by Tim Green
By the time he was seated, the two cars were moving. When they reached the other side of the river, Rizzo's Mercedes was nowhere to be seen. "Which way?" Peter asked as they looped up and around the long ramp to the interstate.
Cook thought only for an instant. "South," he said. "I'm thinking maybe they're headed to Atlantic City. We'll take the turnpike."
Cook turned to Dan Mott and said, "Call Ira and tell him to keep going west on Route 3. Tell him to go to the goddamn Meadowlands, maybe they're going to the races. Those are our two best bets."
"He's missed most of the races. You don't think he's going north?" Dan asked.
"If he was going north, why would he have gone downtown to the tunnel? He'd take the G. W.," Cook replied. "Why the hell don't we have a tracking device on his car?"
"We've got three cars on him," Dan Mott said apologetically.
"That's the kind of detail I've been talking about," Cook said, then cursed under his breath.
The van raced down the highway at a hundred miles an hour. An hour and a half later, they were in Atlantic City. They went to the Star Casino, where Rizzo liked to stay. He wasn't there and soon they were heading back to New York. Ira had waited for them at the toll station on the New Jersey side of the tunnel. "It took you guys long enough," he muttered as they regrouped, the irritation and frustration at having lost Tony coming through in his voice.
Cook and Meara found the tunnel officer who had handled the accident report. Cook wanted to check out the two men who'd stopped the traffic. He had a feeling the accident was not an accident at all. The tunnel officer was in a break room having a coffee and cigarette with a fellow worker. A twisted tin ashtray filled with wasted butts sat between them on the yellow formica table. Cook asked to see the report. The tunnel officer looked up at him smugly and blew smoke out his nose.
"Funny thing," he said, smirking at Cook, "when we got out of the tunnel, those two were like a couple of old pals. Neither one of them wanted to fill out a report. Good thing for me, just more paperwork. Whadya wanna do? Bring federal charges for having a fender bender and making you late?"
Cook stared blankly at the man, his protruding gut, his rumpled brown uniform, his cigarette with its limp tail of gray, smoking ash.
"Did you ever wonder why you're just a tunnel cop?" Cook said, then turned and left.
Tony was cranking a CD of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Camille never even noticed the commotion behind them in the tunnel. Tony did and he laughed to himself. They headed west on Route 3, then turned onto Route 17, and wound their way slowly north through the stop-and-go traffic of north Jersey's suburbs. They were soon in Rockland County, and shortly after that, the Catskill Mountains rose around them. It was cool out now and Tony rolled down his window. A crescent moon hung orange in the late June sky just over the mountaintops.
"Huh," Camille snorted when she realized what they'd done. "You only wasted about an hour going that way. We could have taken the Thruway or even the G. W. and gotten here a hell of a lot faster."
"I know," Tony said, "but then we wouldn't have gotten to go through the Lincoln Tunnel."
Camille looked over at him.
"So what?"
"So, I love the tunnel," Tony said with a smirk. "It's so romantic . .. like the tunnel of love."
"Jesus, Tony," Camille said, shaking her head and looking back out into the summer night, "sometimes I wonder if you're not completely crazy."
Chapter 16
Grant Carter's long gray limousine 1 slowed in front of the First Bank Building in midtown Manhattan. Carter got out. The early morning traffic droned thickly about him as he strode purposefully, cutting a path through the throng of pedestrians on their way to work. There was an executive entrance, and a doorman in gold and white livery opened the large brass-trimmed glass door and wished him a good morning. Carter took the express car to the fiftieth floor and walked out into a spacious hall of cavernous proportions. Marble and mahogany bordered Oriental rugs and European tapestries. This was where the true power of the city lay. First Bank was first, and the money that went through its tills could finance the operation of almost any country that wasn't one of the G-7.
At the end of the hall was a large reception desk, set amid several comfortable chairs and smaller tables. Other well-dressed men sat about waiting to be summoned to the inner offices, or talking business among themselves or with First Bank executives. Carter announced himself and was immediately shown to the spacious office of Morgan Lloyd. Carter sat alone in the office overlooking the Plaza and Central Park for almost twenty minutes before Lloyd himself entered. Carter was incensed.
