“This morning,” Leonard began.
“I know,” said Walter. “We know. We saw it on CNN earlier this afternoon.”
“I hope that doesn’t make this too uncomfortable.”
“This whole thing is a little creepy, is it not?” said Isobel.
“It is a bit. I don’t know,” said Walter. “A black man shot to death in Mississippi on Martin Luther King’s birthday.” A statement or a question-Walter’s words hung in the humid air.
“Judged by the content of his character,” Leonard said.
Walter went on. “That you could kill a man in Mississippi in the morning and by evening be a thousand miles away, on a tiny island, sitting in the very same chair he once sat in.” Leonard Martin showed no reaction. “What would you call that?” Walter asked.
“Serendipity?” said Leonard. “I can change seats, if you want.”
Isobel’s curiosity was near the bursting point. She said nothing, but inside her head she was screaming, “My God! What are we doing here?” Leonard tried to look completely at ease, but Isobel saw the movement of his upper lip, the increased respiration, and the occasional darting of his eyes. Walter had taught her well. His hat was off and the close cut of his hair no longer obscured his features. Looking closely-real closely-you could see it was him. From the corner of one eye she saw Walter, as calm as if he had been relaxing on the beach. His gaze was fixed on the other man, the one who used to be fat and blonde, the one who used to be a successful real estate lawyer, the one who used to be a husband and a father and a grandfather, the one who was now a killer.
“Isobel, I would really like you to check your messages and return that call while I talk to Walter. Please?”
“Sure,” she said, getting up and walking into the house, closing the glass sliding doors behind her.
“I have a message for your employers,” Leonard said when he and Walter were alone.
“Best I can figure, there’s only two of them left.”
“Yes, that’s quite correct. And it’s possible they may stay alive, die of natural causes in their old age.” He reached down and picked up an attache case he’d carried with him to the patio. Walter could not help remembering Wesley Pitts doing the same thing, reaching for his money-laden, million dollar case, in exactly the same place. His better judgment told him to keep such a remembrance to himself. Meanwhile, Leonard removed a file folder, stuffed with papers, and placed it on the table. “Stein and Maloney,” he said, “will each make a contribution to a named nonprofit foundation with which I am completely unconnected in any discernable way, and that will allow them to live. Additionally, the companies of Stein, Gelb, Hector amp; Wills, SHI Inc., which used to be known as Second Houston Holding, and Alliance Industries Inc. will make similar contributions. I realize that Christopher Hopman, Billy MacNeal, and Pat Grath are already dead, and I acknowledge that those now running these companies share none of their culpability. The current senior officers and directors of those companies, however, still maintain and benefit from the proceeds derived from the sale and effective combination of the two companies. Therefore, they are to make contributions equal to the amounts of money they made in, and as a result of, the IPO of Second Houston, just as Stein, Gelb will and just as Stein and Maloney individually will. Failure of these executives and directors to comply with this requirement will have the effect of making them accessories after the fact. I make no immediate threats against them, but they hold the fate of Nathan Stein and Tom Maloney in their hands. Their failure to respond according to my instructions, even if Stein and Maloney comply, will result in the deaths of both men. What happens afterward is yet to be determined.” He picked up the folder from the table, took a long drink of his lemonade, and looked at Walter. Walter looked back at Leonard Martin in amazement. Leonard Martin may be the most dangerous person he’d ever known. But he just changed the rules. Killing him was out of the question, totally unnecessary. The pressure on Walter had been relieved. He had nothing to say, and so said only, “After the fact?”
