Clawback

by Mike Cooper

  It’s glorious, that long endless moment when certainty finally arrives. You lean in and she’s there, and you’re there, and everything, everything is possible in the whole world.

  Her mouth opened under mine, and I started to pull her close. The damn table was in the way—then somehow it wasn’t, and we were grappling, tearing at each other, one chair falling and the other screeching across the floor. I felt her arms around and under my shirt, raking. I slipped one hand under the waistband of her skirt, cupped and lifted her into me.

  We broke for air, an instant. She found my belt buckle the same moment I identified her bra snap. I stumbled, off balance, and my hip banged the counter. The dish drainer slid into the sink, crockery crashing.

  “Oops. Sorry.”

  “Not here. Ridiculous. Come on.” Clara pulled me toward a door off the narrow living room.

  The bedroom had one small futon frame and one bed, clothes and towels and books piled everywhere. Clara clicked on a tiny Art Nouveau nightlight, and pushed me toward the bed.

  “Two—?”

  “Kimmie and I share this room. Rondo gets the other.”

  “Kimmie?” I looked at the futon in some alarm. “When is she coming home?”

  “Don’t worry.” Clara disappeared out the door.

  And Jesus, I was on fire. “Wait, what—”

  She was back in a few seconds. “Rondo won’t miss these.”

  A tear strip of condoms.

  “Excellent. You sure?”

  “He has plenty lying around—he’s always bringing his boyfriends home.”

  Oh.

  “How long is he going to be gone?”

  “Long enough.” She sank onto the bed, and I pulled her in and down. “More than long—oh!”

  We lay in the tangled mess of clothes, sheets, books, paper, power cables and other stuff of daily life that Clara might have kept in a dresser or a wardrobe or a desk if the apartment had been large enough to accommodate such furniture. I could feel the beat of her heart, its rate still elevated—though no less than mine. She had one hand on my chest, lightly exploring the muscles.

  “Another one?”

  “They’re mostly from the same incident.”

  “I thought you wore armored vests and like that.”

  “Not always.” I remembered the outpost, far up a desolate, scorching valley, our only supply line a twice-weekly Chinook. The Talibs attacked at least every day, and after a few months, it was one long blur of battle, cold food and bad dreams, never enough sleep. By the end, all discipline had collapsed. We’d sometimes jump into firefights wearing nothing but boots and underwear. Visiting officers had trouble with that, but too many of us were dying for them to make anything of it.

  “I’m not all post-traumatic or whatever,” I said, “but let’s talk about something else, okay?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The window was open a few inches, and a chill night breeze blew through, cooling the sweat on my back. Clara had pulled a blanket half over us.

  “Last I checked,” she said, “Terry Plank was still alive.”

  “Beating the odds.”

  “I don’t know. Intrade hasn’t set up an explicit contract for that outcome. But Plank Industrials stock is still in a nosedive.”

  “I saw. Down twenty-one percent at close. Hard to believe the market rates the entire company on one man.”

  “It’s all short interest. Something like a sixth of the float has been sold short now.”

  “They’re convinced Plank’s a walking dead man.” I settled more comfortably alongside her. “Which isn’t a bad bet, considering the shooter’s track record.”

  “So much for Ganderson telling the world he’d hired the Lone Ranger. You’d think that might have made Plank seem a little safer.”

  “In one sense.” I ran one hand down her side. “On the other hand, Ganderson’s announcement also confirmed the entire scenario. No doubters anymore.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” I raised up on one arm. “I can’t make the story add up right. I’m not saying all these bankers deserved to die—but there are so many possible motives, and so many possible suspects, it’s too hard to sort out.”

  “On the other hand,” said Clara, “they’re no more than a drop in the bucket.”

  “How’s that?”

  “People willing to take your money and blow it on bad investments? I mean, that’s what Wall Street does. All of them. The real question isn’t why Marlett and Akelman and the others were killed—it’s why the thousands of others weren’t.”

  “Hmm. That’s a good point.”

  I could almost see it…but the understanding slipped away again. “I’ll figure it out,” I muttered. “One of these days.”

  “Anyway, like I said, what are you planning to do?”

  “This second?” I lay back down. “I dunno. Maybe…drift slowly off to sleep?”

  “No.” Clara batted my chest. “About Saxon and his killers.”

  “Oh.” Since she was right there, I brushed my nose against hers, then settled back. “Walter’s not sure, but I think we have to assume they’re the ones who destroyed his building. Which suggests they’re sweeping up. Taking care of loose ends.”

  “What about going to the police?”

  “Uh-uh. The only way to convince them I’m not a crank would mean incriminating myself, far more than I can tolerate.”

  “Can’t I tell them? Or just send in an anonymous tip. They have an 800-number set up.”

  “That’s the FBI. But, no—they’re getting thousands of wackos a day. Plank would be dead ten times over by the time they took it seriously.”

  “You can’t just let it go!”

  “No.” I sighed. “No, I can’t.”

  A door opened, out in the apartment. A moment later light came on, shining under the bedroom door. Clara listened for a moment, then said, “Rondo.”

  “Thank goodness.” I’d pulled the blanket all the way up to my chin without thinking.

