Montaro Caine (24 page)

Davis fingered several of the documents. Then, finally, he held up a page on which the names of the coins’ purchasers were typed in boldface. He abruptly laid the document back on the table and turned to Bob Wildenmiller.

“Kritzman Fritzbrauner,” Davis said.

Wildenmiller nodded slowly. He knew the name; both he and Davis had reckoned with it before.

Davis turned back to Rothman. “Alan, I’ll be a son of a bitch if this isn’t the damndest thing I’ve ever heard of.”

“Richard, it struck me the same way, but I went through it step by step.”

“It’s a real attention getter all right,” Davis said. “It’s bizarre, it’s off the wall, but I’m not convinced how genuine it all is. I’ve listened to what you said. I’ve examined these documents, but I’ve got to tell you, after sixty-two years of living, my better judgment tells me there’s a hell of a catch hidden somewhere.”

“I understand,” Rothman began cautiously, “but what if there is no catch? Forgive my saying so, but what if you’re wrong?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” chortled Davis, who liked to surround himself with people who had the guts to question him. “But if I am, and this fairy tale is for real, then Alan, I’ll be the most flabbergasted son of a bitch you’ll ever see.”

“I know it sounds preposterous,” Rothman continued. “But can we afford to simply ignore it? Particularly in the face of the opportunities that will fall in our laps if this whole thing turns out to be legit?”

“I think you’re letting yourself be captured by the upside of this thing, Alan. It might have blurred your vision. I always say in any game,” Davis continued, channeling the part of himself that had once played Division I football, “if you want to be an effective player, you’ve gotta see the ball clearly from every side.”

Rothman glanced around the table to gauge how the others were reacting. “But we have a limited window of opportunity,” he replied. “Two weeks down the line I don’t want us to find out that there was no catch, and that Caine actually does have some kind of revolutionary formula. If that happens, all our efforts will be dead in the water.”

Richard Davis sighed heavily, leaned back in his chair, folded his hands behind his neck, and pulled his head forward to stretch his spine.

“What do you think, Bob?”

Wildenmiller took his time in responding. He weighed sound judgment against gut reactions and searched his feelings. It was his nature to always anchor decisions in the concrete of hard evidence, yet he was now being asked to offer an answer that could only arise from intuition.

“I think we should hear what the girl has to say,” Wildenmiller finally said.

“You do, eh?” said the billionaire. He then turned to Alan Rothman and signaled with a slight nod of his head. Bolton pulled out his cell phone and keyed in a number.

Downstairs, an air-conditioned limo was parked in front of the Brougham Arms Apartments. The chauffeur behind the wheel had been listening to the ball game on the radio. The Mets were playing the Pirates, the score was tied, and two men were on base with Angel Pagan coming up to the plate. But the moment his stern-faced passenger’s cell phone rang, the chauffeur turned off the radio and waited quietly as he heard Thomas Bolton’s voice on the passenger’s speakerphone.

“Wallace?” Bolton asked.

“Here,” Carlos said from the back of the limousine.

“Bring her up.”

“Right away.”

The chauffeur leaped from the car, then scrambled to open the curbside door. Cordiss Krinkle emerged from the backseat of the limo, followed by Wallace, then Victor.

“Hold it, Victor,” Wallace said. “You stay here.”

Wallace took Cordiss’s arm and guided her into the Brougham Arms while Victor stood beside the limo, chewing on his bottom lip and muttering to himself as he watched the two disappear into the lobby. He thought of how satisfying it would be to punch Carlos Wallace in the mouth, even though he was most angered by Cordiss’s refusal
to insist that he join her. He could see Cordiss becoming a new woman. He allowed himself to wonder whether Cordiss’s new money, new attitude, and tastes would mean she would soon be seeking a new man as well. He sulked as he got back into the limo, slightly consoled by the fact that at least he’d be able to listen to the rest of the Mets game.

When Cordiss arrived at Verna Fontaine’s apartment, she and Carlos Wallace were greeted by Verna’s broad smile. “Come in,” Verna said, holding the door open for them. She trailed her guests across the living room into the alcove where Rothman introduced Cordiss to the others. Bob Wildenmiller directed Cordiss to an empty chair at their table while Carlos sat on the couch.

