Saving Jason (18 page)

I noticed that the older man was wearing a hearing aid, which he must have turned off—a defense not unlike my glasses. He saw me looking at him and asked, “Were you talking to me just now?”

“I was,” I said. “I was talking about baseball.”

“What?”

“Baseball.” I did not raise my voice—that would have been futile. I overenunciated so that he could read my lips.

“Stupid game,” he said, and turned away.

I took a minuscule bite of a fried pepper. The melted cheese squeezed out, burning both my tongue and the palm of my hand. I needed something cool and soothing. Out of the corner of my eye—I was still wearing the stupid glasses, mind you—I saw a bowl of guacamole. I scooped up a golfball-sized glob using a round rice cracker—idly wondering as I did why there were no chips—and put it in my mouth. It wasn’t guacamole. It was wasabi.

My sinuses felt like they had been blasted with a chemical freeze. My eyes teared and my nose ran. It gushed. I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs to cough effectively. I took a glass of chardonnay and swallowed all of it in one gulp. I poured another and downed that. It didn’t help, but it did draw concerned looks from the art lovers nearby. The third or fourth glass began to have some effect and I was able to make my way out of there soon after. We had since been frequenting a different library.

T
he shower in the guest room shrieked its high-pitched, tortured scream. Too much water pressure being forced through inadequate mid-twentieth-century pipes and fittings. The house needed to be renovated or bulldozed. I could make a good argument for either. Josh was up and beginning his day. The coffee machine clicked on. I took my laptop and a second cup of tea and went back out to the veranda.

The dome of the sky was already turning blue, but the valley was still deep purple. The foothills up behind the house twinkled with a few lights. Early risers in the moneyed class? More likely their household staff getting up to clean the drowned lizards out of the pool.

I opened up the website again and logged in. Larry had left an alert. I clicked on his icon, and a moment later we were virtually face-to-face.

“You look good,” he greeted me. “Well rested.”

“I can’t adjust to the time difference, so I go to bed soon after the Kid. What’s the news?”

“Gino’s lawyers got him another postponement. Doctors’ orders.”

Gino was still shuttling back and forth between surgery and rehab for the injuries he got when his truck plowed into the woods. Even without the reports from his medical team, Suffolk County Court would have given him the delay. The wheels of justice turn slower in August than at any other time of the year—except for Christmas week.

“What about Scott?”

“Still on admin leave. The SEC wants his license pulled, but Blackmore has them holding off.”

If I had taken the time to look at the bigger picture, rather than getting caught up in the penny stock minutiae, I might have learned
something about the young Mr. Scott. Manny had tried to warn me minutes before the abduction—he had found it all quite easily—but even if the message had come through in time, I don’t know what I would have done with it. Special Agent Brady filled in some of the holes that Manny had not explored.

Joseph Scott was the fifth son and eighth child, born of the third wife of Frank Scotto, once an active member of the most powerful New England crime family and now a long-retired businessman living in a nursing home in Boca Raton. After his second stint in prison, Frank and his two brothers had broken ties with their Providence associates and moved to the north shore of Long Island, where Frank remained on the FBI’s most-investigated-to-no-effect list. Scotto avoided contact with all members of New York’s Five Families, though Brady guessed that he was paying tribute to at least one of the Mafia leaders. The three brothers dabbled in various businesses: home-heating-oil delivery; real estate development; hard-money lending; payday loans; restaurant laundry supply; truck and heavy equipment leasing; a beer and soda distributor; commercial carpet sales and installation; cardboard packaging manufacture; and, through their sons, sons-in-law, and a stepson from Frank’s second marriage, a chain of cut-rate eyeglass stores; a manufacturer of CPAP machines to treat sleep apnea; a bank; and a structured settlement firm. Dabbling paid well. As Frank had outlived his three wives, avoiding the economic debacle of divorce, he had amassed, according to his FBI watchers, a pile of dough that topped two hundred million. The brothers had not fared quite as well, but each one had left an estate of over ten million dollars. At times, some of their employees had been caught gaming the system in one way or another, and some had served time for it. But nothing had ever stuck to Frank or the brothers, no matter how hard the feds tried. They had maintained files on the family for years, expecting all along that they would someday uncover evidence of extortion, loan-sharking, identity theft, unlicensed gambling, import and distribution of controlled substances, arson- or
murder-for-hire, corruption of public officials, truck hijacking, or any of the other traditional organized crime staples. Nada. Not even tax evasion. Eventually, the feds had to grudgingly admit that the family had gone legit.

Young Joseph, his surname cropped at birth at his mother’s insistence and with his father’s blessing, briefly attended Chaminade High School, but graduated—a year late—from Hargrave Military Academy. The more regimented environment had provided him with enough self-discipline to make it through St. John’s and he graduated with a BS in business. Before getting his broker’s license and coming to work at Becker Financial, Joe had been a dabbler, fashioning himself after his father, it seemed. But Joe didn’t have the knack, or maybe he was in too much of a hurry. Or too busy being young and reckless. At one point, he ran a chain of laundromats and was known for paying his bar bills with sacks of quarters. One by one, the stores closed. He avoided personal bankruptcy with a bailout from the family. His big brother, Frank Jr., had a brokerage account with the C-3 branch at Becker Financial and made a call. Joseph Scott became a banker.

