“But what about you, what about your lawsuit, your loan?”
“Schuster Mannheim is working on it.” I wanted to imagine Pablo Tochera sweating blood on my behalf. I had a chart. And I had the truth on my side. Why didn’t I feel the confidence I wanted to express?
Carol straightened up and uncreased her skirt. “He could be generous, you know. He did a lot of charity work. He even endowed a school in Bombay.”
For me, there couldn’t be a good side to JJ anymore. I didn’t want to hurt Carol unnecessarily, but I didn’t want that sick fuck JJ to get any positive airtime either. “Most charitable work is either self-aggrandisement or a guilt trip. There’re not too many genuinely good people out there.” I didn’t know if this was true; I’d never done much more than give a dollar to a vagrant or sponsor the kids of work colleagues to do something wacky for a good cause, but it sounded like a reasonable statement under the circumstances.
“I’ve learned that emotions and motivations are very complex things,” she said.
“I just want you to tell me you aren’t going to the police.” A straight yes or no.
“For now,” she said.
“And where do we stand?”
She wouldn’t look me in the eye. There were three or four sparrows thrashing around in the font in the middle of the garden. Her eyes were on them, the carefree little bastards.
“Oh, Fin. I need to think.”
She stood up. “I’ve got to go now. Wait a few minutes before leaving.” She walked briskly along the arcade and then turned sharp left and out of sight.
The sparrows were growing frantic; their twittering echoed around the cloister. Then one of them flew off and the rest followed. Silence.
Ernie knew JJ. Ernie scratched JJ on the face. JJ killed himself. And Ernie? What the hell had happened to him? India seemed to be the exchangeable currency between them. What half-eaten file had they choked on? Or was it just that JJ liked fast cars and hated me? And that Ernie went one weirdness too far in a Plaza suite bathroom. I could hear my father laughing again; maybe he was dancing with his wood nymph in a shady pool in another world, just like the sparrows in this one.
I got up and made my way out of the Cloisters. As I reached the foot of the tunnel of stairs and squinted into the bright sunlight, I half hoped to see Carol waiting for me, as she had stood at the chapel of rest after JJ’s funeral. But she wasn’t there.
TWENTY-THREE
Iturned off the phone and ordered Paulanotto keep me posted on anything that Clara might turn up on the net. I was at work. Ineededto work. And Project Badla was my only outlet.
I faxed Jaiwalla & Company, attorneys to the sellers of Ketan Securities. I told them what I wanted: all Ketan’s corporate documents, all their dealings with the regulators, all their material contracts, lists of clients, staff details, banking details, lease details. The whole shebang. I attached a thirty-page questionnaire, covering every legal and accounting aspect of their business. I even had a stab at asking them economic questions: Who were their competitors, what was the breakdown of their client base, what were the prospects for the Indian market? Where did they see the threats? Where were the opportunities?
I sent them a draft memorandum of understanding, a draft sale and purchase agreement, a draft set of corporate statutes, draft employment contracts with built-in handcuffs. A share option scheme, the format I wanted for the accounts, a paper on tax issues, the kindof letter I wanted from Ketan’s accountants, their lawyers, their banks, their bloody hairdressers. I was going to bury them with paper. I didn’t want to give them a chance to send drafts to me first. I wanted to be in control. If Jefferson Trust wanted to buy a Bombay stockbrokerage, then so be it. It would be done properly, no compromise. This wasn’t going to be a half-eaten file. I would give Jaiwalla so much to read, they wouldn’t have the time to write anything for themselves. They wouldn’t be able to compromise me.
I did a group distribution on the fax: to Jaiwalla. Copy to Sunil Askari at Askari & Co. Copy to Carol and Chuck at Jefferson Trust. Copy to Keenes and Mendip down the hall. I wanted to deplete an entire forest of paper. I was the phantom fax-man.
At 3:00A.M.,I switched off my light. The office was utterly quiet: no Paula, no Keenes, nobody, except the security guard who’d be swinging his flashlight around, nosing into offices, hunting for intruders between drinking coffee and watching porn on the portable DVD player I knew he had.
