by Stephen Frey
“What’s the matter?” she asked, noticing his wave.
“Nothing.”
Stiles leaned down when he reached the table. The music was louder than when they had come in. “What is it, Chris?”
“Are the photographers still out front?”
“Yeah.”
“But why? They got their pictures. You think they’re waiting for somebody else?”
“I doubt it. This isn’t a big place with celebrities. Besides, it’s almost ten o’clock.”
“Doesn’t make any sense.”
Stiles shrugged. “Nothing makes sense with these clowns.”
Gillette thought for a moment. “Find out if there’s a back way out of this place. I don’t want any more pictures,” he said, gesturing subtly at Allison. “You know?”
Stiles nodded, understanding. “There has to be another exit. It’s building code, I think. When I find out, I’ll have the driver bring the limo around. I’ll have him waiting for us so we’ll be able to get right in.”
“What if they follow the guy?”
“I don’t think—”
“Let’s get out there,” Gillette suggested, “then call him.”
“But—”
“Just do it.”
Stiles nodded.
When he was gone, Allison leaned toward Gillette. “What was all that about?”
Gillette eyed her. She was still sniffing, still blaming it on allergies. “Business.”
“Well, I’m your business partner, so talk to me.”
“It wasn’t that kind of business,” Gillette answered, watching Stiles as he spoke to the maître d’, who seemed willing to help, judging by the way he was pointing and nodding.
“Maybe not, but it brings up an important point.”
“What’s that?”
“As a managing partner, I need to know everything that’s going on at Everest Capital.”
“Then talk to Debbie. Sounds like you think she’s going to be your best source of information.”
“I’m being serious, Christian.”
“So am I.”
“We need to meet every two days,” she demanded, “just the two of us, to go over everything that’s happening. We’ll make those meetings on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and we’ll talk one day over the weekend. Of course, if something really important happens, you’ll call me right away.”
The cost of Wallace money was going to be even greater than he’d expected, he thought, rubbing his eyes. “We meet once a week as a group in the main conference room. The meeting usually lasts several hours. Believe me,” he said, emphasizing the words, “after a few weeks, you’ll know more than you want to know about Everest Capital.”
She shook her head. “That’s not good enough. Nowhere near good enough.”
“It’s good enough for everyone else.”
“Everyone else hasn’t invested five billion dollars. I told you, I’m very careful with my family’s money. And my family is watching this thing very closely.”
“Which I understand,” Gillette said calmly. “I hope you can understand that I’m busy. If I had to spend that much time talking to you, I wouldn’t have enough time to run the firm.”
“I want to help, too. The only way I can do that is if I know what’s going on.”
“You know how you could really help?”
“How?”
“Find me a deal. Find a good company for us to buy at a great price.”
Allison finished the last sip of champagne in her glass and reached for the bottle in the ice bucket. But it was empty. “Let’s get another bottle,” she suggested.
“I told you, we’re leaving.”
“If you don’t get another bottle, I won’t tell you about the deal I’ve got working.”
He studied her, trying to determine if there was any truth to what she’d said or if she’d tossed it out there just so he’d get another bottle. He couldn’t tell; her face was impassive. “You play poker?” he asked.
She nodded. “Love to.”
That figured. “Want to play sometime?”
“Absolutely. Are you in on a regular game?”
“I know a few guys who run a game every Monday night. I go once a month or so. It’s a bunch of Wall Streeters. It’s a serious game, so you need to know what you’re doing.”
“I’d love to take some money from the Hermès tie and suspender set. How about next Monday?”
“First, tell me about the deal you’ve got working.” There probably wasn’t anything to this, just smoke. After all, if the deal was so great, she’d do it using the Wallace Family Trust money so she could keep all the upside for herself.
She grinned. “I know what you’re thinking. If the deal’s so awesome, why share it with Everest? Well, I’m your partner, and when I partner with someone, whether it’s business or personal, I commit. So, here it is. The company’s name is Veramax. They’re a—”
“A drug company based outside Chicago,” Gillette interrupted. “Owned by a family named Mitchell.” He’d been following the company for two years. “Very fast growing. They were going public last spring, but the family couldn’t get the valuation they wanted because some of their new products were being held up by the FDA.”
“Held up by a lot of red tape crap,” Allison confirmed. “Some higher-up at the FDA doesn’t like Jack Mitchell, Veramax’s main shareholder. The company did over a billion dollars in revenue last year, but they could be doing three to four billion if they could just get these new products to the market. Some of them are incredible. They’ve got an Alzheimer’s drug that’s supposed to be fantastic.”
“Why the bad blood between the Mitchells and the FDA?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I think you could help.”
“How?” he asked, becoming interested. This was another way you made money in the private equity world—bringing something to the table others couldn’t.
“You and Michael Clark, the senator from California, are friends. You know him pretty well, actually.”
“How do you know that?”
She groaned. “If I have to tell you how I know something every time we talk, we’re never going to get anywhere, Mr. I Don’t Even Have Time to Keep My Five-Billion-Dollar Partner Up to Speed.”
