Leeny swallowed hard. So they were going to kill him. “Yes.”
“It is critical that you watch him twenty-four hours a day now. I don’t care how you do it, but you must. Otherwise we will put someone into this situation who can do this job correctly. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes.” Her voice was a monotone.
Webster drew in a long, deep breath.
Suddenly Leeny felt Webster’s hands on her hips. She whirled to face him. “Don’t ever do that again,” she hissed. “Don’t ever think you can touch me. I don’t care if you can turn me over to the authorities for insider trading or if you can have me murdered. You can manipulate me any way you want except physically. I will never allow you to touch me, Lewis Webster.”
Webster pulled back, then smiled wickedly and pointed at her. “Don’t forget. Keep him in your sights at all times.”
Leeny stared at the old man for several moments, turned, and walked toward the door.
* * *
—
The taxi crept slowly toward Mace from down the street. He watched curiously as it rolled to where he stood and then stopped. He had not hailed it. Smoothly the back passenger window dropped down. Leeny’s beautiful face appeared.
“Hi, stranger,” she said in a low, husky voice. “Need a lift?”
Mace smiled. It was cold out here, and he didn’t really feel like walking the streets of lower Manhattan anymore. “Sure.” He opened the door and slid onto the backseat next to her. “I’m glad you came along when you—”
But Leeny did not allow Mace to finish the sentence. Her soft hand moved to his cheek, and she pressed her thin body against him. Then her lips were on his.
Mace accepted her kiss. It was wrong. He shouldn’t give in to this again. But he could not help himself. He slid his large hand through her hair and pulled her lips more tightly against his. She tasted so good, and he wanted this intimacy right now. He was frustrated with Lewis Webster, and the only other person who could understand what he felt was Leeny. Their tongues intertwined for several seconds in a passionate kiss.
“Where to?” The cabby sounded tough, Brooklyn all the way.
Mace attempted to answer, but Leeny would not allow him to pull away from her.
“Yo, I’m trying to make a living here. The faster you tell me where you want to go, the faster you can really get at it.” The cabby was irritated. He was losing time, and somehow he didn’t like the fact that the woman was all over the guy who had just gotten into the back of his taxi.
Finally Leeny pulled back slightly and licked her lips. They glistened in the bright neon lights of the Manhattan night streaming through the cab windows. “Maybe I want to do it in a cab,” she whispered into Mace’s ear.
He smiled at her. She was putting her full weight on him, yet he felt nothing.
“Hey, whose place are we going to? His or hers. Make up your minds.” The cabby was angry now.
Leeny pushed her lips against Mace’s ear. “Let’s go to your apartment. Mine is a wreck.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well, what’s your address, silly?” She knew his address. She knew it by heart, but she could not give that fact away. He might be suspicious if she suddenly blurted it out.
“Oh, right.” He had waited to give the man the address to see if she might respond, yielding a secret. “Eighty-second and Columbus.”
“You got it.” The cabby gunned the engine, and the taxi shot forward, pinning Leeny against Mace.
Again she kissed him deeply. Finally she pulled back. “You care about me, don’t you?” she whispered.
Mace gazed back at her. “Of course I do.”
Ten minutes later they reached Mace’s apartment. As he turned into the room after closing the door, Leeny moved quickly into his arms. They kissed for several minutes in the dark foyer, and then Mace pushed her against the wall and moved his tongue against her neck. She arched her back as she felt his teeth and tongue working together on her soft skin. She moaned slightly. It felt so good. “Stop, Jesus. You’re going to leave marks.” But she dug her nails into his scalp, pulling him more tightly against her.
“No, I promise I’ll leave dollars,” he whispered.
“What?” She pulled back slightly. She was breathing hard.
“Nothing.” He smiled at her. “Just a little banker humor.”
She moved against him again. “You’re a bad boy. You know I want you so much, don’t you?”
“Maybe.” He did not tell her how mutual the feeling suddenly was.
She kissed him again on the lips. “Fix me a drink, bad boy.”
Mace eyed her for a moment, considering whether or not to honor the request. He wanted her right now. But of course the liquor might unleash any inhibitions. “All right. What will you have?”
“Scotch and water.”
He nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay. I may not have as many clothes on when you get back. If that’s okay with you.”
Mace smiled at her again. “Not a problem for me.”
They kissed deeply one more time. Then he turned and headed carefully toward the kitchen, through the darkness of the apartment.
He reached the wall outside the kitchen and flipped on the switch, bathing the space in light. He moved to a small cabinet next to the sink, removed a bottle of Chivas from it, and poured the scotch into a highball glass. He added some water. He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a beer for himself, retrieved the glass of scotch from the counter, and headed back into the living room.
“Webster’s such an idiot, isn’t—” Mace stopped in mid-sentence. Leeny lay on the leather couch, fast asleep. He shook his head and chuckled. Of course. She was exhausted.
He took the drinks back to the kitchen, went to a hall closet, pulled down a warm wool blanket from the top shelf, moved back to the living room, and covered her with it. Her breathing had become regular. She was gone for the night. There could be no doubt of that.
