Peter Spiegelman - Death's little helpers

“Dick?” She said it so it rhymed with seek. I nodded. Her gaze flicked back to the TV as the commercials ended. “In there,” she said. She flicked a thumb at the door, perched the ashtray on her bosom again, and went back into her slouch. I opened the door and went in.

It was a rectangular room with windows along one side that looked out on Lincoln Avenue and the rain. And it was full of cigarette smoke and testosterone.

The men sat at tables arranged end-on-end, in three rows that ran the length of the room, and they peered into their monitors and spoke into telephone headsets. It was a mostly young bunchtwenty-somethings- and mostly unappealing, like a group of spring-break drunks spoiling for a fight. There were a lot of neck chains in the room, and wrist chains, and expensive watches too. There was a lot of hair gel, and a storm front of clashing colognes. The dress code ranged from jeans to leather to silk tracksuits and rumpled Armani. Besides ashtrays, coffee cups, and beer bottles, skin magazines were the most common desk accessories. A lot of heads turned as I walked in, but they soon turned back to their monitors and telephones. They had work to do.

They were dialing for dollars. Some of them read from scripts and some were winging it; some of them whispered into their headsets and some were shouting; some pleaded, others cajoled, and a few all but threatened- but ultimately it was the same pitch, over and over again: the opportunity of a lifetime, don’t miss out, guaranteed returns, fully hedged, risk free, a sure thing. Send money now. The Morgan amp; Lynch sales force at work.

The guy closest to the door had a thick neck, shiny blond hair, and a red polo shirt that threatened to rip around his biceps. I stepped behind his chair.

“Where’s Richards?” I asked. He clamped his hand over his headset mike and twisted in his seat to give me an ugly look. Then he turned back around and started whispering.

“I’m telling you, Mr. Strelski- can I call you Gerald?- it’s all set to go. And when it does, it’ll go like a rocket.”

The guy next to him tapped my arm and pointed to the other end of the room, to a doorway partly blocked by one of the tables. I nodded and went over. The door was ajar and someone was talking on the other side of it. I recognized the deep, deeply sincere voice of Richard Gilpin.

He was on the phone and only glanced up when I came in. He was caught up in the rhythm of his pitch.

“… We’re pursuing some very exciting opportunities in the Latin American markets, Mrs. Trillo- some deeply undervalued companies…”

I tuned him out and looked around. The office was no bigger than the reception area and it was furnished along the same lines, though Gilpin had a fancier phone and, instead of a TV and fake breasts, he had a computer and a big Styrofoam cup of coffee. There was a metal filing cabinet in the corner, next to a trash can and a swivel chair. I wheeled the chair over and sat and watched Gilpin.

He was a broad guy in his late thirties, with big arms and shoulders and a block-shaped head atop a heavy neck. He had wavy well-barbered brown hair that he wore in a modified Prince Valiant. It hung low over his forehead and nearly brushed his pale brows. His dark eyes were narrow and set deep in his beefy face, and they were gathered too closely around his wedge-shaped nose. His mouth was small and thin, and his cleft chin had begun to dissolve into a blurring jawline. His tan was very dark and looked machine-made.

Gilpin wore khaki pants and a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his hairless arms. He looked more like the football coach at a Sun Belt high school than a fund manager. In fact, he was neither. He stared off into infinity as he worked his mark, and his big hands carved the air as he spoke. He was wrapping up now.

“Absolutely think about it, Mrs. Trillo- but you need to know that the fund is almost closed at this point. The window is small and getting smaller.” Gilpin listened and nodded. “Overnight is no problem, Mrs. Trillo, absolutely none at all. I’ll call you first thing in the morning.” Gilpin punched a button on his phone console, pulled the headset off, and sighed heavily. He rubbed the back of his neck and turned his head from side to side. Finally, he looked at me.

“What do you want?”

I was quiet for a moment, searching his face for some resemblance to Gregory Danes. I found none. “I want to talk about your brother.”

Gilpin winced and hunched his shoulders. “Fuck… you’re the guy on the phone. What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was still deep, but the smoothness was suddenly gone.

“You wouldn’t take my calls, Richard, and I had an afternoon to kill.” Gilpin wrinkled his brow and looked behind me, through the open door. He lowered his voice.

“You a cop?”

“Not lately.”

“Private?” I nodded, and Gilpin relaxed minutely. “Working for who?”

I smiled at him and shook my head.

“I don’t know what your business is,” Gilpin said, “but I can tell you this isn’t the place to do it. The office isn’t open to the public, and management gets real nervous about visitors. From what I heard, the last guy who came sniffing around was lucky to get out with all his fingers attached. If I were you I’d hit the road, Jack.”

“And where is your management today, down in the Caymans or down the block getting takeout? By the way, do I call you Gilford around the office, or Richard, or just plain Dick?”

Gilpin blanched behind his tan. He got up, shut the door, and retreated behind his desk again. He moved quickly for a big man.

“You’re hysterical, buddy, a fucking riot. I figure you got about ten minutes before you’re laughing out your asshole, so make the most of them.”

I poked at the carpet with the tip of my umbrella. “I don’t need long, Richard. Just tell me when you last heard from your brother.”

“From Greg?” He snorted. “I never hear from that little prick, unless I call him- and I gave up on that a while ago.” Gilpin picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. He made a sour face and put it down. “And he’s my half brother.”

“So the last time you spoke to him was when?”

Gilpin’s mouth puckered with something worse than the taste of his coffee. “A year ago- no, fourteen months it was.”

“And?”

“And nothing. That’s the last time we talked. Full stop.” Gilpin looked at the door.

“What did you talk about?”

He wrinkled his brow some more, and anger began to vie with nervousness in his small deep eyes. “What the fuck business is it of yours?”

“I said I didn’t need long, Richard, but you’re slowing things down.”

Gilpin’s thin mouth twisted. He pointed a stubby tan finger at me. “Screw you, buddy. You’re nothing. I don’t have to tell you shit.”

I shrugged. “Of course you don’t, Richard, it’s your choice entirely. Just like it’s my choice to call your pals down at the SECin the enforcement division, maybe- and tell them where they can forward your Christmas card this year. I’m sure they’d be fascinated to hear what you and your associates are up to.”

Gilpin blanched again. “Hey, I don’t know those guys from Adam,” he said, pointing toward the door. “I don’t know what the hell they do out there, and I don’t ask; we just share the office.” But even he wasn’t convinced. He put his hands up and shook his head a little. “All right, all right: the last time I talked to Greg… I called him fourteen months ago, about some money, a loan I needed. My big brother ran true to form and told me to fuck off. I told him to screw himself, and that was the end. Conversation didn’t last ten minutes.”

“That the way it usually goes between you two?”