Wild Card

by Stuart Woods

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “Because this would be a good time to contemplate one. Two major stories about the Thomases are breaking tomorrow morning, and they are going to be very upset when they read them.”

  “Then they’ll think I’m in my old place, not here,” Huey said. “I’ll lock the door.”

  “It’s better if you assume they know exactly where you are.”

  “I’m staying right here,” Huey said. “The cabinet work is being installed in the kitchen and the library tomorrow morning, and I have to be here for that.”

  “Well, you should know that Viv has doubled the security on your place.”

  “What security?”

  “The security you didn’t know about.”

  “Why didn’t I know about it?”

  “Because we thought you might object.”

  “I do object,” Huey replied.

  “To the first security or the doubling?”

  “All of it.”

  “Well, that’s tough because it’s not going away. If you live through the next few days, then we can talk about it.”

  “If I live through the next few days?”

  “Well, there’s always the chance that the opposition might sneak through your defenses—if you insist on staying where you are.”

  “Where can I buy a gun at this hour?” Huey asked.

  “You can’t, but the people guarding your place will be armed. If you hear gunfire, hit the floor and tell the cabinetmakers to hit the floor, too. Good night, Huey. Get somebody to deliver a Times to you tomorrow morning; don’t go out.” Stone hung up.

  “Huey protests,” Stone said to Viv and Dino.

  Their dinner arrived, and they set about dismantling roasted chicken.

  45

  Henry Thomas rose at four AM, as was his wont, put on the coffee and made toast, and opened his front door to collect his daily newspaper. He was anxious to see what the Times had to say about the acquisition of H. Thomas & Son.

  Before he could go to the business section, he caught a glimpse of the lower right-hand corner of the newspaper.

  Secretary Roils the Waters at H. Thomas & Son

  What secretary? he thought. It took a sip of his strong Italian coffee to snap his mind in place. Elise, who speaks Sicilian! He read the opening paragraphs of the story, which ascribed the planned murders of several people to himself, his grandson, and his cousin. The girl went to the papers! He checked the byline on the piece: Jamie Cox. The same reporter who had caused them all the trouble in the past! He called Hank and Rance and told them to go to the office immediately, and to read the Times on the way.

  Before he got dressed he saw the other headline on the first page of the business section: H. Thomas to be acquired by DigiWorld. He didn’t have time to read the piece; he got dressed and went downstairs to his waiting car.

  * * *

  • • •

  It was a grim meeting. “This has happened at the worst possible time,” Henry said.

  “Perhaps it has happened at the best possible time,” Rance said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Henry demanded.

  “At the opening bell on Monday, the stock exchange will suspend trading in our stock because of the acquisition. That gives us two days to fix this.”

  Hank spoke up. “Fix it? How the fuck do we do that?”

  “The first thing we do is to issue a very strong statement refuting the front-page story, and e-mail it to Harman Wills at DigiWorld. It should be the first thing he sees this morning. Also, one of you has to call him and talk him down.”

  “Poppa,” Hank said, “that should be you. This acquisition is your doing, and you know Harman best.”

  “All right,” Henry said, looking at his watch. “I’ll wait until seven, then call him at home. Rance, you draft a statement for us.”

  Rance went to his office, typed fast for a few minutes, and returned with a sheet of paper.

  To our shareholders, customers, and business associates:

  An outrageous story has appeared in today’s New York Times, calling into question the character and reputation of H. Thomas & Son. This story and all of its contentions are outright lies. The young woman in question, a previously trusted employee, clearly harbors a grudge against the company, following an injury to another previous employee, of which we were unaware until this morning.

  The three H. Thomas executives mentioned, Henry Thomas, Hank Thomas, and Lawrance Damien, have been accused of plotting the murders of a number of people, while speaking in a Sicilian language that none of them speaks or understands. As far as we know, all the putative victims are alive and in good health.

  Her story is a preposterous fabrication by a clearly disgruntled employee, who did not appear for work yesterday but later sent an e-mail, resigning her position. We suspect that her actions may be connected to the planned acquisition of H. Thomas & Son by DigiWorld, a fund specializing in bank acquisitions. The two companies have been in discussions for weeks and plan to announce it today. Apparently, she hopes to somehow stop or damage the acquisition, which has already been agreed to with a signing memo between the two parties. This seems to be an attempt to enable short sellers, who could reap large profits, should the story be believed.

  H. Thomas & Son stands by its sterling reputation in the financial community, earned by more than fifty years of honest banking. We expect to clear the company’s name in short order.

  “It needs to be issued with your signature, Henry.”

  Henry grabbed the paper and a pen and signed it with a flourish. “Get it out to Harman Wills, the Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the Associated Press immediately,” he said, checking his watch. “It’s another couple of hours before I can call Harman.”

  Rance went to his office and e-mailed the statement to the list of publications they sent all releases to.

