The Protégé

by Stephen Frey

  “You took Allison Wallace,” she said before he could finish, her posture going rigid. “Didn’t you.”

  “Look, I—”

  “Did you?”

  “It wasn’t like I took her, sweetheart. She’s a partner at the firm. It was a firm outing.”

  Faith stood up. “It wasn’t like you took her to dinner the other night here in New York, either, was it?” she asked. “She just came along, right? Why would you let her go with you on a cruise like that when you knew I was upset about those pictures?”

  There was no winning this battle. The best thing to do was surrender immediately. “I wasn’t thinking, Faith, I’m sorry.”

  “Did you ask your other partners? Tom, Maggie, or Blair?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Did you sleep with her in Pittsburgh, Chris?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How do I know?”

  “Because I’m telling you.”

  Faith stared at him for a few moments, hands on her hips. Finally, she shook her head and groaned. “I love you so much, but I can’t take this. We’re away from each other more than we’re together anyway, so I can’t be thinking you’re with someone else when I’m gone.” With that she stalked out.

  He started to get up, then fell back on the couch and put his hands over his eyes. Nothing was going right.

  14

  GILLETTE SAT UP groggily in the comfortable leather chair and tossed the crossword puzzle lying on his lap to the floor. They’d taken the bigger of the two Everest jets—a Gulfstream IV—to Las Vegas. “How long till we land, Derrick?” he asked, stretching. He’d slept very little since Saturday.

  “We’re close,” Walker answered, “only about fifteen minutes out.”

  “Any word?” At Gillette’s suggestion, the police had begun interviewing the crew about Stiles’s disappearance. The cops had talked to Billy yesterday but let him go, satisfied that he knew nothing.

  “Yeah, they questioned the cook this afternoon. Gave him the same bare-bulb treatment they gave Billy. They’re convinced he doesn’t know anything either.”

  “Have they found the mate yet?”

  “Nope.”

  Walker brought the piece of gum he was chewing forward and smacked it with his front teeth for a few seconds. Something he did when he was thinking hard, Gillette had noticed.

  “He’s our man,” Walker said. “I can feel it. But Billy doesn’t know anything about him. Never even got his home address, so it’s going to be tough to find him. Maybe impossible.”

  It was Tuesday afternoon, and Gillette hadn’t heard from Daniel Ganze about his father—Ganze had said it would be early this week at the latest when he’d have more information. He spotted Wright walking toward him from the back of the plane. “Have a seat.” He pointed at the big leather chair on the other side of the plane. He’d decided to bring Wright along this morning, wanting to have a second while he interviewed the consultants who were going to deal with the Carbones.

  Allison hadn’t been happy about not coming along, but he didn’t care. He needed a break from her. Needed to clear his head and think about what Faraday had said in the bar. Needed to think about her suggestion to buy Beezer right as Boyd had made contact. How Veramax’s products would make excellent nanotech delivery systems. Nothing specific here, but a lot of coincidences.

  “I meant to tell you,” he said to Wright, “Nigel and I talked last night, and now that you’re a managing partner, we’re going to give you five percent of the ups on Everest Eight, with all the normal caveats, of course.”

  “Jesus, thanks.”

  “If we only double the fund over the next few years, we keep over four billion of the profits and you get more than two hundred large of that.”

  “That’s awesome.” Wright looked out the window at the barren desert below them. “I was excited about our meeting this morning.” He and Gillette had met with the Bermuda-based insurance company before heading to LaGuardia. At the end of the meeting, the firm’s lead partner had committed half a billion to Everest Eight, so the fund was now $20.5 billion. “And I’m working on another lead my father gave me. Could be another five hundred large.”

  Wright’s drive never faltered. “We’ve got to close this fund at some point.”

  “Let’s try to make it an even twenty-one billion,” Wright urged.

  “How long will it take you to smoke these people out, to see if they’re real?”

