The Job (41 page)

“Don’t tell me, boss… It’s the Peterson thing?”

“You sure this is a secure line?”

“On my mother’s life…”

“Okay, okay,” I said.

“You have something to do with him getting whacked?”

“Not exactly, but… I’d better not say.”

“Understood. How can I help, boss?”

“You know ‘people,” don’t you?”

“Sure. I know people who know people who know people … if you catch my drift.”

“Well, I need some information.”

“You got it.”

“Ever heard of a guy called Victor Romano?”

“Nope. Is he a made guy?”

“Haven’t a clue. All I know is, he’s got a construction and hauling business in Miami. But I have a feeling that’s not his only line of work….”

“I’ll make a couple of calls, get back to you.”

“No-let me get back to you.”

“You’ve got me worried, boss.”

“I’ve got me worried, too.”

But as worried as I was, there was no way I could dodge my trip to Miami. And so, at 7:10 the next morning, I found myself at the rear of an American Airlines Boeing 757, heading south. Flying me economy class wasn’t just Jerry’s way of reinforcing my indentured status, it was also to ensure that I remained nice and anonymous. After all, unless you’re obstreperous, air hostesses rarely remember the faces of people in the back of the plane.

The temperature in Miami was a cool hundred. But I didn’t have much direct contact with the heat. Hopping an air-conditioned cab to the Hotel Delano in South Beach, I walked straight into the air-conditioned lobby. The bar was empty. I climbed on a stool, ordered a Perrier, and waited. After five minutes a string bean-thin man with a pencil mustache, thinning hair, and ac heap ill-fitting light blue suit came in. He looked like an accountant. He was carrying a black computer case. He sat on the stool next to mine and put the case down between us. He raised his finger toward the barman and asked for a Coke. Then, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead, he said, “Ned Allen?”

When I turned to face him, he said, “No need to look at me. Just answer one simple question: What’s my name?”

“Burt Chasen.”

“You pass the test. The case is at your feet. There’s three hundred and fifty grand inside, along with the little document the bank needs. Don’t pick it up until after I’ve left the bar. And tell Mr. Schubert we might want to make another deposit next week.”

He downed his Coke and put five bucks on the bar.

“I’ll take care of the drink,” I said.

“We’re not together, remember?”

With that, he turned and left. Still nursing my mineral water, I moved my foot to the right and hooked it under the handle of the case. I kept it there until I finished my drink. Then, tossing down a couple of dollars on the bar, I picked up the case, retreated to the nearest bathroom, locked myself in a toilet stall, and opened it.

Inside was a Toshiba laptop computer. I lifted its cover, hit the power switch, watched as the screen flickered into life, then turned it off. On top of the computer was an envelope. Inside was an official-looking invoice-from Exeter Industrial Equipment Inc. (with an address in Tampa, Florida) to a company called the Veritas Demolition Corp. The invoice contained an extensive list of machinery bought by Veritas for the sum of $350,000. It was stamped PAID.

The computer rested on a layer of thick shockproof padding, designed to cushion the machine against any accidental jolts. I removed the lanton. ran my finsrers alone the interior edees of the case, and discovered that the padding was held in place by Velcro. I carefully pulled down a small corner of the padding. Sticking two fingers up underneath, I managed to pry out two $500 bills. Turning to the padding at the top of the case, I disengaged the Velcro and discovered that the shockproof stuffing here was made up of $ 1,000 bills. Pushing the padding back into place, I ran my fingers down every inch of the case, making certain that there was nothing else secreted inside it. When I was satisfied that it was clean, I repacked the computer. Zipping the case closed, I headed for the front door of the hotel and grabbed a cab straight back to the airport.

It was eleven-forty-five by the time I was back at Miami International-a mere ninety minutes after I had landed from New York. Noticing that I was just carrying hand luggage, the checkin clerk at American Eagle asked if I wanted to rush for the earlier twelve-fifteen flight to Nassau.

“Absolutely,” I said, and, boarding pass in hand, went charging for the gate. There was one rather nerve-wracking moment, when I had to hand over the case to a security officer who then tossed it on the conveyor belt for the X-ray machine. As I passed through the metal detector, I tracked the case’s progress, hoping that Jerry was right about flattened money not registering a suspicious outline on an X-ray screen.

