The Job (39 page)

Happily, the train jerked into motion after only ten minutes had passed. Initially, we crept along the tracks. It only took a minute to reach the scene of the “accident.” There were four cop cars, an ambulance, and a slew of official-looking folk crowding alongside the tracks. The rear of the ambulance door was open, and I could see the shape of a corpse through a white plastic body bag. A uniformed cop stared up at the train. Instinctually, I lowered my head, then thought, Did he see that? .. . Is he reaching for his walkie-talkie right now and radioing the cops at the next station to pick up a potential suspect on the southbound Metro-North train?

“Real pretty scene, huh?”

I jumped and found myself staring at the conductor. He observed my overreaction with amusement.

“Scare va? Sorry.”

“Didn’t see you coming,” I said.

“I was just…”

I pointed to the window.

“Yeah, it’s a real mess. And when we were sitting at Old Greenwich, waiting for ‘em to clear the line, word came through that the driver of the train saw two men on the line. But they only found one body.”

“No kidding?” I said.

“Yep-it’s all kind of suspicious, if you ask me. You going straight through to Grand Central?”

I nodded and handed him a $20 bill. He punched a ticket and returned it to me with the change.

“Have a good one, sir.”

No chance of that.

Thankfully, after the train inched by the accident scene it picked up speed. I spent the journey staring out the window at the dark void of night, my brain swamped by images of Peterson’s final moments on the railway tracks. And then I saw myself seated on that park bench in Boston Common the day before, mulling over Elliot Capel’s suspicions about the fund. My instincts had told me to abandon ship, to quit the job on the spot. But I stayed put. Just as I stayed put after I first read the Excalibur prospectus and felt uneasy about the legitimacy of the fund. Just as I pleaded for this job without ever considering what I might be actually called upon to do.

And now each of those decisions suddenly seemed huge, monumental, life-defining, whereas earlier I must have spent no more than a few seconds formulating them. Is that all it takes to make a wrong choice? A few anxious milliseconds-when you’re so desperate, you’ll grab at almost anything offered?

We reached Grand Central just after eleven. I hailed a cab and was at the loft forty minutes before the midnight deadline. Jerry was seated at the kitchen table, talking, as usual, on the phone. He hung up as soon as I entered.

“So how was the dinner with Peterson?” he asked pleasantly.

“You know exactly how it went, you sonofabitch.”

“Sorry-I don’t.”

“Oh, really?” I said.

“Well then I’ll tell you. After dinner, two euvs with eruns hustled us into Peterson’s car. made, me drive to a quiet little spot near the Old Greenwich train station, and watch while they threw Peterson under an oncoming New Haven express. So that’s how my goddamn evening went, Jerry….”

“I’d lose that unpleasant tone of voice if I were you,” he said, standing up and opening a kitchen cabinet.

“I’ll give you any ‘tone’ I want. Especially since the two guys who killed Peterson let it be known that you were the brains behind this operation.”

“Did they really say that?” he asked mildly. Then, holding up a bottle of Scotch and two glasses, he asked: “Feel like a whiskey? I think you can use one after what you’ve been through.”

“Fuck your whiskey.”

He shrugged.

“Suit yourself,” he said, pouring himself a shot.

“Why did you order Peterson to be killed?”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t kill Peterson. You did. There’s nothing connecting me to the crime whatsoever. I mean, all I told you to do was take him out for dinner. Next thing I hear, he’s fallen under a train. Nasty way of ending someone’s life. Allen.”

I sank down into the sofa and put my head in my hands. He came over and crouched down beside me, and continued to speak in an easy, matter-of-fact tone.

“Think about it. Everyone knows you despised Ted Peterson because he destroyed your career. And everyone who attended the SOFT US reception last night would be able to testify to the level of your hatred, thanks to that shouting match. I bet you were also the last person to be seen with him-as, no doubt, the maitre d’ at the Hyatt Regency would also tell the cops. You left together, too, didn’t you? And, from what my associates just told me, he was totally smashed at the time, and you appeared to be entrusted with the job of getting him home.

