It Happened at Two in the Morning

by Alan Hruska

  “You’re in the bed, okay!”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Damn,” she says.

  “Wasn’t so hard.”

  “You’re impossible,” she says.

  “You think you’re a bargain?”

  THIRTY-NINE

  In the maple-paneled boardroom of Riles Whitney & Co., Julian Althus and the company’s attorney, Harrison Stith, explain the situation, as they know it, to Robertson Riles’s two oldest daughters and their husbands. All sit at the boardroom table, except Stith, who, having said his piece, has helped himself to coffee at the credenza and now peers at a glinting cityscape through the windows on the forty-ninth floor.

  Both girls are tall, slender, long-faced, and mean. They might have been models, had they need of employment, which of course they do not. Their mother was a model—plucked right off the runway by the then–bon vivant, Robbie. He later divorced her and married a young woman who had an entry-level job at Sotheby’s. They met at the York Avenue gallery over a new consignment of post-impressionist paintings and parted thereafter as little as possible. She and their daughter, Elena, were the loves of Robbie’s truncated life.

  The problem facing the unloved daughters is not that they were disinherited. Each had already been endowed with considerable fortunes and would be additionally, and handsomely, provided for at the probate of Robbie’s will. It’s that they were given no stock in the company, which left them without any real power. They would have charity boards, and the balls that went with them, but not credentials for the people running things, the people who mattered—certainly to the sisters, Constance and Patricia, and their respective spouses, Lawton Sergeant and Jasper Kane.

  Lawton does most of the questioning. He’d been to law school for one semester, ten years ago, which he believes qualifies him to lead the discussion. “Surely,” he says, “these unusual circumstances would warrant some equitable relief.”

  “The circumstances being our takeover bid?” says Julian.

  “That and … what Elena’s obviously done. You can’t inherit from someone you’ve … whose life you’ve taken. Given what’s at stake, power should be exercised by the presumptive heirs, Connie and Patty.”

  Stith says, “You’re presuming Elena’s guilty and will lose her inheritance.”

  “Of course,” pipes in Jasper. “Of course she’s guilty.”

  “Yes, well,” Harry says, “in this country—”

  “Don’t lecture us on the presumption of innocence,” says Lawton. “That’s for the criminal courts. Our application would be to a court of equity.”

  Stith eyes the young man with disapproval. “And you would like this application to say precisely what? That the equity court should now try Elena for murder—or maybe just read the newspapers and find her guilty—and then let your wife and sister-in-law vote the stock?”

  “I’m sure,” Lawton says, “a good lawyer can find a more persuasive way to put our position.”

  “A good lawyer,” Stith says, “would not put such a position. For, if he were to do so, sir, he would never be heard to put any other position, at least before that particular judge.”

  “Can’t we at least stop Elena from voting the stock?” Connie says. “She’s wanted for murder and in flight from the law.”

  Julian says, “I’m afraid you may have missed the news. Just came over the wires. Elena’s back and under indictment.”

  “Even better,” Jasper says.

  “I don’t really think so,” Julian says.

  “I agree,” says Harry, returning to his seat at the table. “Nonetheless, Connie, I think we can get some relief for you along the lines you just suggested. Harder case, now that she’s returned, but not impossible, if played right.”

  Althus’s secretary puts her head in the door. “May I speak with you, sir?”

  Glancing at them briefly, Julian steps out, then almost immediately returns. “They’re here,” he says. “Elena and Tom Weldon.”

  Connie and Patty, both standing now, looming over their husbands, say, almost in unison, “We don’t want to see her.”

  “Of course,” says Julian. “You stay here. Harry and I will meet with them in my office, while you depart. And I’ll report to…?”

  “Me,” Connie says. “You report to me.”

  They’re all standing: Stith, Althus, Elena, and Tom.

  “The thing is,” says Tom, “we need to be filled in on your GT&M takeover bid. If you’d just direct your principal M&A people to spare us some time….”