"Keeping bankers' hours, Morgan," he said tersely.
Lloyd seemed unfazed. "Good morning, Grant," he said, sitting down at his desk, not bothering to shake hands. "You've got some problems."
This threw Carter off balance. To be summoned to the bank was insult enough without making him wait and then throwing this curt language at him.
"You're the one who'll have the problem, Lloyd, if you think you can talk to me like I just got off the farm," Carter said indignantly. "I was doing business on the fiftieth floor when you were in diapers, and I'll still be doing business here after your usefulness has outlived your manners."
'There's really no sense in going on like this, Grant," Lloyd said, folding his hands in front of his chin. 'The fact is that I'm bringing you down. I'm closing up shop for you, and if you want to do any business at all with First Bank in the future, you'd better get used to the idea of doing as I say, and being damn grateful that I'm even bothering to say it to you."
"I don't have to listen to this," Carter said, rising from his chair. "I'll see Felix about this, and you'll be lucky if you're not out on the street by noon."
"Unfortunately, Grant," Lloyd moaned in a dramatically bored tone, "Felix will not see you. In fact, no one will see you besides me. I've been given the tasteless job of dealing with you, and if you walk out of here now, I get to wash my hands of you and you won't even be able to get on the elevator, let alone past the reception desk. Felix is through with you, Grant. First Bank is almost through with you, too."
Carter was flushed and angry. He picked up a phone on a small round conference table beside Lloyd's desk.
"Yes?"
"Get me Felix LaMonte," he said roughly into the phone.
"Mr. LaMonte's office," said the secretary.
"This is Grant Carter. Tell Felix I need to speak with him right away. Tell him it's important."
Carter waited and smiled grimly at Lloyd.
"Mr. Carter, Mr. LaMonte is busy right now, but he said that you could talk to Mr. Lloyd."
Carter's face turned red, then purple.
"You tell him I need to speak with him now!" Carter roared at the secretary.
Lloyd leaned back in his high-back leather desk chair and smirked.
"Mr. Carter, Mr. LaMonte said any business you have to discuss with First Bank should be discussed with Mr. Lloyd," the secretary said, and then promptly disconnected him.
Carter set the phone down gently and took a deep breath. He had known he was in trouble when he was called for this appointment. He hadn't counted on this, though.
"All right, Morgan," he said, finally gaining control and sitting back down. "Let's talk."
Morgan Lloyd smiled at Grant Carter. He was enjoying himself. Carter was one of those big-shot developers who had thrived during the economic boom of the eighties. He was rich, and because of the New York Titans, he was famous. Those two things had given Grant Carter the notion that he was invincible. Morgan and the executives at First Bank had kowtowed to Carter and his kind for almost a decade. But now the tables had turned. Real estate prices had plummeted, and banks like First Bank could call in loans and literally bankrupt the men who had made vast fortunes in the eighties.
The way I see it, Grant," Lloyd began, "the only thing that separates you from a hundred other developers in this city is the fact that you own the Titans. That is really the onl
y thing of yours that First Bank doesn't own."
"First Bank doesn't own anything of mine!"
Lloyd held up his hand for silence. "Grant, if I make the recommendation, the board is prepared to call in every outstanding loan you have to First Bank. If that happens, then indeed First Bank will own everything, and I mean everything, that you possess. Your harbor project, your high-rises on the upper East Side, your shopping centers on the Island, your warehouses in New Jersey, even your house in the Hamptons. All of it is over-leveraged. Like I said, the only thing that separates you from a hundred others is the team."
"What about Trump?" Carter demanded. "You people have bailed him out! He's overextended like the rest of us! Why should I be any different than him?"
Lloyd chuckled. "Do you think that we aren't calling the shots with him? He doesn't roll over in bed before he checks with us. And the only reason we're carrying him through this is because he's a symbol. He represents capitalism and we feel it's in everyone's best interest to keep him afloat.
