coffee.
3
Stone got a call from Bill Eggers at ten.
“Stone, we’ve got a client who needs the sort of attention that you’ve given our clients in the past.”
“What’s his problem?” Stone asked.
“We’re having lunch with him at the Four Seasons at one o’clock. He’ll explain it to you then.”
“Fine, Bill, see you there.” Stone hung up and reflected on the kind of help he had given to clients of Woodman amp; Weld in the past. His specialty had been to handle the kind of cases the firm did not wish to be seen handling in-house. Now that he was a partner, Stone did not particularly wish to be seen handling those cases himself. However, he could not refuse such a request from Bill Eggers out of hand. There was an etiquette involved here. Stone would have to listen to the client’s problem, then find a way to tell Eggers that he would not handle it. He felt in a strong enough position, now, to tell him to go fuck himself, if necessary. He was responsible for three major additions to the Woodman amp; Weld client list, one of them his late wife’s estate, as well as himself and Peter. He made a decision: if he didn’t want to do it, then the hell with it.
Stone arrived at the Four Seasons, which occupied the ground floor of the iconic Mies van der Rohe design, the Seagram Building, which also housed Woodman and Weld. He walked up the stairs, past the bar, and into the Grill Room, where Eggers’s permanently reserved table sat. Bill was already there, and they shook hands.
Stone needed to keep his wits about him, so he ordered San Pellegrino mineral water. “So, Bill, who’s the client and what’s his problem?”
“The client is Marshall Brennan,” he said, “of the Brennan Group.”
Stone didn’t need the firm name; everybody on the planet with a room-temperature IQ knew who Marshall Brennan was and, apparently, was anxious to invest in his hedge fund, which controlled a growing list of diversified companies, everything from hotel and restaurant chains to industrial and high-tech companies. Stone had seen the man across crowded rooms but had never met him. “And what’s his problem?”
“Ah,” Eggers said, “here he is now.” He stood up to greet his client. “Good afternoon, Marshall. I’d like you to meet our partner, Stone Barrington.”
Stone shook the man’s hand and observed that he was wearing a faded, wash-and-wear suit and a bad necktie and was carrying a cheap plastic briefcase, this from a multibillionaire.
“I hope you’ve been well,” Eggers said. “And Ethel, too.”
“Yes, we’re both well, Bill. And, Stone, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve been following with interest your progress with the new hotel in Bel-Air.”
Stone’s son had inherited from his mother an eighteen-acre property in Bel-Air, Los Angeles, and Stone was a lead investor in the project to build a new, ultra-luxury-class hotel there.
“Thank you, Marshall, it seems to be going well. We broke ground last fall, and the old Vance Calder house is being turned into the reception area, with an addition for offices. Construction has begun on the cottages and rooms, too.”
“What’s your grand opening date?” Brennan asked.
“Probably early next year. I don’t think we can make Christmas, unless things go faster than planned.”
“My people have had a lot of experience in hotels, so let me know if I can be of any help.”
“Thank you, Marshall, that’s kind of you.”
They ordered lunch, then Eggers sat back in his chair. “Stone, Marshall’s youngest son, Dink, has gotten himself into a bit of a mess.”
“Oh?” Stone couldn’t wait to hear this.
“He’s at Yale-in Peter’s class-and he has acquired a bit of a gambling problem.”
“How much of a problem?” Stone asked.
“About two hundred thousand dollars’ worth,” Brennan interjected, “to a bookie and loan shark.”
“Is he able to pay it?” Stone asked.
“Of course not,” Brennan replied, “but the bookie knows I can pay it.”
“Do you intend to pay it?” Stone asked.
“That depends a lot on the advice I get from you. Bill tells me you’ve dealt with people like this in the past.”
“I was a police officer for fourteen years,” Stone replied. “I dealt with all sorts of people, some of whom were unable or unwilling to pay their gambling and loan debts.”
“What happened to those who couldn’t or wouldn’t pay?”
“Unpleasant things,” Stone said. “I’ve rarely known a bookie or a loan shark to kill people, because the dead can’t pay their debts, but quite often such people required medical attention after negotiations failed.”
“So, these things are negotiable?”
“Only when the lender is convinced that the borrower can’t pay it all. In your case, as you say, he already knows that you’re Dink’s father.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“Then I should think that the bookie/lender has every intention of collecting every penny, and the total goes up daily, at the rate of about ten percent a week, so time is of the essence.”
“Can I have him arrested?”
“Such activities are certainly against the law, but I don’t think you want to get into a legal wrangle with a criminal. First of all, such action would not necessarily protect your son or even you from retribution, and second, there might be an unwanted level of public attention brought to bear on everyone involved. The tabloids would love the story.”
“So I should pay up and end it?”
“Paying up is probably necessary, but that might not end it.”
Brennan looked alarmed. “Why not?”
“Because paying the money won’t deal with your son’s gambling problem. Indeed, if you get him off the hook this time, he might take that to mean that you always will. And the paid-off bookie will certainly be willing to extend him more credit.”
“So how do I fix this?”
“Marshall, may I ask, what is your relationship like with your son, apart from the gambling?”
“Sometimes good, sometimes bad,” Brennan said.
“Good when he gets what he wants, bad when he doesn’t?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Then I can only tell you what I would do if it were my son.”
“And what is that?”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty.”
“That precludes an involuntary commitment to an institution.”
“Yes, it does. I thought of that.”
“Does he have means of his own?”
“No.”
“Then I would sit him down and force him to close his bank and credit card accounts and destroy his credit cards. I would leave him no option but to leave Yale and voluntarily enter an intense, residential treatment program, and by ‘residential’ I mean a place with a high fence around it and bars on the windows.”
“And what if he refuses to cooperate?”
“Then leave him to the tender mercies of his bookie. After a couple of large men have beaten him to a pulp, he may take a different view of things.”
To Stone’s discomfort, Marshall Brennan began to cry.
Eggers comforted him while Stone waited quietly for him to continue.
