MONEY TREE (2 page)

Ted
clicked him off. They were always like that. All innocence until the evidence proved they were sleeping with the other man’s wife, or they’d bought the election, or they’d duped their followers with guarantees of a hereafter for a hundred bucks down and lifetime instalments. That’s how it was. Dirty. He wished he could be wrong. It’s why he’d started in this business.

He looked
north from his eyrie in the brightly lit newsroom high above Pearl Street. The Brooklyn Bridge was solid with red tail lights. A line of commuters anxious to get home to lit rooms and the hallway kiss and the day’s gossip. Such domestic bliss had long since evaporated for him and Mary. But sometimes he missed the mess of cotton buds on the sink. The tissues smudged with make-up. The dent in the mattress and the smell of her pillow. Just knowing another heartbeat shared the echoing rooms. The first few nights after she’d gone, he’d slept on her side. Well, not slept so much as lay there, trying to get her perspective, to see what it had been like for her. He wondered if she was happy now, wondered what
he
was like. Now he wondered how long he had left there; it wasn’t much of an apartment, but her lawyers were after a slice.

He returned to the provocative
email, and his irritation bubbled up again. Irritation with himself. He had a formula that worked: Reuters’ by-lines with a dash of Ted Saddler spleen. But in truth any one of the junior hacks could have done his column. Cheaper. He didn’t want to go there, and thought about switching off and calling it a day. The Yakuza would keep till the morning.

He
gazed out. Streets still clogged. Heat still rising from the summer-hot pavements. He’d be hanging from a subway strap all the way up to 96
th
. Maybe he’d go for a beer in South Street Seaport. Let rush hour subside at Jeremy’s, the only real bar in the area. A dive that dispensed cold beer in 32 ounce Styrofoam cups. It was important to support the waterfront bars after their inundation by
Sandy
.

But unbidden, a bit of the old
Ted, the goes-the-extra-mile Ted, burrowed up. He ran off a short response and studied it before hitting the send button. He wanted to get the tone right, maybe adding a little bit of flippancy to show he was in control, that he knew what he was doing.

If you’re telling me the World Bank is behind some global conspiracy, I’m all ears. But we might have to see a little hard evid
ence. What you got?

Diogenes
was obviously primed. The response fizzed back.

T
hanks Ted. This is hard to believe, even for me. But we can’t do this on email. Too risky. Too big. Can we meet tonight? I promise you it won’t be wasted.-

He turned to his keyboard. He typed but didn’t send:

how do I know you’re not going to lure me to a dark alley and beat the crap out of me?

No sense being coy about the number of crazy folk out there. But if someone was crazy why would they admit it? He retyped
.

I’ll give you time if you can get over to the Tribune’s office in the next 15 minutes
.

He sent it and waited a minute, then a minute more, and was about to close down assuming he’d called
the guy’s bluff when a message popped up.

I don’t want to meet in a press building. Too many eyes. Let’s meet in Carnegie’s. It’s a bar
on Bleeker between Thompson and Sullivan. 7pm. It has to be just the two of us or I won’t show.

So
Diogenes was a public figure and twitchy as a gopher. What’s to lose? Unless it was a lunatic on the other end of this conversation trying to sucker him. But a bar was safe and he did need a drink, and this might, just might, have some mileage in it. He typed in the name and checked the map.

Got it. How will I know you?

I know you. Tribune web site. Sit at the counter. I’ll introduce myself.

If this was a wild goose chase he could always cut the discussion short and still meet the boys at Houlihan’s. It was only ten minutes ride away and it would be a conversation piece. Those young live wires were always looking for some new bone to chew on, as though they were testing him.

T
he cab dropped him in front of Carnegie’s. He took in the façade. His misgivings fluttered to the surface. It was a bar pretending to be a night club. He went in and it was worse inside. Ice cool compared with the steamy air of a summer evening on Bleeker. Wood panels and soft upholstery. No sport screens, just dinner Jazz piping in the background like warm baby-oil for the ears. Glistening black counter staffed by a couple of young women in tasteful blouses and piled-up hair.

He
sized up the sharp outfits of the clientele. He hitched up his baggy pants and did up his top shirt button. He pushed his fingers through the long strands of fair hair and settled it behind his ears. He knew it was long overdue a cut but at least it was now off his face. There was nothing he could do about making his canvas jacket look like an ivy-league sports coat, even if he cared to.

O
ne of the first things he’d done PM –
Post Mary
– was to ransack his clothes-rail for the stuff she’d made him buy: the preppy ties, jackets and pants as if auditioning for tenure at Harvard. He took the whole pile and dumped it in the tiny spare room. He was left with his hunting outfits, she’d called them. It amounted to barely three days’ change of clothes – so he paid a visit to Eddie Bauer to stock up on check shirts and baggy pants. They’d gone bust in the past. Better to have reserves.

There were a few leather high-stools round the
gleaming horseshoe, most of them free. He took up position on one facing the door and placed his cell down on the counter, ready for further contact. It was just after seven. A good time in a bad bar. Before the place filled up and the noise levels rose and the booze fuzzed the head. Out of habit, regardless of where he was drinking, he ordered his usual, a large Maker’s Mark on the rocks and a beer chaser.

He scanned the room.
Not
Jeremy’s Ale House. More somewhere you’d meet a date, an uptown date. Couples mostly, gazing into each other’s eyes or quizzing their phones. When did that happen? No sign of anyone with a lamp. A few singles. Both sexes, and probably some in between. Reading tablets or even the odd newspaper, but generally pretending they’re not waiting for someone.

