The microwave dinged and Dillman took out his croissant. “Well, back to the grind,” he said.
Lehman sipped his hot coffee and surveyed the room. Cilento had a telephone receiver pressed against his ear as he flicked through the lines, listening in on the salesmen’s conversations to check that they were following the sales pitches. One of the younger slammers was working his way through a list of mineral-right holders that Cilento had bought from the Department of the Interior’s Bureau of Land Management, knowing that investors who’d dabbled in minerals once could usually be persuaded to invest again. Another was reading the Wall Street Journal and circling comments which he could use when talking to his clients. Another amateur, thought Lehman. Any slammer worth his salt should have read the Journal, the Financial Times and scanned the financial wire services before he even sat down at his desk.
Lehman felt no guilt about taking money from punters. In his opinion all he was doing was taking advantage of their greed. Most of the time he was simply telling them something they already wanted to hear: that there was a quick, simple way to riches that didn’t involve hard work or taking risks. If they believed that, well, as far as Lehman was concerned, they deserved everything they got. It wasn’t that he was totally amoral. Lehman would never do anything to harm a child or lie to a nun, but he regarded practically everyone else in the world as fair game. There were times when he pictured himself as a sleek shark carving through shoals of small, silver fish, twisting and turning and swallowing them whole. If the small fish weren’t fast enough or smart enough to get the hell out of the way, then they deserved to be eaten. That was the way of things. The law of the jungle. Just as the shark feels no remorse for the prey it rips apart, so Lehman never worried about the people he took money from. With one exception. He would never, under any circumstances, defraud a fellow Vietnam veteran. Whenever he was delivering his sales pitch he’d check the mark out to make sure that he hadn’t done a tour of duty in Nam, and if he had, Lehman would gently steer him away, making sure that Cilento wasn’t listening in on the line. Lehman himself wasn’t exactly sure why he was like that, though he knew it had something to do with the camaraderie he felt with the men he’d fought with, the fact that he’d been to the edge with them, the fact that he’d come back totally unscathed when so many of his friends had come back in body bags or with limbs missing. “Lucky” Lehman they’d called him in Nam, because of the number of times bullets had cracked by him and mortars had exploded into craters only yards away from his helicopter. The nickname had been appropriate, but it came loaded with bitterness, too, because most of the time the bullets and the shrapnel that missed him ended up causing the death of others. Mortar shells would miss him but instead blow apart grunts that had just left his Huey. Tracers would go zipping past the Plexiglas window of his Huey only to rip through the helicopter behind him. Lehman had been lucky, of that there was no doubt, but those around him often didn’t share in his good fortune, and after a while he began to regard the “lucky” tag as a curse. If he’d bothered to speak to a psychologist about how he felt when he’d returned to the States he’d probably have identified him as suffering from a bad case of survivor’s guilt, but Lehman never felt the need to talk over how he felt with anyone. He was totally self-contained emotionally and unwilling to share his feelings with anyone, which is why he was pushing himself so hard in the boiler room. He had two failed marriages behind him and two ex-wives who were both chasing him for alimony payments. He earned big bucks pushing non-existent investments, but he spent big, too.
Dillman flicked a switch on his console and called out, “Call on line six for Michael Glenn.”
“That’s me,” said Lehman, lobbing his empty coffee cup into the waste-paper bin.
“Name’s Komer. Rob Komer. From Albany.”
Lehman sat down at his desk and pulled out Komer’s reference card. Michael Glenn was the name he used for oil and gas investments, in particular non-existent oil-wells in Texas. Lehman had obtained Komer’s name from a junk mail shot offering free investment advice and according to the details on the card he had about 185,000 dollars to invest. Three days earlier Lehman, or Michael Glenn, had persuaded him to part with 125,000 dollars, though the cheque hadn’t arrived yet.
Lehman switched on to the line. “Rob, how’s it going?”
