Clawback

by Mike Cooper

  “I read. Don’t you?”

  “Just YouTube.”

  We crossed 13th against a red light, forcing a speeding yellow cab to veer out of our lane. Farther down the street a handful of people stood outside a nightclub—the Portico—under colored lights. Closer, we could see velvet ropes holding the queue, and two large men in double-breasted suits standing before the metal doors. A red-uniformed figure supervised the valets driving off in Escalades and Beamers.

  As one mind, Zeke and I crossed the street, to pass on the far side.

  “I don’t see what you want out of Riverton,” said Zeke.

  “They made pots of money off Akelman’s fund.”

  “So you think Riverton’s the button man?”

  “‘Button man’? Who are you, Robert Mitchum?”

  “Doesn’t make sense.” Obstinate.

  “Look, every dollar lost by Akelman’s fund, after he died, went into someone else’s pocket. Get it?”

  Zeke was still thinking while we walked opposite the nightclub’s entrance. Just as we passed, the doors were slammed open, knocking one of the two bouncers aside. The crowd outside parted as a scrum of men in dark suits scuffled out onto the sidewalk.

  It wasn’t much of a fight. Not a fight at all, in fact. Seven large men, a majority with shaved heads and all wearing black, hauled six other guys out. The offenders were at least average size and seemed fit, but they looked like kids in comparison to the professionals.

  Of course we stopped to watch.

  “Fuck you, motherfucker! You’re a fucking piece of fucking shit!”

  “Out you go, gentlemen.”

  Zeke gestured with his chin. “He’s using a police come-along. Nice.”

  “Tricky to get it right without practice.” I peered more closely. “That guy looks familiar.”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Don’t think so…”

  “Might not be the best time to say hi.”

  On the other side of the street, the security chief looked around. “Any of you gentlemen use the valet service? We can get your car for you.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “No? Fine.” The chief nodded to the small crowd enjoying the show. “Sorry to disturb you folks.” He turned back to his crew. “Down the block, please.”

  The bouncers pushed the miscreants halfway down the street, then set them free. More “fuck you” this and “motherfucker” that—a good sign none of them had been in the service, where if nothing else you learn to swear properly—and the security staff walked back to the club. All in a night’s work.

  The street quieted down. The suburban teenagers might not have gotten into Portico, but they had a good story. The chief shuffled his staff around, replacing the door guards with two others, and the rest returned inside. The half dozen men who’d been kicked out muttered at the end of the block, but it was obvious they wouldn’t be going back for more, and they soon disappeared around the corner. Zeke and I walked on.

  “It wasn’t Batman,” he said, returning to our conversation. “That’s what you’re telling me.”

  “Right.”

  “Akelman got killed so someone could scavenge the carcass.”

  “Not just roadkill—they walked away with twelve million when the fund cratered.”

  “Okay, I get it.” He sounded satisfied. “You want to find out who was on the winning side of Akelman’s death spiral.”

  I nodded as we turned the corner. “All makes sense now? Every question answered? Any other little details we need to cover before you tell me whether you’re in?”

  “I don’t think—”

  A sudden shout from across the street broke our attention.

  “Hey! Hey! It’s the motherfucker who robbed me!”

  “What?”

  “It’s him! Come on!”

  We looked up to see the six bounced louts starting across the pavement toward us.

  “I’ll be damned,” I said to Zeke.

  “You do know him.”

  “Yup,” I said. “His name’s Hayden.”

  And like a sick blessing it was. The DA was taking her sweet time locking up the son of a bitch—I’d sent her Walter’s documents days ago.

  They converged, surrounding us. Hayden got right in my face, jabbing at my chest with one finger.

  “You owe me, motherfucker,” he growled.

  “Don’t you know any other bad words?”

  His pals muttered. We were out of sight of the club, and this block was deserted—shuttered buildings, dark windows. Zeke had stepped slightly behind me and to the left, facing out.

