Peter Spiegelman - Black Maps

“And if this payment isn’t the end of it-if it’s just the beginning? He’s flipping out after a few weeks. What’s going to happen six months from now, or a year? It’s not too late for him to go to the cops, or make a preemptive move with his management at French,” I said.

“I pointed all that out to him, as I have a dozen times before. He doesn’t want to hear it.”

“You tell him about Nassouli?” I asked.

“Only some of it. I don’t want to do anything to queer our deal with Shelly. But I told him that the feds had convinced us that Nassouli was not involved.”

“How did he take it?”

“It didn’t seem to register. He didn’t ask any questions, didn’t want to talk about it at all.” I’d thought about that for a while. Mike’s loud yawn had brought me back. “Call me when you confirm things with Neary,” he’d said, and hung up.

It’d been one-thirty when I eased myself into bed. I’d spent the next four and a half hours trying in vain to find a comfortable position, while jumbled fragments of the day’s events replayed themselves in my head. I awoke gritty-eyed and sore.

I took a long shower and shaved slowly. Then I wrapped up my ribs, and dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck. I went to the fridge and drank a quart of orange juice from the carton. I felt okay-clean, clear-headed, fit. But I was restless and impatient, anxious to hear from Neary, eager to get started. Tension hummed in the pit of my stomach. I kept moving back and forth in front of my windows.

The feeling of fitness, I knew, was illusory. I’d stiffen up again in an hour or so, and if I didn’t get some sleep, I’d be stupid and shaky by noon. The impatience was dangerous, and I needed to tamp it down. Today, if we were good and we got lucky, we’d grab hold of something more than smoke and shadow. It was not a day to get edgy or overeager. It was a day to keep my head in the game. What I needed was a long run, but breakfast and a walk would have to suffice. After that, maybe, I could catch some decent sleep.

I forwarded my calls to my cell phone. I was putting on my jacket when I heard a familiar noise from upstairs. Thump, thump-whump. I hunted around my kitchen counter for the business card I knew was there. Her home number was on the back.

“Let me buy you breakfast,” I said, when Jane Lu picked up, a little out of breath. There was a long moment of silence before she answered.

“I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes,” she said.

Exactly twenty minutes later, Jane strode off the elevator. Her cropped black hair was still damp. She was wearing a silky purple turtleneck, well-cut black trousers, and black wing tip shoes. She had a long black coat on her arm and a black leather knapsack slung on her shoulder.

We walked around the corner to Rose Darling, a cozy, chintz-heavy place that stirs a mean bowl of oatmeal. We sat at a table near the front, in a large rectangle of sunlight. I ordered the oatmeal and a coffee. Jane ordered a muffin and tea. The waitress left, and we looked at each other for a while.

“No new injuries?” Jane asked.

I shook my head. “Same old ones, but they’re more colorful now.” She smiled a little, and asked how my case was going. I told her about it, omitting all the revealing specifics. She listened intently.

“With some luck, today could be the day,” I said.

“With some luck, you won’t collect any more bruises.” The waitress brought our drinks, and we sipped at them.

“Except for my sister reading me your resume, I don’t know much about you,” I said.

The little smile again, then she nodded. “Let’s see… My parents came over from the mainland in the sixties. They were out west for a while, then they moved to Boston. My dad’s a computer scientist, my mom’s an M.D. I’ve got a sister, Barbara, and a brother, Joe-both older. She’s in the math department at MIT, he does software. We were all born and raised in Cambridge. Just your typical overachieving Chinese family.”

“Lauren tells me you’re some kind of genius. I think that was the word she used.”

She made a small, dismissive gesture with her hand. “That’s a pretty strong word. But I am good at what I do.”

“How’d you end up in the CEO-for-hire business?”

She chuckled. “It was one of those right-place-at-the-right-time things. I was a management consultant, working on a job for a company that makes lasers. They were foundering and wanted someone to tell them what to do. It was obvious to me what their problems were, and what they had to do to fix them. But the partner I was working for didn’t see things the same way-and not for the first time. In fact, about the only thing we ever agreed on was that we couldn’t stand the sight of one another. So when he ordered me not to discuss my assessment with the client, I quit. Then I went to the company’s chairman and gave him my findings and my recommendations. And then I went home and started looking into Ph. D. programs. Two days later the chairman called me and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. The rest is history.”

“Why do you like it?”

“I was in consulting, and before that in banking, and in both those fields I found that, despite the happy talk about diversity and meritocracy, it pays to be a white guy-especially if you’ve got your eye on the executive suite. This work is different. The companies I deal with are going under for the third time-usually bleeding cash, customers, and employees. By then, their boards don’t give a damn about your pedigree, or whether or not you pee standing up or if you have two heads. They’re not looking for love; they’re looking for results. I like that kind of challenge. And I like being in charge.” She drank some tea and grinned. “Of course, the money doesn’t suck.”

Our food came. I added sugar and milk to my oatmeal. Jane broke her muffin into large pieces. We ate.

“What else can I tell you?” she asked. I was quiet for a moment.

“That phone call you got, on Thanksgiving, as we were getting out of the cab-what was that about?” Jane’s cheeks reddened, and she made a face somewhere between a smile and a wince.

“Would you believe that was my father? It must’ve been the tenth time he’d called, that week alone, to ask why I wasn’t joining the family for Thanksgiving. What’s worse is that he was still calling me about it on Sunday.”

“Why such a big deal?” I asked. Jane toyed absently with the two studs in her right ear.

“It’s a Chinese thing,” she said. “My parents are very… traditional in certain ways. It doesn’t matter to them that I’m thirty-one years old, or that I’m running my fourth company-it wouldn’t matter if I were president of the United States. What they know is that I’m their youngest, a daughter, and unmarried-and by all rights I should still be living under their watchful eyes.” She laughed a little, mostly to herself.

“The last company I ran was a little biotech up in Cambridge, and I bet I was the only CEO in town who was living in the same room she had in high school.” Jane read the surprise in my face. “Like I said, it’s a Chinese thing.”

“All that… intrusion-it doesn’t drive you crazy?” She shrugged.

“Less than it used to, but-sure-it makes me nuts sometimes. It’s a lot of overhead. But it’s what they need to do, and it’s never kept me from doing what I’ve had to-so what the hell?” She smiled slyly. “Besides, I’ve been operating on a need-to-know basis since I was sixteen.” She drank more of her tea. “More questions?” she asked.

“You haven’t said anything about significant others.”

“Nothing much to say.”

“Nothing now, or nothing ever?”

“Nothing now.”