The Job (42 page)

The final paragraph of the story really made my day:

Connecticut State Police are now eager to question the white male seen leaving the hotel with Peterson. He has been described as being in his early thirties, around six feet tall, of medium build, with sandy hair, and wearing a light gray suit.

No doubt a police artist was currently sitting across a table from Mr. Algar, creating a composite sketch of the alleged person. No doubt as well, several of Peterson’s GBS colleagues were being interviewed by the police.

“Did he have any known enemies?” they’d be asked. And they’d all say the same thing.

“Well, this guy called Ned Allen had a real ugly shouting match with Ted the night before he died.”

As I slid into a Manhattan-bound cab, my phone rang. As soon as I answered, Jerry asked, “How did it go?”

“No hitches,” I said.

“Glad to hear it.”

“Did you see tonight’s Post?”

“I always read the Post,” he said in a tone that indicated I shouldn’t bring up such matters during an easily traceable call.

“It’s a wonderful newspaper. Full of interesting tales. Are you in a cab right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Then meet me at Fanelli’s. I’ll buy us a late dinner.”

Fanelli’s was the neighborhood watering hole-possibly the only old-style bar and grill still left in SoHo. There was no traffic on the BQE, so I arrived there just before eleven. Jerry was already seated at a table in the little dining area beyond the bar. It was a slow night. We were the only customers in the back room.

“Rule Number One of modern life,” Jerry said after I sat down.

“Never, never discuss anything of a sensitive nature on a cellular phone.”

“I’m scared shitless, Jerry.”

“Why? Because some fucking hotel maitre d’ says he saw Peterson with a suit?”

He pulled my copy of the Post off the table, turned to page five, and read out loud: “Early thirties, around six feet tall, of medium build, with sandy hair, and wearing a light gray suit. The guy could be talking about half the male population of Fairfield County.”

I spoke in a near whisper.

“But say somebody tells the police about my confrontation with Peterson at the SOFT US reception? And say they ask me to take part in a lineup for the restaurant manager?”

“You are being totally paranoid here. To begin with, so what if you were seen arguing with Peterson? If the cops ask around GBS, they’ll probably find half a dozen other people who had screaming matches with the guy. Because he was the sort of asshole who went through life picking fights with everybody. Second, if the cops do come to question you, you’ve got the Miami alibi. And once they see you have legitimate proof that you were elsewhere when the murder was committed, they’re not going to be hauling you up to Connecticut.”

I said, “I really wish you’d give me some sort of clue as to why Peterson was so dangerous to you.”

“Ever heard of the old American expression, What you don’t know won’t hurt you? I’d follow that advice if I were you. But know this: If, for some extraordinary reason, the heat starts taking a real interest in you. we’ll take action to null you out of jeopardy. I said it yesterday, I’ll say it again: As long as you’re on our team, you have nothing to worry about.”

I almost found myself thanking him. Then I thought, This is what they call the Stockholm syndrome-when the hostage suddenly begins to look upon his captor as his protector. So I said nothing, and simply acknowledged his last comment with a nod.

“Now we have a little business to discuss,” he said.

“I need you to fly to Atlanta on Monday, and see another new fund client. Bill Simeone. He’s also making a cash investment in Excalibur….”

“And, let me guess, you want me to collect it, then jump a flight to Nassau, and deposit it in our account.”

“You are a very clever guy.”

Jerry reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope.

“Here are your tickets. I’m afraid it’s a six A.M. start. And, after your meeting at the airport with one of Mr. Simeone’s representatives, you’ll then have to fly on to Miami before changing planes for Nassau-” “I need to know something.”

“No, you won’t be carrying anything contraband. And yes, Mr. Simeone is a completely legitimate businessman, who runs one of the biggest food processing plants in the South.”

“That only answers part of my question.”

“What’s the other part?” he asked equitably.

“Has my job description changed?”

He had to struggle to control a smile.

“Let’s say it has evolved. Because, over the past few days, we have made a corporate decision to transform Excalibur into a fund that is wholly made up of private investors. Which, I’m afraid, means that-” “I’m now the fund’s courier-its bag man.”