  “Don’t worry. I put Kimmie’s pajamas on the couch in the living room. She’ll know what that means.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.” Clara nestled.

  After a moment, the nestling became more active.

  “Hey,” I whispered. “Keep it quiet.”

  “Don’t worry about Rondo.”

  “No, I mean—”

  “Let’s just do…this.”

  “This?”

  “This.”

  “…this…”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  At four a.m. I couldn’t sleep anymore.

  Clara mumbled and shifted when I disengaged myself, moving slowly and gently, but she didn’t waken. I pulled on my boxers and slipped out of the bedroom.

  Kimmie was zipped into a padded sleeping bag on the couch, only the top of her head visible. In the kitchen I drank a glass of water. Someone had cleaned up the dishes Clara and I had flung to the floor. LEDs glowed on electronic devices here and there, including my cellphone collection, all plugged in and charging. I leaned over to study the radio sitting on the microwave, wondering if I could turn it on quietly enough to listen to WBAI.

  “Silas.” A whisper.

  I spun around. Rondo stood in the opening from the living room, wearing cotton shorts and an unbuttoned shirt with its sleeves torn off.

  “Sorry,” I whispered back. “Didn’t think anyone was awake.”

  A shrug. He had a dominating presence in the small kitchen—taller than me, muscled, that absurd Fu Manchu. Every other guy who tried it would look ridiculous, but on Rondo the mustache was hip, even dangerous.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Want coffee or something?”

  “I’m good.”

  We sat at the table, lifting and setting down the chairs so they didn’t make noise.

  “Something I want to ask,” said Rondo quietly.

  “
What’s up?”

  “I’ve known Clara, jeez, forever. Three years, almost. Kimmie was advertising for roommates, and we showed up at the same time.”

  Okay, I could see where this was going.

  “She’s a great person,” I said.

  “Yes.” He watched me, not blinking. “She is.”

  “And you’re wondering what she’s gotten mixed up in.” I waited for a nod. “You’re wondering about me.”

  “Clara’s important to us.”

  “And to me.” I sighed. “The guys who attacked her in the park? I ran them off. We encountered one of them later, and he damn near killed me. Wait a minute.” Rondo had started to speak, but I raised my hand slightly. “He’ll be trying again. Absent other considerations, I’d probably just go home and wait for him. The issue is he obviously knows who Clara is.”

  He frowned. “You’re drawing him here, instead of to you.”

  “He might come here first anyway.”

  “Risking Clara’s life!”

  “Protecting her.”

  We glared at each other for a minute.

  “You’re dangerous,” said Rondo, finally.

  “Not to Clara. Not to you or Kimmie, either.”

  “Anyone can tell.” Rondo gestured slightly at my hands. “You’ve been punching the heavy bag for years. What do you weigh, Silas—one-eighty? Eighty-five?”

  “In there.”

  “I’ve got forty pounds on you, then, and a third-dan rank. And I bet you could walk straight over me.”

  “Probably.” I nodded. “It wouldn’t be easy, though.”

  And somehow, that broke the tension. Rondo kind of laughed, without making any noise.

  “No,” he said. “It wouldn’t.”

  We sat for a while longer. Rondo offered me a banana. Kimmie muttered and tossed on the couch.

  “I need to talk to someone,” I said. “Which means I need to leave for a while.”

  “I’m here until noon.” He stood up. “Hang on.”

  While he disappeared into his room, I collected my cellphones, packing up the chargers and distributing the phones themselves into the pockets of my jacket.

  “Here.” Rondo offered me some folded T-shirts, underwear, a pair of pants. “Clara said you could use a change.”

  “Thanks.” I guess I could roll up the cuffs—no time to be picky. “You don’t mind staying with her?”

  “I won’t let anything happen to her.”

  I pulled on one of the shirts, switched my belt over to his pants, found a pair of socks.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have gotten her involved.”

  “Ah, forget it.” He waved it off with one hand. “No one tells Clara what to do.”

  “I’m figuring that out.”

  He let me out, latching the door silently behind me. I stood on the landing for a moment, listening for the clicks of the double bolt and the security bar.

  Then I headed downstairs, checking my watch: 4:50.

  Ganderson should just be getting to his pool.

  Outside, the city was still dark, the air damp and metallic with coming rain. One or two other people were on the street—a college kid on his way home, an older man leaving for an early shift. A bus trundled down the street, lit up inside, passengers staring blankly out the windows.

  No public transit for me today. Ganderson was in Connecticut—I needed my car. I zipped my jacket, pocketed my hands against the dawn chill and walked quickly to the garage.

  The concrete ramp smelled of old exhaust and oil. Goldfinger’s booth was brightly lit, as always, and empty. No surprise—it was barely past five a.m.

  But the wooden gate bar was lying on the ground, broken.

  I stared. From the look of its position, the bar had been smashed by someone driving in, who’d knocked it off to one side. No tire marks, no panic braking.

  Deliberate.

  I ran to Goldfinger’s utility cubicle. The metal door was closed, but a faint glow came from underneath.

  “Ernie? Ernie?” I hammered the door, which abruptly opened under the blows.