“You’ll find the amounts for each contributor spelled out on the cover sheet, and the basis for them in the documents in this folder, which I’ll leave with you. This will give all concerned the specific details as to how these amounts have been arrived at. These numbers are nonnegotiable. No one at the foundation, or anywhere else, will be authorized to make changes. I appreciate that this amount of money has implications that go well beyond the contributors. I have no desire to see the ramifications damage innocent people. Believe it or not, I grieve for the families of those I’ve killed. I do. Specific terms of payment-when, where, and how-will be worked out later, but it will be necessary for one half of one percent to be donated, in cash, within thirty days, and another one half of one percent within ninety days. After that, arrangements can be made with the foundation for delivery of the remaining funds. There will be a time limit. We’re talking about a large sum of money. Assets will have to be divested. I understand that. Nevertheless, half of the total must be delivered within three years. The rest of the money must be in the possession of the foundation within one additional year. If, at that time-four years from now-if the full amount has not been paid, the agreement will be deemed to have been broken. Nathan Stein and Tom Maloney, and possibly others whose bad faith in this matter may make them responsible, will die. These payment requirements are also stipulated in the cover letter. Finally, it’s important that all contributors know that any attempt to shift assets to a wife, a relative, an offshore subsidiary, for example, or to any entity, will be viewed as an attempt to avoid payment. Assure them that I will know if they try to bury it in their backyard or stuff a safe-deposit box in Malta. I will know and I will consider the arrangement broken. I will act accordingly.” He paused and looked very carefully at Walter. “Any questions about what I’ve said?”
“Isn’t this extortion?” Walter said matter-of-factly. “You can’t get away with this. How can you expect something like this-”
“Extortion is a legal term, Walter. To be extortion I would have to receive the money or the foundation would have to be seen as acting as my agent, with a benefit accruing to me. Neither condition exists. There might be an element of blackmail in it-I grant you that-as it relates to me. It’s no doubt accurate to say I’m making ‘terroristic threats,’ and, of course, killing someone is always illegal-even threatening to kill someone. But the foundation will not be a party to any of this information. They will just receive the money. No, this is more like a drug dealer getting ripped off by someone who gives the money to charity.”
“That makes no sense at all.”
“Sure it does. Don’t thieves, even murderers, give money to charity? If a thief sent the United Way a thousand dollars or a million dollars, wouldn’t they be free to accept and use it? Or what if somebody earned money and didn’t report it, in fact didn’t even file a tax return, but donated ten thousand dollars to the American Heart Association-would they be free to accept and use it? Of course they would, provided they have no knowledge of any illegality that either prompted the contribution or involved the source of the contributor’s money. Enron made charitable contributions. Did they all give the money back?”
“And just how do you deal with all this without everyone knowing everything?”
“I won’t tell. You won’t tell. Stein, Maloney, and the two corporations won’t tell. Instead, they will hold very public press conferences, admit to their ill-gotten gains, express their deepest sorrow and remorse, speak movingly of their desire to atone for the sins of previous directors, and then… then they will donate this money in the manner I’ve prescribed. They have stockholders who must support these noble efforts. And I’m sure they will. They must be seen to act willingly, openly, and publicly. Except, however, there will be no mention whatsoever of my role in this.” The puzzled look on Walter’s face merely encouraged Leonard to go on. “You will deliver these instructions to Nathan Stein and Thomas Maloney. They face the task of te
lling the key people-all of whom are named in the documents-at SHI Inc. and Alliance Industries Inc. to do their part. Under the circumstances, I don’t think there’s any chance at all anyone will name me in this matter. I’m sure the history of my ‘bad acts’ thus far will help Stein and Maloney convince their friends.” Walter said nothing.
“As for Nathan Stein and Thomas Maloney,” Leonard went on, “an attorney in New York-a lawyer who knows nothing, not even who his client is-will open a checking account for each of them. Every week he will deposit five hundred dollars in each account. That is all the money Stein and Maloney can use. If they spend a dollar more than that, I will consider that they have used hidden funds, worked for money, borrowed money, or received gifts-none of which are allowed-and I will kill them.”
“Christ,” said Walter, scratching his head, running both hands through his hair and down the back of his neck. “What if they refuse?”
“That’s entirely up to them.”
“This is-”
“Revolutionary?”
“Revolutionary? Jesus Christ!”
“I don’t think he can help me with this.”
“Help? You seem to be doing quite enough on your own. What about Stevenson and Daniels and Carter Lawrence?”