“Fine, Michael, just fine. Though I’m starting to have second thoughts about Lone Star Oil and Assets.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Rob. You were lucky to get in on the ground floor on that one. We’re turning investors away now. I can’t tell you how enthusiastic the response has been to that company. You made a real good decision there. I reckon you’re showing a profit of almost 15,000 dollars already. That’s more than ten per cent, and your cheque hasn’t even been cashed yet. You did send the cheque, didn’t you, Rob? I’d hate for you to have missed out on this.”
“Oh yeah, I sent the cheque as soon as I was off the phone to you. It should be with you today. But I gotta tell you, Michael, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve done the right thing.”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt on that score. I could sell your interest today for 15,000 dollars more than you paid, though you’d have to pay two sets of dealing costs. You’d show a small profit, but Rob, Lone Star Oil and Assets is going to keep going up, I can assure you. If I were you, I’d stick along for the ride. The 15,000 dollars you’ve made so far is nothing to the profits you’ll be able to make. Doesn’t it make sense to take a bigger profit than a smaller one?”
“I suppose so,” said Komer hesitantly. Lehman could hear another voice in the distance, as if someone was standing next to Komer, then the line went quiet as if he’d put his hand over the receiver.
When Komer’s voice came back on the line, he sounded less hesitant. “The thing is, Michael, my wife thinks that I shouldn’t be putting all my eggs in one basket, investment-wise. She thinks I should spread my money around.”
“Rob, I don’t know how much your wife knows about financial markets, but I know that my wife always leaves decisions on that score up to me. Wives are always on the conservative side, you know that. They’re not as good as we are at taking risks, they prefer to play it safe. But Rob, we both know that there’s a time for playing safe, and a time when you’ve just got to go for the big one. It’s a judgment call, and in my opinion you’ve called this one just right. Tell your wife you’ve already made 15,000 dollars profit and that there’s more to come. She should be proud of you, Rob.”
“Yeah, I told her that,” said Komer. “But she’d rather sell now and spread the money around. She says I should have used some of the money to pay off the mortgage on our house, what with interest rates being so high and all.”
Lehman shook his head. God save me from interfering wives, he thought. Damn the woman. He heard Komer’s muffled voice arguing with his wife but the man’s hand was over the receiver again and he couldn’t make out what was being said. He could guess, though.
The next voice he heard on the line was a woman’s. “Hello, Mr Glenn. This is Tracey Komer, Rob’s wife.”
“Yes, Tracey. I guess Rob has told you how well he’s done with his oil investment. He’s showing a real good profit after just three days. You guys should be celebrating.”
“Well, naturally I’m pleased that the investment has gone up, but I personally feel that we’d be safer if we had the money in the bank rather than in more speculative investments.”
“I could understand that if you were showing a loss, but that’s not the case, is it? You’ve already made 15,000 dollars and as I told your husband, there are investors queuing up to buy into this company. We’re having to turn them away. Your husband was lucky to get in when he did.”
“That’s good, Mr Glenn. You shouldn’t have any problem in selling our interests to another investor then. Could you do that for us, please?”
“I could, Tracey, of course I could. But I’d sincerely recommend that you hold on to the investme
nt, I really would. I’m sure it’ll continue to appreciate.”
“I’m sure it will, but that money represents almost all of the inheritance my husband received from his late father’s estate. I don’t know if he told you, but he’s in a wheelchair and he can’t work. We need that money, it’s all we have.” Lehman heard Komer’s voice protesting in the background. “He has to know, Rob,” he overheard Tracey say. “Sometimes you’re just too stubborn. Too proud.” To Lehman, she said, “Mr Glenn, we just want our money back.”
“Believe me, Tracey, that money is as safe as if it were in the bank. In fact, the way some of our Californian banks are going, it’s probably safer in Texas.”
“That’s probably right, but we need to have that money where we can get it at short notice. We need a totally risk-free investment, Mr Glenn. Rob has other problems, too, problems that mean he can’t work. He hasn’t been able to work since he came back from Vietnam.”
Lehman went cold. “Vietnam?” he said.
“He stepped on a mine, Mr Glenn. He’s lucky to be alive.”
“He didn’t tell me,” said Lehman.