  “Give me a week.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The Ohio Teachers Pension. My dad’s good friends with the woman who runs it. From college or something, I’m not sure. Anyway, they’re usually very conservative, but Dad says we’ve got a good shot at getting money from them, especially now that the Wallaces are in for five billion.”

  It was the whale factor, Gillette knew. Once other investors heard that a family like the Wallaces were in big, everyone wanted in. “All right, go for it.”

  “I will. So what’s going on with the investigation?” Wright asked, nodding at Walker. On the way to the airport, Gillette had told Wright what he thought had really happened to Stiles.

  “We think it’s the mate.”

  “You still think Tom McGuire is behind it? That he’s the one pulling the strings?”

  “Yeah,” Gillette said as one of the QS agents tapped him on the shoulder. The agent was holding the plane’s phone.

  “For you, sir.”

  “Thanks. . . . Hello?”

  “Christian?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Percy Lundergard in Chatham, Maryland.”

  “Hi.” Lundergard was a local attorney Gillette had hired to help Everest through the referendum process, to help fight Becky Rouse. Lundergard’s family had been in Chatham for two hundred years, but unlike Percy, most of them were farmers and fishermen and fell into the have-not category. Gillette had made sure of that before retaining Lundergard. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve been through all the town charter documents thoroughly, and you’re right. We can call a referendum on this thing, and there’s nothing Mayor Rouse can do about it.” Lundergard spoke with a nasal twang. “But I have a suggestion.”

  “What?”

  “Before you call for the vote, let’s have a town meeting. Let’s rile some people up. You’ve got the majority, Christian, but it’s like any vote. You’ve got to get the population out there to win. Gotta get ’em interested. All the rich people will show, so you’ve got to get a lot of the poor folk out, too. My family can help. I’ve already spoken to them, but they think a town meeting at the high school would really do the trick.”

  “Fine. Let’s do it.”

  “You’ll need to be there.”

  “Oh, I’ll be there. Don’t you worry.”

  “You’ll need to get up and make a speech, and you’ll need to connect with them.”

  Gillette could hear it in Lundergard’s voice: He didn’t believe a big-shot Manhattanite had a chance in hell of connecting with a Chatham farmer or fisherman. Suddenly Gillette had a challenge on his hands. “I hear you, Percy. I’ll see you there.”

  GILLETTE AND WRIGHT sat in Carmine Torino’s spacious office overlooking the Vegas strip. Torino Consulting was furnished with big, gaudy pieces, and the colors were deafening—drapes bright red and the shag carpet a burnt yellow. Torino had thinning straight black hair and wore a flowered golf shirt—unbuttoned so you could see a gold medallion hanging in the dark chest hairs below his neck—and a sleeveless blue sweater. He wore a thick gold bracelet on his left wrist that jingled constantly and a Rolex on his right wrist with a face the size of a silver dollar.

  “I love this view,” he said, gesturing toward the wide window. The sun had just set, and the strip’s neon lights were taking over. “It’s the prettiest time of day. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

  Gillette and Wright exchanged a subtle roll of the eyes.

  “So, you guys got an NFL franchise.
”

  Gillette nodded. He hated how slippery this whole thing felt, but it was a necessary evil. Tomorrow morning they’d meet with Federico Consulting, but Stiles had let him know that Torino was the best. If that was true, Gillette could only imagine what it would be like to sit down with Mick Federico.

  “And you want to build a stadium and a casino, the stadium in eighteen months.”

  “Actually, I want both of them built in eighteen months. I want them both done at the same time. It’ll be good from a marketing perspective.”

  “You’re gonna use a local contractor, right?”

  “No, I’m bringing in a group from Los Angeles that can handle both jobs.”

  Torino winced. “The local people won’t be happy.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Wright said. “We understand the game.”

  Torino looked at Wright disdainfully. “It’s no game, sonny, let me tell you.”

  “Can you take care of it?” Gillette asked.