  “We?” Harry says. “Us?” He clucks at Weldon. “You’re a couple now, you two?”

  “You know, Harry,” says Tom, “that’s none of your business.”

  Julian says, “I’ve no problem with the request. Indeed, I’m happy to fill you in myself. But it would seem you two had something more important to worry about right now.”

  “The indictment?” Elena says offhandedly.

  “You think it trifling?”

  “We’re dealing with it,” Tom says.

  “How?” Harry asks, then sees Tom smile. “Perry? Are you being represented by Perry Rauschenberg?” He looks offended, as if the victim of a trick.

  Tom says, “Can we get back to the takeover?”

  “Your interest is what?” says Stith. “Casual? Just like to keep informed?”

  “Of course not, Harry. We want to determine whether it’s in the best interests of the shareholders.”

  “You want to determine that?”

  “Elena does. And she’s asked me to advise her.”

  “I have, yes,” Elena says.

  “And if you think it’s not? In the company’s best interest?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Tom says. “Okay?”

  “You and?”

  “Elena, of course.”

  “Who, at the moment—before probate—has yet to inherit the stock of this company, if she ever does so.”

  “Until probate,” Tom says, “the stock is voted by the executor of the estate. And have you read the will?”

  “She hasn’t been approved yet,” Harry states. “And her sisters will oppose the appointment.”

  “You know where that leads, Harry,” Tom says. “The probate judge won’t appoint the sisters. He’ll appoint some party hack to serve as interim executor until the criminal matter is cleared up. And the hack will be responsive to the highest bidder. You want that? Another bidding war, this one under the table? That Jockery might win? Or you want to do what we asked when we came in here? Fill us in. We might well end up on your side. We might even be able to help you.”

  Julian says, “Makes sense to me, Harry.”

  They’re in Julian’s office, which used to be Elena’s father’s office, and is therefore an awkward place for Julian to be receiving her. Particularly since all Riles’s artwork and artifacts have been replaced with Althus’s own art and memorabilia. He covers his embarrassment with a show of affability. “Fairly straightforward, this GT&M matter. There were three bidders; now it appears it’s just us and the A-rabs, the UAE to be more precise. The key to the outcome is, of course, Sofi Harding, who owns at least thirty percent of the company. Her vote can determine whether the company invokes its poison pill, which as you probably know would make any takeover difficult, if not impossible.”

  “Do you know her?” Elena asks.

  “I’ve met her, of course.”

  “But you aren’t friends?”

  They’ve all been standing, but at this point, Julian sits behind his desk, and Tom and Elena in front of it. Stith doesn’t move. He says, “There are circles, and then there are circles.”

  Tom, glancing at Julian, says, “And hers is … above yours?”

  “Considerably.”

  “Until now,” Elena says. “Now that my dad has died and you’ve taken over.”

  “We’ll see,” Julian says.

  “Did you know she was friendly with my dad?”

  “
Their circles coincided. And that would probably explain why your father appeared to be confident about this acquisition. Invariably, before a takeover battle, one hires an investment banking firm. At an enormous fee, I might add. He didn’t do that, at least not for the strategizing. Said he’d handle this one with just the lawyers. Their fees are a fraction of the bankers.’”

  “And now?” Elena asks. “How would you rate our chances?”

  “I retained a banking firm.”

  “So you’re not so confident.”

  “The UAE could outbid us. They certainly have the greater resources, so it’s a matter of how much they’re willing to spend. Or Ms. Harding—who, I gather, does not now want to sell—could block us. Either of those possibilities is probably greater than our succeeding.”

  Tom asks, “Would it be a good fit? And is the value there?”

  “I think so. Would of course diversify us tremendously. But, naturally, it depends on the price. Our latest offer was two-twenty a share, which was nearly fifteen points over market. We think the Arabs will go to at least two-forty.”

  “And you?”

  “The bankers advise a limit of two-forty-seven.” Julian says.

  “Before you bring it to the board,” Tom says, “Elena should be consulted.”