“Miss Krinkle, we understand you have information that would lend clarity and credence to the story Mr. Rothman has been telling us,” Wildenmiller began.

“I hope I can help you,” replied Cordiss.

“And what information might that be, my dear?”

Cordiss smiled at the condescension. “I would say that’s the wrong question, Mr. Wildenmiller,” she said.

“How so?”

“If you’ve read those documents, what you now know about the story is already very clear. What isn’t clear to you, however, is what’s going to happen next. That’s the question you should be asking me.”

“Because you can foretell the future?”

“Not all of it, certainly; but what I do know is vitally important.”

“So,” Wildenmiller began, “one thing you know is the name of the young woman in whose hand the coin was originally found. True?”

“That’s true,” Cordiss said.

“And the name of her husband, whose birth produced the second coin?”

“That’s also true.”

“Well,” said Wildenmiller, “beyond that, we fail to see what other essential information may or may not be in your possession that might have escaped our attention. Please enlighten us.”

“The whereabouts of the young couple in question, for one thing.”

“And?” asked Wildenmiller.

“The fact that she may or may not be pregnant and preparing to give birth soon,” responded Cordiss.

“That about it?” Wildenmiller asked.

“What more would you want?” asked Cordiss.

“You will have to do better than that, my dear. Your burden is to present us with reasons why any of this should interest us at all.”

“The birth of that child will be an event,” said Cordiss. “I know who the parents are, where they are, when the child is due, and, above all, what most likely will happen when that baby is born. We can control the circumstances of that birth; and, by doing so, we will be there at the right moment when an amazingly remunerative miracle might well occur. Do you need more information, Mr. Wildenmiler? Or,” she concluded, parroting his own words back to him,
“is that about it?”

There was silence in the room before Wildenmiller asked, “Who else knows about the pregnancy and the due date of the child?”

“Dr. Mozelle and possibly Caine,” answered Cordiss.

“What about Fritzbrauner and Gabler?” asked Bolton.

“No.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I haven’t told them and there is no one else who would.”

“Who else knows the whereabouts of the couple?”

“Just me and Victor,” said Cordiss.

The conversation fell into another pause, leaving the humming of the air conditioner to dominate the uneasy quiet in the room until Richard C. Davis finally spoke.

“Miss Krinkle, how do you envision controlling the circumstances of that birth, as you put it, without stepping into legal, and possibly ethical, quicksand? I would like to hear you translate what you are proposing into concrete detail. Take me through the specifics—steps one, two, three.”

Though the name Richard Davis meant nothing to Cordiss, the way he took command impressed her.
Well, well, Mr. Davis
, Cordiss thought,
so you’re the boss here
.

“I’m of course prepared to do that, but what I’m proposing is a sure thing. What’s not sure yet is whether or not we’re going to have
an arrangement,” said Cordiss. “May I have some Perrier, please?”

Victor had been telling her that she had come back from Europe with new tastes, and designer water was one of them.

“Of course,” said Verna Fontaine, rising.

Cordiss waited for the water to arrive, then took several sips before she spoke. “O.K.,” she said. “Here’s how I think we should proceed.”

Downstairs, the Mets game was over. Victor had fallen asleep during the eighth inning and was dozing in the back of the limousine when Cordiss woke him, shouting playfully, “Wake up, wake up, sleepyhead.”

Victor shook the sleep from his head and looked at Cordiss’s wide grin. “Are we in business?” he asked.

“We are,” said Cordiss.

“Yeah?”

“Honey,” chuckled Cordiss. “Are we in business!” She pushed the button that raised the partition window to isolate the chauffeur.

“Did you talk numbers?” Victor asked.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because ten million dollars here or there is nothing to these guys. Believe me, if this thing works out, we can jack our numbers way up.”

“Shit, I wish I was up there with you.”

“You were, honey, I was thinking about you all the time.”

Cordiss lowered the partition. “Take us back to our hotel,” she told the driver, and as the limo pulled into traffic, Victor wasn’t sure what made him happier—all the money that he and Cordiss would be making or the fact that Cordiss still loved him and that they would be spending it together.