Mace reached for the purse Leeny still clutched against her chest, pulled it gently away, and set it down on the coffee table in front of the couch. It was heavy. He laughed to himself. It was as if she were carrying rocks.
Carefully, with both hands, Mace removed Leeny’s clear-framed glasses. He turned and held them up to the light coming from the kitchen. There seemed to be no prescription. The glasses seemed purely cosmetic. He shook his head and placed them on one corner of the table. Perhaps he just hadn’t noticed the curve of the lenses in the darkness. Finally he covered her with the blanket, kissed her on the forehead, and moved toward the bedroom.
As she heard the door close, Leeny opened one eye slightly to make certain that Mace had in fact gone into the bedroom. When she was sure that he had, she rose and reached for the purse. She inspected it carefully. Thank God he had not opened it. If he had, he would have seen the small pistol.
Leeny dropped the purse to the carpet and lay back on the sofa. She was exhausted, but she could not give in to sleep yet. She was here on a mission, one she could not begin until Mace McLain was asleep. She breathed deeply. She hated this so much.
20
At nine sharp the next morning Mace stepped out of the elevator onto the second floor of the Walker Pryce building, the executive floor. At the far end of the corridor lay Lewis Webster’s office. Mace drew in a deep breath. He needed to speak to Webster about several things, not the least of which was whether or not he still had a job.
He moved down the wide, high-ceilinged hallway, striding quickly beneath the massive chandeliers. The hallway was lined with sprawling secretarial workstations, equipped with all the latest equipment. They were positioned immediately outside the huge offices of the senior executives so that they could access their lifelines to the outside worl
d quickly if need be. The women who sat at these desks protected the executives ferociously. They had been with their respective superiors for years and were a key part of their success.
Mace nodded to the ladies as he passed. They all were as well known throughout the institution as the men for whom they worked.
Usually Mace enjoyed coming to the executive floor. It oozed power and reminded him of the preeminence Walker Pryce enjoyed and the respect it commanded throughout the world’s financial markets. Inlaid cedar paneling covered the walls, filling the corridor with the pleasant scent of wealth. Oil paintings hung from the paneling, and each piece of furniture in the hallway—even the secretarial desks and credenzas on which stood modern computer and communications equipment—was an antique. Usually he would have moved slowly down the thick maroon carpet toward Webster’s office, reflecting on the history of the venerable institution, but today he was preoccupied.
“Good morning, Mace.” Walter Marston stood behind his executive assistant, dictating a letter. One hand gripped a strap of his brightly colored suspenders, and the other held a lighted fat cigar. Its rich smoky scent intermingled with the cedar aroma, adding to the atmosphere of conspicuous consumption pervading the great room.
“Good morning, Walter.” Mace interrupted his mission for a moment and moved toward Marston to shake his hand. It was not a bad idea, anytime you had the opportunity, to kiss the ring of the man who would probably replace Lewis Webster as senior partner sometime in the next three years. Marston was a man who almost certainly would have a big part in determining when Mace would, or would not, become a partner, no matter what Webster said about single-handedly guaranteeing partnership status if Broadway Ventures was successful.
“You look a little distracted this morning, young man.” Marston puffed on his cigar.
Mace smiled broadly and relaxed as he released Marston’s hand. It was never wise to appear too aggressive at Walker Pryce. Mace had learned that in his first few months at the firm. Walker Pryce professionals were expected to maintain their calm at all times, to be what the partners called “conservatively aggressive.”
“No, I’m fine,” Mace said smoothly. “It’s just that we’ve been working hard on Broadway Ventures, trying to put the thing together.”
“Oh, yes, the fund.” Marston sniffed.
Mace noticed a strange expression cloud Marston’s face. It was almost as if the man found the mention of Broadway Ventures repugnant. But Webster had made it clear that Marston was behind the fund that day in his office.
“How is the fund going?” the older man asked stiffly.
Mace thought he detected misgivings in Marston’s tone. So Webster had steamrollered at least this member of the executive committee into agreeing to the fund, maybe through one of those behind-closed-door meetings Mace had heard rumors of. He nodded. “Fairly well.” He spoke in a restrained voice, in a tone that was meant to convey to Marston that he too was not convinced that Broadway Ventures was such a great idea. If the fund blew up, Mace wanted to be able to resurrect his career from the debris. Perhaps if Marston really did have misgivings about what was going on and understood that Mace’s participation in the venture was not wholly voluntary, Marston would be forgiving after he had replaced Webster as the senior partner. Perhaps he would allow Mace to reenter the advisory side of Walker Pryce at that point. If the fund blew up for any reason, Mace knew that Webster would be torn apart by the partnership like some elderly lion on the African plain, and Marston would likely be the new king.
“What do you mean, fairly well?” Marston was suddenly interested.
“Well, all the money has been raised.”
“You’re kidding me.” Marston exhaled cigar smoke.