  “I’m advised by counsel—”

  “Stith, you mean.”

  “Harry, yes—that until probate—”

  Stith breaks in. “I think we’ve gone far enough with this.”

  Tom says, “Whom do you represent, Harry? The company or the other daughters?”

  “I see no conflict.”

  Tom laughs. “Really? No conflict? My, my.”

  Julian, looking surprised, says, “If you’re acting for the other daughters, Harry, even I see a conflict.”

  Harry harrumphs. “I’ll take this under advisement.”

  Tom says, “You do that. And when you arrive at the obvious conclusion, do call. The company’s largest shareholder, for whom I’m acting, would like to know whether your representation is divided. Before the end of the day would be fine. Because if you’re not acting for the corporation, then it’s you from whom further information will be withheld.”

  FORTY

  Skillan’s brain trust on the Riles case has assembled itself in a rebellious arc facing the Acting DA’s desk. Chief Deputy DA Joe Cunningham says, “No one here agrees with this, Mike,” and gains nods from Foster Donachetti and his principal aide, Sammy Riegert.

  “Not surprising,” Mike says.

  “You’re saying you think they’re innocent?”

  “People keep putting those words in my mouth. I’m saying I don’t know. And if I don’t know, a jury won’t know, in which case they’ll acquit.”

  “But you’re also saying,” says Sammy, “you want me to blow the bail application.”

  “Yes,” Mike says in a tone of solicitude.

  “That’s hard on me, Mike. Fucks me up.”

  “Right. Bad, I know.”

  “Shitload of press there.”

  “So get a junior guy to do it.”

  Foster says, “That’ll look bad on you.”

  Mike shrugs. “Someone’s gotta take the hit.”

  “Fuck it,” says Sammy. “I’ll do it. Probably I can talk to the clerk. Put on a show, but get your result anyway.”

  “Thanks, Sammy. And then we can watch them. Watch the whole group. Their interactions. Which reminds me. Where do we stand with that guy, what’s his name? The new CEO?”

  “Althus,” Joe says. “Julian Althus.”

  “Yeah, Sammy, weren’t you supposed to interview him?”

  “Next one up.”

  “You’re suggesting,” Foster says, “the Riles girl might be acting with him?”

  “I’m suggesting we do our jobs. We had a list. Althus is on it.”

  “There’s someone else,” Foster says. “The chauffeur. A man named Morrie Khalil.”

  “You haven’t seen him yet?” Mike says.

  “He’s been out of state. Back now.”

  “Bring him in. Maybe frighten him a little.”

  On a park bench in Brooklyn, Teddy Stamos watches Morrie Khalil lose a chess game to a seventeen-year-old kid.

  Khalil gets up, walks off. Teddy follows.

  “You distracted me,” Morrie says.

  “It’s showtime, Morrie. Chess is the distraction. We’re going to need all your concentration now. Big time.”

  “Will you tell me again,” Elena says over the roar of the subway, “why’re we going to Red Hook?”

  “Just beginning to gentrify,” Tom says.

  “That’s a good thing?”

  “The district is, for two reasons. One, whoever’s hunting us may think outer boroughs, but probably not as far out. Two, it’s in an early stage of gentrification. There’re likely to be plenty of places newly renovated by overextended owners who’d love a short-term rental for cash.”

  “You ever been there?”

  “Once.”

  “And you saw such places?”

  “No, it was years ago.”

  “So how do you know this?”

  “I just said. Gentrifying neighborhood. Gotta be. And there’s a third reason. Which you just reminded me of. Right on the water there’s a factory.”

  “You want to live near a factory?”

  “This one I do,” he says.

  “Okay, what do they make?”

  “Bake, actually. Key lime pie. Any great restaurant in the city offers Key lime pie, it comes from this factory. Fantastic dessert.”

  “We’re moving to Brooklyn so you can eat pie?”

  “We. You’ll love it. Best in the world.”

  “I don’t like Key lime pie.”