  Torino clasped his hands together, leaned back in his chair, and gazed up at the ceiling for a few moments. “I think so.”

  “How much?”

  Torino smiled. “You’re a bottom-line guy, huh? No bullshit? Well, it’ll be two million a year until the shit is built, then five million a year after that.”

  Gillette raised both eyebrows. “Exactly what do I get for my five million a year?”

  “A guarantee that you’ll have no worker walkouts, because even if you bring in an outside contractor, you’ll have to hire local people to be the ants. Another guarantee that your equipment won’t break down more than normal. And if it does, you’ll be able to get spare parts quickly, not a year later.” Torino could see he wasn’t impressing anybody. “What the fuck do you want, some leather-bound presentation? I thought you were a bottom-line guy.”

  “I am.”

  “Why does the fee go up when the construction is finished?” Wright wanted to know.

  Torino chuckled. “And I thought you guys were supposed to be these stiletto-sharp types. Sophisticated and—”

  “It goes up,” Gillette interrupted, “to give us assurances that the construction will actually get done on time. That we won’t be held up for a ball-buster payment with a month to go before the first preseason game, and we end up having to play the whole year at UNLV. And if we miss a year, there’ll be problems with the plumbing, electrical outages, bomb scares. Right, Carmine?”

  Torino smiled smugly. “Exactly.” His bracelet jingled as he pointed at Wright. “See, sonny, that’s why he’s the boss.”

  “Here’s what I’ll do,” Gillette offered. “I’ll pay you a million a year during construction and three million per thereafter.”

  Torino shook his head. “This isn’t negotiable, Mr. Gillette. It is what it is. You want it, you call me by eight forty-five tomorrow morning. If I don’t hear from you by then, the offer’s off the table.”

  Something clicked, and Gillette realized Torino knew their meeting with Federico started at nine.

  Torino clapped his hands together enthusiastically, as though he knew the deal were done. “I’m going to a couple of strip clubs and see some of my favorite girls. You guys wanna come?”

  “No,” Gillette answered quickly, standing. “But we’ll be in touch. Thanks for your time.”

  Five minutes later, Gillette and Wright were standing in front of the building with two QS agents, waiting for the car to pull up. “So, David,” Gillette asked, “how do you feel?”

  “Like I want to take a shower.”

  WRIGHT WAS lying on the bed of his Caesar’s Palace hotel room when the doorbell rang.

  “Room service.”

  Wright sprang out of bed. He was famished. “Beautiful,” he muttered. He was wearing just boxers but didn’t bother putting on his pants. “You guys are fast,” he said, opening the door. “I thought it would be at least another—” He stopped in midsentence. There were two men in dark suits at the door—and no food.

  “We need to talk to you,” said one of the men, ushering Wright back into the room before he could close the door. The other man followed and locked the door.

  Wright’s eyes flickered between the two of them. “What about?”

  “Put some clothes on,” the man ordered.

  “Where are we going?” Wright asked anxiously, reaching for his pants.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Thirty minutes later, the two men led Wright into the living room of a suite on the top floor of the Hard Rock Hotel.

  “Have a seat.” One of the men pointed at a couch. “Mr. Celino will be with you in a moment.”

  Wright swallowed hard. He knew the name. Gillette had explained the reason for the Vegas trip—the fact that the Carbone family was probably who Carmine Torino was fronting for, that Joe Celino was don of the Carbone family, that Celino was one of the most ruthless crime bosses in Mafia history.

  When Celino ambled in and sat in a chair opposite the couch, Wright rose, head tilted forward, doing his best to put on an appearance of subordination.

  “Sit down.”

  Wright did.

  “I’m Joe Celino, and I obviously know who you are.” He motioned for the two men who’d brought Wright to move off. “You’ve met with one of my men in New York several times, the first time in Saks Fifth Avenue a couple of days ago.”

  “Yes.” Wright’s voice was instantly hoarse. “Paul.”