“Nick and Harvey know nothing. I can’t be responsible for what they may think, but they know nothing. I’m sure they’ll be cooperative with the authorities. They’ll answer all their questions. They have nothing to hide and nothing to offer. Their truthful answers won’t change a thing. As for Carter, what can I say? We share a certain immunity, one which I have surely violated and forfeited. But he has not. Carter is a victim. As this unfolds, I’m sure the press will present him in a very favorable light. For law enforcement to pursue and harass Carter Lawrence while the real culprits live and go free-that can’t happen. And besides, he knows nothing or almost nothing. He never knew where I was, or when, and he doesn’t know where I am now. None of them-Nick, Harvey, or Carter-have any of these details, nor have any of them been privy to my activities up to now. I’ve never admitted to them what I’ve admitted to you. I’ve never discussed it with them. If you think about it, you and Isobel are the only people with specific knowledge, directly from me, about what I’ve already done and what I plan to do in the future. You heard what Isobel said. What she knows can’t be published without your own exposure, and even then, it lacks corroboration. Just your word. This conversation, for example.” Leonard looked around the patio, out toward the open sea, then behind him at the closed sliding doors, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “We’re alone. Just you and me, Walter. No corroboration.”
“Michael DelGrazo,” Walter said. “You might just as well have said Kaiser Zoesay.”
“Do you have any more questions about this?” Leonard asked.
“Did you shoot Pitts with the Walther? Why did you meet Carter Lawrence, Nick Stevenson, and Harvey Daniels in Clarksville, Tennessee? How come-”
“No, Walter. Only questions about this.” Leonard held up the folder with both hands. “You already know the answers to the other questions, most of them, anyway. And in time you’ll figure out what you don’t know now. But we’ll never speak of it. Never.”
“Dr. Roy?”
“Never.”
“You think this is justice, don’t you?” said Walter. “You’re acting righteously? You believe that, don’t you?” Now it was Leonard who chose silence. Walter continued. “Your wife, your daughter, your grandsons-they ate lunch and died. The meat killed them, and there were people who let that happen. What did you do? You killed those people, the ones who could have prevented it. One by one, you shot them down. For their complicity, they died.” A touch of sarcasm, mixed with murky anger, rose in Walter’s voice. “Oh, of course, you saved the best for last. The guilty must pay, and pay, and pay some more. What you’re doing to Stein and Maloney is worse than death, at least for them it will be. Shit, they go from living on five hundred dollars a minute to five hundred a week. How are they going to do that? They can’t live in their homes if their wives own and keep the property, or you’ll kill them. They can’t use a car that belongs to someone in the family, or you’ll kill them. They can’t wear the same clothes, make phone calls on the same cell phones, eat the same food, use the same health insurance-God knows what else they can’t touch, or you’ll kill them. But they can stay alive. That you’ll allow. For men like that, they’d be better off dead.” Walter leaned forward across the table separating the two men. Leonard was perfectly still, stoic.
“For Stein and Maloney,” said Walter, “money is like drugs. They’re addicts, and you know that. A lifetime of fabulous wealth, and now they’re reduced to poverty. They can’t make it. They’ll cheat. Somewhere, somehow, they will. Maybe Nathan Stein gets some money-a hundred grand, two hundred grand-from one of his kids. You know, kids can have a hard time seeing their fathers suffer. Perhaps Maloney begs his wife to put some money in a Swiss bank account for him.
It could happen, right? They take the money and you kill them. You call this justice? For whom? For Nina? For Ellen? For her sons? I don’t think so. Vengeance, that’s what it is. ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ And who the hell are you, God? Whose guilt are you killing for?” Leonard didn’t say a word, the expression on his face remained unchanged. “Where were you?” Walter asked. “Where were you when it mattered?”
Now Leonard seemed about to say something, but instead, he breathed deeply through clenched teeth, sat back, and a small, almost imperceptible, nervous and hostile smile crossed his lips. He would not be baited.
