Russell Andrews - Hades

Justin asked what could go wrong with these funds, how they could blow up. When his father wanted to know why he wanted to know, Justin explained that it's the way cops had to think: They have to look for the worst possible scenario. "It's what people do when things go wrong that keeps me busy," he said. "People don't do desperate things-like commit murder-when they're getting what they want."

"It's simple. Hedge funds blow up if they lose money for too long," Jonathan said. "Or even short term-if they lose too much too quickly." What happens, he explained, is what often happens with companies. Success breeds the desire for more success: the urge to get bigger and bring in more and more and more. The hedgehog business has gotten so competitive, too, they start to care about the appearance, and they build up overhead, and suddenly if you have a down period you're in way over your head. You start with a fancy office, a lot of midtown Manhattan space. Your fund's too big to manage by yourself, or even as a two- person team, so you've got to pay analysts and traders and accountants. And buy computers and Bloomberg terminals and research services. "Soon you can't live on the fixed fee; two percent doesn't cover it. And you've bought your Gulfstream and the million-dollar memberships in several different golf clubs and the house in Palm Beach and your wife has her charity balls, and guess what? If you don't make a profit for two or three quarters in a row, people start pulling out their money. Once that happens, you're dead."

"Gotta sell the private jet, huh?"

"Unless the creditors come and take it away."

"Tell me about the people. The hedgehoggers."

"It's impossible to make absolute generalizations, you know that."

"Then just give me your general impressions. I promise I won't go around thinking that all hedge fund guys are evil sons of bitches."

Jonathan shook his head disapprovingly at his son's flippancy. But he said, "It's a different game than the one investment bankers play. It's about the thrill. And it's not even about making a score… it's about making a big score. The biggest score. If you want to play in this game, you've got to have some balls. And I mean some iron balls. They're not interested in small bets. You put five or ten million dollars into something, what's five or ten million against a billion? It's nothing. It's meaningless. But if you have a billion-dollar fund and you see your opportunity and you put fifty million or a hundred million down, then you've got something. You can shake things up. Have an impact. That's the way they think. They don't believe in protecting themselves. If they think they've got something good, they'll put ten percent of their assets down on it. Sometimes more. You realize what a gamble that is? They think like hot rollers at a craps table. The more you win, the more you bet. You get on a good enough winning streak, you break the bank. But if you crap out too many times, you're out of business. You're also probably a heart attack waiting to happen or you're an alcoholic or you can't sleep for an hour without popping a dozen pills." Jonathan took a deep breath now and, again, Justin heard a wheeze coming from within his father's chest. "Have I told you what you wanted to know?"

"It's a start," Justin said. "You still like meatball heroes?"

"Your mother doesn't approve of meatball heroes."

"Is she meeting us for lunch?"

Jonathan acknowledged his son's logic with a brief nod of his head. "Good hero place, is it?"

"The best," Justin said. And when Jonathan smiled wistfully, his son added, "It's on me."

It was the first time Togo had ever gotten his instructions by phone. The man said there was not time to meet, that things were moving quickly around them and they had to move just as quickly. Even quicker, he said.

Togo asked in Chinese what it was he had to do so quickly.

The man answered in Chinese: "The policeman. The one you've been watching. He's getting too close. He knows too many things now."

"I should wait for Ling," Togo said.

"There is no time to wait for Ling." And when Togo didn't answer, the man said, in English, "You are afraid if you don't have a girl to protect you?"

Togo said nothing. Over the phone, the only sound that could be heard was the heavy breathing of the two men.

The man said, switching back to Cantonese, "We cannot wait. Soon he'll be talking to people. He is already talking to too many people. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Togo told the man.

"Then tell it to me, so I know you hear what I'm saying."

"He will not talk to any more people," Togo said. "That is what you want."

"Yes," the man said. "That is what I want."

"I must say one thing to you," Togo said.

"Go ahead," the man told him.

"Now you listen carefully," Togo said.

"I'm listening."

And then Togo spoke in English. He wanted to make absolutely certain the man on the other end of the phone understood what he was saying.

"I am not afraid," Togo said slowly.

"Is that it?" the man asked.

"Yes," Togo said, still in English. "I am not afraid of anything."

"Good for you," the man said, also in English. And then he hung up.

Justin's cell phone rang as he and his father were approaching Justin's white with blue trim Victorian house. The meatball heroes had been delicious.

"Yup," he said into the cell phone.

"We have some movement on Ellis St. John," Reggie Bokken-heuser said.

"Tell me."

"He used his bank card to get some cash. Five hundred dollars."

"Where?"

"Massachusetts. A town on the Mass-New York border. We've got someone on it already. Fletcher sent someone down from Boston to check it out."

"Has the rental car been spotted?"

"No. But now I'll get APBs out in New England."

"Good," he said. "How go the e-mails?"

"Ellis may be the most boring writer who ever lived. But anything you want to know about who's screwing who at Rockworth, just ask."

"Nothing at all?"

"I wouldn't say that. I'm pulling anything that seems remotely relevant. A lot of it has to do with specific trades, so I'm not a hundred percent sure what I'm looking at. I'm flagging anything that has to do with any of the companies on our lists. Oh… and Jay… just for the hell of it, I e-mailed you the article in the paper, the one about the truck that turned over. With the platinum."

"A particular reason?"

"No. It's like one of your hunches. It just interests me. Something pops up in one mystery, the same thing pops up in another, I think it's better to assume it's not a coincidence. How's your pal Roger doing?"

"He needed a few hours. I'm just about to find out."

"Well, you let me know how that goes, okay?"

"I'll call you later," he said.

"Later," she told him.

Roger Mallone looked as if he hadn't moved since Justin and Jonathan had left two and a half hours ago. He was sitting on the living room couch, papers spread all around him-on the coffee table, on the couch, on the floor. When they walked in the door, he looked as engrossed as if he were reading the most exciting thriller ever written.

"We brought you a sandwich," Justin said.

Roger looked up, a look of confusion on his face, almost as if he didn't understand Justin's words. Then he said, "Oh-oh, thanks. I'm not hungry."

Justin waved his hand at the stacks of papers. "Is it that good?"

"It's fascinating," Roger said.

"Let me just make some coffee," Justin said, "then you can lay it all on me."

He went into the kitchen, turned one of his electric stovetop burners on high, boiled water, and made eight cups of strong coffee, filling his plunger-style coffeemaker to the brim. Roger was not normally the most stimulating teacher, so Justin figured he'd need the jolt. When it was ready, he poured the coffee into the thermos he kept by the stove. He yelled in to ask if anyone else wanted some and got two no's. Happy to have it all to himself, he poured a mugful and took it back into the living room.