  * * *

  • • •

  Stone was awakened at six-thirty by Dino, who was already at his office.

  “Good morning, I think,” Stone said.

  “Are your hatches all battened down?” Dino asked, in an unexpectedly nautical mode.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Stone replied sleepily. “I expect the folks at H. Thomas are scrambling to deny everything before the story can harm its acquisition.”

  “Hang on,” Dino said, “I’ve got a call coming in from Ken Burrows’s cell phone. I’ll make it a conference call, so you shut up.” He tapped in a code to join the three lines.

  “Dino,” Burrows said, “did you have something to do with this story in the Times?”

  “What story, Ken? I haven’t seen the Times yet.”

  “The story that you told me, which is now all over the paper.”

  “Oh, that story. This may come as a surprise to you, Ken, but I don’t write for the Times, nor do I edit the paper.” Dino made noise with the newspaper. “Ah, here it is. Give me a minute to read it.”

  “Hurry up,” Burrows said.

  Dino waited a moment. “Ah, it does seem to be the story I told you about. Remember, Ken, you had it first. In fact, on the inside page it says that I went to see you with the story, but that you did nothing. I can’t deny that, can I?”

  Burrows hung up without another word.

  “I believe Ken is pissed off,” Stone said.

  “I agree, and I think that’s wonderful,” Dino said.

  “The good thing about this,” Stone said, “is that now the Thomases can’t kill any of us.”

  “Not for a while, anyway,” Dino agreed.

  “Well, it’s going to be interesting to see what happens to their merger, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is,” Dino said, “and you’d better hope it goes off without a hitch and makes them a ton of money. That ought to buy you a year or tw
o of good health.”

  “I feel better already,” Stone said. “My heart has stopped making that funny noise.”

  “Now let’s see what Ken Burrows has to say to the media,” Dino said. “Talk to you later.”

  Stone turned on the TV to CNBC and watched for a few minutes. It gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

  46

  Rance Damien went to his desk, found the throwaway cell phone he used for these purposes, and called a number. All he got was a single beep. “You know who this is,” he said. “All the picnics we discussed are canceled, because of rain. Confirm at once.” He sent a text to the same effect.

  * * *

  • • •

  Elise Grant was asleep after a fitful night when her mother, Elena, shook her awake.

  “Wake up, baby!” she shouted. “We’re off the hook.”

  The telephone rang, and Elise picked it up. “What?”

  “It’s Stone. The story has hit the New York Times, and as a result, we’re all safe again. They wouldn’t dare make a move against any of us now.”

  “Thank you, Stone,” she said, then hung up. “Mother, why did you wake me up?”

  “We’re off the hook!” Elena repeated, holding up the front page of the Times and pointing at the story.

  Elise read the whole story before responding. “We’re off the hook,” she said finally.

  “I just told you that!” her mother yelled. “Now get up and get some clothes on. I want to have breakfast at the Plaza Hotel, then go to Bloomingdale’s!”

  Elise sat up on the edge of the bed. Something about that sentence didn’t work. “We can’t go to the Plaza or to Bloomingdale’s,” she said.

  “Why not?” her mother demanded.

  “Because I don’t have a job anymore. I can’t afford it.”

  “Well, I can afford it,” Elena said. “It’s autumn. You need some new clothes. Shake your ass!”

  Elise shook her ass.

  * * *

  • • •

  Joan knocked at Stone’s door.

  Something was wrong, Stone thought. Joan never bothered to knock unless she was about to try something on. “Come in,” he said.

  “I want to talk to you,” Joan said.

  “Oh, God. What is it now?”

  “Just a little talk.”

  “A stand-up talk or a sit-down talk?”

  “That depends on how hard you are to deal with.”

  “Didn’t I just give you a raise?”

  “Yes, and a very generous one.”

  “Well, what else would I be hard to deal with about?”

  “I want to hire an assistant,” Joan said.

  “Have a seat.” He looked at her closely to see if this was a joke. “Now, what are you talking about?”

  “I want to hire an assistant.”

  “That’s what I thought you said.”

  “Then my message is clear?”

  “All right, give me the whole spiel,” Stone said. “I know you’ve been rehearsing it.”

  “I want to hire Elise Grant. She’s as smart as a whip and nice to be around. I’m getting on, and it’s going to take years to train somebody to replace me, so we’d better start now. We have two empty offices next to mine; we can put the files in the small office and give her the larger one. We can get her for ten percent more than the Thomases were paying her, and that’s a bargain. This way I can take a vacation without you going nuts. That’s it. Oh, and in a way, you got her fired from H. Thomas, so you owe her a job.”

  “You just turned fifty last year,” Stone said.

  “Two years ago.”

  “Are you contemplating early retirement?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have an incurable disease?”

  “No.”

  “Have you come to hate me?”

  “No more than usual. Did I mention that she speaks Sicilian?”

  “No, and I was grateful for that. Hire her. She can have the apartment next door that got vacated when Fred and Helene got into bed together.”