He ignored my harsh tone.

“Given the large volume of cash investments I have recently managed to acquire for the fund, I’m afraid that we do need you to perform this courier function. I know it’s not what we hired you for. And I also know that it’s not utilizing your formidable talents as a salesman. However, once we have achieved the fund’s twenty-two-million-dollar investment objective-” “Twenty-two million! I’m going to be on that plane to Nassau day in. day out.”

Jerry’s voice remained as smooth as ever.

“I’m afraid that, for the next few months, you will be racking up the miles. However, once we’ve reached our objective-” “What? You’ll start having me run coke out of Colombia? Or are you going to start exploring the possibilities of weapons sales to Iraq?”

A long pause. Jerry drummed his fingers on the table, then looked back up at me.

“I will say this just once: If you do not like the work I am offering you, you are free to leave. But do understand what the consequences of that action will be.”

“You’d planned this all along, hadn’t you? From the moment I showed up at your office, you thought, Here’s the perfect stooge.”

“You credit me with far too much advance planning and guile. I’m no different from most reasonably successful businessmen: When I see an opportunity I simply take it.”

He extended the airplane tickets toward me.

“So, tell me: Are you flying to Atlanta or not?”

Now it was my turn to drum my fingers on the table. But after a moment, I reached up and snatched the envelope from his hand.

He gave me an approving nod.

“I promise you, this entire courier operation will only take a few weeks. And, believe me, it usually takes them several months before the customs guys decide to target a frequent flyer. So there’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

I said nothing.

“Okay, then-let’s order,” Jerry said.

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

Jerry used my lack of hunger as an excuse to rendezvous with his new woman of the week. As soon as he left, I went to the restaurant’s pay phone and dialed Queens.

“Yo, boss,” Phil said.

“How’s it going?”

“Worse and worse. Ever heard of a character named Bill Si-me one

“Nah-but I do have some info on that Victor Romano guy you were asking about.”

“Is he a Boy Scout?”

“An Eagle Scout. Yeah, he does have a legitimate construction and hauling business-but he’s also been investigated by the Feds for everything from gun-running to drug stuff and two murders of so-called former associates. But the Feds couldn’t make anything stick.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“You working with this Eagle Scout?”

“Sort of.”

“Is that wise?”

“Let me put it this way: I don’t have much choice in the matter.”

Bill Simeone’s representative turned out to be a chauffeur. He was dressed in a dark blue blazer and wore a classic black peaked driver’s hat with a shiny black visor. As arranged, I met him in the arrivals area. He held a sign with my name on it. When I approached him he asked me to follow him to his vehicle. Once inside I found a computer case on the backseat. I opened it up. It was empty. I squeezed the top and bottom padding. It felt well-upholstered.

“Two hundred and eighty thousand, sir,” he said.

“You’ll also find an envelope with the necessary paperwork.”

“Fine,” I said.

“Are you staying with Delta for your next flight?”

“No, American.”

As he drove me over to the American Airlines terminal, I opened the nylon duffel I had brought with me. I pulled out the laptop and a few file folders and packed them into the computer case. Folded, the duffel fit easily into an inside pocket of the case. I scanned the enclosed paperwork. It was an invoice from Fay & Sons (a Dallas-based management consultancy firm) to a San Antonio company called Cooper-Mullin for $285,000 in fees. The document looked legitimate. I doubted whether Cooper-Mullin was.

The driver pulled up in front of the American terminal.

“Have a good flight, sir.”

One hundred minutes to Miami. A sixty-minute stopover. An hour to Nassau. And a knowing smile from Oliver MacGuire as I entered the hank.

“And you said you wouldn’t be back so soon,” he said, shaking my hand.

“I was wrong.”

“How much do you have today?”

“Two hundred and eighty thousand,” I said, handing him the case.

He arched his eyebrows slightly.

“Your fund is evidently taking off.”

“Evidently.”

