used to have four hundred million bucks.”
“I’m taking the bigger risk. If I can take it, you can take it. I’m not asking you to bleed, Civetta. I’m only asking for a loan. You stand to lose your investment every time you lend money. You take the risk because you’re getting good interest rates and you’re getting other considerations. What’s four hundred million to you? I’ve got every dime I own on the line, and my life with it.”
“That’s your lookout, not mine, Mr. Villiers. But I’ll tell you what we’d be willing to do. We’d go it for sixty percent instead of a hundred.”
Villiers shook his head. “No. Twenty-five percent. I’m not going to haggle.”
“You got someplace else to go for the money, maybe?” Civetta smiled slowly. “You see, Mr. Villiers, you got no place else to go at all. Because I’m a bighearted man I’ll give it to you for fifty percent, all inclusive. No extra interest on top. You borrow four hundred mil, you pay me back six hundred mil, on a deadline of three months. If it goes more than three months, you pay me five million a month until you pay off the principal. Take it, Mr. Villiers, or leave it.”
“I’ll take it,” Villiers said.
“Which means it was the figure you had in mind all the time, am I right?”
“What does it matter? Put as much of it as you want on paper, and I’ll sign it in the morning.”
Norman Fields said, “I’ll have the papers in my office for you at nine.” He stirred, ready to rise, but Villiers’ eyes jammed him back down in his seat.
“I’m not finished. It’s my ball game, Civetta, and you’ll play it by my rules as long as we’re in my ball park. If you think you can steal a base, you go ahead and try. You can’t steal a base if you’re not in the game at all.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Villiers,” Civetta purred. “Absolutely.”
Suddenly Villiers grinned at him. “It’s going to be interesting, you and me.”
“You’re right, Mr. Villiers. Interesting as hell. Let’s go, Norm.”
They left the picnic clearing single file. In the darkness Villiers’ face rode high, a hard smile of triumph on his mouth. He had whipped the world again. He pictured himself in the big chair on the forty-eighth floor, behind the massive oak door with its discreet small golden letters, Chairman of the Board. It was time to plant his roots in the epic fashion for which he had held off throughout the years; as long as he had been building toward the summit, he had wasted little money on luxuries when he still needed it for capital growth. Now he allowed himself to think ahead. He would keep a yacht at anchorage off Palm Beach with a year-round crew of six living on board even if he didn’t set foot on its decks for five years at a time. He would have his own Lear Jet (twenty thousand dollars a month maintenance costs alone) and a duplex apartment on Sutton Place, a house in Bermuda, a house in Palm Beach, and a Putnam County estate complete with riding stables, tennis courts, swimming pool, golf course, slot machines, and garages to house his proud collection of antique and classic cars.
All I want is not to want. Ever.
And now, right now, he had achieved that desire.
He stepped through the pedestrian gate, close behind Civetta. Charley, the chauffeur, had got out to hold the doors; he had the briefcase in his hand and turned to give it to Villiers. Villiers reached out for it and that was when a man stepped out of the shadows along the side of the road and said, “Federal agents. Stand still, please. You’re under arrest.”
Villiers’ head turned slowly, keening the night. Shadows moved into sight on both sides of the road, five men armed. One of them came forward to the car and turned the chauffeur around, forced him to plant his palms on the roof of the car, and frisked him.
“He’s clean.”
Civetta said, “Nobody says a word. Understand?”
A tall man with a big jaw separated himself from the circle and walked within two paces of him. “You’re Villiers. We haven’t met. My name’s Hastings-I’ve been looking forward to this.”
Villiers didn’t say anything. Hastings reached forward to the side pocket of Villiers’ jacket and withdrew a small disk from it. “Microphone-transmitter. We’ve got a tape of your whole conversation in a car just down the road. And a warrant to bring it into court.” Hastings was watching him with fascination and with satisfaction, hard and unconcealed.
Hastings spoke over his shoulder, “Bill, better get on the two-way and clear your men to arrest George Hackman and Sidney Isher.”
Civetta pushed himself forward. “I want a phone. I’ll have forty-eleven lawyers down there before you can sneeze. You got nothing at all on me.”
Hastings said mildly, “At the moment it’s not you we want, Mr. Civetta.” He turned and touched Villiers’ elbow. “Come on-you’ll ride with me.”
“Keep your hands off me,” Villiers murmured, and walked up the road ahead of him. A third man, with the wise face of a twenty-year cop, trailed along and got into the car with them, sitting in the back seat with his hand under the lapel of his coat.
Villiers said, “I believe I’m entitled to know what charge you’ve arrested me on.”
“You’ll have it spelled out on paper when we arrive in New York,” Hastings said. He put the car in gear and followed the two other cars toward the main highway. “I may as well tell you we’ve got complete sworn statements from Steve Wyatt and from Carol McCloud. Do I need to add anything to that? I’m sure you know what they contain as well as I do.”
Carol. Villiers closed his eyes down to slits and stared straight ahead at the red taillights of the Lincoln. He settled back in the seat and folded his arms across his chest; his chin drooped slightly, as if he were very tired.
Hastings said, “It’s been a long time coming to you, hasn’t it? You’ve had a good run for the money.”
“Mr. Hastings,” Villiers breathed, “I am not finished yet. I’ve still got the brain in my head, which is worth more than every stock certificate on Wall Street and every indictment you can draw up against me.”
Hastings gave him a strange glance. “Maybe.”
Villiers turned his head and looked at the man. “Maybe,” he said. And then he uttered a harsh, metallic laugh.
35. Russell Hastings
The news had leaked, inevitably. Reporters had the Tombs under siege-photographers, radio-TV truck crews, newsmen with microphones and notebooks. Hastings and Burgess led a wedge through to the door. Mason Villiers stared through the crowd, expressionless, while Civetta and Fields threw up their hands in front of their faces. “No pictures please!” A reporter crowded in front of Villiers and shoved a microphone in his face and yelled something; and Villiers said loudly, in a friendly voice, “Fuck yourself, friend,” which ensured that the soundtrack wouldn’t be aired.
They had to lean against the door to close it on the crush of newsmen. Burgess remarked, “I hate the whole breed-there’s not one of them who’d leave a stricken grieving widow alone without flash-bulbing and interrogating her to tears, and then they go ahead and write lies anyway.”
Quint was inside, with the U.S. attorney. One of Burgess’ men read aloud, in a bored monotone, the prisoners’ rights, at the end of which Civetta said loudly, “No talking until we get our lawyers down here. Not a word.”
Hastings all the while watched Villiers, but the tall man never cracked; he acted as if he were in complete control of his fate and looked forward to beating the rap. Burgess growled in Hastings’ ear, “There’ll be an arraignment, and they’ll get bail set, and the Goddamned outcome is murky as hell, tape or no tape. About all I can see is we’ve squashed the raid on NCI.”
“Isn’t that what it’s all about?” Hastings said. He looked at Burgess, and his eyes sparkled and flashed. “There’ll be another raid, Bill. And another one after that. God knows why they call it the securities market.”
After endless red tape and inconsequential talk the two men walked out and stood on the corner of Centre Street, and Burgess said, “It’ll rain soon.”
“You still playing poker Wednesday night?”
