upset when he doesn’t recover whatever it is he’s missing.
We agree that Marcus will keep an eye on me for now, though from a distance. He’s very good at it, and it makes me feel safer, at least for the time being. But the trick is not to throw all of Quintana’s people out the window. The trick is to get Quintana to stop sending those people in the first place.
There is only one person who can do that.
* * * * *
PAUL MORENO’S personal assistant is so cute and perky she could be a cheerleader. She greets me at his office at PTM Investments with, “Hello, Mr. Carpenter, and welcome to PTM. My name is Cassie. It’s so nice to meet you.” If I gave her some pom-poms, I think she’d jump in the air and yell, “Give me a P! Give me a T!” I can’t tell if she’s completely sincere, but so far I like Moreno’s staff a hell of a lot better than Quintana’s.
There’s a lot I don’t know about PTM Investments. For instance, I don’t know what the “T” stands for, and I don’t know what they invest in. But I can find out that stuff some other time; right now my goal is to convince Paul Moreno to prevent me from being killed.
In the next five minutes Cassie announces my presence to Moreno, fields two calls, brings me some delicious hot coffee, and gets me in to see Moreno. All of this she accomplishes with a smile. She is the anti-Edna.
Moreno’s office is done in chrome and steel, ultramodern to the point that it looks like it was furnished in the last couple of hours. His desk has only a phone on it; paper and writing instruments are nowhere to be seen.
Moreno’s window looks out at Van Houten Street in downtown Paterson, and it seems incongruous considering the obvious expensiveness of the office furnishings. The street is not a slum, but nor is it the kind of view that’s going to make Ritz Carlton buy up the adjacent land.
When I enter, Moreno is standing behind his round bar, making a couple of drinks. He gives me a warm smile. “Mr. Carpenter, welcome.” For a ruthless drug dealer’s office, things are pretty friendly.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I say.
He comes around the bar, holding two drinks. The liquid in them is pink, almost red. “Try one of these,” he says.
“It’s a little early in the day for me.”
“Not for this. It’s made from fruit trees at my home. They’re crossbred, unlike anything you’ve ever had.”
I take one and sip it. It hits me with a jolt; it’s one of the best and most distinctive tastes I’ve ever experienced. “This is unbelievable,” I say, and guzzle down the rest of the glass. He laughs and heads back to the bar to pour another.
“So what can I do for you?” he asks.
We’re about to get to the unpleasant part of the visit; I briefly wonder if I should wait until he gives me another glass full of that great juice. I decide to go ahead. “Tell Cesar Quintana not to try and kill me.”
I guess I haven’t offended him too badly, because he hands me the drink before responding. “Who is Cesar Quintana, and why would he want to kill you?” he asks.
He’s either playing a game with me or worried that I’m wearing a wire. Either way, I have to go along with it. “He’s a drug dealer whose name came up in connection with the Kenny Schilling case. He sent an emissary to my office to warn me not to mention him again.” I decide to leave out the part about Schilling having something that he wants; Moreno is probably very aware of it, but just in case, it gives me something to hold back.
“Why are you telling this to me?”
“Because he is either your partner or your employee, and I’m told that you can control him.”
“If that were true, and I’m certainly not saying that it is, why would I want to control him? How would that be to my advantage?”
“To keep your own name out of the press. Bad publicity, no matter how unfair, is bad for investments. Think Martha Stewart.” I hold up my glass. “Although you make a better drink.”
Moreno walks over to his desk, picks up his phone, and says something I can’t quite hear. Within five seconds the door opens and two very large men in suits come in. I would have preferred perky Cassie.
Before I can react, they have ahold of me and push me up against the wall. One of them keeps me pinned, unable to move, while the other frisks me, no doubt checking for a wire. Finding none, they leave as quickly as they came. If there was a secondary goal to leave me feeling intimidated and vulnerable, Moreno has achieved that as well. Physically, I’m okay, except my heart is pounding so hard I don’t think I’ll be able to hear over it.
“Mr. Carpenter, do you have any idea how much you will shorten your life span by threatening me?”
I try to compose myself, to not look as frightened as I am. “I didn’t intend it as a threat,” I say. “I see it as a negotiation… a deal.”
“With all the publicity surrounding this football player’s case, killing you now could bring unwanted attention to my business, but it would be a manageable inconvenience.”
My mind flashes to my future headstone: “Here lies Andy Carpenter. He was a manageable inconvenience.” I decide not to mention my headstone image to Moreno, for fear that he’ll make it come true. “Think how inconvenient it would be for me,” I say.
He smiles. “That’s not really my concern. Cesar Quintana is not someone who can easily be controlled. Especially after the embarrassment in your office yesterday.”
I return the smile, which is difficult, since my lips are shaking along with everything else. “Maybe you can reason with him. As one businessman to another.”
He shakes his head, as if I just don’t get it, but I decide to push it. “Look, after all this, the police would know where to look if anything happened to me. They’d come straight for Quintana and for you. Probably you could handle it, but maybe not. I’m just suggesting it’s not worth it to find out.”
He thinks for a moment, as if deciding what to do. My hunch is that no matter what decision he is about to announce, he had made it before I even walked into his office. “I would strongly suggest you hold up your end of the bargain,” he says.
“So we have a deal?” I decide to be explicit. “You call off Quintana, and I keep your name out of it.”
He nods. “We have a deal.”
I look toward the bar hopefully. “Let’s drink to it.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Goodbye, Mr. Carpenter.”
My next stop is the courthouse, where there is a hearing before the judge recently assigned to the case, Henry Harrison. Judge Harrison is a sixty-two-year-old with an impressive resume. He was a full marine colonel, a Vietnam hero with a Silver Star. He retired from the service at the age of forty-five, went to Seton Hall Law School, spent five years as a prosecutor, and eventually became a superior-court judge. Our backgrounds are quite similar, except for the fact that he’s spent his entire life serving society, whereas I’ve spent my entire life living in it.
While assignment of judges is said to be random, my guess is that Judge Harrison was specifically chosen. His background is well known, and he has a large reservoir of respect from the public, which will help when his rulings are inevitably scrutinized. He is also firm and decisive on the bench, well equipped to deal with whatever bullshit Dylan and I try to throw at him. Lastly, he is nearing retirement age and not likely to be swayed by public pressure.
I’m a few minutes from the courthouse when my cell phone rings and Vince Sanders’s voice cheerfully greets me with, “Where are you now, you traitor shithead?”
“How long are you going to hold a grudge, Vince?”
“Are you kidding? I still hate Jimmy Collins, a kid who pissed me off in kindergarten.”
“Where is he now?” I ask, pretending I’m interested.
“He’s a priest. Runs a soup kitchen and shelter on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Dedicates his life to helping the sick and the poor… the son of a bitch.”
I can’t help laughing, though I know that will only encourage him. “What can I do for you, Vince?”
“Get your ass over here. We’ve got a deal to make.”
“What kind of deal?” I ask.
“I give you some bad news about your client before it breaks, and you promise me future scoops.”
Uh-oh. “What kind of bad news?”
“Not over a cell phone, bozo. Anybody could be listening in.”
