pistol pointed at him. Her only words during the ten minutes while they waited for the police came when St. John seemed to get a little restless and appeared to be contemplating making a run for it.

  Arthur staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the kitchen, meowing as he went. Lorraine seemed momentarily distracted by that, and St. John slid forward on his chair. “I promise you, Mr. Larrimer,” Lorraine said, turning her full attention in his direction again and waving the gun slightly, “that was not a lucky shot.” Nigel moaned.

  The police knocked and came through the door. Six of them—four men and two women. “This is St. John Larrimer,” she told them. They did not immediately recognize the name. Four policemen took St. John and Nigel into custody. Nigel was taken in an ambulance to the nearby Lady of Mercy Hospital, where surgery was performed to try to repair his knee. St. John was taken to the Queens courthouse to be arraigned, where he was met by Wallace Jimrey.

  Two policemen remained behind and questioned Lorraine. She explained that she had felt threatened when Nigel knocked her over and then kicked Arthur so viciously, and so she had shot him. “I aimed for his knee.”

  “And the other guy?”

  “St. John Larrimer is wanted for fraud and many other things.”

  “Larrimer…? That Larrimer?”

  “And what about the pistol?”

  Lorraine produced her permit. Still, the police had to take the pistol to perform a ballistics test. They promised it would be returned as soon as the ballistics had been determined and entered into evidence. Bruno rushed up just as the last police were leaving.

  “Are you all right?” He saw a rising bruise on her forehead where she had hit the table.

  “I’m fine. I’m worried about Arthur.” Arthur was still wobbling around meowing.

  “At least you’re safe.”

  “They took my pistol.”

  “Lorraine, listen. At least you’re safe.”

  “There’s still the Russian,” she said.

  LX

  THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY, Elaine Degarza, a large, rotund woman with frizzy hair, asked that St. John be remanded to prison. “Mr. Larrimer is a longtime fugitive from justice, Your Honor, wanted and charged with multiple counts of fraud, money laundering, and a host of other reprehensible crimes. He still has access to the billions he stole. He also has multiple residences outside the United States and several passports. No amount of bail is beyond his means, and no amount, no matter how high, would ensure his return. If he is released, Your Honor, this is the last time we will ever see him.”

  “Your Honor, Ms. Degarza’s indignation is misplaced and inappropriate.” St. John looked contrite and ordinary standing beside his attorney. His fingers were laced in front of him. He wore an ill-fitting gray suit purchased hours before—his first off-the-rack in thirty years. “Mr. Larrimer has, it is true, committed fraud on an enormous scale. He has admitted to that. But he recently discovered he has cancer, Your Honor, and has, since that discovery, recognized and confessed the error of his ways. He came to the United States—”

  “Illegally and under cover of darkness, Your Honor—” said Degarza.

  “He came,” Wallace continued, “after paying reparations to many of his victims. He came with the intention of visiting his victims and begging their forgiveness.…” As if on cue St. John opened his arms and spread them in a Christ-like gesture of supplication. He looked with widened eyes, as innocently as he could manage, in the judge’s direction.

  The judge interrupted Wallace’s plea. “Mr. Jimrey, that is all very moving, but save it for trial. This is a bail hearing.…” The judge and Jimrey had been at Harvard Law together and had, at one time, played in the same weekly poker game. The judge felt urgently therefore that he had to demonstrate his strict adherence to the law and his complete and utter impartiality.

  “Forgive me, Your Honor, but Mr. Larrimer’s intentions and actions before being arrested speak directly and irrefutably to his trustworthiness. He went to the home of Lorraine Usher, his longtime assistant and loyal friend, after having paid back everything he had taken from her, in order to ask her forgiveness. He was arrested as he was trying to do just that.”

  “Your Honor!” said Degarza. She could not mask her astonishment and outrage. “Mr. Jimrey talks as though he’s holding a royal flush when he’s showing a pair of twos. This is a serious legal proceeding, not a poker game. Bluffs don’t work.”

  Both Wallace Jimrey and the judge looked hard at Elaine Degarza as though they were seeing her for the first time. Did she know about their poker connection? Or had she just gotten lucky? In either case, it was now clear the judge could not afford to show even the slightest leniency. Degarza was probably right that Larrimer would disappear if allowed to go free on bail, and if he did disappear and it then came out that the judge and Jimrey had once been poker partners—all the players in that game had had nicknames: Jimrey had been “Slick,” and the judge had been “Fingers”—if that came out … well, Fingers did not want to even contemplate that possibility.

  The judge ruled that because St. John Larrimer was a confessed felon and a r
uthless and unscrupulous one, he was indeed a serious flight risk. He would therefore be subject to house arrest with a radio bracelet attached to his ankle. The seriousness of Larrimer’s crimes certainly suggested that he should be remanded without bail, but the judge felt he had to consider not just Larrimer’s crimes but also past contributions to the community. The ankle bracelet was sufficient. He would not be allowed outside for any reason except to attend legal proceedings. No walks, no museum or opera visits. House arrest, period. That is how it happened that the hotel penthouse St. John had rented—all sixteen rooms—became his jail while he awaited further hearings and, presumably, a trial.

  * * *

  Louis and Pauline were making lunch when the phone rang. It was Lorraine with the news. Louis told Pauline the whole story while they sat on the terrace.

  “And will he come to trial?” Pauline wondered.

  “He might,” said Louis. “Eventually. But not for a long time; it could take months, more likely years. Larrimer’s lawyers will file motion after motion, and each motion will delay the trial. Then when the trial eventually starts, there will be further motions and further long delays and diversions. His lawyers will want to find his former wife so they can demonstrate that the entire Ponzi plan was hers and poor Larrimer was in her thrall. And when that fails they will find his banker, Richard Smythe, and prove that he was the reason Larrimer stole. Smythe was the driving force behind his thievery. And when that fails they will find … who knows, me maybe? And Hamilton Jones? And the Russian? All those who tried to trick Larrimer and steal from him instead of the other way around.

  “They will paint the world as a morass of larceny; they will indict Wall Street and capitalism itself as the ultimate Ponzi scheme. They will say St. John Larrimer was only operating by the mores of the age and culture in which he lived. They will plead diminished capacity or insanity even. His lawyers will find witnesses who can attest to his extreme remorse and his efforts to make good on his debts to his victims. Lorraine Usher got money back from Larrimer, and she will have to testify that she received that money and that Larrimer came to her house at considerable risk to himself seeking her forgiveness.”