The case passed inspection and slid down to the end of the ramp. A well-dressed elderly gentleman accidentally made a grab for it. Within seconds, my hand was gripping his arm.

“I think you’ve picked up the wrong case, sir,” I said.

He looked down at the black computer case in his hand.

“Oh, hey, you’re absolutely right, son. Real sorry about that.”

He passed me the bag and then reached for a vaguely similar black case at the bottom of the conveyor belt. I decided that he had made a legitimate mistake.

“No problem,” I said.

The sixty-seat puddle-jumper took just forty minutes to leapfrog over to the Bahamas. I still had another uneasy few minutes while waiting to clear Bahamian customs. But the uniformed officer waved me through, and I flagged a broken-down taxi outside the terminal. We passed through the outskirts of Nassau. Once downtown, we cruised down Bay Street (Naussau’s Fifth Avenue, according to the driver), then turned rieht and narked outside a small, squat concrete building, painted pink. A brass plate to the right of the door announced that I had arrived at the Bahamian Bank of Commerce. I stepped inside, and entered a large open-plan room with bad florescent lighting, peeling blue walls, and scuffed linoleum. An elderly air-conditioning system wheezed like a consumptive. Scattered around this room were a half-dozen steel desks at which a half-dozen rather matronly Bahamian women were sitting. If there hadn’t been IBM computers on every desk, I could have sworn I had just walked into a 1960s Caribbean time warp. At the rear of this room were two glassed-in offices, both painted in what could only be described as electric green, furnished with the sort of cheap cane furniture you expect to see in a down-at-the-heels Hawaiian resort. Elliot Capel was right: the Bahamian Bank of Commerce didn’t exactly inspire confidence.

“Hello there, Mr. Allen,” said the woman at the desk nearest the front door.

“Uh, hello,” I said, taken aback that she knew my name.

“Mr. MacGuire told us you were coming, and to keep an eye out for you. Go straight on back-he’s expecting you.”

Oliver MacGuire was a Bahamian gentleman around forty. He was nearly six foot four and had that seriously pumped look of someone who worked hard at fending off a middle-age spread. There was a framed portrait of Queen Elizabeth on his wall, next to one showing a younger version of himself in cricket whites. He was wearing white today, too: white cotton trousers, a white linen shirt open at the neck, and white canvas shoes. Not exactly the Wall Street banker look.

“It’s so nice to meet a foreign depositor for a change,” he said, shaking my hand.

“You’ve never met anyone from our fund before?” I asked.

He gestured for me to sit in the cane chair facing his desk.

“I don’t get to meet most of my offshore clients. They are, by and large, invisible.”

“So who opened the Excalibur account here?”

“That sort of information is confidential, but your Bahamian lawyer, Winston Parkhill, handled all the paperwork. Have you met Winston Parkhill?”

“I only joined the fund around a month or so ago. But don’t you need an individual name attached to the account?”

“Under Bahamian law, if a company is incorporated here, there is no need for an individual’s name to be affixed to the account. All we need is the name of a local agent, like your lawyer, Mr. Parkhill. If, however, you yourself wanted to open an account with us, we would be legally obliged to open it in your name-though, of course, if your Internal Revenue Service ever came knocking on our door, we would not feel under even the slightest obligation to let them know whether or not you had an account with us.” He smiled.

“Welcome to the world of offshore banking-where you can actually tell the U.S. government to go to hell.”

“I should open an account with you,” I said.

“Just for the pleasure of thumbing my nose at the IRS.”

“By all means,” Mr. MacGuire said, reaching into a side drawer and pulling out two printed forms.

“We’d love to have you as a customer. All we require is some proof of identification-a passport would do-and your signature on these forms. We usually demand some reference from another financial institution, but seeing how you’re already ‘associated’ with an existing account, we could waive that requirement.”

I took the forms, folded them, and slid them into the inside pocket of my jacket.

I’ll think about it,” I said. The $1,150 a week I was being paid by Ballantine Industries didn’t exactly give me the wherewithal to explore offshore banking options.

Mr. MacGuire focused his attention on the case beside my chair.

