Richard Greener - The Knowland Retribution

Nathan Stein did not see it on TV. His secretary got a call. This time he did not shuffle into Tom’s office. He barreled in, chin out, shoulders held rigidly back, thrusting his toes outward, strutting as he did when adrenaline drove him. He went straight for the liquor in the corner and poured himself a bourbon and water.

Maloney’s office was traditionally decorated: restful dark woods and carpet, and modest lighting from a few table lamps and two floor lamps, each smoothed by heavy brown shades. The glass wall overlooking Manhattan was framed by a soft, shadowy, maroon window treatment. He kept the white, translucent drapes closed. Tom cultivated an understated, old-school look. It made him feel more than successful; it suggested to him that he was comfortable with success. Nathan often sought escape from the overwhelming sunlight and dramatic cityscape pouring into his own brash fantasy of an office. When stress rose within him, threatening to bust him wide open, Nathan came here looking for nurture, and Tom’s decor seemed to help. Nathan threw a couple of ice cubes in his drink and plopped himself down on the oxblood leather couch in front of Tom’s impressive array of televisions.

“A little early for that, isn’t it?” Tom suggested, pointing at the whiskey.

“Maybe it’s a little late, a little too late.” Nathan took a long swallow. “This MacNeal business,” he said. “I don’t like it. Hopman a couple of weeks ago-”

“Last month,” Tom said.

“Yeah, a couple of weeks ago. Now MacNeal. Christ, Tom, they said Hopman was cut in half. Can you imagine that? Have you thought at all about-are we both thinking what I am?”

“Anything’s possible, Nathan. You want to check into it?”

“Fuck yes, I do. If this has anything to do with that mess, we’ve got a double shithouse on our hands.”

“I doubt it,” Tom said. He’d spent the morning thinking the complete opposite of what he just said to Nathan Stein. Maloney knew Stein had his gifts, and he was often at his best in threatening situations, but not when he envisioned personal jeopardy. That sort of danger, perceived or real, more often than not threw Nathan into confusion and paranoia. Tom was determined to do his utmost to keep Nathan on an even keel. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

“How?”

“Put it out of your mind, Nathan. I’ve got it covered. I’m sure there’s nothing here, but it never hurts to look.”

“If we have a problem, it’s got to be fixed. You understand?”

“Nathan, put it out of your mind, please.” Tom walked slowly to the couch and put his arm on Nathan Stein’s shoulder, offering him a familiar reassurance. “We know people who know people. I’ll get someone on it immediately.”

“People for this? We never did this.”

“Well, we’re doing it now,” said Maloney.

Tom Maloney made two telephone calls and then told his secretary to cancel his appointments and transfer certain calls to Wesley Pitts. He left the office and didn’t return until late in the afternoon. On his way back he called his secretary, who confirmed that Mr. Stein was still in Tom’s office, having left only once, presumably to use his own bathroom. Tom found him, drink in hand, on the couch.

“Been sitting there all day?” Tom asked.

“I like it here,” Nathan said. “Watch a little TV. Have a little something to drink. Take a nap if I want.”

“Mi casa, su casa,” said Tom while thinking, “You’ve got a bedroom, for Christ’s sake.”

“So, what have you got?” Stein asked, suddenly alert and impatient.

Maloney told him he had spoken with “a friend” right after their earlier discussion. The “friend” gave Maloney a name and a number. “I called him. We set up a meeting and had a good talk.”

“Where?” Nathan asked.

“A deli on Queens Boulevard. Great corned beef. He’s on the job already. We got the right man for the job.”

“Really?” said Nathan Stein. “You don’t look so sure.”

“Well, look, Nathan, we don’t have much to get him started. I certainly didn’t share any sensitive information-not that he wanted to know-but I couldn’t tell him who to look for, could I?”

“Right,” said Stein. “I know that. You think he’ll find out who this guy is?”

“We don’t even know if it’s anyone at all. These things may be totally unrelated. Either way, it’s under control.”

“Sure,” Nathan said, playing with Tom’s universal remote, switching channels on the various monitors. Then he sat straight up and looked directly at Tom Maloney. “Who does this kind of work anyway?” he asked.

Maloney was afraid he’d ask that. He had devoutly hoped not to have to answer that question. It was better left unsaid. “Actually,” Tom thought, “everything about this is better left unsaid.” But Nathan Stein was the boss, and the boss wanted to know. “We retained a team, Nathan. There are always people who do things like this. Our ‘friend’ referred me to such a person.” Tom hoped he could leave it there, but Nathan’s narrowed eyes told him otherwise. He explained that he had met with an FBI agent who had described ex-cops, former FBI agents, and even some retired military who hire out. They work in teams. The teams are led by individuals still active in law enforcement. The best teams-and that’s exactly what Maloney had been led to-often have an FBI agent as team leader. The FBI agent runs the whole operation. He provides direction as well as damage control. If they fuck up, Tom was told, the leader pulls down a mask to make the whole thing look official, or have it evaporate in thin air. But things don’t fuck up. They invariably go well. And then the leader’s official connections shield the client absolutely.

“We got to somebody like this so quickly? Just like that?” Stein eyed him with admiration and suspicion.

“We have many friends, Nathan. We help a lot of people. There’s nothing mysterious here. We always get the help we need, do we not?”

Stein stood and began pacing. He started to huff-almost a full-blown wheeze-and switched on a determined look. He was pumped up like his Andover wrestling coach.

“They know to kill him, right?” he said. “Right?”

“Right,” Tom answered, angered that Nathan had actually said the words out loud, in his office. “They know, but, Nathan, you’re getting all excited about nothing. There’s nothing to indicate these incidents are related. There’s even less reason to assume that any of this has anything to do with us.”

“You’re sure these guys are the best we could find?”

Maloney believed they were. A couple of hours earlier he called Special Agent Robert Wilkes. He introduced himself only as Tom and mentioned the intermediary. Wilkes suggested meeting at David’s Deli on Queens Boulevard, near the Woodhaven Boulevard exit, anonymous territory for both. Tom began describing what he would be wearing and Wilkes interrupted, saying, “I’ll know who you are. Don’t worry about it.” They both laughed and the phone went dead in Maloney’s hands.

Wilkes was right. He had no difficulty recognizing Tom Maloney. The late lunch crowd was sparse. Tom Maloney had to be the only customer who ordered a corned beef sandwich on white bread or wore a suit that was well pressed. Wilkes watched him from a booth near the back, thinking, “These rich ones, they couldn’t hide in an empty cave.”

“Hello, Tom,” he said, walking up to the counter where Maloney’s sandwich was being handed to him. “Bob Wilkes.” He held out his hand and Maloney shook it warmly. Wilkes was six feet, lean, and trim, even with his overcoat still on. His narrow, square shoulders supported a thick neck dressed in a white shirt at least a half-inch too large.