  “I trust he’s been polite to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Congratulations on the NFL franchise; that’s exciting news for Everest Capital. As long as you play your cards right, you should enjoy quite a return on that investment. Both from a multiple of invested capital and an IRR perspective.”

  Wright nodded numbly. Celino wasn’t at all what he’d expected. He wasn’t macho and boorish. He was nattily dressed: wool blazer, button-down shirt, neatly pressed slacks, Gucci loafers. His English was perfect, he was well groomed, and he was painfully polite.

  “You look . . . surprised. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing . . . sir.”

  Celino patted the arm of the chair. “Yes, that was quite a coup Christian Gillette pulled off, winning the NFL franchise.” He smiled. “And he wasn’t even the high bidder. Imagine that.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  “So we have a few things to talk about,” Celino said, ignoring Wright’s question.

  “But I really—”

  “And I hardly ever leave my house on Staten Island. In fact, I think it’s been five months since I did. So I hope you understand, this meeting is very, very important.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Well, as my associate told you at Saks, we, uh . . . well, we know what you did. At the sex shop.” Celino raised one finger. “And we have proof. But believe me, Mr. Wright, what a man does in his spare time is no concern of mine. Even if it’s perverted. Unless, of course, I can take advantage of it. In this case, I can.”

  Wright was looking down into his lap. He felt a tear form in his left eye.

  “You’re going to do anything me or my men tell you to do. You’re going to do it pronto, and you’re going to do it con gusto. Are we clear?”

  “Yes,” Wright said, his voice so quiet that he almost didn’t hear it himself.

  “How clear?”

  “As clear as you want.”

  Celino nodded his approval. “Good.” He pointed at a manila folder lying on a side table next to Wright’s chair. “Pick that up and open it.”

  Wright reached for the folder. Inside was a single eight-and-a-half-by-eleven glossy head shot of a face. The man’s eyes had been cut out and his teeth removed. Wright felt a wave of bile rising from his stomach.

  “He was still alive at that point, David. Both eyes and all twenty-nine teeth gone, but he was still breathing. That’s how good my guys are. Am I getting through to you?”

  Wright gagged, then nodded.

  “You can
put it down. Now, I need a few things from you. First, you need to keep telling us where Gillette is at all times, no exceptions. You miss one appointment of his and . . . well . . .” Celino pointed at the folder. “You don’t want to end up like him, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Second, I don’t want Christian Gillette even going to that meeting with Mick Federico tomorrow morning. I want Carmine Torino to get the business. Gillette goes to the meeting with Federico and—”

  “But—”

  Celino raised his hand, and for the first time a look of rage filled his face.

  “Torino will get the business,” Wright said meekly.

  The rage disappeared as fast as it had come, replaced by contentment. “Now we’re getting somewhere, David.” Celino pulled out a cigarette and lighted it. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No.”

  “If you do, please say so.”

  “I love cigarettes.” He hated them.

  “You want one?” Celino asked, holding out the pack and smiling.

  “No, thank you.”

  Celino put the cigarettes back in his jacket pocket. “You know, when you ask someone to take extraordinary measures for you, I believe you should tell them a little bit about what’s going on.” He opened his hands and gestured toward Wright. “It makes them feel like they’re part of it. Like when you guys give your senior managers stock in the companies they’re operating for you. It gives them a stake, right? Makes them more passionate about making things run well.”

  Wright nodded. That was exactly what they did for their senior managers.

  “You see, I believe in the stick.” Celino pointed at the manila folder on the table beside Wright. “But I believe in the carrot, too. Call me an amateur psychiatrist, but, well, I’ve done okay for myself, you know?”

  Wright could barely breathe. “Very okay.”

  “So here’s the first thing I’m going to let you in on. We took care of Stiles. We retained the services of the mate on your partner’s yacht. Of course, he’s gone now, too.” Celino chuckled. “It was a short engagement, and the cops won’t find anything. If they do, I’ll blame you.”