The Job (40 page)

“Fred, the Connecticut State Police are baffled as to how Edward Peterson, a thirty-three-year-old executive with Global Business Systems in Stamford, met his death when he fell under a New Haven-bound express train at 8:41 last night. From what the police can ascertain so far, Mr. Peterson, a resident of Old Greenwich, told his wife that he would be returning home late from work. His car was later found parked at the Old Greenwich Metro North station, but the police cannot figure out how his body ended up at this crossing, which is located almost a half mile away from the station, and is in the opposite direction of his house. And there are unconfirmed reports that the train’s engineer informed the police that he saw two men on the tracks.

“It’s quite a mystery, Fred-and one in which the police are definitely not ruling out foul play. Reporting from Old Greenwich, this is Mary Shipley for New York One.”

Jerry hit the “off” button and the picture dissolved.

“

“It’s quite a mystery, Fred,”” Jerry said, mimicking Mary Shipley’s voice.

“Don’t you love this country? Human tragedy reduced to a snappy sound bite. Next thing you know, Peterson’s death will be a Movie of the Week. Or an episode of Miss Marple.”

“They’re going to figure out it was me….”

“Will you please relax? They will not find out because I will not let them find out. You’re on the team. And I protect my players.”

He jumped up from the couch.

“Better get my ass in gear,” he said, heading toward his bedroom. Then he turned back to me and said, “Oh, one small thing I meant to ask you. I need you to fly

“Fund business?” I asked tentatively.

“Absolutely. You’re going to meet with a representative of Victor Romano. I mentioned him to you last night….”

“The man who’s supplying me with the Miami alibi?”

“You have an excellent memory. Anyway, Mr. Romano is making a new contribution to the fund-so it’s been arranged that you’ll collect it at noon tomorrow, from his representative at the bar of the Delano Hotel, then catch the two P.M. flight to Nassau and deposit his contribution in the fund’s account at the Bahamian Bank of Commerce.”

I suddenly felt very nervous.

“Mr. Romano makes cash contributions to the fund?” I asked.

“He has highly diversified interests, especially in his construction and hauling businesses-and much of it is done in cash.”

“Isn’t it illegal to transport cash from American soil to an offshore bank?”

A sly smile from Jerry.

“Only if you get caught. According to federal law, if you take over ten thousand dollars out of the country you’re supposed fill out a customs form declaring the amount. But, quite frankly, that defeats the idea of moving money to an offshore bank-because once you fill out that customs form, you’ve set up a paper trail. And before you can say audit, the IRS is knocking on your front door.”

“But say some customs guy does stop me. How am I going to explain a briefcase filled with cash?”

“Ned, since you don’t look like a member of the Call drug cartel, the odds are about ten thousand to one against some customs guy stopping you before you board the plane. Because they have bigger fish to fry. And because it’s only money.”

“But won’t the airport X-ray machine pick up the money bricks?”

“Not if the cash is spread out across the top and bottom linings of a computer bag. We’re talking about an inch and a half of padding on each side-which means a hell of a lot of money can be stuffed into one case… especially if it’s in large denominations. And as long as it’s packed flat and loose, it won’t be detected when it goes through the X-ray machine.”

“You don’t mind if I check the bag to make certain there’s nothing illicit or contraband-” He cut me off.

“Ned, if I say that it’s only money, then it’s only money. Do you read me?”

“Yeah, I read you.”

He glared at me.

“You are going to carry out this assignment, aren’t you?”

His tone said it all. This is an order. And you follow orders, or face the consequences. I sucked in my breath.

“I’ll do whatever you ask,” I said quietly.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said.

“I’ll get someone to drop the tickets off at your office later today.”

As he headed out the door, he turned back to me and said, “Allen, you’re being smart. And I like smart.”

Thirty minutes later I took the same route uptown. It was an unseasonably warm morning-but I was indifferent to the humidity, the sun, the din of jackhammers digging up the street near the Canal Street subway station. I was in a room of my own, shut off from everything around me. Then again, why should I even be cognizant of life when I didn’t have one anymore?