“Why hasn’t the little shit been indicted?” I asked. “Can’t Blackmore show conspiracy or something?”

“Criminal conspiracy doesn’t get Blackmore what he wants. He wants a RICO charge. Racketeering. The penalties are much greater and they include asset forfeiture. If he gets an indictment under RICO, then he can include everything in one trial. RICO is like the Death Star for a federal prosecutor. Scott alone isn’t worth the trouble. But if Blackmore can use him to bring down Virgil and his firm, he can land a multibillion-dollar gold mine.

“He has to prove that there is an ongoing enterprise and he needs to make all the links for the grand jury. Blackmore thinks that Virgil’s firm qualifies, but it’s a long shot. He’d have to back into it by proving that Virgil either abetted the crime or looked the other way. But you tell me he directed you to hand it off to Devane. Compliance.
That’s exactly what he’s supposed to do. Beating up on Virgil isn’t going to work.”

“Virgil’s still locked out of his own firm.” And there was little that I could do about it until my own pressures lightened up. “I’m going to be talking to him in another fifteen minutes.”

“Wish him luck from me,” Larry said.

H
ow are you, Jason? Is there anything you need?”

Despite the offer, Virgil sounded like he was on the ropes. More than a little stressed. Aimee’s death still troubled him, and the ongoing investigation was a constant drain on his energy. He was no quitter and would go down fighting, but I didn’t want him to go down at all. He had been publicly arrested, but never arraigned, leaving him in a limbo created by Blackmore—neither accused nor acquitted, but still under suspicion. Fearing customer backlash, the board had asked him to stay out of the office until the matter was settled. Forcing Virgil to do nothing qualified as cruel and unusual punishment.

“What’s the news from home?” I asked, vying with my nature to be chipper. “And talk about anything other than the Yankees. I think their hitters melt in the heat. Maybe they’ll do better in September.”

Virgil was not a baseball fan, and having grown up in both New York and New England, his loyalties would have been forever split between rivals. He put up with my banter, but didn’t engage.

“The news here is not good. The board met in a special session yesterday. I was not invited. That was galling enough, but the letter they sent me today is worse.”

“But they can’t do that, can they? Take a vote without the chairman present. Isn’t that a violation of something or other?”

“My vote wouldn’t have stopped this.”

“Tell me.”

“The board has always been split between those who support my efforts and those who dislike my presence on principle. They were screwed by my father, appointed by the court, and would be happy to see me leave.”

“You’ve told me.”

“I know. Excuse me. I’m meandering. At any rate, two members of the board tried to push through a vote to kick me out and replace me with Nealis. The rest of the board balked. Nealis, to his credit, headed things off. He told them he wouldn’t accept unless he knew he had the support of a majority of the shareholders.”

“I’m surprised. He doesn’t owe you any loyalty. You two don’t have a history.”

“No, it was a nice gesture. But the board took him up on it. They’ve drafted a resolution and called for a shareholder vote to be conducted at the annual meeting.”

“Okay. That’s not until late September. We’ve got a month and a half to prepare.”

“And, they’ve moved up the meeting to the end of August. We have three weeks.”

Virgil and family did not control enough shares to dominate the vote, but they wouldn’t need a lot of other supporters to win. The question was how many shares were now being held by whoever had been attempting the hostile takeover and how those shares would be voted. In three weeks, Virgil might lose everything.

T
he Kid didn’t like the new guy. He didn’t give him much of a chance. Willie arrived in the late morning. Josh was gone by noon. He and the Kid sniffed hands when they said good-bye. Willie drove him to the airport and the Kid locked himself in his room. Two days later, things hadn’t improved. The Kid came out for meals, ignored all conversation, ate quickly, and returned to his room. I tried to wait him out. Meanwhile, he had the iPad and his cars.

Willie made the effort, but the Kid just wasn’t having any of it. Willie warmly greeted the Kid whenever he showed himself, asked politely if he needed anything, and always made some upbeat comment. Admittedly, he was no Mister Rogers. Willie had a forgettable face, with the kind of blond hair that might also be described as brown or red, but which was so thin and limp that it didn’t matter what you called it. One ear was noticeably higher on his head than the other, but as he wore a weather-beaten Padres cap at all times, indoor and out, the ear hardly qualified as a distinguishing trait. Otherwise, he was an alert, sharp-eyed, athletic, and somewhat grim man in his late thirties—a bodyguard.