At least it was dark enough to hide in.
It’s what he loved about the big city; anonymity. Slipping through the crowds late of an evening. Or sitting in one of the concourse bars in Grand Central Station, watching the dating game unfold at the Oyster Bar, without having to give anything away. The soloist. Gathering material for the book. Ted gave a mental shrug; a lot of material. No book.

From a seat against the velour-clad wall Diogenes watched him shamble in, check the place out and climb on a stool as though it was reserved for him on a daily basis.

T
his was the famous Theodore Saddler? Not much like the Tribune web site, but then who used their worst photos? Twenty pounds heavier and looking like he’d just got off the Greyhound from Nowheresville by mistake. Still the swept back fair hair. Reliving his hippy youth? Wiki said he was barely fifty, but he looked ready for the retirement hammock and a non-stop supply of pretzels and beer. Big and old and slow, as though he’d never believe the story, far less do anything about it.

Do I really want to go through with this? This whole idea is stupid. A guilt trip
or boardroom politics? Getting back at the boss or a dumb excuse to give up the rat race? A grand gesture. Exit stage right to applause . . . but pursued by a bear. All I have to do is get up and walk out. I’ve given him the tip-off, let him run with it. Maybe that was best.

Ted
threw back the third and last mouthful of bourbon and called for another. He was handing over a twenty to pay for his drinks when the transaction was interrupted.

‘I’ll get this. Put it on my tab.’

He swivelled to his left, struck by a woman’s commanding voice wrapped in an alluring accent. Irish? Scots? He always mixed them up. This was Diogenes? Dark hair yanked back from strong features. Blue eyes holding his, unblinking, unyielding. Womanly curves wrapped in the sort of understated greys and blacks that quietly screamed designer. How had he missed her? She must have snuck up on him from a seat in the corner. Doubt struck. A high class hooker? His joker defence mechanism kicked in.

‘Is this how they do happy hour here?’

‘Only if your name’s Ted Saddler.’

‘If that’s the password, I’m
in.’

She slid onto the stool and ordered a spritzer. She sent it back for having too much wine. It gave
Ted time to examine her sideways on. The smooth dark hair – deep brown verging on black – held firmly in place at the back of the skull by a tight clip of some sort. Light makeup; a scattering of freckles showed through. Aspen in winter, Caribbean in the summer. Late thirties, or a fancy surgeon? Who was he to judge these days? No ring on the perfectly manicured left hand. Upper East Side and big pay checks. Something familiar about her all the same.

‘Cheers, Mr
Saddler.’

She raised her glass to him and dropped the bantering tone. She turned full on to him.
Gave him the sea-blue gaze with the power to strip a minion at twenty paces. But fronting a good brain. He had a theory that you can tell by people’s eyes. He put on his listening look.

‘
You Scotch?’

‘That’s the booze. I’m Scottish.’

‘I stand corrected.’

She heard the small hurt in his voice
and smiled. ‘Thank you for coming. I really appreciate it.’

‘
Your email assault didn’t give me much choice.’

Her
smile flickered again but there would be no contrition for the deluge. He pressed again.

‘How did you get my private email and cell number?’

‘Connections. The point is, you’re wrong about the People’s Bank. Those guys are straight.’

‘How would
you
know?’

‘I’ve spent the last
couple of years analysing them and the only thing they’re guilty of is altruism.’

Was that it, he thought? A bleeding heart? ‘Before we go any further I need to know who
I’m dealing with - Miss Diogenes.’

‘How do I know I can trust you? I want this off the record.’

‘Lady, I’m a priest. This is your confessional. But remember, I am a reporter. At some point I need stuff that can go on the record. Are you ready for that?’

Her eyes flicked over his double hand of drinks –
professional what? She searched his face, looking for substance behind the glibness. Give him something.

‘The name’s
Wishart, Erin Wishart. Erin will do. Global American Bank. I run the Asia Pacific region.’

Now the face came into focus. The tough Brit making it big in the biggest US bank.
Her appealing brogue masking steely ambition. Mentioned in despatches as CEO material. Hence the power aura. He tried to look unimpressed.

‘Okaaay. So what’s that got to do with our little People’s Bank?’

‘Not so little. Which is the problem. They’re eating our lunch.’

She made ‘lunch
’ sound more important than any meal Ted could remember. Her voice dropped. She moved closer into him so he caught the faintest edge of her scent. It threw him off balance. He bent his head towards her, wanting more.

‘
And for the last year, GA has been orchestrating a dirty tricks campaign to derail them.’

Ted
blinked. If this was fact, and Global American, the biggest commercial bank in the world, was behind the current hoo-hah, the repercussions were Richter scale 10. And he’d have a front page. In fact he’d have several front pages. But why was she doing this? And could she prove it?

‘
How dirty? And what proof have you got?’

Proof. It was what
Erin Wishart had feared. She’d tried explaining it to Sally Gunn, divorce lawyer and best friend, over dinner at the Grill. Sally was doling out her usual pragmatism…

‘I always tell my clients they can’t afford a conscience until they’re $50 million in the clear.’

‘I though it was 20?’

‘Inflation, darling.’

‘That’s facile, Sally, not to mention immoral.’

‘
Amoral
. There’s a difference.’ Sally nonchalantly popped a fragment of Black Cod between her tiny white teeth and waved a fork at Erin. ‘It’s not the man thing, is it darling?’

‘God, no!’ It wasn’t, but
Erin knew she was protesting too loudly. Sometimes she felt like her whole body had been designed as a beacon, but it always attracted the wrong ones. So she’d stopped looking and was perfectly content with her freedom and space and the occasional little fling that came her way, thank you.

Sally eyed her sceptically. ‘Alright. Let’s say it’s not revenge; it’s not early menopause
or some transferred mothering instinct.’ She shuddered theatrically. ‘I diagnose a nasty outbreak of survivor’s guilt.’