  “You sucker-punched me the other night.” Hayden paused, then reached into his jacket and in a flash drew a semiautomatic pistol. Before I could react, he’d pointed it right at my nose, three feet away.

  “Shoe’s on the other foot now, huh, shithead?” He grinned so wide it must have hurt his mouth.

  I didn’t move. “What do you want?”

  “What was it?—both knees, both elbows, and one ear?” His face twisted. “But first, we’re going to pound the shit out of you and your fairy fuck buddy.”

  Zeke made a small cough that I recognized as a chuckle.

  “Our business is over,” I said. “And that’s all it was—business.”

  “You fucked with me, and I’m going to fuck with you!”

  I breathed—once in, once out, deep. “Walk away, Hayden.”

  “Fuck you!” His face went red.

  I waited a second, until his next breath—then dropped, turned half left and launched myself straight at his midriff, shoulder first.

  The gun went off and missed. If he’d had the sense to aim at my center of mass, it would have been harder, but the face is only a few inches wide—even from three feet, it’s easy to duck.

  I hit him hard. As he started to fall back, I brought up my left arm, locked his gun hand, and twisted sharply. At the same time I punched him right under the floating ribs, in the soft tissue, with my knuckles bladed.

  The bruises I’d taken from the fall into the Hudson hurt. I hoped Hayden hurt more.

  He sagged, but the gun was still in play. I struck again, this time his face. His nose went splat, blood flying.

  Another shot. Someone yelled. I twisted Hayden’s arm farther, forcing him down, and finally yanked the gun free of his weakened hand.

  And at that exact moment, one of his pals kicked me in the side.

  Oooof. That hurt.

  Since I was already falling, I went with it, watching the guy wind up another kick. I let him in, then caught the leg, crouched slightly, and flipped him up and backward. Tendons and ligaments tore. The man screamed as he tumbled to the ground.

  I kept moving, turning around, spinning Hayden’s pistol into a firing grip at the same time. It was familiar—one nine-millimeter or another, the good ones all have that confident, competent feel to them.

  I didn’t want to shoot anyone, but this had gone way out of control. I was ready to put down the entire litter if necessary.

  Not necessary.

  It was over.

  Zeke stood pretty much exactly where he’d been a moment ago. Hayden’s four other friends lay on the ground around him, groaning. Two were unconscious. I straightened up.

  Zeke put his hands in his pockets. “You got blood on your neck,” he said. “And that shirt’s ruined.”

  I dabbed at the scrape. He was probably right. “You want to go through their wallets?”

  “What for? They were just being assholes.”

  “That’s what for.” I started with the unconscious ones, emptying billfolds and dropping them onto the ground. When I got to Hayden he glared up at me through tears of pain. Broken noses hurt.

  “This is a nice stack of cash.” I held the wad I’d collected. Hundreds, maybe a few thousand dollars. “I’ll set it right here.”

  I laid the bills on the ground, between the bodies. The ones who were awake stared at me.

  “You might need
it at the hospital. I’m sure you all remember who had how much, so you can divide it up.”

  Zeke made that coughing sound again.

  “As for the ID and credit cards…” I looked at the stack of plastic in my left hand. “I guess it’ll be a race. Can you cancel everything before I sell them over in Alphabet City?”

  No one said a word. I went back to Hayden and leaned down. He had both hands on his face.

  “I’m keeping the pistol,” I said. “You’re a loose cannon.”

  “Fuck you.” Barely more than a whisper, but consistent to the end.

  “Oh well.”

  Zeke and I walked off, no particular rush, but no reason to wait around either. The cops were going to have fun interviewing the only potential witnesses: the clubgoers and bouncers. I didn’t think there were any surveillance cameras to worry about. This wasn’t Times Square. But even if there was one between Volchak’s and here, the light was too dim and the video quality too low-res to be a problem.

  A block away I wiped down the handgun with my shirt, ejected the magazine and dropped the pieces down two different storm drains.

