Richard Greener - The Knowland Retribution

“Well,” Walter said. “It’s a foundation that’ll have a lot of money.”

“What are you talking about? Is this something you and Leonard discussed while I was away?” He told her everything Leonard Martin had said to him, repeating his exact words as best he could remember them. “And it says how much in there? How much money?” she said, pointing to the folder. Walter nodded. “How much?” she asked.

Walter leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms out as wide as they would go, breathed deeply, smiled broadly, and said, “A little short of six billion dollars.”

“Oh, m-my,” said Isobel.

Tom Maloney and Nathan Stein were still squirreled away atop the Waldorf Astoria, each keenly aware they were the only ones left. It preyed on their minds. It was the evil, ugly monster hiding in the closet, and they were ten-year-olds all over again, afraid to turn the lights out. Nathan couldn’t sleep or eat or sit in one place or calm down long enough to simply move his bowels. Maloney could do little more than lay on the couch. They bickered.

“Safe as… what the fuck did you say it was? ‘Cows in Calcutta’ or some other Godfuckingforsaken place. You’re full of shit, Tom. You’re fucking full of shit! And it’s going to get me killed.” Maloney still just sat there, saying nothing. Stein paced. “Goddamn, MacNeal and Hopman and you-yes, you Tom-you’re all getting me fucking killed!” Maloney was past the point of trying to soothe Nathan’s spirits. He no longer possessed the energy to play that stupid, fucking game. Pretense had flown out the window and off the penthouse patio, carried by the winds to the four quarters of New York City.

“Fuck you,” Tom mumbled.

All he could think about was Leonard Martin. Where was he? What was his next step? When would the executioner appear? Could Walter Sherman catch him in time? He considered sending more money to Walter, but what good would that accomplish? It would be of no use to him unless he found a way to get out of this mess. Besides, some things cannot be bought, not because they lack a price, but because they just can’t be. No amount of money can change the past. How outrageous, he protested silently. Maloney had been a good Catholic boy and now he found himself thinking he was a rich man afraid Leonard Martin was pushing a camel through the eye of a needle. He would go to heaven, wouldn’t he? In spite of everything? Jesus Christ had always been his Lord and Savior. Honest, he was. Did Jesus know he was here, in the Waldorf Astoria, in need of help? “Christ, I’m in trouble!” He trembled. He would have given the nun another million if he’d had to. A million? What’s another million? His wife was in Switzerland. His colleagues dead. His friend, mentor, boss was half mad. Tom Maloney felt helpless, absolutely fucking helpless. Christ, he’d give anything to be rid of Leonard Martin. He poured himself another bourbon and made for the toilet. Diarrhea plagued him.

Isobel arrived in Atlanta the day after she and Walter met Leonard Martin. Nick Stevenson and Harvey Daniels expected her. She took a suite at the Hotel Nikko and asked that they meet her there. The three talked for more than two hours. The Center for Consumer Concerns was hers for the taking.

“Chase anyone,” Nick said. “Anyone at all. Investigate at your pleasure. You’ll be in charge. No limits, no interference.”

“We’re the trustees,” said Harvey. “That’s for legal purposes. We’ll never tell you what to do or how to do it.”

Nick added, “Just be true to Leonard Martin, Carter Lawrence, and all the others like them. Do your best to see there are no more of them.”

Isobel took the job, and it was agreed she would give the Times notice through the end of the month. The Center for Consumer Concerns would lease a condo for her, giving her six months to find a place of her own. No problem, they assured her, especially with their real estate contacts. She could hit the ground running. The two trustees, both former partners of Leonard Martin, assured her they had no personal knowledge of the source of the funds with which the foundation would be endowed. All they could say was that they were confident large contributors would appear, and soon. Since she had not been present when Leonard explained the details to Walter, Isobel too had no actual personal knowledge. From a legal point of view the only three people associated with the formation of the foundation came to it with clean hands. Isobel remembered a sociology professor at St. John’s who challenged her class to list the things they knew to be true, yet didn’t believe were absolute. Love, honor, justice, truth itself. Where are the absolute moral precepts? She could be comfortable knowing how the foundation-her foundation-got its money without actually knowing. She called Mel Gold when she returned to New York. They met for a sandwich at Artie’s Deli on Broadway. She told him the foundation, The Center for Consumer Concerns, had offered her the job as Executive Director and she had taken it. Her resignation from the New York Times would be effective January 31st.

“The Center for Consumer Concerns?” said the Moose. “Never heard of it.” It was new, she told him. Headquartered in Atlanta. Just getting started. He asked no more questions and she offered no more details.

“Put it in writing, kiddo,” he said, meaning, of course, her resignation. “They got great pickles here, you know that?” Somehow, she figured, some way, she had to tell him. She wanted to tell him. Perhaps he saw it in her eyes-perhaps not-but he reached across the table, laying both of his huge hands on hers, and said, “If he walked in here right now you’d know him and I wouldn’t, right? And that’s been so all along, hasn’t it? Unrecognizable.” He shook his head and smiled. “That was bullshit wasn’t it?”

“Mel-”

“Don’t tell me, Isobel. I’ll have to print it.” She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. Mel Gold tried to remember the last time a reporter kissed him. He couldn’t.

Walter sat alone on his empty deck. The lights of St. Thomas flickered in the distant darkness. There was a slight chill in the air, for St. John, that is. Clara brought him a cup of bouillon and a light sweater.

“Put this on before you freeze to death,” she said. Hardly a chance of that. “The woman has a great sense of humor,” he thought. In the morning he’d call Tom Maloney and make another trip to New York. The specifics of Leonard Martin’s plan were dense and complicated, and a good deal of the data and supporting materials were pretty much incomprehensible to Walter. However, it was his job to bring all this-this most amazing and unexpected turn of events-to his clients. After that, he hadn’t the slightest idea what he would do.

Leonard Martin was gone.

New York

“I have no doubt that can be arranged,” Walter was saying. He was reviewing the materials Leonard had given him with Nathan Stein and Tom Maloney. Stein was subdued, perhaps resigned, to the futility of his patented outbursts. He’d just mumbled something like, “I’d rather be dead.”

It was getting late in the afternoon. The sixty-seven degree temperature had been a record for New York on this day in January. Now it was cooling fast. It had been such a lovely day the doors to the rooftop patio had been open most of the time. The illusion of spring was disappearing now, together with the warmth of the setting sun on the Waldorf’s Jersey side. Walter arrived with three copies of everything Leonard gave him. One was for him and one each for Stein and Maloney. He made no introductory remarks. He told them only that he’d met with Leonard Martin, who had given him instructions for them. With that he handed each a file. They took their pile of papers and read quietly to themselves for more than an hour. Tom didn’t make a sound, and Stein only mumbled something from time to time. Walter could hardly make it out. He waited.