  “Neither do I, ordinarily. This is special. You’ll see.”

  Out of the subway, onto the streets, they see the signs of gentrification they’re looking for: women’s boutiques, a Turkish-blend coffee shop, restaurants with blackboard menus out front, antiques shops, and several renovation sites. But no “For-Rent” signs on any of them.

  Elena says, “Maybe there’s a local newspaper?”

  “So you’re willing to live here?”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  “Let’s just keep walking. Something’ll turn up.”

  They turn a corner, toward the water, and it does. A sign, offering apartments for rent. On a building of three stories, clad in brown plastic shingles. It has new windows, a five-step stoop, and a flat roof. Elena says wryly, “House of my dreams.”

  A handsome black man in work clothes opens the door.

  Tom says, “We saw your sign.”

  “One left,” says the apparent owner, who puts down an electric saw. “It’s a third-floor walkup. Wanna look?”

  “How many rooms?” Elena asks.

  “Just the one. But it’s large. And furnished.” Then proudly, “my model apartment.” Then brightly, “has a terrace.”

  “Let’s see it,” Tom says.

  “One room, you crazy?” says Elena.

  The owner looks from one to the other. “Maybe I let you go up alone. Here’s the key.”

  They ascend a new staircase, still encased in white sheetrock. On the top landing, they open a new unpainted wooden door, enter and look: bright floral spread on a king-size bed, high ceiling, wall-to-wall carpet, big windows, new love seat and chairs. And inspect: newly equipped kitchenette, newly tiled bathroom, fresh linen and blankets in a linen closet, plates in the cabinets, cutlery in the drawers. They go out on the deck, which is almost as large as the room. It’s two blocks from the bay, and over the roofs of low buildings, they can see piers and the water.

  Tom says, “This place is perfect.”

  “Perfect? One room?”

  “That guy—he’s gone for broke on the furnishings. Wall-to-wall carpet in Red Hook! And there’s the terrace.”

  “What terrace?” she says. “We’re standing on tar paper. It’s the roof to the
second-story apartment.”

  He laughs. “Look, we’re going to be here two, three weeks at most.”

  “In one room? Without driving each other crazy?”

  “There is that,” he acknowledges. “So let’s take it week at a time. Use it like a hotel room, while we look for something else. Big advantage not to have to shop for all the stuff he’s put in.”

  She thinks about it while gazing at the harbor view. “Let’s see what he’s asking,” Elena says.

  Pleased, Tom follows her down the stairs. Small sofa, big bed, and not a word about either.

  At a neighborhood sidewalk café, sipping Greek coffee, Teddy says, “I’m willing to trust you. We go back to your house. First thing, I deposit a hundred thousand dollars into your account. Then you tell me your whole story, and once I’ve vetted it, you call the DA’s office and give that story to anyone who will record it. In the same conversation, you make a date to see that person ASAP.”

  “You want all this for one hundred thousand?” Morrie Khalil asks.

  “Well, after you testify—tell the same story on the stand—you get the rest of the money.”

  “The full nine hundred ninety-nine?”

  “No. The full two hundred.”

  “Two hundred thousand? For testimony that’s probably worth a billion?” Morrie laughs. “I’m not simpleminded. Maybe you are.”

  “All right, Morrie. Quarter of a million. Half now, half later. That’s it. That’s all I got. You want more, I have to go back to my client. I do that, the extreme probability is, he says fuck you, and finds another witness.”

  “Not with what I have.”

  “Well you see, that’s a problem. I don’t know what you have. I’m negotiating in the blind.”

  “Okay,” Morrie says. “Tell you what. Hundred thousand now. I tell you the full story. You like it, it’s another two hundred thou for the call and the visit, and two hundred thou more for the testimony.”

  “I’ll call my client.”

  “You do that,” Morrie says. “Because now I’m at the end of my limit. You understand, I’ve got a good job. You’re asking me to throw it away. I’m not doing that for peanuts.”

  “Suppose I offered you another job?”