"You, on the other hand, are not a symbol of anything beyond greed. You are looked upon as an elitist, one of the NFL owners, the richest of the rich who make money hand over fist without lifting a finger. It's everyone's dream to own an NFL team, and quite naturally, every other person in this country is extremely jealous of you. They don't like you. Ironically, the very tiling that makes your image unworthy of preservation makes your portfolio worthy of preservation.
"So, I've come up with a plan," Lloyd continued with a smile. "I'm prepared to extend your credit on all projects outstanding, except your holdings in New Jersey. I want those liquidated. We'll hold fifty-one percent equity in all other developments. In exchange, you will sell the Titans for a fair-market price to a party that will be determined by me. The proceeds from that sale will be used to capitalize existing projects underway, of which we'll also hold a fifty-one percent interest."
Carter looked evilly at Lloyd. He started to talk but couldn't. His heart was in his throat. Everything he'd worked to create was being stripped from him. And the team, his team, the thing that had made him a household name, this miserable prick wanted his team. Carter knew what he was up to. Lloyd would command enormous power if he could control the assignment of an NFL franchise, not to mention that the bank would be able to continue to finance him almost risk-free and enjoy most of the benefits when the economy finally did turn around. Carter was sick. He'd have to stall. He needed time. Maybe there was another way. He wasn't going to lose his team.
"Can I think about what you've said?" Carter said quietly, with as much humility as his enormous ego could muster.
"Of course you can, Grant," Lloyd said amiably. "I want you to think about the alternatives. Once you do, I think you'll thank me."
Carter got up to leave.
"Let's get together after the Fourth," Lloyd said. "Say ... the eighth, at ten o'clock, bankers' hours, you know."
Carter nodded and walked through the door, closing it quietly behind him.
It was Saturday, but Grant Carter had been up since six. He'd taken a walk on the beach before the crowds and gone to town for a New York Times. Then he played tennis with Matt Schiller, one of his many guests for the weekend. It was his typical weekend routine in the Hamptons, and usually gave him the most peaceful moments of the week. Today, however, he was withdrawn and irritable. Even sneaking an infrequent victory from Schiller in a three-set match couldn't pull him out of his gloom.
After a shower Carter ambled out onto the covered terrace adjacent to the east wing of the house. There were close to twenty people sitting around linen-covered tables, eating brunch or just talking. Everyone he passed greeted him deferentially. He was, after all, their host. He enjoyed surrounding himself with business peers and sycophants every weekend, but the Fourth was his biggest gathering by far. There were at least fifty guests staying with him this weekend, and there would easily be another three hundred attending his party tomorrow. But for the first time since he'd begun the annual celebration almost ten years ago, he wished the house was empty. He had no desire for guests and fireworks and champagne.
There was a long buffet table set out with a maid and a carver in attendance. Carter loaded up a plate with eggs, melon, and roast beef.
"Can I bring you some juice and coffee, Mr. Carter?" the maid asked quietly.
"Yes," Carter said gruffly, looking around at where he would sit.
At the far corner of the terrace, nearest the beach, sat his daughter Camille with some ponytailed buck he'd never seen before. Of course, it wasn't often he'd see Camille with the same man more than once or twice anyway. She was dressed in a blue-and-white-striped top and her hair was piled on top of her head. The young man had on white shorts and a beige, hand-knit cotton sweater. The two of them looked like a picture out of the pages of a magazine. Carter was struck by the young man's intense eyes as he stood to be introduced. The handsome appearance was status quo, but this was the first man Camille had brought around in a while who didn't remind Carter of some Ivy League air-head.
"Daddy, this is Tony. Tony is president of his own construction company," Camille said, watching the two of them shake hands from behind her dark sunglasses.
"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Carter," Tony said with a deference he usually reserved for his uncle.
"Hmm, yes, nice to meet you, Tony. Mind if I sit with the two of you?" he said to Camille. 'Won't cramp your style, will I?"
"Sit down, Daddy, please," Camille sighed.
