Bull Street (35 page)

“Wow, what a mess,” Richard said after LeClaire closed the door. Jack just looked at him, then turned to the bar.

“Don’t be a sap,” Jack said with his back turned.

“What do you mean?” Richard stepped closer, butterflies now in his stomach. He checked his stopwatch: 7:35 left.

“Don’t feel too sorry for him. He’s got great bullshit, and he’s playing it up to his eyeballs. Although it’s obvious he’s not pretending to be a complete wreck; that part is sure as hell real. But ‘one mistake’? Ridiculous. One mistake, my ass.” He paused and turned to face Richard again. “Don’t let yourself get sucked in. Sir Reginald and Delecroix paid him well for what he did. He’ll have a stash the Feds and creditors won’t know about waiting for him in France when he gets out.”

“You and Mickey were in on the whole thing, weren’t you?”

Jack didn’t respond, but the corners of his mouth showed a hint of that golden boy smirk. Then his face got hard.

“In on it? We dreamed it up years ago, and pitched it to Sir Reginald and Delecroix when they invested in Walker. With their capital we made it into Walker’s biggest profit center.”

Strung me and everybody else along the whole time.
Richard wanted to tell Jack what he thought of him, but didn’t want to interrupt him if he was gonna keep talking. He felt his blood pumping in his temples.

“Remember me telling you about skiing? None of us knew the route or how it would turn out. We just saw far enough ahead to react to each gate one at a time. And don’t look so scandalized. We aren’t plotting, methodical crooks, just guys with college tuitions to pay, cars to buy, and wives who like nice stuff. We’re no different than anybody else. Everybody cuts corners; we’re just playing with more chips.”

Now Richard felt an odd knot in his stomach. His face felt brittle, tense. He said, “That’s not how everybody operates.”

“Don’t give me that self-righteous, wounded puppy look. You’re a big boy now. I heard from Sir Reginald you were a tough infighter teamed with Milner over there in London, cutting your deal to negotiate your way out of the trading scam. You’re one of us, whether you like it or not, and you’re good at it. There’s nothing to be ashamed about that you’ve got the balls to fight bareknuckles when you have to. And you know what, you’re right about LeClaire, we can’t use him. He’s shot.” He clinked an ice cube into his glass, as if to underscore his words.

Richard turned to the windows and stood looking out over Madison Avenue, down at the Carlyle. He reflected on the past months, on Jack, Steinberg, Cole, LeClaire, Sir Reginald and Delecroix, spending his career among guys like them. Some
masters of high finance; they couldn’t see beyond their next deal and didn’t give a damn what they had to do to get it done. No wonder the whole financial system had almost melted down. And high tolerance for ambiguity or not, they were a rotten bunch. He glanced at his stopwatch: 5:16.
Push him.
He turned to Jack and said, “What did you guys do to Milner?”

Jack said, “Milner’s a cagey bastard, but don’t count on him. We blew his scam. The wire he was wearing lit up Sir Reginald’s sniffer equipment the instant you guys walked into their office. His tech boys jammed it.”

Richard felt his face flush, his jaw tense. So that’s why he hadn’t heard from Milner.

He turned to the window again. He checked his pocket for the Dictaphone, felt the vibration of it still running. Then out the window he noticed LeClaire walk along 76
^th
Street, cross and then head up Madison. Richard’s throat ached and his eyes got moist. He felt like something irretrievable of his own was vanishing with LeClaire as he continued up Madison.

Richard caught himself, remembering the tape.
Shit.
He turned from the window to Jack, who was looking at Richard as if he expected him to respond to their last exchange.
Get on with it,
he thought, and moved closer to Jack.

Jack smirked. “Don’t wait for Milner; he’s staying lost in Europe. No tape, no deal with the Feds. You’re safe as long as you hang onto your data. But don’t forget where you hid it, or you might wind up like Chuck White or Ken Stern.”

Rage surged in Richard’s veins; he got ready to lunge at Jack. Jack sensed it, stepped back.

“You killed them, didn’t you?”

Jack smirked more broadly and leaned in toward Richard. “Yeah, we did what we had to do. Just don’t lose your cool. Keep
the balance of power. A standoff. And get used to it. That’s how it works on Wall Street. Allies on one deal, enemies the next. I got something on you, you got something on me. Like the Cold War Russians and the U.S. military: mutually assured destruction.”

Richard was resisting the urge to come at Jack and punch him. He knew he was almost out of tape, anticipated the squeal of the Dictaphone, but he wanted to get more, so he leaned in closer to Jack, sneering.

Jack said, “Oh, yeah, Mr. Tough Guy. You fuck with me and I’ll fuck you up, big time. Wonder why Milner folded? No doubt you saw that Mary Claire disappeared. Yeah, she’s with Milner now, but not initially. We disappeared her. She was our ultimate leverage over the big guy to keep him quiet. He agreed in a heartbeat once we told him we had her. And now he knows we can get to her anytime we want. He gets cute and turns us in, we take out Mary Claire. See? Mutually assured destruction.”

Richard didn’t want to answer.
Keep him talking.
He felt perspiration on his upper lip.

“Keep Kathy close, Tiger. And keep quiet. Then nobody gets…”

The Dictaphone screamed as the tape ran out. Richard felt a blast of adrenaline. He saw Jack’s head rear back in surprise, then his eyes narrow and a scowl form on his lips.