  Zeke nodded. “You’re not really walking over to the Alphabets, are you?”

  “No.” I wiped the cards where I’d touched them. Another two blocks and we found a blue USPS mailbox, and I put them through the slot. “They’ll get them all back tomorrow.”

  Zeke shook his head. “Petty.”

  I kept back Hayden’s license and Amex. Those I’d send to the DA.

  And I’d started to wonder. Earlier, Hayden had seemed like just another prick, the kind you run into all the time south of Park Place. But he was comfortable with that pistol, and entirely ready to murder two strangers over, well, not all that much.

  Maybe Walter had been right to be suspicious. Could Hayden have somehow been involved in Marlett, or even the others?

  The night was pleasant, cool and finally dry. My chest hurt, but more from the fall into the Hudson yesterday than from the kick I’d taken. Not a bad day.

  “So, this job,” I said. “Are you in, or not?”

  “Sure.” Zeke flexed his hands. “You obviously need someone to watch your back.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “I’m sorry,” I said, holding the phone awkwardly while I pressed ice onto my neck. I’d bought a bag at a mini-mart on the way. The Mallory Arms didn’t provide amenities like ice machines.

  “Why? It’s not late,” Johnny said.

  “Not about that.” I knew he lived on four or five hours of sleep a night, like Edison or Napoleon. Or Lady Gaga, for that matter. Energetic successful people could do without.

  Myself, I need a good nine hours, at least every other day.

  “No,” I said. “About Simon Faust. I would have called if I’d had any idea he was on deck.”

  “Oh that.” Johnny made a dismissive snort. “I heard about him hours before Green Goblin rappelled into his loft.”

  “Rappelled? What?”

  “Isn’t that how it happened?”

  “Jesus, can’t the reporters get anything right? It was a sniper, across the block.”

  “And he got away by jetpack.” Okay, he was pulling my leg.

  “Spiderman could have followed, except the Hudson was in the way.”

  “You were there, weren’t you?”

  I grimaced. “Let’s talk about that some other time.”

  I’d walked the fifteen blocks to the Mallory after leaving Zeke, unwilling to hail a cab with blood on my neck and shirt. Drivers remember things like that. Once I had finally got in I kept thinking about dialing Clara. I knew it was a bad idea. I understood clearly that she needed time to decide. Far and away the best thing would be to wait, of course. But my reptile brain had other ideas, and my hand kept drifting to the phone. Finally, in a defensive maneuver, I’d called Johnny instead.

  “So if you heard about Faust beforehand, did you, ah, trade on the event?”

  “No.” He sounded frustrated. “I couldn’t figure anything out. And neither could anyone else, apparently. I’ve been watching the wire all day, and zero has happened in Neon Rain. The usual trickle of trades, some in, some out, but nothing else. None of the investments have moved significantly.”

  “Interesting.” I considered. “Maybe that’s why the assassin was okay with leaking the rumor ahead of time.”

  “Or maybe we figured wrong, and he isn’t doing it for money.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Johnny laughed. “Not in this world.”

  “Me neither.”

  Melting ice dripped down my torso. I shifted so less would run onto the pillow. It was a crummy bed in a crummy hotel, but it would only be worse sopping wet.

  “Hey, are you going to the target competition next weekend?” Johnny asked.

  “What?”

  “My guys were talking about it this morning. A shooting contest at some firing range on Long Island—the ‘First Corporate Challenge Target Competition.’ They’re excited.”

  “A Saturday crowd of ramped Wall Streeters with guns? No thanks.”

  “Rifle, pistol, trap and ten-meter running target.” Johnny started laughing. “I like that last one. How do they find someone to be the runner?”

  “They pick up day laborers from the Home Depot parking lot.”

  “No, really?”

  “Unless it’s Olympic sanctioned. Then it has to be a union guy.”

  After my run-in with Hayden, I was starting to think maybe Johnny should arm himself. Lower Manhattan had apparently gone completely gun crazy.