“He doesn’t like people to know that he’s handicapped, Mr Glenn. He’s a proud man.” Her hand covered the receiver again and Lehman heard a muffled argument.
“Mrs Komer?” he called. “Mrs Komer? Are you there?”
“I’m here, Mr Glenn. I was just talking to my husband.”
“Can I speak with him please, Mrs Komer?”
“We’ve already made up our minds, Mr Glenn. We just want our money back.”
“I understand that. But could I please speak to your husband.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr Glenn,” she said coldly. “I think you’ve said more than enough to him already.”
Her voice was firm but polite, and Lehman could tell that she was not a woman who could be talked into, or out of, anything. She’d make a damn good slammer. “Mrs Komer, I promise I won’t talk him into anything. I was in Vietnam, too. I’d just like a word with him, that’s all.”
“Well …”
“Please, Mrs Komer.”
She agreed, reluctantly, and handed the telephone to her husband.
“Michael, I’m sorry about this,” Komer began to say, but Lehman cut him off.
“Rob, why the hell didn’t you tell me you were in Nam?”
“It’s not something I volunteer, you know. I’m not exactly proud of what happened to me. And I don’t want to be treated like some sort of cripple. The fact that I’m in a wheelchair shouldn’t make any difference to the way I get treated. I mean, I know it does, but at least on the phone no one can tell that I’ve got wheels instead of legs.”
“Shit, man. I wish you’d told me. When were you in country?”
“Sixty-seven, ‘68,” said Komer. “I got hurt on April Fool’s Day, 1968. Khe Sanh. Like Tracey said, I stepped on a mine. We were on Route 9, to the west of Ca Lu.”
“Marines, huh?”
“Yeah, I was with the 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines. You were at Khe Sanh?”
“Not in ‘68. But I was there in 1970. I was a chopper pilot.”
“Yeah? Chopper saved my life. If the Dustoff pilot hadn’t got me out of there as quick as he did, I wouldn’t be around now. I mean, sometimes I think that it might have been better if …”
Lehman heard Komer’s wife interrupt and then Komer saying, “Yeah, yeah, I know, I know,” to her. “Tracey doesn’t like it when I talk like that,” he explained to Lehman.
“I can understand why,” said Lehman. “Look, Rob, you didn’t tell me you were a vet. If you had it would’ve put a different complexion on my advice to you, investment-wise.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The investment advice I gave you was based on the assumption that you were working, that you didn’t have any health problems, that medical bills wouldn’t be on the cards. I’ll be honest, if I’d known that you were disabled, I wouldn’t have suggested that you go into oil, I really wouldn’t. Your wife is right, a man in your position would be better paying off his mortgage and leaving the rest in the bank.”
“Yeah? Hell, where does that leave me, then?”
“Well, like I said, we haven’t got your cheque yet. Why don’t you just call your bank right now and get them to cancel your cheque?”
“But what about the 15,000 dollar profit we made?”
“Let me be honest, Rob, the dealing costs will just about swallow up all of that, and there’ll be a delay in getting the money to you. Far better we simply call it off right now. Just cancel the cheque, okay?”
“Okay, Michael, I’ll do that.”
“If you need any more advice about investing, go along to your local VA office. They’ll be able to steer you in the right direction. And Rob, take care of your wife, you hear? She’s got a good head on her shoulders. She knows what she’s doing.”
“You’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know,” said Komer. “Thanks, Michael, I really appreciate it.”
When Lehman cut the line he looked up and saw Cilento watching him, the receiver of his own phone pressed against his ear. Cilento was glaring at him under bushy eyebrows, his other hand clenching and unclenching on the table. He slammed down the receiver and stood up so violently that his chair fell over.
“Lehman! My office,” he yelled and stormed into his glass cubicle where he paced up and down, powerful arms swinging at his side. Most of the slammers were too engrossed in their own sales pitches to notice what was going on, but Dillman watched Lehman with concern in his eyes.
“Shut the fucking door, you two-faced son-of-a-bitch,” cursed Cilento as Lehman arrived.
