Richard Greener: The Knowland Retribution

Billy’s was so crowded Walter almost decided to turn around and go someplace else. When Billy saw him he hurried to the end of the bar, moved the last two patrons out, and signaled to Walter his regular place was available. Both seats.

“Thanks Billy,” he said.

“Anytime. Anytime, Walter. You doing alright?”

“Great. Fine.”

“Hungry? You want something?”

Walter shrugged. Billy didn’t budge. “A sandwich,” Walter said. “Anything at all will do.”

Billy said, “Coming up.” He opened a bottle of Diet Coke, placed it on a coaster in front of Walter, and walked back into the kitchen.

Walter heard the familiar footsteps even in the noisy bar. It was a skill he developed early on. Perhaps it was a talent, something you had or you didn’t. He was never sure. When you’re following someone you can’t always count on being able to see them or look directly at them. Learning to recognize someone by the sound of their footsteps had helped him many times and saved him on more than one occasion. He knew a blind man who said he could hear a friend coming a block away. He wished he were that good. Without looking up, he said, “Sit down, Tom.” Maloney sat on the same barstool he used when they first met, the one next to the fan at the very end of the bar, near the kitchen. Walter looked at him. This time Maloney was comfortably dressed. He wore white pants, a cream-colored, loose-fitting golf shirt, and sandals on his bare feet. His cheeks and forehead were red. “He’s been here at least a few days,” thought Walter. Probably looked for him in Billy’s everyday. Walter’s elbows rested on the bar. He opened both hands and moved his arms out as wide as his elbows would allow. Without saying it, the look on his face asked, “Why? Why are you here? What do you want?”

Maloney’s rigid shoulders made him appear as if he had no neck at all. His tight-jawed anger allowed him to speak only through clenched teeth. He said, “Where is it?” Walter said nothing. “It’s gone, isn’t it?” Maloney asked. “Where’d you put it? Where is it! It’s mine, goddamnit!”

“Easy, big guy. Remember where you are. Show respect if you want to get some.”

Tom Maloney may have dressed more comfortably than the last time he was on St. John, but he was definitely agitated. He tapped his feet and licked his lips. Walter sized up his loose-fitting outfit, looking to see if it was possible he might be carrying a weapon. A man with a big gut has a hard time concealing a gun in his waistband. Maloney was unarmed. He was just angry.

“What’s the problem, Tom? What are you doing here?”

“The money. The account’s closed.”

“My account?” He looked at Tom Maloney with contempt. “You’re surprised? What kind of a fool do you take me for? You gave me my exact balance the day we met, remember? When Pitts gave me the briefcase, I realized you didn’t want my money, so I wasn’t worried. Then you deposited quite a lot of money in my account, again getting access without me knowing about it. That’s twice.” Walter looked at him like a stern uncle might a recalcitrant nephew. Billy brought Walter’s sandwich. He recognized Maloney too and spoke right up.

“Anything else you want, Walter? You need anything, I’m right here.” Billy glared directly at Tom Maloney, then walked away.

“Lots of people do something once,” Walter said. “Something they shouldn’t. Once is not nice, but understandable. However, anybody who does something twice is telling you something. I can be fooled, but I’m not a fool. There’ll be no third time.”

He took a big bite of his sandwich. Obviously he couldn’t keep talking with his mouth full. Maloney had already said everything he had to say: “Where’s the money!” Walter swallowed and tried to remove a piece of ham stuck between his teeth with his tongue. “You shouldn’t have hired Wilkes,” he said.

Maloney had either forgotten Wilkes or had no interest in him. He was single-minded. “Where is my money!” he demanded.

“I thought by now most of it would already be earning interest for The Center for Consumer Concerns. Yours and Nathan’s. You sent it, didn’t you?”

“Look, you sonofabitch! Where’s my fucking money? Not the money I had to turn over to that thieving murderer. Do you know what’s happened to me?” A nervous, perhaps even dangerous, laugh overcame Tom Maloney. He was shaking. “I owe money. Me! I owe money!” He struggled to gain control. He stopped laughing. “Where’s my money! Thirty million dollars. Thirty million no one could touch. Not yours! Mine!”