Mace shook his head. “Two days ago Chase committed itself to underwrite a billion-dollar five-year revolver for the fund. The loan was to become effective once we had sold a billion dollars worth of partnership interests. This morning Leeny Hunt informed me that the last three-hundred-million-dollar interest had been committed to. We plan to close on all the money this afternoon. This afternoon Broadway Ventures will be completely operational and will have two billion dollars to invest.”
Marston stared at Mace without speaking. Never had he thought Webster could pull this thing off. Never had he thought Broadway Ventures would raise so much money so fast. It defied explanation. He released the suspender strap from his left hand and rubbed his eyes. Webster was a hell of a businessman. Not likable but good, he grudgingly admitted.
“So now we have two billion dollars to invest.” Mace dropped his voice as he continued. The walls had ears on this floor. “And nowhere to put it.”
Marston nodded. That was the kicker. That little problem could still tank Webster if the senior partner was incorrect about a market correction. Still, he hadn’t thought it would even have gotten to this point.
“Good morning, Mr. Marston.”
The heavy Italian accent came from behind Mace. He turned to see who the speaker was. Moving down the hallway was Vincenzo, the elderly shoeshine man who had made a thirty-year career out of polishing the shoes of Walker Pryce executives.
“Good morning, Vincenzo,” Marston replied cheerfully.
Mace turned back toward Marston.
Marston’s face became serious for a moment. “Keep me informed of the fund’s progress,” he whispered.
Mace nodded.
The two men shook hands quickly. Then Marston turned and walked back into his office with Vincenzo in tow.
Mace smiled at Marston’s secretary before continuing down the corridor toward Webster’s office. That was good, he thought. Marston understood. He would have a lifeline if the fund blew up. But he would have to be very careful about what he told Marston. Webster would probably be furious if he knew that Mace was giving Marston information about Broadway Ventures. And Webster was still the senior partner.
Mace passed Graham Polk’s darkened office. Polk spent most of his time in the middle of Walker Pryce’s massive trading floor on seventeen. It only made sense. Polk had to be close to the action so he could make split-second decisions. But spending so much time on the trading floor meant he spent little time dealing with things political, and at the senior executive level political machinations were as important as making money for the firm.
Finally he reached Sarah Clements’ workstation. “Good morning, Sarah.”
Sarah glanced up from her computer, and her face broke into a wide smile. She liked Mace. Unlike many of the other young people at the firm, he was always pleasant. “Good morning, Mace.”
Mace spent several moments making small talk, asking questions about Sarah’s children, who were almost fully grown now. Finally he glanced toward Webster’s closed door. “Is he in?” Mace nodded at the large door.
Sarah shook her head. “No, he’s gone to Washington for the day. He was called away suddenly late last night.” Sarah paused. “You should have just called down. I could have saved you the trip.”
Mace smiled. “Oh, it’s all right. I had to go down to the street anyway on an errand.” It was an excuse. He had no errand to run. When he needed to see Webster, he never called. As standard operating procedure Sarah informed each caller that Webster was busy and would have to call him back. Unless Webster told Sarah to accept a specific individual’s call, she deflected all of them this way. And it might be hours, or even days, before Webster called back, depending on who you were.
“He should be back in tomorrow.”
“Washington,” Mace murmured.
Sarah nodded. “Can you keep a secret?” she asked, leaning forward.
Mace gave her the hurt puppy dog look. “Of course I can.”
“Okay. Well, you’ll never believe who he’s meeting with.”
Mace laughed. “The president,” he said.
Sarah shook her head solemnly. “No. The vice pr
esident.”
The smile disappeared from Mace’s face. She was absolutely serious. He could see it in her eyes. The vice president?
* * *
—
Rachel bent low against the chilly wind whipping across the street. She clutched the package from Pittsburgh tightly against her side. Inside the blue and orange envelope was information from Bradley Downes at the Stillman Company, information she had been nervously awaiting for several days. He could have easily ignored her inquiry about Leeny and not bothered to call his contact at LeClair and Foster, but he hadn’t He had followed through. Now every nerve ending in her body was on fire.
She had called Bradley yesterday, and he had indicated that he had just sent her the information via overnight mail service. He would not discuss the contents of the package with her on the telephone but made her promise over and over that she would never identify him as the source—except that he would confirm to Mace, and only to Mace, that Stillman had invested just ten million dollars in Broadway Ventures, not the hundreds of millions Leeny claimed she would get.
Rachel turned off the sidewalk toward the entrance of her apartment building. As she did, she paused and looked back over her shoulder. There he was again, the well-built man with the long blond hair, this time on the other side of the street, walking away from her. It was the third time she had seen him: yesterday on the street, a little while ago at the post office, and now. She stared as the man sauntered away. It was the same man. She was almost certain.
Another gust of wind swept across the street, nearly tearing the package from her grip. Rachel brushed the hair from her eyes and hurried to the front door of the building. She smiled at the blue-uniformed security guard as she passed through the second set of doors. He smiled back at her. Rachel gripped the package tightly even as she escaped the bluster outside. She could not wait to tear it open.
The Vulture Fund Page 23