“All right, all right,” he said. “How does knowing Senator Clark help?”
“He’s got pull with the FDA. One of the big guys over there is a golfing buddy of his from California.”
“So, I broker a deal.”
“Yes.”
“What do I get in return?”
“Even if Clark can convince his buddy at the FDA to finish approving Veramax’s products quickly, my understanding is that it’ll still take six to nine months to get everything finished. The company has some big opportunities they need funding for, and the family wants to do some estate planning. They need money for all that, about a half a billion, and they need it now. You get to be that investor, then cash out in the IPO, which should be next fall if you can get the FDA in line. You’d probably make five to six times your money in the IPO. Your investors, me included, will like that.”
“I won’t pay a premium, especially if I’m the one who gets the FDA off its ass.”
“I’m with you,” Allison agreed.
“And I want control, I want at least fifty-one percent of the stock.”
“I’ll arrange a meeting with Jack Mitchell. Talk to him about that.”
This actually sounded good, and Gillette was surprised. He hated surprises. “What’s your in? Why will Mitchell listen to you?”
“First, I’m bringing you and your connection to Senator Clark. Second, our families have been friends for years. We’ve vacationed together on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan ever since I was a little girl.”
“When can you arrange a—”
“Chris.”
Gillette looked up at Stiles. “Yes.”
“Got a back door through the kitchen. Let’s go.”
“Okay. Send your guys out to the front, like we’re about to come out.”
“I think we should keep at least two of them with us.”
Gillette shook his head. “We’ll only be out there for a few minutes, we’ll be fine. I don’t want any more pictures.”
“Still, I—”
“No,” Gillette said sharply, standing. “And make your guys think we really are coming out that way. They’ll sell it better.”
Allison grabbed her purse. “Hey.”
“Come on,” he said, holding his arm out for her, “I’m not leaving you.”
“You scared me,” she said, standing up unsteadily and slipping her arm into his. “I thought you’d forgotten those beautiful manners for a second.”
“You sure you want to stick to that allergy story?” he asked as they followed Stiles through the restaurant.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, holding on to his arm tightly as they climbed a few steps to the kitchen level. “It’s the truth.”
“Maybe you’re getting sick.”
“I feel fine.”
“Then maybe it’s something you’re putting up your nose in the bathroom.”
“What? Listen, I—”
“Nose drops, I don’t know.”
“Christian, I’m not a—”
“Look,” he cut in, “if you tell me it’s allergies, it’s allergies. I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just telling you, no drugs at Everest. No marijuana, no cocaine, no nothing. Got it?”
“Of course. I’ve never done drugs in my life, and I never will. I love to party, but I don’t do that.”
“Just so we’re clear.”
“We’re clear.”
“Perfectly clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“Then get me an appointment with Jack Mitchell.”
“Maybe I will,” she said testily, “and maybe I won’t.”
“Make it soon,” he said, ignoring her. “Work with Debbie.”
“Yes, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you? Maybe shine your shoes in between my snorting sessions?”
“And before we meet with him, I want to know two things,” he said, ignoring her. “First, what’s the source of the bad blood between Mitchell and the FDA, and second, how you know about my connection to Senator Clark.”
Three steps led down from the back of the kitchen to the alley, which was littered with paper and broken glass that sparkled in the dim light cast by a single bulb affixed to the brick wall beside the door.
“This doesn’t look good,” Allison muttered, peering both ways.
“Come on,” Stiles called, pulling his cell phone from his pocket, “I don’t want to be out here long. Hustle!”
Allison tapped Gillette on the shoulder as they walked quickly to keep up with Stiles. “Just so you know, I didn’t call the paparazzi.”
Gillette’s eyes shot to hers. “What?”
“I didn’t call them.”
“But you told me you did.”
“You actually thought I’d go to the trouble of putting together some big plan so your girlfriend would see us together in the newspapers? You think I’m at Everest to get a husband, but I’m not. I’m here to make money for my family. That’s it.”
Gillette looked ahead at Stiles, who was staring at his cell phone as he walked. “Quentin, what’s up?”
“The reception sucks back here. I haven’t been able to get the driver or my guys.”
Gillette pulled out his phone as they rounded the corner of the building at the end of the alley. “I think I’ve got—” He almost ran into Stiles, who’d stopped short.
“Jesus,” Allison whispered.
Gillette counted five of them, about twenty feet away. Shadowy figures on the sidewalk, standing side by side, their faces obscured. His eyes darted around, looking for help, but the street was deserted. No one here but the three of them and the figures ahead—moving slowly toward them now.
“Give me a number, Quentin,” he urged, stepping ahead of Allison and next to Stiles. “For one of your guys.”
“We aren’t going to have time for that.”
Gillette looked up from the phone. The men had stopped a few feet away. They were close enough now that he could make out their faces.
“What do you want?” Stiles asked calmly.
“Your money,” demanded the one in the middle. “Everything you got.”
“Look, we don’t want any trouble.”
“We don’t want no trouble, either,” said the one on the far left as the others chuckled, “we just want your money.”
“We don’t have anything,” Gillette said defiantly.