Outside, the moist heat intensified the pungent fish smell that haunted the district. The trucks would be moving in now, dumping the catch for the next day, spilling slime and ice over the rough cobblestones. I was tempted to take a detour through this incongruous scene—I’d done so many times previously, after a hard night’s work. Not tonight, I decided, a brisk unromantic trot directly to Battery Park and then bed.
At the apartment block, I slunk past the concierge. I didn’t want to hear about any more special deliveries. Maybe I should have let Carol go to the police and see if she could call off the dogs.
No. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t work either. Anyway, it was a strategy that could be used later if all else failed. Yeah, but why use it any time if it won’t work? I shook my head. Write another chart, bozo. I was getting confused. I was tired. I wanted to sleep the sleep of an attorney who had just done some good hard work.
I didn’t even remember getting into bed.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was 10:00A.M.when Pablo Tochera rang me.
“It’s Saturday, Pablo,” I said through the wooze.
“Gee, I didn’t know. I must lodge a complaint against Jim McIntyre for his barbaric work practices.”
“How’s it going?” I asked, sitting up. The blinds were drawn, so I couldn’t tell whether I might get uptown to Central Park and pretend I had a normal life for an hour.
“I’ve gone ten rounds with Manelli over what he wants to charge you with.”
“And whatdoeshe want to charge me with?”
“Everything from standing on a street looking like a dumb Brit all the way to Murder One.”
“Why doesn’t he get it over with and show his hand?” Then I’d see whether I needed to deploy the Carol defense.
“You’ve got them climbing up each other’s butts. They will charge you when they’re sure they will nail you. And they’re close now. Manelli’s sounding more relaxed by the hour, says when he next paysa visit, the only bargain he’ll cut with you is not to demand the death penalty.”
“There isn’t a death penalty in New York, is there?”
“You’re behind the times, guy,” Pablo sneered.
“So what should I do?”
“Beats me. I don’t generally do criminal work.”
Fucking hell.
“What happens if I leave the country?” I asked.
“Sheesh. Stop there. You trying to get me jailed?”
“Okay.” I didn’t know the ethics issues for him. “What about the investigation work? How’s that going? Finding the witnesses. Finding the truth?”
Pablo started coughing. “Sorry, guy,” he said at last. “One too many cigars last night. Jesus. Julia—that’s my wife—she busts my chops about the smell. Witnesses, you said. Well, to be truthful, there are a few technicalities in that regard.”
“What kind of technicalities?”
“Jim McIntyre wants it done in a particular way and I, well . . . you see . . . I have some issues to resolve. I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“What issues?”
“Jesus. You’re going to get me fired. I knew it the moment McIntyre put me on this file. Issues. Yes. He has some cost concerns.”
“Wait a minute.” I got out of bed and started pacing the length of the phone cord. “It’s in everyone’s interests that it’s proved I wasn’t the owner of the car. Surely.”
“That’s what I said, but I’m not sure he sees it that way. I sense there are issues if JJ Carlson was the owner.”
“What has that to do wit
h costs, for Christ’s sake? Anyway, Schuster Mannheim aremyattorneys.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Well, say it again,” I shouted. “A bit louder. LIKE THIS.”
“Okay, okay. Calm down. Talking with McIntyre isn’t easy. And he doesn’t take kindly to raised voices. Listen, I’m between a rock and a hard place. I’m partner material and this thing is fucking up my chances and then some.”
“That’s your problem, not mine. If you won’t act for me properly, I’ll find someone who will.”
“Listen, I don’t like to kick a guy when he’s down, but you won’t find anyone out there who can spell their own name who will act for you. You’re very bad news. Anyone looking at the background material will know that they will be fighting the whole of New York City anytime now. You’re going to be the most unpopular guy on the Eastern Seaboard when the shit starts flying. Believe me, I’ve thought it through. I’d hand you to someone else, if I could, if McIntyre would let me.”