Walter was not a man to be called a sonofabitch, especially on his home turf. A warning was written all over his face. Maloney could not have missed it.

“Remember what I told you about Leonard Martin, Tom? Remember I said I was certain I would never see or hear from him again?” Maloney gave him an angry nod. “You won’t see him either, Tom. Everything has a price, right? Even life-your life. Pay up and live. Stiff him and you’re dead. You talk about your thirty million. A little extra stashed away. You don’t have thirty million. You had thirty million.”

“You took that money. I want my money’s worth. You find him again and you kill him. Get my money back from those sonsofbitches in Atlanta. Then it’s your thirty million. Until he’s dead you have my money. Do you understand me?”

Walter laughed. “Doesn’t sound like my kind of work,” he said. Maloney was beside himself. He raised his right hand, trembling, fist tightly clenched. Walter didn’t budge.

“You threatening me, Tom? You just found a way to stay alive-complements of Leonard Martin. Don’t push your luck. You don’t need me to kill anyone. Not anymore. No one wants to kill you. The rules have changed. I want you to listen to me, Tom, carefully.” Now Walter spoke to him softly, just as he had done once before. This time the message was different. “Fuck with me, I’ll kill you. What I told you about Isobel Gitlin, that goes double for me. I even smell one of your goons, you’ll wish you were dead already. Remember Na Trang? I’m no Leonard Martin. You’ll never get off my hook. I’ll cut your throat and watch you die slowly. The last thing you’ll see is me cleaning my knife.” Walter calmly picked up his sandwich and took another bite, followed by a long drink of his Diet Coke.

If Maloney was searching for any sign of nerves, he had the wrong guy. Walter Sherman was the last person Tom Maloney could intimidate. Maloney was crazed, but not crazy. He feared Walter Sherman more than any other man-Leonard Martin included. He knew he was right to do so. Walter could see him cooling down. He looked like a boiling kettle turned to a lower heat, its whistle reduced to a whimper. He was still hot, but no longer running out of control. And he had the look of a man definitely thirty million dollars poorer.

Walter said, “Now get the fuck off my island.” Tom Maloney got up and walked out. In the mirror behind the bar, Walter watched him walk all the way out. Billy, a look of fierce determination and readiness on his face, pointed to Walter, his index finger definitely meant to be a gun-a sign of absolute support. Walter smiled at the bartender, thinking, “I wouldn’t want to have William Mantkowski as my enemy.”

The thirty million dollars Tom Maloney had sent to Walter’s account in the Caymans was now sitting in another bank in Cyprus, in transit, on its way to its final destination.

The news about Isobel Gitlin and The Center for Consumer Concerns began to spread after the joint press conference for Alliance Industries and Stein, Gelb, Hector amp; Wills. Alliance announced their plan to absorb SHI Inc. using a stock switch plan effectuated by Stein, Gelb. Then they shocked the attending press, almost all of whom covered the business or financial beat, when they admitted to culpability in the E. coli disaster more than three years earlier and announced their intention to contribute close to six billion dollars to a new foundation, The Center for Consumer Concerns. They were confident the money would be approved by their directors and shareholders. No specific schedule had been worked out with The Center, but Alliance and Stein, Gelb promised to fully fund their pledge within four years. No one in the room, except for a hulking mass of a man standing in the back, known to a few people there as the Moose, had ever heard of The Center for Consumer Concerns. Questions came furiously. A silence, a pause punctuated by an audible gasp, greeted the news that The Center’s executive director was Isobel Gitlin. A murmur that could not be stifled followed the announcement that Nicholas Stevenson and Harvey Daniels served as the foundation’s trustees. Before the press conference restored order, Mel Gold left to return to the Times. In a heated editorial meeting later that afternoon, he succeeded in having the morning edition of the Times refer to Isobel only as “a former obituary writer for the New York Times.” He knew she’d be happy with that.