Lehman did as he was told, but he kept facing Cilento as he closed the door. The man wasn’t the type you’d turn your back on at the best of times.
“I can’t fucking well believe what I just heard,” ranted Cilento, pacing up and down in front of his desk. His face was red and a vein was pulsing in his temple and his eyes were filled with hatred. “How much was that sucker in for?”
Lehman shrugged. “One two five K, I guess.”
Cilento clenched his fists and slammed them against his sides. “Is he one of your own clients, or was he one of my leads?”
Lehman knew that there was no point in lying because Cilento kept records of all the leads he supplied to the slammers. They got a smaller commission for in-house leads than if they used their own initiative to find someone to dance with. “He was one of yours, Max.”
Cilento stopped pacing and walked up to Lehman, thrusting his head forward on his bull neck so that he was only inches away from Lehman’s face. His breath smelt of stale onions and tobacco. “So let me get this fucking straight, Mr Good Fucking Samaritan. I give you a lead which is good for 125,000 dollars, and you go and tell him to cancel his cheque because his investment is a touch risky. That’d be about it, would it? Or did I miss something? Well, Mr Wonderful, did I fucking well miss something, or what?”
Lehman could see flecks of spittle on Cilento’s moustache as he glared up at him. Cilento was a good three inches shorter than Lehman and he appeared even shorter because of the way he was pushing his head forward, but his lack of height made him no less intimidating. Cilento was well used to using his anger as a weapon and defeating bigger opponents by the sheer force of his personality, but he was also capable of brutal violence so Lehman looked him straight in the eye, waiting for any sign that he was about to strike.
“That’s pretty much what happened, Max,” he said quietly. He had no intention of explaining himself to Cilento. His feelings about vets and his responsibility to them was not something he could share with anyone, certainly not a muscle-bound, ranting thug who wouldn’t have been out of place in a boxing ring.
“And how do you think I’m going to explain to my fucking brother that I’m short 125,000 dollars?” Cilento shouted. He waved a gold-ringed fist under Lehman’s nose, pushed him back with his other hand, flat against h
is chest. He pulled back his fist and grunted, but before he could land the punch Lehman drew his knee up sharply and thrust it into Cilento’s groin. Cilento yelled and bent double and both of his hands instinctively went down between his legs as if they’d be able to massage away the pain. His head was level with Lehman’s chest and he was too close for Lehman to punch him so he used his elbow instead, banging it hard against Cilento’s temple and knocking him cold. Cilento slumped to the ground, his hands still clapped against his groin, blood trickling down his chin because he’d bitten his tongue when Lehman hit him.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” said a voice at the doorway.
Lehman looked up to see Dillman standing there. He hadn’t heard the door open, but Dillman had hold of the handle, the upper part of his body leaning in as if he was afraid to put his feet on Cilento’s carpet. Lehman rubbed his right elbow. “Be my guest,” he laughed.
“Nah, I’d never hit a man when he’s down. Not even a piece of shit like Cilento.” He peered down at the body. “He’s not dead, is he?” As if in answer Cilento rolled on to his side and drew his legs up to his stomach. “Nope, he’s not dead,” said Dillman. “Never mind, better luck next time. What are you going to do, Dan?”
Lehman ran his hand over his face and rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “I guess now would be a bad time to ask him for a raise, huh?”
Dillman laughed and slipped inside the door, closing it behind him. The upper section of Cilento’s cubicle was glass, the lower was aluminium panelling so the slammers outside couldn’t see Cilento’s body on the floor. “Seriously, Dan, you’ve got a mess of trouble here, you know that. Cilento’s brother isn’t going to let you get away with this. It’s a matter of honour. It doesn’t matter what a shit Max is, you attack him, you attack the family.”
“What if I were to say I was sorry?” asked Dan, grinning.
“I doubt it would do any good.”
“What if I were to say I was really sorry?”
Dillman laughed. “It’s good to see you’ve still got your sense of humour, Dan. But I doubt that you’ll be laughing when Mario Cilento gets hold of you.”
The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 5