The Last Hedge (16 page)

“Calm down; Corbin doesn’t even know we’re looking. Besides, you must have wanted me to say something. You did call me.”

“True.” Both men took long and solid gulps of beer. It was just the antidote for an unusually hot summer.

“How is it going there for you?”

“I’m making money.”

“Oh yeah,” Conroy said.

“Trading is going well. Corbin actually gave me a bonus.”

“In this economy? You’ve only been there two weeks.”

“It’s a long story, and I didn’t really come here to discuss my finances.” Dylan paused. “Besides, the fund itself may be in trouble. One of the dudes lost a shitload of money.”

“How much trouble?”

“I really don’t want to get into details. That’s proprietary information.” Dylan glanced around before taking another sip of beer. “Something else popped up, but I’m not sure if I want to tell you.”

“Dylan, it’s too late to play games. If you know something, it’s in your best interests to tell me.”

“Tim, I didn’t do anything.”

“I don’t think you have, but if Corbin goes down, and you knew, you could be in hot water. You’ve gone beyond the point of bluffing. This is real now. You need to step up and let us know exactly what you have.”

“We looked through the locate file several times; no problem with the locates, but when we were looking through the trading system, my guy found a hidden file server with tons of encryption.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I don’t know. We couldn’t see the files.”

Is that typical?”

“Not usually. People password protect things, use software locks, but a high-level of encryption is somewhat weird.”

Conroy looked around the bar. The table next to them had emptied, leaving their table alone in the corner. “Maybe there’s a valid reason,” Conroy said.

Dylan raised one eyebrow. “I’ve been in finance a while, it’s definitely fishy at best. You only encrypt something if you don’t want people to see it.”

“So you think the Corbin Brothers are running a Ponzi scheme?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But the encryption worries you. What do you think it meant?”

“God only knows. I just want to let you know. Besides, I don’t think I’m going to be there. This shit almost ruined me at my old firm. You think I’m going through this bullshit again. I am tired of these white-collar thieves. I’ll sell hotdogs at Yankee stadium before I go through talking to the S.E.C. again.”

“Woah, Dylan. You just said, you’re not sure yet.”

“I don’t need to be sure to quit. I haven’t seen anything illegal, but something about these guys is weird.”

“Just calm down; nothing has happened yet. Look, if you want to quit, that’s okay, that’s your choice, but Dylan, if these are bad guys, they need to be brought down. I’m sorry that you’re involved, but we can’t erase that now.”

“Oh yes I can.”

“I understand that. But just wait; give it one day.”

“For?”

“I want to speak to Dan Highland, my boss; run what you’ve said by him. It could somehow be relevant to our investigation. I will get back to you tomorrow. If Highland has no issues with you quitting, which I’m sure he won’t, then you’re totally free.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Why don’t we get to that bridge when we have to? Besides, your guy is not totally sure yet, right?”

“Yes.”

Conroy was reaching now, struggling for any reasoning that might shift Dylan’s direction. “Look, you callme because you think there might be a problem. The operative word is still might. You had the foresight to call me, so I will have you back. Just give me one day: I will touch base with you tomorrow afternoon. Can you do that?”

Dylan looked around the bar. The crowd was thinning as the after work crew headed home. He turned back to Conroy and reluctantly shook his head.

“Okay,” Dylan said. Conroy asked for the check, paid it, and Dylan and left separately through different exits.

After he left the bar, Dylan began to walk reluctantly through a city that he felt he no longer loved. The summer night was warm and mild, and it occurred to him perhaps his profession and the city that held it had both passed him by. He had come to New York as an upstart, eager to conquer and achieve, and he had enjoyed, albeit briefly, the taste of financial stardom and all its trappings. But he was neither jaded nor bitter. He had enjoyed his life but without the excesses. There had been no champagne rooms; no limousines or VIP rooms. His one indulgence had been the gallery, and he wondered now if perhaps the champagne room would have been cheaper. He tempered his feeling of regrets with the knowledge that the economy would probably recover, and perhaps his career, but he no longer loved Wall Street: She was like an old girlfriend fading, nice memories of bed, but no love or passion. He wondered about the day when he would leave it all behind.

