James Grippando - Need You Now

Technically a fishing boat, Easy Money was more like a floating lap of luxury. The salon had been entirely redesigned for parties and entertainment, complete with club chairs, a wet bar, hand-crafted teak cabinetry, and even a flat-screen television. Eight months earlier, on this very yacht, Robledo had first met Gerry Collins, introduced by the owner Niklas Konig, a wealthy German businessman. Tonight’s reconvening had been at Robledo’s request, and Konig had graciously offered his boat.

“Bienvenido, mi amigo ,” said Konig. His Spanish wasn’t terrible, but it bugged Robledo that the man who had introduced him to Gerry Collins would call him a “friend.” Konig led him into the salon.

“Something to drink?” asked Collins, standing at the bar. He made the offer with a smile, but it seemed strained. The bags beneath his eyes were new, and they made him look much older than he was. His skin, too, had taken on an unhealthy ashen hue since that first meeting, before the entire financial world had turned upside down. Clearly, this was a man under enormous pressure.

“Nothing for me,” said Robledo.

Collins took another stab at congeniality and small talk, but Robledo wasn’t biting. “I’m here to talk money.”

Money was what most of Cushman’s investors wanted to talk about. Since the collapse of Lehman Brothers and Saxton Silvers, Cushman’s clients had requested $7 billion in redemptions. Cushman had stopped honoring them.

“My favorite subject,” said Collins, taking a seat on the couch. “Let’s talk.”

Konig joined him, seating himself in the club chair. Robledo remained standing.

“Take your coat off,” said Collins, “have a seat.”

Robledo did neither. He reached inside his peacoat, removed a thick envelope, and tossed it onto the cocktail table before his hosts.

“What’s this?” asked Collins.

“An analysis,” said Robledo.

“Of what?”

Robledo’s eyes narrowed. “The biggest fraud in the history of Wall Street.”

Collins’ phony smile evaporated. “Surely you don’t mean Mr. Cushman.”

Robledo jerked his arm forward, and the.22-caliber pistol that was strapped to his forearm beneath his coat slid into his hand. His next move was like lightning, giving his victim no time to react. The silenced projectile slammed into Konig’s chest, dropping him to the floor.

“Don’t!” shouted Collins.

Robledo took aim at his forehead.

“Please, I can fix this!”

Robledo hesitated, his finger poised to pull the trigger. He hadn’t come to listen, but there was poetry in watching a scumbag beg for his life.

“I can get the money back for you,” said Collins. “And more.”

“How stupid do you think I am?”

“Your funds never went to Cushman.”

“What?”

“You’re right,” said Collins. “Cushman is a Ponzi scheme. I figured that out eight, maybe ten months ago. But that’s good news for you.”

Robledo took sharper aim.

“No, please! Listen to me. I was one of Cushman’s biggest feeders for three years. After a while, it was obvious to me that he was a fraud, but here’s the thing,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “My clients didn’t want to hear it. I think half of them even knew it was smoke and mirrors, but nobody wanted the bubble to burst. So I kept taking their money, and I kept telling them that I was investing it with Cushman. But I lied. I haven’t sent money to Cushman in over six months.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s the truth, Manu. The last three quarterly statements I sent out showing investments with Cushman were all fakes. And here’s the best part. When Cushman blows up-which is right around the corner-all my clients will think they lost their money. They have no idea I’ve been stashing it away.”

“You’re lying.”

“It’s absolutely true! Not a single penny of what I funneled through BOS/Singapore ever reached Cushman. It’s all safe in offshore accounts. It won’t go down when he goes down. Get it? When Cushman blows up, the big winner is me .”

The scheme made too much sense to have been made up on the spot by a coward staring down the barrel of a gun. Robledo asked, “How much are we talking about?”

“Ten figures. Almost a third of that is yours.”

“A third?” he said, scoffing. “Wrong, my friend. All of it is mine.”

Collins stared back at the gun, which was still aimed at his face. “Let’s talk,” he said. “All I have to do is get my banker to unwind everything, and then everybody will take his fair share.”

“What banker?”

“Put the gun down so we can talk.”

“What banker? ”

“Please, I’m begging you. Don’t throw this opportunity away. Don’t pull that trigger.”

R obledo’s encrypted telephone line rang. It was the weekly call he dreaded. The one that made him wish he had ignored Collins’ pleas and pulled the trigger. It was from Ciudad del Este-from his investors. Robledo swallowed his anger and answered with the respect that was due his chief funder.

“I’m very sorry, Doctor ,” he said, using the Spanish pronunciation. The “doctor” wasn’t a medical doctor. He claimed to hold a doctor en derecho , though Robledo had never verified his law degree.

“Sorry for what, Manu?”

“I need a little more time.”

“Time has run out.”

“Please. I have upped the pressure. I should see results soon.”

“Upped the pressure how?”

Robledo paused, not sure if he should even mention Patrick Lloyd. True, he had threatened the boyfriend with the intent of doubling up the pressure on Lilly, but somehow Patrick had found the church, and Robledo wasn’t convinced that his overly affected accent had kept Patrick from realizing that the Reverend Robledo and the gunman in the back of the SUV were one and the same. He confined his remarks to Lilly.

“I made it clear to her today: no more stalling, or I put a bullet in her head.”

There was silence, then a chilling reply: “Don’t make me call you again, Manu.”

“No, of course not, Doctor .”

More silence, and then a final warning. “If I have to make just one more phone call, then take my advice, Manu. Put that bullet in your own head. It will be much more pleasant for you that way.”

The call ended, but Robledo continued to hold the phone to his ear, absorbing the threat, even after his funder had disconnected.

“Don’t worry,” he said, thinking aloud, “I have plenty of bullets.”

I was starving, and the steep climb up the back staircase to Evan’s second-story apartment made me even hungrier. We were in the heart of Chinatown, and I smelled moo goo gai pan and sweet-and-sour something or other wafting up from the busy restaurant directly below.

“Smells good,” I said.

“For about an hour it does,” he said, leading me up the narrow stairway. “The day after I moved in I got so nauseous that I thought I was going to have to move out. But the rent’s cheap, and when your research takes you to places as far away as Singapore, money is definitely an issue. After about six weeks, I hardly even noticed the smell anymore.”

Evan was breathing heavily as we reached the landing at the top of the stairs. A small window overlooked the Dumpsters in the alley. A chain-link gate extended the full width and height of the dimly lit hallway, blocking all access, and behind the gate was a heavy metal door. It was painted black, and the only way to get to it was through the gate, which was padlocked. Evan unlocked it, then used another key to unlock the deadbolt on the door.