But Willie also cooked, which greatly improved the quality of life at our hacienda. I still fixed the Kid’s food—he wouldn’t have it any other way. But Willie made a real dinner for Hal and me every night. He did the shopping and insisted on doing the cleaning up. I offered my help—I could load a dishwasher as well as the next man, I thought—but Willie refused. Hal heard that and didn’t bother to offer. By the third night’s meal—featuring thick spears of asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, an arugula salad with Gorgonzola and pine nuts, grilled zucchini smothered in olive oil, and a roasted rosemary chicken with
a skin so crispy it crackled—Willie had made himself an invaluable member of the team.

“Kid? It’s your dad.” Of course it was. Who else would be bothering him?

It was morning on the fourth day since Willie’s arrival, and I had determined it was time to break the logjam.

“Kid? We need to talk. I’m coming in, okay?”

My son had barely spoken to me in days. In general, he spoke much less than before we went into hiding, when I had disrupted his life in almost every conceivable way. But the past few days had been extreme and I felt that I had to remind my son who was in charge—a choice that is almost always the wrong one.

He didn’t answer.

“Okay. If it is not okay with you for me to come in, now is the time to say so.” At home we had used two knocks separated by ten seconds for both of us. The Kid had the privacy he craved, and on the nights when Skeli slept over, I had some assurance that we would not be surprised during our more intimate moments.

The Kid still didn’t answer.

“Right. Here I come.”

The Kid was in bed, covers pulled up to his chest, two pillows propped up behind his head. He was watching something on his new iPad. He was using my earbuds. I had refused to get him earbuds because I believed that they could be harmful to young ears. Allowing him to use them would also have meant that I couldn’t eavesdrop on what he was doing. So, he was using mine. The pair with the built-in microphone that had gone missing two weeks ago, and I was sure had dropped into the recycling bin when I was putting twine on the newspaper pile.

I had to give him credit. He did not tear them off, or try to hide them. He showed no signs of feeling guilt or even mild embarrassment. He kept watching.

I sat down on the bed next to him. It was another Goofy cartoon.
There was a period during my fourth grade when I had discovered and gobbled up a series of books by a man named Walter Brooks about a bunch of talking farm animals. The fit passed in a few months, but I realized much later in life that the themes of fairness, honesty, and decency, combined with intelligence, compassion, and more than a touch of shrewdness, had all stayed with me. The books had arrived at exactly the moment in my life when I could appreciate their depth. I suspected that the Disney writers weren’t on a par with Mr. Brooks, but maybe, in that moment, Goofy was giving my son just what he needed. I let him finish watching, then I gently unplugged the earbuds and put my hand over the screen.

“No more right now. We’ve got to talk.”

“You talk.”

“Yes, you’re right. When I say that
we
have to talk, it usually means that I’m going to talk and you’re supposed to listen. That’s called a lecture. Or sometimes a talking-to, as in ‘I’m going to give that child a good talking-to.’”

“Not good. Bad.”

“No, it’s not good. But like a lot of things, it’s not so bad, either. It’s necessary. You can think of it like eating vegetables.”

The Kid rarely responded to metaphor. The concept confused him.

“You may not like it, but it’s good for you. And you won’t see the positive results right away, but someday you’ll appreciate it.”

He began tapping out his peculiar rhythm with his fingertips. Stimming. There were times when it was annoying, but it was harmless. It looked weird, and I hated to imagine that strangers would think my son was weird—though I had to admit that sometimes he was just that. But it helped him keep his planets in orbit and his galaxies from crashing into one another.

“I know you are sad that Josh went home. I miss him, too.” Josh didn’t cook, but there was a stability to him, a feeling that he was fully grounded, a calm that none of the other bodyguards who had billeted with us had shown.

“Stupid.”

This always meant that I was missing the point. It may also have meant that he thought I was stupid, but I elected not to see it that way.

“All right, then. You tell me.”

The fingers kept flying.

“Are you upset that Josh gets to go home and you don’t?”

“STUPID.”

Ahhhh. His vehemence betrayed him. Of course that was part of it. It was always part of everything. He wanted to be back where he felt comfortable. Where the doorman knew his name. Where the parking attendant in the garage let him walk around, looking at the cars. Where the lady who cut his hair was used to his terror of the scissors and had devised various harmless, yet effective, stratagems for him—from always having on hand a big picture book of cars for him to look at while she worked to giving him car stickers as a reward for good behavior. He missed the Athena, the subway, the dog run in Riverside Park, and even his school. I was sure that he missed Skeli, my father, and Roger. Damn. So did I.

But he was still telling me that there was something else. Maybe it had not started with Josh’s leaving. Maybe it was the arrival of Willie.

“Is it Willie? Is he the problem?”

The Kid pinched his ears and pulled them as if trying to get them into alignment. I laughed. He looked at me in surprise; he hadn’t been trying to be funny.

“Are you telling me you don’t like the guy because he has funny ears?”

The Kid scrunched up his face.

“No. Okay. Please. I don’t understand. What’s wrong with Willie?”

“He’s bad.”