“This is crazy.” I was shaking with anger.
“I’ll call again when you’ve calmed down a little. Maybe I’ll have some good news for you.”
“Yeah, right,” I said and slammed down the phone.
It rang immediately.
“YES?”
“They said you hadn’t showed up at the office,” Carol said.
“It’s Saturday.”
“This is New York. You’re an attorney.”
I held the phone against my shoulder for a moment. I put it back to my mouth. “I’m sorry, Carol. It looks like I’m being gutted and stuffed for someone else’s dinner.”
“It’s okay,” she said calmly. “It’s good to scream sometimes. It’s cathartic.”
“I’m not screaming now,” I said. “What are you doing and why aren’t you doing it with me?”
“Listen, we need to get to business here. I’ve just been going through your fax to Jaiwalla. You want to crush them with paper?”
“Just doing my job. Isn’t it okay?”
“Hey, I was kidding. It’s great, very impressive. More to the point, Chuck Krantz thinks you’re a class act. I think he’d hire you instead of me, given the chance.”
“When are we going to India, Carol?”
“Now,” she said. “That’s why I called.”
“How soon is now?”
“Like now, now. Delta Airlines flight 106, JFK direct to Bombay.Leaves JFK at just after eight tonight. We arrive Bombay tomorrow night, about eleven. Two seats, first class, already booked.”
“Jesus.”
“I told you. I can take you off the file, go to the police. If that’s what you want.”
No. Thirteen hours on a plane next to Carol was all I wanted right then.
“Stick with the arrangements,” I said. “I’ll come, assuming I’m not arrested beforehand.”
“And you need to pick up the tickets,” she said. “They’re with Paula and she’s at the office waiting for you. She thought you might prefer a call from me rather than her. I like her.”
On the way out of the apartment block, the jolly doorman was slouched over the counter. I avoided his gaze.
As I walked through the outer door, I could hear him mutter. “Asshole motherfucker,” was how it sounded.
“The chief wants you,” Paula said, as soon as I got into the office.
“Chief of what?” I was beholden to so many people, any number of chiefs. “You mean Mendip? Is he in his cubicle?”
“Yup. You want breakfast?”
“You’re an angel. When I’m through with Mendip we’ll talk.”
Mendip looked like he was ready to go. He had his wheeled suitcase and an ancient garment bag.
“You leaving us?” I asked.
He didn’t look up from the mess of paperwork on the desk. “Just for a day or so, to deal with matters arising from Ernie’s death.” Ernie was now a “matter arising” on a partnership subcommittee.
Mendip looked up at me. “You’re going to Bombay this evening.” His eyes were bloodshot and he’d cut himself shaving; a small scab had formed in the center of his chin.
“I know,” I said. “Carol Amen told me.”
Kevin, the messenger, came in. “Can I take your things down to the car now, Mr. Mendip?” He looked at me nervously as he carefullymaneuvered Mendip’s baggage. I winked at him. He grinned. “Hi, Mr. Border, how you doing?” He left the room without spilling a thing.
“Just get on and do the deal,” Mendip said. “Don’t mope; don’t go in search of things that may disturb you. Read a book or something. And I suggest you don’t tell your mother where you are. You’ll only upset her. She’s your mother, so it’s up to you, but that’s my advice. Anything else?”
“Yes. What the hell is going on here, Charles?”
He nudged me aside as he tried to get out of the room. I could hear him wheeze as he passed by. “Nothing,” he snapped. He paused. “Remember, just do the deal. Don’t inflame Sunil Askari, you know what he’s like. Ring me if you have problems. Peggy in London will know how to get hold of me.”
He hesitated and then shook my hand before leaving the room.
I returned to my office. There was a bagel and coffee on my desk and Paula stood by with a large envelope in her hand.
“The tickets?” I asked.
