Afterburn (59 page)

"What?" Charlie cried.

"Screws, plates? Also rods. Sometimes even little titanium cages, too." Morris pushed Charlie's spine with his thumbs. "They did that for one of the football players, I think."

"Who the fuck cares?" asked Tony.

"What year?" inquired Morris. "When did they do it?"

"Twenty-five years ago!" shouted Charlie at the floor. "Tony, let me have that phone, I'll work on it, all right?"

"That's a shame," said Morris, ignoring his outburst. "There's a technique now called the autogenous iliac crest bone graft. They take the bone cells out of the hip and—"

"What the hell you talking about?" Charlie spat at him.

Morris considered Charlie coldly. "Just hit him once," he told Tommy.

Tommy came over and punched Charlie in the side of the head.

"Oh, God," he moaned, blinking, eyesight black for a moment, rubbing his temple.

"Conventional spinal fusion used to involve a thoracotomy," Morris continued. "That's what you had, I bet. This spinal scar is almost a foot long. They took out a rib and used the bone to fuse the vertebrae." He took off his green jacket and laid it carefully on one of the chairs. "These days they have the spinal endoscopy, which results in smaller incisions, and pull the bone out of the hip. They stick it between the vertebrae to stabilize them and maintain disk spacing. They're starting to test this new stuff, recombinant human bone morphogenetic protein—stuff stimulates bone growth." He turned to Tony. "Boss, I want to open him up and see how they did this."

"Will he be able to use a phone?" said Tony.

"Sure, sure. I have an epidural needle here." Morris returned to his toolbox. "I've been keeping this around." He pulled out a needle wrapped in plastic and a long tube that attached to a drip bottle. "Okay," he told Charlie, "this is what you give a woman in labor. Or someone getting a spinal tap. Once I get the needle in, you won't feel anything."

"Where are you putting that?" he demanded.

"It goes directly into the spinal nerve. I saw a guy do this once in medical school. The patient must lie absolutely still."

"Hey, Tony, this is not the way to get money out of me!" yelled Charlie. "This is crazy, Tony, this doesn't—" He tried to struggle but the two big men held him down, one with a hand on his neck.

"Go ahead," called Tony.

"Don't move a hair," Morris instructed Charlie. "Not a . . . In the hospital you have to sign a special release for this procedure because of the risk of paralysis . . . Hold that
up
, Tommy . . . okay . . ."

Charlie felt a sharp puncture in his back, then nothing.

"That's it." Morris pulled over one of the work lamps and taped the drip bottle to it. "Works almost right away. Don't move or roll around, Charles, you might dislodge the needle. If it breaks off, I don't have another one. This kind of anesthetic wears off immediately."

"Oh, Jesus."

But his back felt—felt like
nothing
, better even than with the Chinese tea. "I can't feel anything," he said.

"Your spinal nerve is drugged," said Morris. "You shouldn't feel anything much, assuming the dosage is correct."

"What are you looking for, anyway?" asked Tony.

"I want to see how they did this. Was it a cage or plates, where they put them."

"For God's sake," cried Charlie, sweating now. "Stop! Let me get the money."

"You'll be able to do that while I work," Morris said. "If you work fast, we'll take you to the hospital with the drip still in."

The phone trilled again. He lay on his stomach panting, feeling like a dog forced to the ground. They handed him the phone.

"Charlie?"

It was Christina. "Yeah," he breathed. "Is there any way you can help me?"

"If I
could
."

"I've got cash in a brokerage account here, but they don't disburse it. They'll do all kinds of other things. I can't buy stocks and bonds. What the fuck am I going to do here, Christina?"

"Can you buy something with it and give it to Tony?"

Morris lifted a small scalpel from the box and tore off the sterile wrapper.

"Like what?" he said anxiously, watching Morris.

"Gold, diamonds, I don't know."

He squeezed his eyes, head pounding. Morris was pressing something into his back. "Gold is well under three hundred an ounce these days."

"So five million is at least . . . sixteen thousand ounces, which is exactly a thousand pounds. That's not
so
heavy," she noted. "You could put that in ten suitcases."

"Gold?" Charlie hollered at Tony. "Gold?"

"Gold is a commodity," he answered. "I want cash."

"I can't
get
cash!"

Tony shrugged. "That's your problem."

"He won't take gold," Charlie said to Christina.

