Myron handed it to him.
“Describe this Thumper person please.”
Myron did. When they reached the elevator, Win said, “Your Mr. Arnstein is still not telling us the truth.”
“Anything concrete or just a hunch?”
“I don’t do hunches,” Win said. “Do you believe him?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You are fond of Mr. Arnstein, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“Even though he has already admitted lying to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me present you with an interesting scenario,” Win said. “Who, besides Greg, has the most to lose if his gambling addiction becomes public knowledge? Who, besides Greg, would have the greatest motive to keep Liz Gorman silent? And finally, if Greg Downing was about to become a terrible embarrassment to the franchise—to the point of devaluating if not destroying Clip Arnstein’s chances of maintaining control—who would have the best motive to make sure Greg Downing disappeared?”
Myron did not bother answering.
Chapter 25
The seat next to Thumper was open. Win took it and gave her the full-wattage smile.
“Good evening,” he said.
She smiled back. “Hello.”
“You must be Ms. Mason.”
She nodded. “And you are Windsor Horne Lockwood III. I recognize you from the picture in
They shook hands, their eyes meeting. Their hands released one another; their eyes didn’t. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mason.”
“Please call me Maggie.”
“Yes, fine.” Win upped the smile for a moment. A buzzer sounded on the court. The first quarter was over. He saw Myron stand up to let his teammates sit. Seeing him dressed in a uniform on an NBA court hit Win in a very weird, unpleasant way. He didn’t like to watch. He turned back toward Thumper. She looked at him expectantly.
“I understand that you are seeking employment with my firm,” Win said.
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Please do.” She motioned a welcome with her hand.
“You are currently employed by Kimmel Brothers, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“How many traders do they currently engage?” Win asked.
“Less than ten,” she said. “We’re very small.”
“I see.” Win did the steepling, feigning consideration of her words. “Do you work there on weekends?”
“Sometimes.”
“Weekend evenings?”
Her eyes narrowed just slightly, then relaxed back into place. “Sometimes,” she repeated.
“How about last Saturday night?”
“Pardon me?”
“You know Greg Downing, do you not?”
“Of course, but—”
“As you are no doubt aware,” Win continued, “he has been missing since last Saturday night. Interestingly enough, the last call Mr. Downing made from his home was to your office. Do you recall that phone call?”
“Mr. Lockwood—”
“Please. Call me Win.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do here—”
“It’s quite simple really,” Win interrupted. “Last night, you told my associate Mr. Bolitar that you had not spoken to Greg Downing in several months. Yet, as I have just told you, I have information that contradicts your statement. So there is a discrepancy here—a discrepancy that may cause some to view you, Ms. Mason, as less than honest. I cannot have that at Lock-Horne Securities. My employees must be beyond reproach. For that reason, I’d like you to explain this contradiction.”
Win took out a bag of peanuts from his coat pocket. He shelled a few in the neatest manner imaginable, swept the shells with small movements into a second bag, then placed the peanuts into his mouth one at a time.
“How do you know Mr. Downing called my office?” Thumper asked.
“Please,” Win said with a side glance. “Let us not waste time with trivialities. His call is an established fact. You know it. I know it. Let us move beyond it.”
“I didn’t work last Saturday night,” she said. “He must have been calling somebody else.”
Win frowned. “I grow weary of your tactics, Ms. Mason. As you just admitted to me, yours is a small firm. I could call your employer, if you wish. I am sure he would be glad to tell Mr. Windsor Horne Lockwood III if you were there or not.”
Thumper sat back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, looking out at the game. The Dragons were up 24 to 22. Her eyes followed the course of the ball down the court. “I have nothing more to say to you, Mr. Lockwood.”
“Ah. No longer interested in a job?”
“That’s right.”
“You misunderstand,” Win said. “I don’t mean just with Lock-Horne Securities. I mean with anybody, including your current employer.”
She turned to him. “What?”
“There are two options here,” Win said. “Let me spell them out for you clearly, so that you choose the one most suitable for you. One, you tell me why Greg Downing called you on Saturday night. You tell me why you lied to Myron about it. You tell me everything you know about his disappearance.”
“What disappearance?” she interrupted. “I thought he was injured.”
“Option two,” Win went on. “You continue to either stay silent or lie to me, in which case I will begin to circulate a rumor within our industry vis-a-vis your integrity. More specifically, I will let it be known that there are federal authorities looking into serious allegations of embezzlement.”
“But…” she started, stopped. “You can’t do that.”
“No?” He made an amused face. “I am Windsor Horne Lockwood III. My word on such matters will not be questioned. You, on the other hand, will have difficulty finding employment as a hat-check girl in a roadside Denny’s when I’m through.” He smiled and tilted the bag her way. “Peanut?”
“You’re insane.”
“And you are normal,” Win countered. He looked down at the court. “Say, that young towel boy is wiping a player’s sweat off the floor. That must be worth”—he gave a big shrug—“oh, I don’t know. Fellatio at the very least, wouldn’t you say?”
Win smiled at her sweetly.
“I’m leaving.” She started to stand.
“Would you sleep with me?” he asked.
She looked at him in horror. “What?”
“Would you sleep with me? If you’re very good, I may consider employing you at Lock-Horne.”
