Darkman (5 page)

One of them raised a finger and pointed it at her chest. “She’s impartial,” he crowed. “Ask her!”

She got a faceful of putters and a demand to choose the best one. She raised her hands and backed away. “I’m afraid I don’t golf.”

“All the better,” one of them roared, sloshing his martini all over his shoes and the thick red carpet. “She’s impartial to the bone!”

“Mine’s a Hogan original,” another said. “Wooden shaft. See?”

She saw without an inkling of interest. “How nice. The ladies’ room?”

“Over thataways.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I use the same one as Arnie Palmer, and by God, if it’s good enough for Arnie, it’s good enough for me.”

“What?” number three said. “You mean to tell me Arnie uses the ladies’ room?”

They broke apart, howling, coughing, generally getting red in the face. Julie slunk away, feeling very much like the center of attention, which she did not want to be. There was a row of potted palms on the right, and she wished she could dive in. Her nerves had already turned the day sour.

And Peyton, good God, Peyton. Of all the worst moments to pop the question, he had to go and do it today. Her mind was too full of worries and pressing concerns, too filled up with doubt to handle a sticky point like marriage, kids, one telephone listing. Her thoughts were scattering like autumn leaves. For one brief second she wished Pappas were here to guide her. But no, she decided, she had to sink or swim on her own.

She found the ladies’ room, much to her relief. While she washed her hands she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror: blond, slim, attractive, terrified, green. Damn the color, damn the terror. She dug in her purse and hauled her lipstick out, along with an amazing amount of other junk. She shoveled it back in, pausing for a moment to look at the strip of photo-booth pictures for which she and Peyton, just for fun, had posed a week or so ago at the carnival. In the first picture they both sat grim and stony. The next one had them making faces. The third was them kissing while Peyton made rabbit ears behind her head. The fourth was a hand reaching for the camera. Yes, it had been fun, quite hilarious. Looking at these pictures brought back a measure of composure, and she did her lipstick with hands that were no longer shaking. An hour from now it would be over, she would have done just fine, and the deal Pappas should have handled would be wrapped up and finished. Now was not the time to lose her nerve.

She went out and asked a very nice old gent where the kitchen might be found. He was kind enough to take her arm in arm and show her. For his trouble Julie did not smack him when he dug his fingers into her fanny. Instead she thanked him and disappeared inside . . .

. . . and returned five minutes later, just in time to greet her new clients at the door. She was smiling radiantly with what she hoped was a measure of authority—the perfect lawyer, slick, suave, unimpeachable, in command. Of course she felt none of these, but the little excursion through the kitchen had eased her nerves remarkably. At least she had a plan now.

She recognized the elderly Louis Strack from photos Pappas had prepped her with. Tall, slightly stooped, old enough to die but rich enough to hire someone else for the job, as Pappas had joked. Beside him as he came through the doors was his son Louis Strack, Jr., a somewhat short but powerfully built man Julie guessed to be in his late thirties. His black hair was impeccably styled, as opposed to his father’s, which was a wispy gray tangle. Strack Senior looked positively grumpy; Strack Junior smiled at Julie as she approached.

“Mr. Strack,” she said, offering her hand, “so nice to meet you. I’m Julie Hastings, here from Pappas and Swain to represent you in the Von Hoffenstein negotiation.”

“Charmed,” he murmured, and for a wild second she thought he was going to kiss her hand. A brief chill rippled up her spine, and she wondered why.

Why?
her inner voice chided.
The man’s a dream boat and filthy rich to boot. Most women would melt. As it is, you’re simply wilting.

She forced herself to stop wilting. Strack Junior was saying something.

“Please call me Louis, if I may call you Julie. This is my father—”

“Goddammit,” his father barked in a rattly voice. “I don’t need some fancy-ass woman to do my negotiating. Where the hell’s Pappas at?”

Julie flashed him one of her best smiles. “Mr. Pappas is tied up in litigation this week. Don’t worry, I’ve done my homework.” She hefted her briefcase. “It’s all in here.”

“Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll stop worrying when Von Ball-breaker drops his price down to sixty million.”

“I think we can do better than that, Mr. Strack. My figures show—”

“Just get him down to sixty,” Strack grumbled. “If he goes lower than that, he’s insane.”

He stomped off. Two or three aides hurried to follow, all of them looking like hungry weasels, which Julie supposed they were. Hangers-on waiting for a nickel or dime to fall out of the old man’s pocket. She turned to the more pleasant visage of Louis Junior, or, as she corrected herself, just Louis.

“Shall we?” he asked.

“We shall,” she said.

He walked her upstairs to the conference room, exuding charm and a confidence she hoped was infectious. Inside the conference room an Austrian moneybags named Baron Hugo Von Hoffenstein was waiting, along with his lawyer, Myron Katz. Pappas had briefed her about these guys: They played hardball all the time. At stake was a chunk of riverfront property the good Baron wanted to part with. In return he was asking only seventy-five million dollars. Sums like this were staggering to Julie; she had enough trouble with her own budget. But Pappas and Swain, attorneys-at-law, stood to make a few million of their own from this deal. All of this sat uneasily on Julie’s shoulders. Pappas had told her she would do fine, but the tone of his voice carried something rather sinister. Julie read it as a veiled threat: This was do-or-die for her future with the firm, and her career just might go swirling down the tubes if she botched it.

Thus it was that she entered the conference room to face the Baron and his lawyer with her knees knocking together and her mouth as dry as dust. Louis held the chair for her. Whatta guy, she thought crazily as she put her briefcase on the massive conference table. She sat down and prepared to do battle with her nerves and the big fat Baron. Behind him was a huge window, through which she could see the golf course and several bridle paths. Ah, to be out there with no cares, dallying among the sand traps instead of here, where traps big enough to fall into waited at every turn. What a life.

A waiter in red and a wine steward in white came in and placed delicate wineglasses on the table, then stood by, waiting for the Baron to order. He made idiotic faces while he debated what year and brand to choose, finally coming up with an ’86 Cabernet Maison Rême. The steward went out and came back several minutes later with a bottle nestled in a chrome sleeve. He stood by, calmly waiting for the Baron to get around to having the bottle opened for the mandatory taste test. Julie resisted the urge to charge over and snatch the whole thing out of its bed of ice and slug it down, but no, her entire future might hinge on that bottle.

Katz propped his elbows on the table and stared at Julie. She squirmed inside. This was one of the Big Guys, hard as Krupp steel. His pale eyes seemed to gleam with a malevolent hatred. Still staring at her, he laid out his proposition. “We want to be reasonable here,” he said. “We indicated we were interested in selling the pier frontage, and we are indeed interested. But frankly, Herr Von Hoffenstein will not be robbed. Seventy-five strikes us as a fair price for this parcel. We’re ready to conclude a deal here and now at that price. Do you follow me, Ms. Hastings?”

She gave him a false smile, fighting the urge to stick her tongue out at him. “Indeed I do, Mr. Katz. It seems we are missing only one element in this deal.”

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “What might that be?”

“An interested party.”

Louis pressed a hand over his mouth, hiding a smile. He tipped Julie a wink. The Baron sat looking old and frumpy and fat. He snapped his fingers and the waiter began to assault the cork. When it was out, he poured the Baron a sip and stood back, the bottle wrapped professionally in a white towel, awaiting a verdict. Von Hoffenstein made more faces as he checked it out. He swallowed and nodded. Wine was served around the table.

“Mr. Katz,” Julie said, “I’ve found that in the real-estate business there are three factors which determine a property’s value.”

Katz seemed interested.

“Number one, location. Number two, location. And three . . . well, I’m sure you’ve guessed it. Location. Unfortunately you have none of the above. Your price is fair for midtown commercial, not for riverfront.”