“I know about Barbara Coffino,” said Walter. The smile on Leonard’s face disappeared. Walter could see him catch his breath before it choked him.
Leonard broke the awkward silence by asking, “Have you ever killed anyone, Walter? You look like the kind of man who’s killed. Perhaps you’ve considered killing me. I suppose I’ll never know. You also look like the kind of man who knows- who knows -killing is sometimes the only way. If I’m wrong, tell me. But I know I’m right and you know it too.” They looked at one another, each man keenly aware, whether they liked it or not, they shared a common value, a common judgment, a common past.
Isobel returned to the patio, this time leaving open the sliding doors behind her. Walter could not interpret her look. The expression on her face, the tightness in her cheeks, the lines across her forehead, this was all new to him.
Leonard said, “I hope you’ll take it, Isobel. For Nina, Ellie, and for the boys.” He turned to Walter and said softly, “If you’ll call a car I’d be grateful. It’s time for me to go.”
“Go where?” Isobel asked.
“Home.”
“When is the next ferry, Walter?” Isobel said.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Not sure,” he said, trying to recover himself.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Leonard. He knew there was a boat waiting for him in the harbor at Cruz Bay, and a chartered Gulfstream, fueled and ready to fly, on the tarmac at St. Thomas. Walter used his cell phone to make the call and told Leonard the car would be ready in ten minutes.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll wait at the gate. And I’ll see myself out. Please don’t get up.” He shook hands with Walter, who was still seated at the table, his back to the water, looking in at his own house through the glass. Then Leonard turned to Isobel, where she stood. He smiled and extended his hand to her. When she took it, he covered hers with his other hand and held on to her tightly. “I hope you’ll take it,” he said before walking out. He did not look back.
Walter reached over for the file folder Leonard left behind. He opened it and began to read the first page of the first document, the one Leonard referred to as the cover letter. “Holy shit!” he said.
“Holy shit is right,” Isobel said, her attention far away on one of the small, empty islands offshore, unaware of anything Walter was reading. “You don’t know the half of it. That was Nicholas Stevenson who called me. When
I called him back he offered me a job. He wants me to be the Executive Director for a new organization of which he and his partner Harvey Daniels are trustees. You won’t believe this. It’s a nonprofit foundation called The Center for Consumer Concerns. He wants me to come to Atlanta to discuss the details. Isn’t that a bit strange, don’t you think? Leonard Martin’s law p-partners offering me a job, especially this sort of job?”
“Well,” Walter said. “It’s a foundation that’ll have a lot of money.”
“What are you talking about? Is this something you and Leonard discussed while I was away?” He told her everything Leonard Martin had said to him, repeating his exact words as best he could remember them. “And it says how much in there? How much money?” she said, pointing to the folder. Walter nodded. “How much?” she asked.
Walter leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms out as wide as they would go, breathed deeply, smiled broadly, and said, “A little short of six billion dollars.”
“Oh, m-my,” said Isobel.
New York
Tom Maloney and Nathan Stein were still squirreled away atop the Waldorf Astoria, each keenly aware they were the only ones left. It preyed on their minds. It was the evil, ugly monster hiding in the closet, and they were ten-year-olds all over again, afraid to turn the lights out. Nathan couldn’t sleep or eat or sit in one place or calm down long enough to simply move his bowels. Maloney could do little more than lay on the couch. They bickered.
“Safe as… what the fuck did you say it was? ‘Cows in Calcutta’ or some other Godfuckingforsaken place. You’re full of shit, Tom. You’re fucking full of shit! And it’s going to get me killed.” Maloney still just sat there, saying nothing. Stein paced. “Goddamn, MacNeal and Hopman and you-yes, you Tom-you’re all getting me fucking killed!” Maloney was past the point of trying to soothe Nathan’s spirits. He no longer possessed the energy to play that stupid, fucking game. Pretense had flown out the window and off the penthouse patio, carried by the winds to the four quarters of New York City.
The Knowland Retribution l-1 Page 33