“I gather you are making a deposit today,” he said.

I placed the case on his desk, opened it, and removed the laptop. Then I yanked off the top padding. Money came cascading down into the center of the case: a waterfall of $500 and $1,000 bills. I turned the case over and released the other padding, sparking off another downpour of cash. Mr. MacGuire didn’t bat an eye.

“There’s three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in there,” I said.

“And you also have the ‘source of funds’ documentation?”

“There’s an invoice in the case, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he said.

“Under our new anti-money-laundering legislation, Bahamian banks cannot accept deposits over $10,000 without written proof of its origins.”

He paused for a moment, and absently tapped his left index finger against my bag.

“Of course, that doesn’t mean that we must carefully investigate whether such documentation is legitimate… or, for that matter, ask questions about the intriguing means by which the money arrives on our shores. It’s a lovely case, Mr. Allen. Beautiful leather. Where’d you buy it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It was a gift.”

“Of course it was,” he said, standing up.

“I’ll just have someone count this.”

He headed out into the front office with the case. He returned a minute later.

“Shouldn’t take too long,” he said.

“We’re used to dealing with cash around here.”

“How did the earlier deposits for the fund arrive?” I asked.

“Through a third party. But, to date, your deposits are only … what…” He tapped a few numbers into his computer, then squinted at the screen. “.. . six million, two hundred eighty-four thousand, five hundred and thirty-two dollars.” He looked at me carefully.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, that is not a substantial amount for a private equity fund. I mean, two hundred million is, in my experience, a more typical amount, though usually that’s based on fifty million in cash, with the rest leveraged up. And, of course, when you’re talking about a fund of that dimension, there are usually just three to four major institutional investors involved.”

“You seem to know a great deal about this sort of thing.”

“You mean, for a Bahamian banker?” he said dryly.

“No offense intended.”

“None taken. The reason I know so much about equity funds is that I spent twelve years working in London for a little company called Lehmann Brothers.”

If his aim had been to embarrass me he’d succeeded.

“What made you decide to give it all up…?”

“And exchange it for this ramshackle little bank? Have you ever been through a January in London, Mr. Allen?”

“I’ve never been to London.”

“After twelve Januarys in London, you’d happily take a cut in pay and conditions in exchange for a glimpse of the sky. Anyway, I’m a Bahamian. This is my country. I wanted to come home. And the offshore banking business here is constantly amusing-especially as it affords me the opportunity to meet colorful businessmen like yourself.”

“I’m not ‘colorful,” Mr. MacGuire.”

“Mr. Allen, anyone who shows up at my office carrying a computer case containing three hundred and fifty thousand dollars is, in my book, a colorful character.”

The phone on his desk rang. He answered it, spoke a dozen or so words, hung up, and looked back up at me.

“Your three hundred and fifty thousand dollars are all present and accounted for.”

He pulled a large buff-colored receipt book toward him, picked up a pen, filled in the receipt and the stub, grabbed a stamp, inked it, slammed it down twice in his book, then tore off the receipt and handed it to me.

“Now it’s official,” he said.

“You can pick your case up at reception. And, of course, don’t forget your laptop.”

I stood up, tucked the Toshiba under one arm, then thanked him for his assistance.

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon,” he said.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how fast our fund investment grows.”

He gave me a conspiratorial smile.

“Or on how many cash-filled computer cases you can carry at one time,” he said.

I said, “I’m not a courier, Mr. MacGuire.” But, of course, I knew that I was now whatever Jerry Schubert wanted me to be.

A puddle-jumper to Miami, a fast connection to New York, and I was back at La Guardia by 10:20 that night. On my way out of the terminal I picked up a copy of the Post. The Ted Peterson story may have been relegated to page five, but the headline still made me shudder.

COMPUTER EXEC IN RESTAURANT CLASH HOURS BEFORE DEATH

As I had feared, the maitre d’ at the Hyatt Regency restaurant, Martin Algar, had (according to the Post) come forward and informed the police that Peterson had been in his establishment on the evening that he met his death under that Metro-North train. Algar told the cops that Peterson was not alone in the restaurant, but was seen having a heated discussion with a fellow suit at a corner table-a discussion that eventually erupted into a frequently loud argument.