Katz did not flinch. “It’s worth more than that to your client, considering his plans for the area.”

“If my client can spin straw into gold, he’ll still pay market price for the straw. Our offer stands at forty-eight million.”

The Baron smiled, nodding. “Very well, then. Business is business, and deals will come and go. But the world will pause for a beautiful woman and a fine wine. Now, let us toast a sale at the price of sixty million.”

The elder Strack started to lift his glass, doubtless glad to see the price just where he wanted it. Julie stomped on his foot and he almost spilled his glass. “You’re moving in the right direction,” she said, “but our offer stands firm at forty-eight.”

She sipped the wine as Katz and the Baron held a whispered conversation. She frowned and turned to the wine steward. “Sir, there’s been a mistake. The Baron ordered a bottle of ’86 Cabernet Maison Rême. Isn’t that right?”

He bowed slightly. “
Oui
,
madame,
that is what I have served.”

She took another sip, frowning harder. “No. You have served us an ’87 or ’88. California Beaujolais. Pleasant, but hardly worth what you must be charging the good Baron.”

Old Strack examined his glass as if a fly had crash-landed in it. He made a face.

The wine steward looked stricken. “But madame! I have served the Rême!”

Strack took a sip. “Tastes okay to me. Let’s get on with this.”

Katz spoke up. “Ms. Hastings, the wine is fine. You’re way out of your league here, and I’m sure the wine steward knows more about fine wine than you ever will.”

Von Hoffenstein plucked the bottle out of the ice. He pulled the towel away from the label, then smiled and showed it to everyone. “California San Meduso 1988. The lady is correct. Steward!”

The steward stared at it, aghast. He snapped his fingers at the waiter, who began snatching up glasses. “Please forgive us,” the steward said. “We will bring the Rême at once. Gratis, of course.”

“Of course,” Julie said, then turned to the Baron. “At any rate, our offer still stands at forty-eight.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “Gentlemen, if we can’t toast to a deal closed, we prefer not to drink at all. We have other business to attend to, so if you’ll excuse us, we’ll go.”

The elder Strack got up, grumbling. “I thought I told you to make this deal,” he snapped at her as he passed. Louis got up, unperturbed. They went to the door just as the new wine was brought.

“Wait!” the Baron called, and they turned. “As you say, the price is indeed forty-eight million, for this is too fine a wine not to use for a toast.” He raised his glass.
“Prosit? Zur Gesundheit?”

“Zur Gesundheit,”
Julie said, mentally shaking hands with herself. “And to everything else as well.”

4

Stracks

W
ALKING TOWARD THE
lobby, past gilt-framed paintings of one hundred years’ worth of past superintendents of the Felix Heights Hunting Club, Louis Strack, Jr., was in high spirits. That cute lawyer, that Julie girl—man, what a performance. The mistake with the wine—pure genius. Von Hoffenstein was as good as putty in her hands. Even his shyster lawyer, Katz, had wound up speechless. Yet Julie had been terrified, Louis knew. Her hands had been cold and shaking when he walked her upstairs. She seemed to have difficulty swallowing. But once things began to roll, once she was allowed to take the ball, some kind of inner resolve had turned her nervousness into authority. She even had been able to make an ass out of that Katz guy, and did he ever deserve it.

He heard the whisper of feet behind him and slowed. Julie caught up and beamed at him. “Satisfied, Louis?”

He nodded. “More than that. You saved us twelve million bucks. Pappas is a fool for not using you before. I assume this was your first taste of a multimillion-dollar real-estate transaction.”

“How’d you guess?” She laughed when he rolled his eyes.

Louis said, “How much of a bribe did you give the wine steward?”

She looked shocked. “Well, I never!”

“I’d say you’ve already started. Down the road to petty crime, I mean.”

She laughed again. The wine steward came down the stairs, and she stepped aside to talk to him. Louis saw a flash of green that had nothing to do with her suit. She came back, looking a little too nonchalant.

“Fifty bucks?” he asked her.