The Job (51 page)

“Schubert ordered Peterson’s death,” I said.

“Schubert killed Peterson by proxy. Schubert should take the fall.”

“Done,” Ballantine said.

Suddenly Jerry slammed his heel down hard on Thug Number Two’s left foot and broke free of his grip.

“I am not taking any fucking fall,” he yelled and raced out the door. Thug Number Two was about to pursue him, but Ballantine said, “Call Security, let them find him.”

Thug Number Two lifted the phone. I asked Ballantine, “Aren’t you worried he might get away?”

“Believe me, he’ll never leave the building,” he said matter of factly.

“Now where were we, Mr. Allen?”

“We were about to discuss my final request,” I said.

“Which is … ?”

“I walk out of here, and you never come near me again.”

“That’s it?” Ballantine asked.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“And my offer of a million?”

“Is it legitimate?”

“As you yourself said, I am a man of my word. And in addition to the money, I am now in the market for a new right-hand man. Two hundred grand a year-and, needless to say, a lot of perks. All yours, Mr. Allen.”

“No thanks,” I finally said.

“Don’t tell me you’re not even tempted.”

“Of course I’m tempted.”

“One million dollars and an impressive new job would solve a lot of problems.”

“And create some very large new ones. I cannot compete in your league, Mr. Ballantine. I’m not enough of an asshole.”

He smiled thinly.

“That’s a real pity, Ned,” he said.

“Because assholes always win. Anyway… it’s your life.”

“That’s right. It is. And I’d like it back.”

“Fine by me. What was the name of that maitre d’ again?”

“Martin Algar. The Hyatt Regency Hotel, Old Greenwich.”

“Did you get all that?” he asked Thug Number Two.

“I did.”

“Offer him twenty-five grand, no more,” Ballantine said.

“And find a picture of Schubert to bring with you. I’m sure you’ll have no problems with the guy.”

“Piece of cake,” Thug Number Two said, and left.

“So… ,” Ballantine said, stretching his arms out in front of him, “game, set, and match. A very impressive performance, Ned.”

“Thank you. May I ask a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Are you really going to be turning Jerry over to the cops?”

“What do you think?”

“So what will you do with him?”

“It won’t be pleasant. But it will look accidental.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“I’m an asshole, remember?”

“You’re going to get hit with some very ugly publicity …”

He cut me off.

“I’ll survive it. I always do.”

“I know that, Mr. Ballantine. In fact, everybody knows that.”

He proffered his hand. I didn’t take it. He shrugged, as if to say I can live with your disapproval.

“So what next, Ned?”

“A walk.”

“I mean, after that.”

“I’m just thinking about the walk, Mr. Ballantine.”

“Watch yourself,” he said. I met his stare.

“You watch yourself, too.”

I rode the elevator down to the first floor and stepped outside. When I hit the street, I found a cab and asked the driver to take me to Seventy-seventh Street between Central Park West and Columbus.

“Remember that benefit we were at in October?”

I did. It was a black-tie charity thing, held in the dinosaur hall of the Museum of Natural History.

When the cab pulled up in front of the museum, I ran inside, paid the admission fee, then headed up the stairs to the dinosaur hall on the fourth floor. But when I reached the entrance-and spotted Lizzie from behind, standing near the Tyrannosaurus rex-I slammed on the brakes.

Careful now. Don’t overplay your hand.

I stepped out of the hall. Pulling a notebook and a pen out of my pocket, I scribbled Lizzie:

It was an eventful morning, but it looks like the coast is clear.

I have to run an errand now-but I’m planning to have a cup of coffee at Nick’s Burger Joint (76th and Broadway) in around half an hour. It would be nice to see you. If, however, you don’t show up, I will understand.

Love, I scrawled my name at the bottom of the note, then tore the page out of the book and found a museum guard standing nearby.

“Could you do me a favor?” I asked him.

“Depends,” he said.

“See that woman standing over there by the T. rex? Would you mind giving her this note?”

He looked at the note warily, as if it might be obscene.

“Read it if you like,” I said.

“Anyway, I’m her husband.”

“Sure you are, pal,” he said, snatching the note out of my hand.

I watched as he walked over to where Lizzie was standing. As he handed her the scrap of paper, I slipped away down the stairs and headed toward the main entrance.

I turned west on Seventy-seventh Street, then north on Amster dam, stopping at a stationery shop near the corner of Seventy-ninth Street.

“Do you sell padded envelopes?” I asked the woman behind the counter.

“Sure,” she said.

“How big?”

I reached into my jacket pocket and removed the Bahamian Bank of Commerce stamp.

“Big enough to fit this,” I said.

She reached below the counter and handed me an eight-by-ten padded envelope. I wrote Oliver MacGuire’s name and address on its front, then pulled out my notebook again and scribbled eight words:

Oliver:

I closed.

I owe you one.

Ned I tore out the note and placed it with the bank stamp inside the envelope.

“You want, we can sell you the stamps and mail that for you,” the woman said.

“That would be great,” I said, handing her some cash.

“The Bahamas, huh?” she said, staring at the address.

“I’ll need to put a customs sticker on the front. How should I describe the contents?”

I thought about this for a moment, then said, “A souvenir.”

She looked at me with amusement.

“Of what, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Things past.”

I stepped back outside. I started walking west. On my way, I hoped, to a cup of coffee with the woman who might-or might not-still be my wife. I tried not to think about what to say (if, indeed, she did show up), or how to react, or what strategic pose to adopt. This wasn’t a pitch meeting. This was a cup of coffee. Nothing more. It might be a pleasant cup of coffee. It might be a disastrous cup of coffee. It would be what it would be-and I would deal with the outcome.

That’s what selling teaches you: This is never an easy ride, and we spend most of our lives scrambling. But once in a while, you can sit down with somebody and have a cup of coffee.

And when you sit down with somebody over a cup of coffee … well, it’s always a beginning.