When I reached my office I fell into my chair and threw my feet onto the desk, kicking away a pile of Excalibur sales brochures. They scattered to the floor. I saw no reason why I should pick them up. Instead I found myself staring at their glossy covers. They looked so official. So professional. So greedily promising. Instead they were the reason a man was dead, and I had been transformed into an indentured servant. They were the cornerstone of the shiny trap that had been laid for me. And now I knew why Jerry had stuck me in such a tiny office. He was giving me a taste of my future as his prisoner.

Around noon there was a knock at the door. Still slouched in my chair, I craned my head and shouted, “Yeah?”

The door opened. And then I heard a voice I knew.

“Howdy, pardner.”

I stiffened-and found myself staring at a dark, heavyset guy dressed in an oversized black suit.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Ned Allen, would you?”

I didn’t need to tell him. I’d last seen him wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, I knew immediately that our previous encounter had been in the parking lot of the Hyatt Regency last night, when he held a gun to my head.

This was Thug Number One.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asked me.

“Yeah, uh, I’m Ned Allen. And who are you?”

“I’m From Upstairs, that’s who I am. Got something here for you.

He handed me a large, padded manila envelope.

“Here’s your plane ticket for tomorrow. You’re booked on the seven-ten A.M. American flight from La Guardia, you land in Miami at ten-fifteen, and then grab a cab to the Delano Hotel. You’re meeting a Mr. Burt Chasen in the bar of the hotel-try one of their pina coladas, by the way… they’re killers-and then it’s a cab straight back to Miami International for the one-fifty American Eagle flight to Nassau. You’re in Nassau at two-fifty-five, you take a cab directly to the Bahamian Bank of Commerce. The manager, Oliver MacGuire, is expecting you. You’re booked back on the five-forty-five P.M. flight to Miami, you change planes, and you jump the seven-twenty-five P.M. American flight back to New York. You got all that?”

“I think so.”

“Know so.”

I wasn’t exactly surprised to hear this. Jerry was ultra cautious about leaving any sort of paper trail that could link me to Ballantine Industries. I was paid in cash; I was reimbursed for my expenses in cash. No doubt my office and my plane tickets were paid for out of an Excalibur Fund account that had no link whatsoever to Ballantine. And from the first day I began work there, I had essentially been barred from showing my face at Ballantine Enterprises on the eighteenth floor. Jerry was right: Even if I went to the cops or the newspapers and spun a tale about dubious offshore equity funds that were run by my employer, Jack Ballantine, they wouldn’t find a damn shred of evidence to associate me with him.

“You’ll also find four hundred bucks in cash, which should cover all the cabs you’ll be taking to and from the airports. If there’s anything left over, buy yourself a good dinner.”

“You’re very efficient,” I said.

“That’s; my middle name.”

“Ah, so that’s what I’m supposed to call you-“Mr. Blank.|| Efficient-Blank.”” ** He narrowed his eyes.

“Is that your idea of a joke?”

I met his stare, and did my best to check my nervousness.

“Haven’t we met somewhere before?” I asked.

He didn’t blink.

“I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“You sure?”

“I’m real sure. And I’m sure you’re real sure, too.”

It was time to end this line of questioning. Fast.

“I must have mixed you up with someone else,” I said.

“Yes, you must have.” He opened the door.

“Have a nice time in Miami. You obviously like going there a lot.”

“I’ve never been to Miami.”

“Yes, you have. You were there yesterday, remember?”

His eyes were still rigidly focused on me. I finally blinked.

“Of course,” I said.

“Yesterday, indeed, I was in Miami.”

“That’s right. You were there. And in that envelope you’re holding, you’ll find a couple of things to refresh your memory. Pleasure meeting you.”

The door closed behind him. I immediately ripped open the envelope. Inside was the ticket for my upcoming trip-and another ticket to Miami in my name, dated the day before, with the outbound inbound coupons torn out to give the appearance that it had actually been used. There was also a receipt, with an attached credit card slip, from Alamo, showing that I had rented a Mustang convertible the day before at Miami International Airport. My MasterCard fell out of the envelope-as did three photographs-evidently taken with special high-speed night film, clearly showing me guiding a visibly drunken Ted Peterson out of the Hyatt Regency.