He walked through the streets of the Upper West Side. Gone were the little cafes and bookstores that he had loved. They had all been turned into banks. Luigi’s, his favorite Italian Restaurant, was now a Starbucks. All this had happened when the economy was hot, but lady luck was now hurting, even in affluent New York. As he walked down Broadway, he could not help but notice the number of stores and restaurants that had been boarded and shuttered. Unemployment was still near ten percent. Foreclosures across the country were rampant. He was as broke and extended any Joe Blow across the country, though this provided him no solace. The American dream was turned upside down, and it was going to take more than Barack Obama to fix it. America needed a genie.

As he was crossing, the street, his phone, set to vibrate, began to go off. He retrieved it from his pocket. The number of the call was marked private.

“Dylan Cash?” The line was silent. “Who is this?” The voice then spoke in a muffled, electronic voice.

“This is Intransigence.”

The voice reminded Dylan of a childhood family friend who had lost his larynx to five packs of day, and who spoke through a tiny electronic device that resembled, oddly enough, a pack of cigarettes. The voice on the other side of the line was speaking through a vocoder, a device used to alter ones voice digitally. It was popular with the rappers and electronic musicians. Dylan reluctantly placed the phone even closer to his ear, as he tried to listen to what the voice was saying.

“How did you get my number?”

“Is it really so difficult to get? In this day and age?”

“What do you want?”

“The question is, what do you want. Do you want to know what’s going on?”

Dylan held the phone to his ear and said nothing.

“Do you want to know how Luke Patterson died?”

“Who is this?”

“I want to talk about Corbin. Ray Corbin.”

Dylan said nothing. And waited. “Who is this?” he asked again.

“I can tell you far more than what the FBI is willing to tell you.”

“What about the FBI?”

“Yes, your friends.” “Who is this!” Dylan screamed.

“If you want to know, go to the corner of Grand and Mott. There’s a payphone on the southeast corner. When you get there, dial the number that I am going to text you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll leave that up to you.” The phone went dead just as the text message appeared.

Dylan got out of the subway at First Avenue and Houston and walked several blocks south towards Chinatown, dodging the bars and clubs that littered the street. By and by, he reached Chinatown, finally arriving at the corner of Grand and Mott. When he reached the corner, he dialed the number that he had been given.

“This is Dylan Cash.” The voice responded in the same electronic timbre.

“Are you outside?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Can you see the payphone on the corner? Directly to your left?” Dylan turned and looked in that direction. “Yes, I can see it.”

“Good. Go there and pick up the phone. Then call me again on this number.”

“But why do I need to call you from that phone? I’m already …” Before Dylan could finish his sentence, the line had already gone dead.

Dylan placed his cell phone back in his pocket. He walked towards the phone booth on the corner and picked it up. The phone was so filthy that he wished that he had a napkin or handkerchief. He dialed the number and the same male voice picked up.

“It’s Dylan again.”

“I know who it is. Turn around and look at the building directly behind you. Don’t hang up the phone.”

Dylan cradled the receiver in his hand and he turned in a semi-circle. The voice on the phone soon returned in a whisper.

“Okay, I can see you. Hang up the phone and walk to the front of the building. Someone will be down to let you in. My name is Adam.” Dylan hung up the phone and walked back towards the front of the building.

A beggar was outside now, strumming on a guitar as Dylan walked past. Dylan took some change out of his pocket and flipped it into his cup. The street guitarist nodded in acknowledgement. A small Asian woman had opened the door to the building and was waiting on the stoop of the building. Dylan approached her quickly.

I am looking for Adam?”

The woman said nothing. She was shorter than five feet, and just as wide, like a stump. She turned and retraced her steps towards the door. Dylan followed her in as she entered the building.

“Does Adam live here?” The woman continued walking as she made her way down the hallway.

The building was particularly rundown. The beams were exposed and there seemed to be a persistent layer of white dust on the floor. Dylan did not see an elevator. His worst fears were confirmed as the woman started to climb the stairs. Dylan was already huffing and puffing as they trudged past the fourth floor.