  “Change of topic,” said Johnny.

  “Sure.”

  “What have you heard about Plank Industrials?”

  “Ah…” I thought. “Old-line manufacturing?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I think they used to be part of the Dow, years ago. I don’t know what they actually make.”

  “Now that you mention it, I’m not sure either. Crucibles for steel mills or something.”

  “And they’re still in business? I though all that moved to China and India in the eighties.”

  “Fortune 600.”

  “Huh.”

  “And a byzantine stock structure to keep control in the founder’s family. The CEO is the grandson, Terry Plank.”

  “Okay, I learned something today. What’s the point?”

  “I might have heard Terry’s next on the list.”

  “Really?” The cabal had changed tactics, for sure, if they were now leaking everything ahead of time.

  “Maybe. Someone mentioned it.”

  “How many someones?”

  “Right. Good question.” I could imagine Johnny nodding to himself. “Only one, a trader I know. Long-term, value, focused on industrials. Plank’s in his area.”

  “Where’d he hear it?”

  “At the gym. Pickup basketball, someone was talking. He says.”

  Interesting, but I didn’t know what to do with it. “News to me.”

  “The stock’s started to go down. Off two percent at close of business.”

  “Are you in?”

  A long pause. The line sounded dead, the way digital does when no one’s talking. “Johnny?”

  “I can’t decide.”

  “What’s the short interest?” That is, how many traders were betting that the stock would go down further.

  “Five-point-one. Up a little.”

  “So if the assassins have gone short—”

  “The market apparently thinks that Terry Plank dead would be bad news for the company,” Johnny said. “Which is not always the case.”

  Especially in closely controlled family firms—and doubly so at the third generation, when killing off entrenched leadership would usually kick the stock up. “But if it’s true here, then buying a big short position and shooting Plank might be a really good move.”

  “Enough to retire on.”

  “So what are you waiting for?”

&nb
sp; “I dunno. Feels funny, that’s all.”

  Like I said, Johnny relies on instinct.

  “We’re not in well-charted territory,” I said. “Popping CEOs like ducks in a fairway gallery. I can’t believe traders are taking it all in like just another BlackBerry news alert.”

  He laughed. “You need to spend some time on the floor, then.”

  I got up, carrying my phone, to drop the ice in the bathtub. It was almost midnight.

  “Terry Plank must have heard by now,” Johnny said.

  “His personal-security expenses are about to skyrocket, I imagine.” I examined my neck in the mirror. The bleeding had stopped, and the swelling was minimal. Even the bruise on my chest was only slightly discolored. “Maybe I should call, see what he’s willing to pay.”

  “The killers would expect that, though.” Johnny kept going, ignoring me. “Making it all the harder to get at Plank. So why would they say anything?”

  “They’re being sporting. Who cares?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m not in. The pieces don’t fit.”

  “I wonder…”

  “What?”

  “Nah.” I went back to the bed and flopped down. “Can’t see it.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “How was Plank doing before today? Business good? Decent press? Rising stock price?”

  “Normal. Spinning the hamster wheel, no more. His company’s a backwater.”

  “And now?”

  “Whoa.” Johnny was silent for a moment. “You think he put the rumor out himself?”

  “It’s going to get noticed. Really noticed—like dominating-the-news-cycle noticed. And CEOs do seem to like being the center of attention.”

  “Fuck.” An even longer pause. “I can’t think how to play that.”

  “Who says you have to?” I felt some late-night philosophy bubbling up. “Life is about more than just the next trade, you know.”

  “Not a life worth living.” He might have been serious. “Let me know what you hear tomorrow.”

  It was late, and five busy days had caught up with me. I fell asleep thinking about Clara.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  In the morning, I continued charging all my phones, two at a time, using the replacement adapters I’d picked up at a bodega yesterday. As they powered up I turned them on and checked for messages. Only the red-tagged phone had any, and I returned them immediately.