“Now let’s face it, Ned, the scenario I’m describing will be music to the ears of the local district attorney for Fairfield County. Not only does he have you at the scene of the crime, he also has a motive, to boot. What’s more, only a few minutes after killing him, you boarded a train. Surely, there must have been a conductor on duty who saw you. Just as I bet there were a couple of passengers in the same car who could easily pick you out of a line-up.”

I felt another wave of nausea-but there was nothing left to bring up.

“Now I know that, under police interrogation, you’d probably weave some story about working for Ballantine, and how the Excalibur Fund was owned by us. Well, there’s absolutely no record of your ever being employed by us-and the fund, as I already told you, is divvied up between three offshore-registered companies. Yes, we do pay taxes on the fund’s revenue-we are good citizens, after all-but the holding is constructed in such a way that, on paper, it can never be traced back to Ballantine Industries. In fact, there’s no way that the actual company owner’s identity can be divulged. Under U.S. law this information is also confidential.

“So, you see, Ned-we are clean, and you are… well, a murderer.”

I hit Jerry. With the open heel of my right hand. Catching him right on the nose. He fell to one side, his hands covering his face. I grabbed a heavy glass ashtray off the table, and was about to bring it down on his head.

“Go on,” Jerry taunted, “do it. And get indicted for two murders while you’re at it.”

I froze, the ashtray raised above my head. Then I let it drop on the sofa. I followed, slumping back down into the cushions. Jerry picked himself up off the floor, walked over to the kitchen, opened the fridge, filled a dish towel with ice cubes, and held it against his bloodied nose.

“That was dumb, Allen,” he said.

“Very dumb.”

I forced myself up from the sofa.

“I’m out of here,” I said.

“I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere. If you do, then the police will be tipped off that you are the man they are looking for.”

I said nothing.

Jerry removed the ice pack from his nose, studied the dish towel for blood, shrugged, and tossed it into the sink.

“You don’t even throw a good punch,” he said.

“What do you want?”

“Want? Me? I want nothing, Allen. Nothing except your loyalty. Because the scenario I’ve been describing will only be played out if you do something rash. Like blab to the newspapers. Or go on the run. Or try to leave the job.”

“The police will be on to me very fast.”

“No way. Sure, there will be talk in the papers about some guy having been seen with Peterson-but, unless the cops are tipped off, who will know it’s you? I mean, before meeting him at SOFT US when was the last time you made contact with Peterson?”

“Before Christmas.”

“There you go. Anyway, if, for some accidental reason, you were fingered, I’d help you with an alibi. Sure you were seen arguing with Peterson at the Parker Meridien. But on the night he died, you were out of town on business.”

“How will I ever prove that?”

“Give me one of your credit cards.” When I hesitated, he barked,

“NOW.”

I dug out my wallet and handed over my MasterCard (the only one that was usable).

“You had to fly to Miami for the day on fund business. You stayed at the house of a Victor Romano….”

“Who’s he?”

“One of the original investors in the fund. An FOB. Anyway, he’ll vouch for you. And by this time tomorrow, using your MasterCard, I’ll have a New York-Miami airline ticket dated for today in your name. I’ll also arrange for a rental car receipt, just to make things look really convincing.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Only if you get caught. And believe me, you won’t get caught. Because it will all be authentic documentation.”

“How the hell will you arrange that?”

“I know people….”

“I’m sure you do.”

He objected to the tone of that last comment.

“You want an alibi or not?”

“What I want is to be out of this situation.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen. So a solid alibi is your only shot at beating the rap.”

“You know, even -with the manufactured alibi, it’s not going to be that clear cut. The cops are obviously going to question Peterson’s secretary. And they’ll find out that I had dinner with him.”

“No, they won’t.”

“But you had Peggy call his secretary to set up the dinner.”

“Well, actually, I called him directly, myself.”

“But surely, he told his secretary about the dinner. Or wrote it down in his business diary.”

“Believe me, he didn’t.”

“You can’t know that….”

“I do know that. Because the dinner with you was not something he would’ve wanted anyone to know about.”

“Stop talking in fucking riddles, Jerry. Why would he have been so secretive about meeting me?”

“It doesn’t concern you.”

“Of course it concerns me, Jerry. It’s my ass on the line.”