The bag was handed over to a cashier named Muriel. We waited for her to count the money in MacGuire’s office, sipping Cokes. I handed him the invoice that accompanied the cash. He gave it a cursory glance, then tossed it into a basket full of papers on his desk.

“So tell me, Mr. Allen… exactly what sort of business ventures is your fund investing in?”

“By and large, new information technology companies.”

“And your investors-they are, by and large, individuals with cash-based businesses?”

“I’m just the courier-so I don’t know any of them personally.”

“Of course you don’t,” he said pleasantly.

“And why should you? Ignorance is bliss, after all.” He beamed at me, enjoying my discomfort.

“Like I said, Mr. MacGuire. I’m just the errand boy. I pick the money up, I bring it to you, I return to New York with the receipt. I ask no questions, I keep my head down, I do as I am told.”

“Do you want to be doing this job?”

“What do you think?”

He looked at me with concern.

“If I were in your position I would be very careful, that’s what I think.”

I met his gaze.

“And why do you say that?”

“Well… look what happened to poor Ted Peterson.”

I nearly fell off my chair.

“You knew Ted Peterson?” I asked.

“Yes, I knew Mr. Peterson.”

“As a client?”

“Yes, he did have an account with us. Terribly unfortunate thing that happened to him wasn’t it?”

“His death made the papers here?”

“No, but we do get the New York Times in Nassau. As you can imagine, I was shocked when I read of his accident… if, of course, it was an accident. The police haven’t ruled out foul play as yet, have they?”

“No, they haven’t,” I said quietly.

“Evidently you were also acquainted with Mr. Peterson.”

“I used to be in the computer business-so, yeah, we’d met a few times.”

“And that was the extent of your association?”

“Yes,” I said carefully, “just the occasional professional encounter over the years.”

He gave me another amused look.

“Then you didn’t know…”

“What?”

“… that Ted Peterson was the gentleman who actually opened the Excalibur Fund account with us?”

Now I was completely lost. Before I could do anything except register shock, the phone on MacGuire’s desk began to ring. He answered it, mumbled a few words, then hung up and pulled the receipt book toward him.

“Two hundred and eighty thousand dollars exactly,” he said, writing out a receipt.

“Why didn’t you mention the Peterson connection yesterday?” I asked.

“Because I wanted to get to know you first,” he said casually.

“Hang on-didn’t you say that the fund’s local lawyer opened the account?”

“No-you misunderstood me. The lawyer simply handled the paperwork. But it was Peterson who showed up here with the opening Excalibur deposit last year.”

His stamp came crashing down on the receipt.

“Of course, he opened his own personal account with us at the same time.”

“Did he have much in it?”

“That’s confidential. But, let me put it this way: It wasn’t insubstantial. And though I know he’s only been dead a few days, the lawyers for his estate haven’t been in touch with us about it.”

“Do you think nobody knows that the account exists?”

“It’s still too early to say.”

“I don’t understand something: If he opened his own personal account by mail, then why didn’t he make his deposits by mail?”

“Because they were all in cash-and because, like many of our customers, he probably didn’t want a paper trail linking him to this account.”

If, as Jerry alleged, Ted Peterson had been in serious financial trouble, then how had he been able to make cash deposits to an offshore account in his name? After all, a major multinational like GBS didn’t exactly pay its executives in cash. And according to Jerry, Ballantine Industries only started paying him a consultancy fee three to four weeks ago. So where was he getting the money?

“Did Mr. Peterson ever tell you who was behind the Excalibur Fund?” I asked.

“What an absurd idea,” MacGuire said, handing me the receipt.

“Of course he didn’t say a word about the names of his associates. And even if he had informed me, I wouldn’t tell you. A Bahamian banker is like a priest: He cannot reveal anything that has been confessed to him.” With a laugh, he added, “But he can’t offer absolution. All he can do is bank someone’s money-and tender investment advice, if requested. So I asked Mr. Peterson no questions about anything to do with his accounts here. Nor about the individuals behind the fund. Nor about the origin of the six million dollars with which he opened the Excalibur account.”

I blinked.

“Peterson showed up here with six million in cash?” I said.

“How the hell did he carry it?”