“How far up are you?”

The woman said nothing as she made her way up the stairs. When they finally reached the fifth floor, she turned off the stairway and headed for the apartment on the end of the floor. A large, gray metallic door greeted them, and Dylan stood behind her, silently, as she opened it. Dylan watched her as she entered. Once she was inside the apartment, she noticed that Dylan had not followed him. She used a waving motion of her hand to motion him inside. Dylan entered the apartment hesitantly and she closed the door behind them. She locked several decrepit locks after he had entered.

Once inside the apartment, a feeling of claustrophobia overtook him. The apartment was packed full of furniture, like a thrift store with an inventory. There seemed to be two of almost everything, two couches, two tables, like a dime-store Santa had paid an early Christmas visit. A single light bulb seemed to be burning in the apartment, and it seemed as dark as a cave in winter. Dylan was adjusting to the light and the clutter when the first of many cats began to gather at his feet.

Before Dylan could react, six or so adults and kittens had gathered at his feet and began to purr. And he sensed another five or so wandering around the room. Though he liked cats, the multitude and the number of them overwhelmed him. The woman smiled at him as he reached down to pet one.

“You lika’ cats?”

“Yes. But one at a time.” Dylan was pretty certain she had not understood one word that he had said, though she nodded her head enthusiastically. For the first time she smiled, revealing several rotten and decayed teeth. She continued to smile as she pointed towards a couch in the distance, indicating that he should sit. Dylan noticed the massive cat sitting on the couch as he walked towards the sofa.

The cat was grey with a white underbelly, and large tiger-like black stripes. He was a big boy, at least a twenty pounder, and was perched in the middle of the worn and rundown Chesterfield sofa. The cat was one of the larger breeds, a Maine coon perhaps, and was perched on the sofa without a care in the world. Dylan sat down next to him. The cat looked to be watching the large screen television that was on the wall directly in front of him. Dylan turned to see what he was watching. Katie Couric was on, giving an updated status about the war in Afghanistan. The cat seemed particularly absorbed, and Dylan felt it best not to bother him. He turned his focus to the evening news.

After several minutes, the woman returned and used the same motion of her hand to indicate that Dylan should follow her. Dylan got up from the sofa and the cat did not move. Dylan followed her down the hallway as she led him to a room down at the end of the corridor. The corridor was blacker than the funhouse at the circus, and just as creepy. There were several other rooms on the corridor, but the doors were all closed. He could see a light emitting from beneath the door as they approached the room at the end. The woman opened the door and Dylan stepped inside.

Dylan would never forget the face that he saw behind door #1. Long stringy black hair, Christ-like beard, an old green army flack-jacket with the name Jorgenson stitched to the side. Though he was scruffy, and looked as though he hadn’t bathed in days, he approached Dylan with a smile that was as bright and outsized as the sun. Dylan shook it awkwardly as he clasped his hand and grabbed his shoulder.

“I take it you are Adam.”

“Hey, man, g-g-good to meet you.” Dylan noticed his sizeable stutter, as he grabbed Dylan’s hand and continued shaking it. Dylan had to pull it free.

“Are you Adam? Where’s Eve? Or I should ask, where’s Noah. What’s up with all the cats?”

“You g-g-got something against animals?”

“I didn’t come here for cat humor. Who the fuck are you?”

“I was a friend of Luke’s.”

“Luke Patterson?”

“Y-y-es, the dude who was murdered.”

“Is Adam your real name?”

“D-does it matter?”

Dylan ignored the question as he scanned the room. It was particularly neat considering the apartment. It looked like Adam had recently made a trip to Ikea, as the room was filled with new but inexpensive furniture that only a Scandinavian country could produce. A large Macintosh computer was the chief piece of furniture in the room.

“Why you living in a place like this? Who you hiding from?”

“I’m a j-j-journalist, so underground not even the groundhog can find me.” Dylan looked in the corner of the room, and saw a compact satellite dish, connected to an internet router. The router was connected directly to the Macintosh computer.