“Ned, as long as you don’t eat at the Hyatt Regency again, you are not going to have any problems. No one will ever place you at the scene-and, in the wholly unlikely event that they do, well, you’ll have the Miami alibi to fall back on. So, you see, you’re in the clear. In fact, if I were you, I’d go out and celebrate. Buy yourself a new suit. I hear there’s a sale on at Armani….”

“How can you fucking stand there, joking with me about buying a suit, after authorizing a whack… .”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. As the great Ronald Reagan once said, “There you go again.” But, okay, I will attempt an explanation. There was a problem in that Mr. Ted Peterson was trying to harm our fund-and, in the process, the reputation of Mr. Ballantine. It seems his personal financial problems were so acute that he had no choice but to resort to blackmail-he had begun to threaten us, saying he’d spread misinformation about Excalibur unless a substantial payoff was forthcoming.”

I was about to say, You mean, the information that the fund is bogus? But I stopped myself. Knowledge might be power… but it also can be dangerous to your health.

“But though the alleged intelligence he had on the fund was completely spurious, the fact remains: Mud sticks-something Mr. Ballantine knows all too well. Had Peterson played the blackmail card, that little shit could have undermined the credibility of everything connected to Ballantine Industries-including your job. Would he have played that card? It’s doubtful. But, if you’ve read The Success Zone, you’ll know that one of the great Ballantinian business strategies is this: Doubt breeds apprehension. So go on the offensive and shut down all avenues of doubt. That’s all I did. I shut down Peterson. And then I closed off any avenue of doubt I might have about you by ensuring your ongoing allegiance to me.”

“You trapped me.”

“That’s one interpretation. If I were you, however, I’d look upon this situation as an opportunity. As long as you maintain your silence and do your job, you will flourish. We really do reward loyalty-and, as I know you’re an ambitious guy, I’m sure you’ll rise quickly up the organizational ladder. Especially when I report back to Mr. Ballantine that (a) you carried out a very unpleasant task with tremendous efficiency, and (b) you can be trusted.”

He looked at me with a grin that was verging on the triumphant.

“Can you be trusted, Allen?”

I swallowed hard.

“I can be trusted.” Because you’ve got me. And because there’s no way out.

I spent a long night staring at the ceiling, sinking deeper into despair, not wanting to close my eyes for fear of seeing Ted Peterson’s head being pulverized on that railway track yet again. My mind kept running through the entire scenario, looking for an angle, a slant, a loophole, an escape clause… anything that might spring me from this entrapment. I found nothing. Jerry had me cornered, boxed in. He now controlled my life. If I displeased him-or refused to do as ordered-he could snatch that freedom away from me with one anonymous phone call to the police. Besides eliminating the Peterson problem, this entire frame-up had been designed to ambush me; to make me entirely reliant on Jerry for my life. And he, in turn, now had a dependent pawn who would do his bidding.

Lizzie. Lizzie. Lizzie. I wanted to race to the phone, call L.A.” tell her everything. But if I did I would lose her forever. Once she heard how I had been ensnared (correction: how, through bad judgment, lack of acumen, and desperation, I had allowed myself to be trapped), she would write me off permanently.

Sleep eventually hit me around five. Two hours later, there was a loud pounding on my bedroom door.

“Get out here,” Jerry shouted.

“Ted Peterson’s the talk of the town.”

I threw on a bathrobe and headed into the living room. Jerry was already showered and dressed for work. He was standing near the television, coffee cup in hand, watching the news on a local cable station called New York One. He turned up the volume as I entered, in time for the 7:15 news summary. The Peterson story was the top item. The square-jawed anchorman, Fred Fletcher, looked gravely into the camera.

“Connecticut police are today investigating the suspicious death of an Old Greenwich computer executive who was struck by a Metro-North train around nine last night. New York One’s Mary Shipley is live at the scene at Old Greenwich. Mary?”

As the camera jump-cut to that train crossing in Old Greenwich, I sucked in my breath. Mary Shipley, an angular woman in her thirties, was standing in front of several police cars, with about a dozen plainclothes and uniformed cops looking busy in the background.