Franklin’s eyes track between his partners while a tentative smile creeps across his face. “Okay, I see where you’re going with this. You two are considerably more Machiavellian than me.”
So we are, Walton thinks with a grin. Franklin, a thin, plain former prep school and college buddy of his, can supposedly trace his lineage back to Benjamin Franklin. Even he thinks that’s most likely bullshit, but he’s happy to take advantage of the story. Given that his family trades on that tenuous connection for their social standing in lieu of conspicuous wealth, Franklin tends to be the most cautious of the partners. He’d been a straight arrow at school, the guy who got the mercurial Walton out of a few scrapes with schools and the law. Walton and Tyson sometimes chaff at his timidity, but both recognize that it tempers their more reckless tendencies.
“It sucks to be down to a single airplane,” Tyson grumbles. “Having a plane available for a weekend or two was a nice little perk.”
“It was nice,” Franklin adds with a wistful smile.
Walton frowns. That does suck. Taking their only remaining aircraft out of service for personal jaunts is out of the question. They discussed replacing the lost Cessna out of pocket, but Franklin had persuaded them to wait until the insurance company paid up. He argued that they were headed into the winter season and wouldn’t need a second aircraft until spring. Left unsaid was the fact that it would be a struggle for him to come up with his third of the cost.
“I planned to use the Cessna for a shopping and clubbing trip to New York City next weekend,” Tyson gripes. “Now I’ll have to fly commercial.”
Oh boo-hoo, Walton thinks. She can afford to charter a jet any time she wants to.
Now in full-on annoyed mode, Tyson glares at the polished, black-granite wall clock. Its brushed aluminum hands point to a couple of minutes past two o’clock.
“Where the hell are those fucking mechanics?” she snaps. “I have things to do!”
“We’re gonna be late,” Billy complains to Rick and me as the Willis Tower elevator doors glide closed and he pushes the button for floor number sixty-seven.
“No big deal,” I say as the elevator begins its ascent. “They’re probably annoyed that the help is keeping them waiting. Having them a little off balance isn’t going to hurt.” In fact, I’d lingered over a cup of coffee at Dunkin’ on West Adams Street until two o’clock sharp to ensure that we’d be five minutes late.
Billy meets my gaze and shoots me an easy smile. “If you say so. You’re the lawyer.”
“Don’t mention that upstairs,” I remind him with a grin as the elevator begins to slow. Brooks and Valenti hasn’t formally taken on the case, so I have no obligation to tell our hosts that I’m an attorney.
“Man, these things are quick,” Rick marvels as the elevator slows to a smooth stop and dings to announce our arrival.
It reminds me of the elevators at the former Sphinx Financial Tower in Atlanta, where I worked as a high-powered corporate attorney once upon a time. There are no elevators, of course—slow or fast—at the offices of Brook and Valenti, Strip Mall Attorneys at Law.
The elevator spills us out into a hardwood vestibule flanked by a pair of generous reception areas behind glass walls. We pick Door Number Two: Franklin, Tyson, Walton Commodity Brokers LLC. I hang back, allowing Billy and Rick to take the lead. Both are decked out in Haggar slacks, button-down long-sleeve shirts, and deck shoes. I’ve dressed down to a pair of jeans, a black-and-gray striped short-sleeve shirt, and a pair of loafers—all the better not to look lawyerlike. I hope to become part of the wallpaper when the meeting gets underway.
While Rick talks with the receptionist, I gaze around at the richly appointed reception area. My feet sink deeply into pile carpeting that threatens to swallow us whole. A burnished steel FTW logo stretches across the wall with the tagline Feeding the World just below it. Black-and-white photos of basic foodstuffs dot the walls—bushels of maize and soybeans, fields of grain. Feeding the world, my ass, I think as we’re shuttled toward a meeting room. I’ve done some reading up on these folks. FTW is a commodity-trading firm that works to manipulate the futures market to drive up prices. There seems to be nothing that the world’s bankers believe they shouldn’t be free to exploit, including food staples. I imagine that in their perfect world, bankers would pocket a penny or two with every bite.
We’re shown into a large conference room. The smarmy smiles our hosts paste on their faces as they greet us heighten my suspicions about why they’ve invited Billy and Rick for a visit. I continue to hang back while my friends shake hands with their so-called partners. Then they sit down in a pair of brown leather chairs at the opposite end of the polished conference table. I take a seat alongside Billy, who nods toward me and introduces me as his friend Tony, “who we brought along today as a third set of ears.” I smile and nod at the jackals.
The gaze of the woman introduced as Caitlyn Tyson lingers on me for a long moment after her partners dismiss me as unimportant. “Do I know you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“You look familiar,” she mutters as she continues to stare.
I’m tempted to say something—anything that might prevent my cover from being blown—but decide to keep my mouth shut. I shrug and look away.
Billy has the presence of mind to distract everyone. “Man, I’m so glad you guys called!” he gushes to our hosts. “Getting served with this lawsuit really shook us up.”
Walton turns an oily smile on him. “Glad to help, buddy. We’re all in this together.”
Of course, you are! I think while intuiting that Walton appears to be the leader of