"Why don't you buy some cigarettes?" she suggested.

He wanted to see what Morris was doing to him. "I don't understand."

"They come into the docks in Newark in containers. Middlemen sell them. It's a spot market," she said. "You buy them before they even hit the shore, and you get a bill of lading and present it at the dock, and they bring it out and stick the container on the truck. It's a very liquid situation. Five million is probably a huge quantity of cartons. But you can sell that easily. It's cigarettes."

"I don't know how the hell to do that." He turned his head.

"Don't move!" Morris screamed. "I'm close!"

"Call your broker or whoever and see if he'll issue a letter of credit," came Christina's voice. "I'm going to call around."

"Don't leave me!"

"I'm not, I'm not."

He called back Timothy at the brokerage. "You guys issue a letter of credit?"

"No."

He called Ted Fullman, feeling tingling against his spine. He wiggled his foot, wasn't sure if it moved or not. "Ted, will you issue a letter of credit for me?"

"Sure."

"How long does that take?"

"Hell, twenty minutes."

"Can you messenger it?"

"Yes. Or fax it." Ted listened for a moment. "Are you in trouble, Charlie?"

"No, no, I'm just helping a friend." He tried to even out his breathing. Tommy, he noticed, was interested in whatever Morris was doing.

"I looked into the cash question," Ted Fullman went on. "We could provide it as soon as the day after tomorrow if we get the signatures. If that would be soon enough—"

"Please prepare a letter of credit for five million."

"I can't."

"You just said you could!" Charlie cried in despair.

"You don't have five million in the account anymore," replied Ted smoothly. "You bought the house and had me send the other eight million to your accountant's escrow account, remember?"

"Jesus." He looked at the wooden floor, noticed old paint or blood. "I'll have the brokerage send the money back."

He called Timothy at the brokerage. His line was busy.

"How're we doing?" asked Tony. "Tommy, call Peck, tell him to get over here."

The phone rang in Charlie's hand. It was Christina. "I got the name of a wholesale distributor of cigarettes. He explained a lot of this."

"Let me have his number," said Charlie, writing it down.

"This guy sells cigarettes by the containerload."

"Where are you?"

"I'm way downtown. I went back to the restaurant where I used to work."

He felt a cool scraping sensation in his back. "You'll stay there?"

"Yes."

I can't feel my feet, Charlie realized. Like they're gone. He called back Timothy at the brokerage. "Wire the money back into my bank account."

"I don't understand."

Now a trickle of pain came up his back. "Wire it all, right away."

"Well, the authorization—"

"Just send it back, what's the fucking problem?"

"Sir, Mr. Ravich, the authorization for a sum that large has to come—"

"Listen, you little fuck," Charlie croaked. "I'm in a hell of a jam, all right? That's
my
money! I've had a business relationship with your brokerage for twenty"—Morris was pulling something—"years, you understand? Send that money
now
or I'm all over you. All the numbers are there, just send it right back to my account care of Ted Fullman at Citibank."

"Yes, sir."

Tony stood up from his chair, walked four feet away, bent slightly at the waist, farted loudly, straightened up, and sat down again. He pointed at Morris. "You're like a kid with a toy train set."

"I'm feeling something," said Charlie.

"I'm feeling something, too," added Tony. "I'm feeling an emptiness. In my pocket."

"I'm gonna get this," Morris muttered to himself.

The money is going back to Citibank, thought Charlie. I've made exactly no progress. He called the cigarette wholesaler. "You guys sell large lots of cigarettes?"

"Yes," came a voice.

"How can I buy five million worth?"

"First, sir, you need to talk to our salesmen and see what they have available. Then—"

"No, no. I mean now, right
now
."

"He's buying cigarettes?" asked Tony. "I've seen everything."

"We don't do that," came the voice. "Goodbye."

"You have a plate." Morris looked up. "It's good work."

He got Christina's number from Tony and called her.

"Yes? Charlie?"

"No on the cigarettes."

"I know, I just figured that out," she said. "I've got another guy who buys spot loads."

"What's that mean?"

"This guy's got all kinds of stuff moving around. He buys distressed situations from speculators, dock overage, canceled orders, things like that. His office is here and the docks are in Newark. He takes the money by wire, then endorses the bill of lading. You want me to call?"

"I will." He took the number.

"Bob here," said a voice, phones trilling in the background.