“Of course not. I can tell that by those cheap-ass threads.”
As the gang laughed again, Stiles went for his gun, a Glock forty-caliber pistol in the shoulder holster inside his jacket.
“Hold it!” warned the one in the middle, raising his right arm and pointing a revolver at Stiles. “I got you covered. I’ll kill you, I swear.”
Stiles froze, hand over his heart.
“Down,” the man ordered.
Slowly, Stiles dropped his hand back to his side.
“All right, now—”
Gillette hurled his cell phone at the man in the middle, nailing him on the forehead, and rushed him as he brought both hands to his face. Gillette hunched down as he closed in, driving his shoulder into the man’s gut, hurling him to the sidewalk. The man let out a loud groan as he hit the ground. As they rolled, Gillette heard the gun clatter away on the cement, and he heard Stiles yelling and Allison screaming.
Gillette was yanked up instantly. He swung blindly as he got his feet under him, clipping someone’s chin, then he was tackled hard by a shoulder that felt like the front end of a Mack truck. For a moment, Gillette and his attacker were airborne, then they landed on the street in a heap, tumbling over and over. He felt hands close tightly around his throat, and he brought his arms up, breaking the hold, kneeing the guy in the stomach at the same time and tossing him away. He jumped to his feet and saw Stiles wrestling on the ground with two of the men.
“Stop it!” Allison screamed. She was clutching the gun the man had lost when Gillette tackled him. Aiming the barrel in different directions frantically—at the men attacking Stiles, at the guy on the ground beside Gillette, then at a man coming toward her. “Right now!”
The man coming at her froze a few feet away when he saw the gun.
Suddenly Gillette heard the sound of an engine roaring to life, then squealing tires.
“Christian!” Allison screamed. “Look out!”
He turned into a pair of high beams just as the man who had tackled him grabbed him around the legs, bringing him down again. He grabbed the guy by the hair and slammed his head into the pavement, then scrambled for the sidewalk as the SUV raced past, running over the man lying in the street. The man’s body shook for several seconds, then went still.
The SUV screeched to a halt, and the driver’s-side window began to come down. Then the driver punched the accelerator and the vehicle roared away.
“Hands behind your head!” someone yelled. “Now!”
Gillette glanced toward Stiles and saw two QS agents racing toward their boss, guns drawn. Then two sedans skidded around the corner—opposite the one the SUV was headed toward—headlights illuminating the scene brightly. The other two QS agents jumped from the sedans, guns drawn, too. It was over as quickly as it had begun.
Gillette bent over, hands on his knees as he sucked in air, watching the SUV’s taillights disappear around the corner.
7
“I GOT FIVE MINUTES,” Gillette said to Stiles, checking his watch. “Then I have to go.” He and Wright were leaving at nine-thirty to meet with the Hush-Hush CEO at the company’s headquarters down in the garment district. “What did you find out?”
“Nice.” Stiles pointed at the fresh scab on the left side of Gillette’s head near his eye. “Not as bad as a bullet to the
chest, but it’ll do.”
It had happened when the guy had tackled Gillette and they’d tumbled into the street.
“For a rich guy, you’re pretty ballsy,” Stiles continued. “Chucking your cell phone at somebody pointing a gun, then going after him like that? Most rich guys I know are pussies. Which only makes sense. Why fight your way out of something when you can buy your way out? I was impressed.”
“Thanks.”
“With your guts,” Stiles said, grinning, “not your smarts. What in the hell were you thinking about, anyway? Two on five?”
“Those aren’t bad odds when it’s you and me. Besides, we had Allison. That tipped everything in our favor.”
Stiles rolled his eyes.
“Look, it was my fault, Quentin. I told you not to have your men come with us. That was stupid. I had to do something. Figured all we had on our side was surprise. Besides,” Gillette said with a chuckle, “the guy was aiming at you. Now, what did you find out?”
“Sure, sure. Those guys last night? Hired guns. According to my people inside the NYPD, they’re part of a Brooklyn gang called the Fire. Pretty nasty crew. The Mob doesn’t even screw with them. They admitted taking money to assault us.”
“What does that mean? Were they supposed to kill us or just hurt us?”
“They weren’t supposed to kill us,” Stiles answered, “just beat the crap out of you and me, steal our wallets, and leave us there on the sidewalk. They were supposed to take Allison with them.”
Now it made sense. “Must have been a kidnapping. Well, looks like you’ve got another client. She ought to pay well, too. Maybe a few hundred thousand bucks a year for everything.”
“I don’t think it was a kidnapping,” Stiles said quietly.
“Why not?”
“The gang claimed they were supposed to drop Allison off a few blocks away, unhurt.”
“What?”
“Weird, huh?”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Who hired them?” Gillette asked.
“The gang never knew his name, they just took his money.”
“Or your sources inside the NYPD aren’t telling you the whole story,” Gillette observed, flexing his right hand. His knuckles were killing him from hitting whoever’s chin he’d nailed during the melee.
“No, my sources are good. The gang claimed it was an all-cash deal, everything up front. They said they’d never seen the guy before.”