“You little punk,” he said and lunged at Richard.

Richard dodged him, but Jack spun and landed a punch on Richard’s temple. Richard saw black things like insects swimming in his vision and went down, felt Jack clawing at his pocket for the Dictaphone. He scrambled to his feet and leaned backward to avoid a wild right and left from Jack, then stepped into him and landed a right uppercut square on Jack’s chin. His hand exploded in pain like he’d punched a block of granite, but he saw Jack
collapse over an ottoman. Now he saw him moving, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. Richard turned and ran for the door. He dashed down the stairs, panting, feeling his chest heaving. At the last flight he started to feel a swell of victory.
Almost there.

As he burst through the door into the lobby he ran into four men in suits. He tried to rush past when one of them said, “That’s Blum,” and two others grabbed Richard’s arms. Anger, then desperation washed through him. The men pulled his hands behind his back and Richard felt cold steel on his wrists, knew they were handcuffing him. They spun him around.

“U.S. Attorney’s office, and just shut it, Blum,” the first guy said as Richard opened his mouth to speak. “I don’t want to hear it.” He pulled out his cell phone, punched some keys and pointed toward the lobby door. The two men who cuffed him moved Richard toward the door. “We got Blum,” Richard heard the guy say. “We’re going up for Grass now.” Richard could feel the weight of the Dictaphone in his pocket. His thoughts raced. He had enough on tape to nail Jack and the others. Then he felt a flash of panic. But what did these guys have on him?

In the interrogation room downtown at 75 Centre Street, Croonquist waited for his cell phone to ring a second time.

“Okay, we got Grass,” Johnson said to him.

“Alright,” Croonquist said. “See you shortly.” He hung up and turned to the big man seated on the other side of the table. “They’re bringing them both in,” Croonquist said to him.

Milner nodded back.

The agents brought Richard downtown in an unmarked Lincoln Town Car. They walked him into 75 Centre Street and up to the fifth floor. He felt his stomach tighten as he saw Charles Holden standing in the hallway smiling at him. They walked Richard into a room. A surge of surprise hit him: Milner sat there with Roman Croonquist.

Croonquist stood and nodded to someone behind Richard, who uncuffed him. “Sorry about that, but the field agents have their procedures,” Croonquist said.

Richard was too stunned to answer. He saw Milner wink at him. “I don’t understand,” Richard said.

Milner said, “Sorry I didn’t call, but they said this was a better way. I agreed.”

Croonquist said, “Harold came in to talk, with no promises.” He looked over at Milner, then back at Richard. “But it all checked out. So we set it up and waited until we got what we needed. We figured we could count on you.”

Richard’s mind was catching up. He felt for the Dictaphone in his pocket, pulled it out. Croonquist shook his head and stood up. “Follow me,” he said. He led Richard and Milner down the hall to another room where Jack sat across the table from Holden. Holden shook his head at Croonquist. Richard studied Jack’s face: sneering like Jimmy Cagney.

Croonquist said, “Mr. Grass, here’s what you’re up against. We were across the street from your apartment with a laser mike. We got your entire conversation with Richard on tape.”

Richard continued to observe Jack. Now no hint of a sneer.

Croonquist said, “Harold Milner is prepared to testify against you, as I assume is…”

Richard said, “I am, too, and I got my own tape, in case their wiretap doesn’t hold up,” and he held up his Dictaphone, “and
I did some research. It’s my personal conversation, which I can record anytime, anywhere I want. Perfectly legally, with no wiretap authorization required.” He was still watching Jack’s face, now frozen like a death mask.

Croonquist said, “We don’t need your cooperation in our prosecution of Reginald Schoenfeld, Philippe Delecroix and Mickey Steinberg, so don’t bother to offer it.” He sat down next to Holden and looked Jack in the eye across the table. “Now about the threats you made against Mary Claire Milner and Karina Cella. Mutually assured destruction. Not a bad term for the situation,” Croonquist said. “You and your cronies will all go away for securities violations, and eventually, I presume, you’ll get out. But there’s no statute of limitations on murder, or kidnapping, and we’ve got enough to convict you all. We’ll hold those charges over you indefinitely. You try anything, we’ll charge you in federal court, which has the death penalty. Even if you don’t get the chair, you’ll never get out of jail. I assume you aren’t stupid enough to risk that.”

Richard couldn’t help smiling as he watched Jack, whose upper lip and forehead now showed beads of perspiration. His eyes were wide.
A cornered animal.
No, caged like he belonged. “I need to call Kathy,” Richard said and stepped out.

London, England.
Milner rode the elevator at Schoenfeld & Co.’s offices in St. James’ Square with the two guys who escorted him there. A single U.S. Attorney’s Office agent sat in the car outside. Holden insisted on the chaperone from his office, even though he saw little flight risk, given the $225 million Milner had put into
escrow for the $25 million fine he’d agreed to, plus disgorgement of the $200 million the Walker ring paid him.

Once upstairs, Milner entered the dining room, where Schoenfeld and Delecroix, looking annoyed, were seated at a table set for three. Milner said, “I hope you don’t mind I brought a couple of friends.” The two guys walked past Milner toward Schoenfeld and Delecroix.