Charlie asked about wholesale cigarettes.

"I don't have any cigarettes right now," Bob barked. "Who're you?"

Charlie wondered if his foot was quivering. "What else?"

"I got . . . I got old gasoline that might have oil in it, I got lumber and some fucking frozen fish—you don't want that—I got caviar, I got . . . Japanese car tires, Nikon cameras, I got all kinds of stuff."

"How's it work?" Charlie breathed, trying to concentrate.

"You got a binding letter of credit, right?"

"Yes. I mean I can get one."

"Have the bank deliver that here," answered Bob. "Hard copy only. We run it through our infrared scanner to check for inking alterations. Make sure all the particulars are on it—the account number, the officer at the bank and his number. Without that, you don't even get a kiss from your mother. We only deal with banks that are members of the New York clearinghouse—Chase Manhattan, Citibank, Crédit Suisse, the big ones. We want same-day electronic settlement, to our account. I don't negotiate on that point, ever. Then we call to be sure the money is in your account. Assuming it is, then you just tell me what you want. We can write over the bill of lading to you here, which we advise against, or we'll take you down to the pier and, on a very quiet basis, you understand, for an extra fee, you can pay the dock cooper to open up the container to be sure it's got what you want. He removes the lead seal and—"

"What do you have right now," asked Charlie desperately, "ready to go?"

"How much you spending?"

"Five million."

"That's a lot. Maybe you want caviar? Now, with that," he continued impatiently, "you get very good mark-up and you can break up the load as much as you want. Freshness is a factor. We have a shipment that the buyer couldn't—"

"Hang on."

"I don't hang on for anybody," said Bob. "Call me back."

"How about caviar?" Charlie asked Tony.

"Caviar? You eat it."

He dropped his head. "What the fuck are you
doing
?" he cried fearfully to Morris. "I can feel that."

"In an open laminectomy, the surgeon usually has available to him automated suction and laser ablation," Morris narrated. "But I've been careful about the bleeding."

"I can't believe this," Charlie moaned. He felt a wetness, fingers pushing numbly against a piece of bone. Then a filing sensation. His phone rang. It was Christina. "The guy has caviar," he exhaled.

"That's good."

"Tony doesn't think—oh! Oh, please! Oh, God!" he screamed, his back suddenly a valley of pain.

"Wait, wait! The needle!" said Morris. He adjusted it. "Is that better?"

"No, no! Oh, God, what are—!"

"Charlie, Charlie?" came the phone.

"
That?
" asked Morris. "That has to be better."

It was. The pain softened, became a cloud, blew away. He collapsed on the table in exhaustion, his mouth dry.

"Needle slipped," Morris noted. "Lucky it didn't break."

"Tell him that he can sell five million of caviar for seven or eight or more," came Christina's voice. "No, wait, let me talk to Tony."

He handed over the phone. "You could sell it for more, she says."

"What?"

"She says you could sell it for more."

Tony took the phone. "Yeah? I said cash. What do I want with that? Fuck you. Christina, we're going to chop up your boyfriend . . . No, no, explain it to me . . . You get a piece of paper? No, no . . . what? It says that I'm going to pick it up? . . . Wait." He looked up. "How much does caviar cost these days?"

"Couple hundred bucks an ounce usually," said Morris.

"You can get it cheaper," observed Tommy.

"Not in a restaurant."

"Even the cheap stuff is expensive," Morris told Tony. "Most people don't know the difference."

"Yeah . . . Why do I want that?" Tony was saying. "It's not like the airport, exactly . . . You have to have an examiner to know if it's any good . . . I'll take something I can dump in Chinatown, something I can sell to anybody . . ."

"Cameras?" cried Charlie. "The guy has Japanese cameras."

"Cameras I'll take," Tony said into the phone. "I need it by eleven. What? That's what I said—we'll do that. A load of new cameras . . . We can break it up . . . Five million is less than wholesale, probably. You call here at ten forty-five and we'll send a—What? . . . Your mother will be—no.
No
. Soon as you give me that piece of paper, you little bitch, then we square everything." He grunted and pulled a piece of licorice out of his pocket. "She's smart, that one, smartest I ever saw. I'm making a
profit
off this." He handed the phone to Charlie. "She's going to get that bill of lading for a container of new Nikon cameras and bring that here. She's a smart girl, Charles."