gonna let me in or not?”
“Hey, I’m not givin’ you no trouble. Hell, two of my kids are NYPD. The Hannigan boys, Danny and Joey. Maybe you know ’em.”
“I, uh, might have heard the name. Quit gabbing. I’m in a hurry here.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” he replied, shaking his head. “Hey, what precinct you with?” the old man asked, maintaining the same unhurried, casual air.
Rivers had to pause a moment. “The Fifteenth.”
“Then why’s that badge you’re wearin’ say you’re with the Seventh?”
“I was just transferred. What do you care? Do I need to call the precinct? A life could be at stake.”
“Reason I’m askin’ is, the theater district’s covered by Midtown North.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Reason I know that is ’cause this little button I just pushed, it connects me directly to the precinct house. Usually takes those boys about two beats to get here.”
Rivers stared back, obviously startled. “You did what?”
“You heard me. So either you can wait here and tell ’em why yer impersonatin’ an officer, or you can beat it, you jerk.”
Rivers pondered the situation for about half a second, then wisely chose to bolt. The old man cackled and shook as he watched him scramble down the street. He loved his job.
Charles finished counting the money, at last. “Congratulations, Morgan, it’s all here,” he announced.
“Told you it was.”
“Yes, but you lied about so many other things, I wanted to be sure.”
“It’s cold in here,” Morgan whined, slapping his arms for effect. “Could I have my jacket back?”
Charles laughed. “That was clumsy, Morgan. I was wondering where the bug is.”
“All right. Just get on with it.”
“One question before I start.”
“Do I get a choice?”
“No. Who are you working for?”
“None of your business.”
“Then tell me this. Do these people intend to hurt Jack?”
Morgan weighed the question before he answered. What did Charles want? Wiley hurt, or just smeared? He took a gamble and said, “They intend to mess him up good.”
“Damn, that’s great. Just what I was hoping,” Charles said. Morgan could almost hear the smile on Charles’s lips.
A notebook and pencil slid under the separation panel. “It’s a long story and you might want to take notes,” Charles suggested. “As you know, Jack got out of the Army in 1992, a decorated war hero, hungry to get rich. After he got his business degree, a classmate from Princeton arranged an introduction for Jack at Primo Investments. Let’s, uh, let’s say this guy’s name was Ted.”
“Ted what?”
“Just Ted,” Charles replied coldly. “So Ted told Primo’s CEO that our boy Jack was a stand-up guy, an all- American boy-Primo would be lucky to get him, he said. So Jack got a few interviews, and, naturally, our boy impressed everybody. The CEO started him as an associate, at 120 grand a year. He placed him in portfolio analysis, doing dreary back-office work, but a perfect place to break in a novice, to learn the nuts and bolts. And, naturally, Jack attacked his work with a vengeance and continued to make a grand impression.”
“We already know about his history at Primo,” Morgan interrupted.
After a brief pause, Charles asked, “And what did they tell you, Morgan? No, let me guess. They loved Jack.”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“That’s true. They did love Jack, in the beginning. After only six months he got a big promotion and another bump in salary. Better yet, they switched him into client accounts in the wealth management section. Understand, Morgan, that for a firm like Primo, only the best and brightest work with clients. Geeks and antisocials are hidden, kept in the back rooms. See, Primo won’t touch you as a client unless you have at least a hundred million to invest and people with that kind of money aren’t easily impressed. But of course Jack is a master at good impressions. In no time, he was managing about four big accounts, and he began bagging new ones. He brought in three that first year. Three! Jack, you see, was a natural…” Charles petered off, having made his point.
“You’re wasting my time,” Morgan interrupted again. “I told you, Primo said the guy was a stud.”
“I know you did.”
“They even threw a one million bonus in his lap the day he left. That’s what I call love.”
They heard the bathroom door open, the sound of footsteps, then the noises of a man emptying his bladder and humming a show tune to himself, followed by a noisy, high-powered flush. They stayed quiet until the door closed again.
“About the bonus, we’ll talk about it later,” Charles promised, sounding mysterious. “Anyway, in the winter of 1994, Jack was out in the Hamptons dining with a client when Edith Warbinger joined their table. Edith was eighty-three, a very pleasant but doddering old widow. Jack’s client thought he was doing her a favor introducing her to Jack. She said she had no children, no close relatives, nobody to turn to. Her husband had been an early investor in IBM. His father had left him a few thousand shares, dating back to the twenties. The son was a department store manager, without a clue how the market worked, so he did the easy thing and adopted Pop’s investing habit. A lifelong skinflint, he plowed in everything he had, every spare nickel and penny, and without selling a share, rode it all to the top. When he finally cashed out, even after a whopping tax bill, he was worth over three hundred million.”
“We should all be so lucky.”
“And like all the nouveau riche, he went on a giddy splurge. He promptly bought a big house in the Hamptons, a bigger yacht, a fleet of Mercedes, all the trappings of long-denied wealth.” Charles paused for a moment then chuckled. “Two months later, an aneurysm struck, and he was dead.”
“The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away,” Morgan couldn’t resist saying.
“But he doesn’t really look after fools and idiots. See, poor old Edith didn’t understand squat about money. The hubby had handled everything. A controlling bastard, he kept her on a leash, gave her a stingy budget and watched how she spent every penny. Now suddenly the hubbie’s dead and she’s rolling in dough, three hundred million without a clue how to handle it, and along comes Jack. Smiling, confident Jack. Don’t worry, he tells her, he’ll take care of everything. Edith, naturally, succumbed to his charms and turned over her whole fortune to him.”
“Spell Warbinger,” was all Morgan said.
Charles did, then picked up where he left off. “So Jack sets up the standard arrangement in such cases, a paying trust. Jack oversaw the investments and handled the monthly disbursements. Edith got a monthly allowance of three hundred thou to do whatever her heart desired. The rest of the earnings, which were considerable, were plowed into more investments. Even that proved too much for her to handle. Turns out poor Edith had Parkinson’s and it was progressing fast. Soon all her bills and fiduciary responsibilities were transferred to Jack.”
“She handed him the keys to the kingdom.”
“That’s right, Morgan. There was no lawyer, no executor, no skeptical husband or greedy children worried about their inheritances watching over his shoulder.” Charles paused for a long moment. “Only Jack.”
“How much did he take?” Morgan asked.
“Wrong question,” Charles replied, chuckling.
“Then what’s the right one?” He was taking notes as fast as his hand could scribble. The dates and names were written down in his pinched style. He was relying on his memory for the larger narrative.
“You have to understand, Morgan, a firm like Primo has airtight controls and unrelenting oversight. The firm was known for large partner paychecks, but the associates made dirt. The temptations were unbelievable and the firm knew it. Take Jack. By then he was making two hundred grand a year, a pittance in Manhattan. And he’s managing several large fortunes that each number in the hundreds of millions. He drives out to their gaudy mansions in the Hamptons and Greenwich, plays golf with their brazenly spoiled kids, ogles their toys, then drives back into the city, back to his rotten little one-bedroom apartment.”