T
HE EXECUTIVE DINING LOUNGE OF
D
AVIS
I
NDUSTRIES WAS LOCATED
on the tenth floor of the corporation’s Park Avenue headquarters in one of the priciest zip codes in Manhattan. But what Roland Gabler found most noteworthy when he arrived there for his one p.m. meeting with Bob Wildenmiller and his associates was how great the disparity could be between wealth and taste. There was an impersonal, corporate sheen to these rooms—the long table and chairs were undoubtedly expensive and yet were so lacking in distinctive qualities that they might as well have been chosen from a wholesalers’ mail order catalog. In Gabler’s domain, every objet d’art possessed a fascinating and sometimes dangerous history; what passed for artwork on these walls had probably been mass-produced on an assembly line. When Wildenmiller had called to request a meeting, Gabler had suggested that his own chef devise a menu; when Wildenmiller declined and Gabler agreed to meet at Davis headquarters, he was still looking forward to the discussion, but not to what would be served at lunch.

The dour individuals who greeted Gabler as he entered the room—Carlos Wallace, Verna Fontaine, Alan Rothman, Thomas Bolton, and Wildenmiller himself—made no greater impression on Gabler than the lounge itself or the two platters of lukewarm chicken
Caesar salad set out on the conference table. Ice cubes were already melting in the pitchers of iced tea. These were sharpshooting businessmen; unlike some of the eccentric characters Gabler encountered in the collecting world, they didn’t know much about style and were likely to dispense with small talk and get straight to the point. True to Gabler’s expectations, it took barely more than a minute for Wildenmiller to say, “We’re interested in a recent addition to your collection, Roland.”

Gabler was used to taking his time in these sorts of discussions, engaging his potential adversaries in banter to take their measure. “What addition is that?” he asked.

“The one with what appears to be a very unusual history.”

“Forgive the immodesty, gentlemen, but all of my objects have very unusual histories, otherwise I’d be in the junk business.” Gabler laughed; the other men at the table did not.

“We would like to purchase it,” Wildenmiller said flatly, at which point Gabler abandoned the pretense of friendly discussion; clearly, this was to be solely a business conversation—disappointing but ultimately fine with him.

“It’s not for sale,” he said.

Wildenmiller took a mouthful of lunch, washed it down with swallows of iced tea, then rested his fork gently on his plate before speaking again. “You will need enormous resources to take full advantage of the potential represented there, Roland.”

Gabler kept his face blank while his eyes shifted about the table. “It sounds as if we’re on two different tracks,” he said. “To me, the real value of an object, such as the one you are discussing, is the extent to which it enhances my collection.”

“I understand,” Wildenmiller interrupted. “And fundamentally I agree with you. Rarity and beauty are, indeed, the object’s true values, even for an old accountant like me. However, let’s be practical. The chances of that coin remaining in your collection are very slim, given the likelihood of ownership disputes and the real possibility of public discovery. Therefore, secondary values of a more tangible nature than rarity and beauty might be all that will be left for you to hang on to. Your business is not equipped to take advantage of any of the possibilities
that may be locked away in that rarity and beauty we all admire, while we, on the other hand, are fully equipped to exploit its potential.”

Gabler tried not to betray the elation he felt on hearing Wildenmiller’s words. “I don’t know what to say, except that I don’t agree with your assessment,” he said carefully. “If we are both operating from the same set of facts, then one of us is interpreting them incorrectly.”

“We have the same information as you have,” Wildenmiller said, “but we also have information that you do not have. Information you will not be able to uncover in time to successfully pursue this thing alone, even if you had the capacity to do so. Trust me, Roland, our offer, which will represent a substantial profit to you, is the only way things can work out to our mutual benefit.”

“Sorry, gentlemen, the item is not for sale.”

“Not even for, say, ten million dollars?” asked Wildenmiller.

“It is a priceless item, Bob.”

“For which you just paid two million dollars, if I’m not mistaken.”

Gabler remained silent.

“And in a very short time it may have no value at all to any of us,” Wildenmiller pressed on.