"Would you like to sit next to Camille, Mr. Carter?" Tony said, offering his seat.
This seemed to amuse Camille. Carter raised one eyebrow and looked intently at Tony, searching for the jest. "No," he said, sitting down across the table from his daughter. "No, thank you."
"What do you find so amusing, young lady?" Carter said tensely, even though they both knew from years of experience that she was the one person from whom he would tolerate almost anything.
"Oh, Daddy," she complained, "you're so damn grumpy."
Carter cut himself a piece of beef and began to chew. He looked out at the beach. People were already setting up their umbrellas and spreading their towels. A heavy middle-aged woman in a floppy white sun hat ambled along the water's edge with a wet golden retriever.
Carter swallowed and said enigmatically, "Camille, if you were me right now, you'd be grumpy, too."
He shifted his gaze to his daughter's guest.
'Tony, let me give you some advice. Camille said you're in construction, right?"
Tony nodded.
"Be ruthless," Carter said. "If you want to succeed in business today, you have to be ruthless. You can't let people run all over you. If someone looks like they're going to be trouble for you down the line, take them out now. Don't wait. If you let your enemies get strong today, they'll bring you down tomorrow."
Tony smiled wickedly and nodded. "I agree with you, Mr. Carter."
"Daddy," Camille huffed, "I'm sure Tony doesn't want to talk business philosophy. He owns a construction company."
"It doesn't matter what kind of business you're in. Business is war, like the Japanese say. Tony probably has to deal with banks all the time. Banks are the worst. They're scum. When times are good, they want in. When times are bad, they're ready to take everything you've got and fault you for being an entrepreneur."
Carter could see that Tony agreed with him. He shifted his gaze back out at the ocean. "I have a man right now who is trying to bring down everything I've made. I have a man in my life right now who's making me miserable, and it's my own fault. Do you know why?" he said, looking back at Tony.
Tony shrugged, and leaned forward.
"It's my fault because I could have taken him out years ago. Years ago, when I knew he was no good, I let him stay. I could have taken him out. He was nothing back then, and I had a feeling about him. I even complained about him, that was worse. I complained, but I didn't pull out all the stops to eliminate him. So he continued to climb and
now he's standing over me with his foot on my throat. Now it's too late. I wasn't ruthless enough."
This guy sounds pretty bad," Tony said. "Maybe I could help you."
Carter looked at Tony carefully. It was the second time he wondered if the young man was joking.
"Unless you've got an uncle on the board of First Bank, I don't think there's much that can be done. Morgan Lloyd is a powerful man now. I don't even know if an uncle on the board could help me."
"I don't know, I know a lot of people. Maybe I could talk to this Lloyd."
Carter saw that Tony was serious. He sighed. He must have been wrong. This guy was just another dope, same as the others.
He said, "OK, Tony, you do that."
Tony nodded his head and smiled as though they had just struck a bargain.
Carter was sorry that he'd ever gotten started. It wasn't like him to talk about his problems, but being around Camille always did something to him. He let his guard down around her. He supposed it was normal. She was really the only person in the world he had. Not that Camille didn't have her faults. He knew she did. She was a little wild and a little spoiled, both probably his fault.
Carter grew silent and continued to eat. Camille seemed to realize the change that had come over her father and she rose, excusing herself and Tony, saying that they'd see him later in the day; They were going out on the beach. Carter watched them go. They were aloof from the other guests, Camille merely nodding in acknowledgment to the people who greeted her. Carter crammed a piece of cantaloupe into his mouth and huffed. What had Tony said? Maybe he could talk to Lloyd? What an idiot.
The sky was beginning to turn dark. A few stars winked above. A boardwalk extended from the decks and terraces of the Carter mansion out over the dunes that protected the narrow strip of land between the inland waterway and the pounding ocean. At the end of the private walk was an observation deck that looked out over the beach. Hunter and Rachel leaned together against the deck's railing and gazed out at the thundering surf. A stiff breeze wrapped the two of them in the smell of salt and seaweed.