“Tickets, passport, and visa,” she said, handing over the envelope. “There’s a voucher for the Taj Hotel. No currency, though. You can get it when you arrive. A driver will meet you at Sahar Airport—that’s the airport for Bombay.”
She paused. But before I could say anything she was off again. “Health. I’ve been talking to the Jefferson travel people about that. It’s too late for any inoculations, but your certificate for typhoid and some other real nasty diseases seems okay, just so long as you don’t travel outside Bombay into rural areas.” She tossed a large box of pills onto the desk. “Malaria. You better take one now. You should have started a week ago. So just don’t invite any mosquitoes into your room.”
She stopped again. Momentarily. “But I guess you know all this. I think you’ve been there before, haven’t you?” She stared at me. I looked at my feet. Her eyes were too strong for me, too honest.
“Yes,” I said.
“I figured.”
I ripped open the envelope and spread the contents across the desk. It was all there, just like she said. “I wish you could come withme. You could do the deal and I could sip gin and tonics and lob pistachios into my mouth.”
“I got better things to do, honey.”
“Like what?”
“Like figure out what I’m going to do with my life.”
“Would you hang around here for a little longer, while you do your figuring?”
She looked agonized by my request.
“I need you here,” I pleaded. “I need some Stateside eyes and ears. The knives are out for me and maybe you can tell me who’s wielding them. I need someone I can trust.”
Paula shaded her eyes with her hand. Maybe if she couldn’t see me, I’d go away.
“I know what happened, Paula,” I said. “About McIntyre, what he did to you. I found out.”
She unshaded her eyes. “What do you know, who told you?” She looked scared; her voice had lost its liquid bass undertone, a frightened voice.
“That McIntyre propositioned you. That Schuster Mannheim paid you off. That you were a victim.”
“Who told you?”
“I can’t say.” It occurred to me that Terry Wardman hadn’t actually bound me with any express duty of confidentiality. But I’d assume he had, for the moment.
“Propositioned me.” Paula laughed bitterly. “You could put it that way. That would be a lawyer’s way of putting it.”
She hunched her shoulders, as if she was shrugging someone off, as if McIntyre was in the room with us. “He did a tad more than proposition me.”
“What he did, what he did exactly, isn’t my business, though you can tell me if you want
. I just need you to know that I know. And that I support you completely.”
Paula smiled. “That’s nice of you. I appreciate it.”
I unwrapped my bagel and took a bite.
“You packed?” Paula asked.
“Nah. I’ll do a few things here, then go back to the apartment,throw a toothbrush in my briefcase, and head off to Jefferson Trust around three-thirty.”
“What’s that?” Paula pointed to Terry’s file.
“Background on India. Terry Wardman lent it to me. Looks useful.”
Paula pursed her lips. “Mr. Wardman’s a nice guy. Kinda remote, maybe. But nice. You’ve been talking to him, haven’t you?” Her eyes told me that she knew Terry was my informant.
She handed me a folded piece of paper.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“See for yourself.” I unfolded it.
The SaturdayTimes of Londoncrossword.
“You’re amazing,” I whispered.
She made her way to the door. “I’ll stay,” she said. “Until they formally announce the merger. I’ll stay until then.”
“Thanks.”
As she went through the door, Paula wagged her finger at me. “Go on and take that pill. I don’t want you getting sick in that place.”
If Paula had been my father’s secretary perhaps he would have lived.
TWENTY-FIVE
Ilooked out of my apartment window. At America, or at least my little bit of it. The water, New Jersey, the piers thrusting into the Hudson, the edge of Ellis Island. A couple of tower blocks and some low-rises. That was it. The horizon defied perspective, seemed too near, mocking my close-packed five years of Manhattan-bound existence. You could have seen a lot more of this place, the horizon seemed to say. But now it’s too late. Show’s over.
I sipped my beer and surveyed my living/dining room. I wouldn’t be remembered for my lavish entertainment, my sparkling soirees; the procession of beautiful people gliding across the wooden floor, entranced by my talent for conjuring up more and more breathtaking feats of social magic.
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