David Duffy - In for a Ruble

I continued along the block to the east. The height of the buildings rose as I approached Sixth Avenue, from five stories to fifty. The materials changed too, from dirty brick to steel and glass and shiny marble. I stopped across from number 140, half a billion dollars worth of concrete, steel, stone, and glass—and no aesthetic merit whatsoever. The lobby was gray and white and blue marble. The directory told me Leitz Ahead Investments—my client appeared to share my view that any pun was better than none—occupied the forty-second and forty-third floors. The lobby guard was checking IDs and issuing passes. I might have bluffed my way past, but I didn’t need to. I returned to the opposite side of Forty-eighth Street, found a wall to lean against, put my cell phone to my ear and pretended to be deep in conversation while I watched the door.

Around 7:30, small groups of Hispanic men and women started to form on the sidewalk. They arrived in twos and threes, from the subway stations east and west, some still carrying their unfinished evening meal. They talked quietly among themselves. By 7:50, there were more than twenty, and if there was a single green card among them, I was ready to buy the whole bunch dinner. These were the cleaning crews for the building, workers for a contract company that paid minimum wage with no benefits, but asked no questions about place of birth, legal residence, or Social Security. That made them easy prey.

I wasn’t looking to exploit vulnerability. When I was in the spy business, I always found incentives bought better cooperation than threats—one of many reasons I’m an ex-socialist. I crossed the street and moved quickly from group to group, speaking Spanish, repeating the same speech. “Good evening. I apologize for disturbing you. I am not from the police or government. I have a five-hundred-dollar offer for the person who cleans floors forty-two and forty-three and a hundred dollars for the man or woman who introduces me. I will return here tomorrow night at this time. That is the last time any of you will need to see me. Thank you for your assistance. Good night.”

It took less than five minutes, by which time they were starting to drift inside. Work started at 8:00 P.M. I walked off to the east without looking back. They would be suspicious, a few even frightened. But six hundred dollars was a lot of money. I was all but certain to have the man or woman I needed tomorrow night.

I arrived back at 140 West 48th Street at 7:15 P.M., Wednesday. The cleaners started to gather around 7:30, just like the night before. I waited in the same spot, not bothering with the fake phone call. At 7:40, one of them broke away from his group and went to talk to a man in another. The body language of the second man said he wanted nothing to do with his coworker and, I assumed, by extension with me. The first man was whispering fiercely, gesturing with his arms, getting more and more animated. He was an excitable type. He wanted his hundred-dollar bounty. The other guy just shook his head. The rest of the cleaners moved away. I gave brief thought to crossing the street and intervening, but I had no idea why the second man was hesitant, and I’d more than likely queer the deal, assuming there was a deal to queer.

After a few more minutes the first man broke away and, looking up and down the block, walked across to me.

“I am sorry, señor,” he said in Spanish as he approached. “My friend is the man you want but… he is a timid soul, he is frightened. I have tried to persuade him you are an honorable man who means no harm, but he says it is too big a risk. The money…” He looked me straight in the eye and shrugged.

I stifled a chuckle. The supposed argument across the street was an act—a charade for my benefit—with the sole purpose of setting up a negotiation. These twenty-first-century telephone-booth Indians were true to the spirit of their predecessors.

“I understand perfectly,” I said, holding the man’s eye. “But my patience is not infinite. Seven hundred for your friend. Two hundred for you. I’m leaving in two minutes.”

The man nodded quickly and trotted back across the street.

This time there was no argument, just thirty seconds of quiet conversation before the two men came to me. The first man was smiling. The second still looked fearful. His eyes darted up and down the block. I shook hands with both of them but didn’t ask their names. They didn’t inquire after mine. I dubbed them Bold and Timid.

I asked Timid how many floors Leitz Ahead Investments occupied. He looked up and down the block again before answering, “Two.” I asked him to describe them. He depicted a double-height, glassed-in trading room with workstations and computer screens around the perimeter of an enormous table and surrounded by offices and conference rooms on both levels. I asked about the computers. That stumped him. The best I could get was lots of screens connected to boxes under the big table. Good enough for me. Leitz would have the trading floor outfitted with high-powered workstations, networked to servers and data storage that could be on another floor or in another location altogether. I took a small device from my pocket. It looked like a black electronic tollbooth tag, about two inches square, two-sided tape on the back.

“I want you to pick one of the computer boxes in the middle of the big table,” I said. “Not close to the edge, further underneath, you understand?” We were speaking Spanish, and he nodded, hanging on my every word. “Peel off these strips and stick this to the back of the box, out of sight, okay?” He nodded again.

“That’s it,” I said, reaching for my wallet. A new look came into Timid’s eyes, not fear this time, but uncertainty.

“Something wrong?” I asked as gently as I could. “Do you want to go over it again?”

He shook his head and looked up and down the block once more.

“What then?” I said.

“It’s just…” He paused, unsure. The bold one, impatient, told him to spit it out. I smiled to show I was in no hurry.

Timid gathered up his courage. “I am sorry, señor, but I am confused. Do you want me to put this on the same machine as the other one?”

I got to Grand Central and thought about turning left or right. Right meant downtown and either back to the office or home alone and another night of vodka and takeout food and fruitless research into my past. I turned left, took the subway up to Eighty-sixth Street and walked over to Trastevere. Giancarlo greeted me as he always does, putting his hand to his cheek and smiling, a reminder of the first night I had dinner there with Victoria, and she walloped me when I let her know how deeply the Basilisk had dug into her private life. Like Leitz, Victoria has an explosive temper. After the second wallop—that same night—I’d learned to see hers coming and get out of the way.

Trastevere was her favorite restaurant, and she was one of Giancarlo’s best customers. Her absence had to be putting a dent in his profits, although he never appears to be hurting for business, probably because he’s a genial host, his food is among the best in town, and the clientele in the East Eighties can afford his prices, which I politely describe as astronomical. I’d gone back there a few times after she left, hoping to bump into her casually, but she was much too smart not to anticipate my amateurish efforts. I continued to show up once or twice a week because it was a pleasantly melancholy place for a good meal. She probably held that against me, exiling her from her favorite place to eat.

Tonight, the room was busy, as usual, but my regular barstool was free, and I headed that way after handing over my jacket.

“Signore Turbo, you know you are always welcome at a table,” Giancarlo said.