  A single ceiling bulb cast the only light, but it was enough to see the destruction. Every single item in the room had been tossed, and most thrown into the center of the floor in a big heap—broken shelves, soda cans, papers, old clothes. Goldfinger’s computers were in pieces, along with his forensic equipment. The couch had been overturned, its upholstery completely ripped out.

  Ernie himself lay on the concrete floor, shoved into a corner. His body was broken and unmoving, obviously dead.

  For a long moment I could only stand motionless, shocked into immobility.

  A hum from HVAC in the building, but no other noise in the garage. I looked back across the floor. All the cars seemed empty and still. And why would the attackers wait around? They had no reason to expect anyone—say, me. They were long gone.

  No surveillance video. I’d asked about cameras, the first time I talked to Ernie and negotiated my own parking space. Building management was too cheap, and couldn’t see a reason for it anyway. Not in a small mid-income, mixed-use facility.

  Keeping my hands in my pockets, I stepped carefully into the room. Just to be sure, I leaned over Ernie, but there was nothing I could do. He was beyond help. It looked like a shooting—small entry wounds, big mess in back of his head and chest—and a sting of propellant hung in the dank air, over the smell of blood and death.

  But he had his guns out. One in each hand. And they’d been fired, too. I glanced backward, guessing at trajectories, and saw bullet holes in the wall, along with two obvious dents inside the door. There was some chance that not all of the blood was his.

  He’d gone down like the OG he’d always wanted to be.

  The rubbish of his small life lay strewn everywhere. I pushed at a torn cardboard box on the floor, uncovering a splayed paperback and a crumpled takeout sack. At the desk I saw a cordless telephone and an answering machine, both broken open. It looked like their chips had been pulled.

  This was pointless. Whatever his attackers had been after, either they’d found it or they hadn’t, but I certainly wouldn’t learn anything by picking through the wreckage. And if it was a setup—unlikely, but always possible—then I needed to vanish.

  Enough.

  I couldn’t take my car—the risk that it was connected, or that the killers had booby-trapped or marked it somehow, was too great. I ran, pulling a phone out as I went.

  The emergency dispatcher must have just come on shift. She listened to the details, alert and no-nonsense, and I could hear a keyboard clacking as she started asking who I was. Of course I hung up, but hopefully she’d have the police on scene in a few minutes. It was the least Ernie deserved.

  I wished I had more to give him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  It had to have been Saxon.

  Somehow he’d known when his military records had been accessed. Not too hard, now that it was all computerized in St. Louis—he’d have had no trouble bribing a GS-3 clerk to keep an eye out. Or just asking for a favor. Civilians were always happy to help out a bona fide war hero.

  And if the records request was connected to the IAFIS search, well, where else would Saxon’s fingerprints have come from but the baton? Which is what Ernie’s killers must have been after. Saxon was eliminating all possible leads that might point in his direction.

  A light misting rain had begun to fall, making the weary dawn even gloomier. Streetlights were half on, half off down the block. At the far corner I saw a street sweeper turn left and disappear, its clatter and roar fading.

  I didn’t want to go back to Clara’s. Rondo was there keeping watch, but more important, my primary objective now had to be Saxon and his kill team. I could find them, or they could find me—either way, I wanted it to happen as far away from Clara as possible.

  I had no leads, of course. But as I walked along, leaving the neighborhood, wondering where I could get a car, a realization hit.
>
  My name wasn’t the only one connected to every one of the dead Wall Streeters. There was another person, right at the center—and he’d been there all along.

  I didn’t stop walking. Too much undirected anger not to keep moving. But I found the right phone and hit redial.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Silas.”

  Ganderson didn’t sound surprised, or sleepy, or annoyed, or anything else I might have expected at five-thirty in the morning. Some kind of background noise—banging, voices—made the line a little unclear. But if anything, he sounded…distracted.

  “What do you want?”

  “We need to talk,” I said. “Now.”

  “I’m in the middle of something here.”

  “Right now.”

  “Sorry, this isn’t a good—”

  “Are you at home?”

  “No.” He barked, not a laugh, but more than a grunt. “No, I’m at the fucking Eighth Precinct.”

  That brought my pace to a halt.

  “Are you—did they arrest you?”

  “Arrest me?” Angry. “What are you talking about? No, it’s Brandon.”

  “Brandon. Your son?”

  “Lawyer’s on the way. Listen, do you know anyone here? Anyone in the cops at all? I just want him out!”

  I was on 79th, almost at Second Avenue. A taxi waited at the light, going the other way. I waved to the driver, and he cut a U-turn against the red.

  “The Eighth?” I said. “Lower East Side?”

  “Yeah. You know it?”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The cabbie coasted to the curb in front of me. I grabbed its door handle. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  The Eighth Precinct is headquartered in the East Village, west of Tompkins Square Park, a four-story bunker of stone and exposed girders painted white. I’d never been inside, but I make it a point to scout all the lower Manhattan police stations at least once a year. I even visit the cop bars now and then, pretend I’m a wannabe, see what they’ll tell me. You never know.

  So I was familiar with the building. When the taxi had driven off, leaving me across the corner, I tried Ganderson’s cellphone but got no answer.