I stared at those pictures for a very long time. Then I reached into the envelope and removed the last item. It was a tiny dictaphone. Through the little plastic window, I could see there was a tape already in the machine. I pressed the “play” button. The recording quality was poor-especially as the clatter of silverware dominated the tape. But despite the background noise, you could still hear what was being said:

“I wouldn’t worm too much about this Ted Peterson euv.”

“Jerry-he’s like the Terminator. He won’t quit until I’m history.”

“Didyou say he works for GBS?”

“Yeah-he’s head of their media sales department.”

“Want me to get him off your case?”

“I want him dead.”

“That service we can’t provide.”

I hit the “stop” button and put my head in my hands. The evil sonofabitch had taped us during that dinner at Bouley Bakery-the dinner where he had pitched me the job. Jerry probably couldn’t believe his luck when he heard me mention Ted Peterson the previous day, when Lizzie kicked me out and I threw myself at his mercy. And, supreme strategist that he was, he suddenly saw a way of dealing with his Peterson problem, while simultaneously checkmating me.

But what exactly was the Peterson problem? What did Peterson have on Jerry, on Ballantine, on the fund? And what wrong card did he play that made Jerry “shut him down”?

I tore the photographs into little pieces. I removed the tape from the dictaphone and crushed it under the heel of my shoe. I scooped the debris into the empty manila envelope. Then I picked up the phone and called Jerry.

“Thank you for crudely reminding me how blackmail works.”

“I’m not blackmailing you,” he said, sounding amused.

“Okay… semantically speaking, you’re right. It’s not blackmail, it’s coercion. A show of brute force. A reminder of who’s boss.”

“Sorry, sorry-I really was being crude. Point taken, and my humble apologies. I guess I do overplay my hand from time to time.”

An example of which being the way you arranged for Peterson to be decapitated by a New Haven-bound express.

I chose my words carefully.

“I do know what my position is, Jerry.”

“I was just checking, that’s all. Just making certain you were onboard with us.”

“I am onboard, Jerry.”

“Then the matter won’t be raised again.”

“And you’ll stop taping all our conversations?”

“I haven’t taped all our conversations, Ned. Just selected ones.” And he hung up.

I grabbed the manila envelope and left the office. As I headed down Madison, I saw a garbage truck parked two blocks south, on the corner of Fifty-first Street, and tossed the envelope into its swirl of trash. Then I stopped by a newsstand and bought an actual piece of garbage-the New York Post. The story I was looking for covered the top half of page three.

COMPUTER EXEC MEETS MYSTERIOUS DEATH IN FALL

The Post devoted over twelve paragraphs to the story (which, by tabloid standards, made it War and Peace length). It essentially covered the same ground as the report on New York One, with two exceptions. The Post managed to get a quote from the engineer, Howard Bubriski, in which he confirmed that there were two men on the line right before the impact, “.. . and one of them appeared to get out of the way just in time.” The second new item came from an “undisclosed source,” which stated, “According to business colleagues at GBS, Peterson had seemed troubled and depressed recently, and was evidently preoccupied by some private problem….”

Better known as rubbing Jack Ballantine the wrong way.

I drifted further downtown, stopping at a New World Coffee on Forty-third Street for a sandwich and an iced latte. Sitting there, I read the Post story several times over, relieved to note that, so far, no one had placed Peterson at the Hyatt Regency prior to his “little accident.” As I was perusing it for the fourth time, my cell phone rang.

“Boss, did you see the fuckin’ Post?”

“Phil?”

“The one and only. How ya doin”? You must be doin’ pretty good after Mr. Ted “Asshole’ Peterson took a little dive under that train.”

“Phil, can I call you straight back on a land line?”

“No problem,” he said, and gave me a 718 number in Queens.

I put few coins in the slot, I quickly punched in Phil’s number. He answered after one ring.

“Something wrong, boss?” he asked immediately.

“Yeah, there is. First things first: Is this a secure line?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.”

“You in trouble?”

“Big trouble.”

“How big?”

“As big as it gets.”

He paused for a moment.