  “Good idea. You’re thinking unusually clearly,” Joan said.

  “Have you hired her yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  Joan jumped up and ran.

  * * *

  • • •

  Elise and her mother had just sat down in the Plaza dining room when her cell phone rang—not the throwaway, her regular phone. It suddenly occurred to her that she could answer it.

  “Yes? Hi. I’m listening.” She sat back and listened for another two minutes. “Yes,” she said. “Tomorrow. I have to let my mother shop herself out today. Goodbye.” She put away the phone. “Mother?”

  “Yes?”

  “Breakfast is on me—so is Bloomie’s.”

  “Did you get a job?”

  “Yes, that was Stone’s secretary. I’m to be her number two, and the money is even better than at H. Thomas, and I get a free apartment.”

  “Can I have your apartment? I want to be closer to Bloomingdale’s, now that you’re working again.”

  “Yes.”

  They each ordered the eggs Benedict and a glass of champagne.

  * * *

  • • •

  Rance was at his desk when Henry called. “Get in here.” He hung up.

  Rance walked into Henry’s office. Hank was already there. “I talked to Harman Wills,” Henry said. “He had already read the piece, and he thought it was hilarious. The deal is still on.”

  Rance and Hank both shook his hand.

  “Rance, did you cancel the arrangements you made earlier?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Did you get an actual confirmation?”

  “Not yet, but I’ll hear from him soon.”

  “What were your instructions, if you canceled?”

  Rance thought about that.

  “It’s my recollection,” Henry said, “that such arrangements could not be canceled, except in person and upon payment in full for the work. Has that changed?”

  “No, it hasn’t,” Rance said, and a film of sweat appeared on his upper lip. He checked his phone for messages. “Nothing yet.”

  “Go back to your office and call him again,” Henry said. “And keep calling until you speak to him. Draw the cash, and be ready to pay him.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rance said, rising.

  “You understand, don’t you, that if any one of those people mentioned in the Times is harmed, the deal will be blown, and we’ll all be facing murder charges?”

  “I understand,” Rance said. He went back to his office and threw up into his wastebasket, then he made the call. No answer; just a beep. He threw up again.

  47

  Ari Kramer and Annie Lee went to New Hampshire for the primary election and, late in the day, followed Senator Box around, closely enough that they could hear him speaking to people.

  Box was all smiles, and the words Ari had written for him spilled from his lips, without hesitation or errors.

  Annie spoke up. “Has it occurred to you that you may have created a monster?”

  “More than once,” Ari replied, “but I haven’t seen the thing operate up close before.”

  “Scary,” Annie said.

  “That’s an excellent word for what I think. I’m tired of this. Why don’t we go back to the motel, order a pizza, and watch the returns on TV?”

  “Ari,” Annie said, “I think you’re developing a wit.”

  “How so?”

  “That sometimes means when you make a remark that sounds perfectly ordinary, but it really means something else.”

  They went back to the motel and did something else.

  * * *

  • • •
<
br />   At eleven o’clock, their pizza devoured and their other desires met, they switched on the news.

  A young woman faced the camera. “Tonight’s big news is that Senator Joseph Box has not only won New Hampshire’s Republican nomination for president but has won by twelve points over his rival. His victory is making national news, and Republicans everywhere are beginning to think they have a new contender for the presidency.

  “And, to no one’s surprise, Secretary of State Holly Barker has won the Democratic primary by twenty-two points.”

  There followed several clips of comments from as far away as California.

  “I guess Mr. Smith is going to be ecstatic,” Annie said.

  “William doesn’t seem to get ecstatic,” Ari said. “Nor does he get depressed. He just wants results for his money.”

  “And he’s getting that in spades, isn’t he?”

  As if on cue, Ari’s Skype alarm rang. He put a shirt on, turned the monitor away from the naked Annie, and logged on.

  “Congratulations,” Smith said, in his usual monotone. The bandages were gone from his face, and he looked fairly normal.

  “Thank you,” Ari replied. “Given the margin of his victory, we think he might do very well in other states, particularly Texas and Florida.”

  “Please see that he does,” Smith replied. “Our group would be very pleased to see that happen. Good night.” He went off the screen.

  “There,” Ari said. “That was William being enthusiastic.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Harod Avaya sat on a park bench at the base of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. During his two years in New York he had begun to think of this as his favorite spot in the city.

  Harod had been born thirty years before in Paris, son of Palestinian parents who had spoken Arabic at home and had moved back to the Middle East when he was twelve. They found themselves herded into Gaza, and there Harod had joined a youth group and had risen through its ranks. By the time he was nineteen he had been performing assassinations of Israeli military and intelligence commanders, and his life had become luxurious. He was being very well paid and had secured a new apartment for his parents. Then the commander of his unit was murdered by a man on a motorcycle, and Harod had begun to think that life there was getting too dangerous.