Tim Green - Exact Revenge

The room is wood-paneled and trimmed with crown molding carved by hand a hundred years ago. At the long, linen-covered table in the center of the room, Allen and Martin’s faces turn toward me in obvious surprise. Even the black-tied waiters look expectantly at me. There is an uncorked bottle of champagne on the table and Martin is filling his glass.

Allen jumps up from his chair and says, “Seth. I told him.”

“Unbelievable,” says Martin with a dumb smile.

“I told you,” Allen says, grasping my hand and looking me in the eye. “Means what he says and says what he means.”

To me he says, “I wouldn’t let him eat. I said you’d be here.”

“I’m not late,” I say.

“He always is,” Allen says, nodding at his friend. “I told him twelve-thirty so he’d be here on time.”

“I’m sitting right here, you know,” Martin says, raising his glass. “And who could blame me? I was telling Allen that it wouldn’t surprise me if you turned out to be a phantasm that we both imagined.”

“No,” I say, “I’m very real.”

“There was nothing in the papers about the Jets,” Martin says. “I told everyone and they said I was crazy. I guess it didn’t go through?”

“Actually,” I say, looking at my watch, “I sign the papers at four o’clock today. We agreed to keep it confidential until then.”

Allen is beaming.

“Told you about that too,” he says.

In my pocket, I keep an emerald the size of a walnut. After we eat, I take it out and pop a powerful little mint into my mouth, offering one to Allen and Martin.

“What kind of a case is that?” Allen asks, removing a mint with his fingertips.

“It’s one of three identical stones,” I tell him. “At one time they were the crown jewels of the grand sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Each one priceless, actually.”

“You’re kidding,” says Martin.

“No,” I say.

“What happened to the other two?” he asks.

“One I used to finance the down payment on the Jets,” I say, looking straight at him. “The other I used to buy enough shares of EMI to get a seat on their board. And this one?”

I snap it shut, shrug, and turn it over in my hand before slipping it back into my pocket. “I just liked the idea of being able to take something that valuable and turning it into… well, really, a piece of junk.”

“Junk?” Allen says. “You just said it was priceless.”

“Was,” I say, taking it back out and holding it up between my finger and thumb. “But it’s not a crown jewel anymore. It’s empty inside and it has these little hinges. When you take the core out of something, it stops being what it was.”

“And it’s worthless? That’s incredible.”

“It’s not worthless to me, though,” I say. “I like it this way. It’s functional.”

I look down the table. They are leaning forward so they can see my face.

“Any interest in the concert tonight?” I ask.

“Helena?” Martin asks, sitting up nearly straight. “No tickets. That thing sold out before it was announced… But I see by the look on your face that you’ve got a box. At the Garden. Am I right?”

“You’re both welcome.”

“You got any of those same girls from Vegas that you had in the box at the Super Bowl?” Martin asks.

“Jesus,” Allen says, rolling his eyes.

“Allen has to be careful,” Martin says. “Dani Rangle has a ring through his nose.”

I smile at Martin and say, “Not this time, but I might be able to arrange for you to meet her dancers.”

“Goddamn,” Martin says, his face growing red like his hair. “Talk about fine things. I’d take any one of them.”

The five backup singers for Helena are also dancers whose bodies have earned them cover space and photo spreads in magazines like Maxim and FHM .

“Martin,” I say, “speaking of Bob Rangle’s daughter, I’d like to meet him. I’m looking for a fund to invest in. I heard you work with him.”

“That’s easy,” he says. “I’ll talk to him and set it up. Soon?”

“Sometime over the next couple weeks,” I say, rising from the table. “Something casual.”

“How about the Hamptons?” Martin says as we walk down the stairs. “They’re out there every weekend. We could have lunch.”

I tell him that’s good and stop at the door to thank Allen for lunch.

“Are you going uptown or down?” he asks.

“Up,” I say, “to the NFL offices. I was going to walk. Do you need my car?”

“No, not this time,” he says. “But if you could take one minute, my parents’ place is right on the way.”

My stomach twists.

“You said you’d meet them,” he says, looking at me as he holds open the door.

We step out into the sunlight and the sound of a blaring fire truck. My plan was to meet Frank on my own ground, but I put on my sunglasses, turn my face toward his. Over the sirens I say, “Sure, let’s go.”

The apartment takes up the entire top floor of an old stone building that faces Park Avenue. In a massive circular foyer, columns of polished black granite rise to the vaulted ceiling. High above, the shadows of trees from a rooftop garden flicker down through a dome of leaded glass. The white marble floor is shot through with veins of red, reminding me of animal fat. Between the radius of columns are either vaulted doorways or recessed alcoves where the broken marble busts stand on four-foot-high Ionic pedestals.

I see a noseless Caesar, then a shadow fills the adjacent doorway. Frank has grown big. His feet look almost dainty in their shiny leather pumps. A fat man in a glossy suit coat. The three-hundred-pound mark looks like a distant memory.

The jowls of his face spill out over the edge of his stiff white collar, and their color matches his blood-red tie. His dark curly hair is swept back and sleek from a gel that disguises much of the white. His eyes seem to have receded into his head like licorice jelly beans sunken in dough. His mouth is the same, still small and fat, and he still holds his chin high. He blinks at me before stepping forward and extending a hand with gleaming manicured nails.

I’m suddenly light-headed. A thin sheen of sweat rises to the surface of my skin. I can see my hands sinking into his fleshy neck and me wringing the life out of him. I feel confused, maybe even afraid. My mind drifts for a second, but my hatred is an anchor.

“Mr. Cole,” he says in a gruff tone that has taken on a hint of Brooklyn. “I’ve been waitin’ for the chance to say thanks for helpin’ out the kid.”

The air fills with a hint of cigar smoke, peppermint, Cool Water cologne, and the inky smell of fresh money. I hesitate before taking his hand, and when I do, my eyes are frozen on his, looking for some sign of recognition.

“My pleasure,” I say, gripping his hand and trying to focus the rapid pounding of my heart into the tendons of my forearm. My words come out like an ice machine dumping its cubes. I could cave in his skull with the bronze figurine of a centaur resting on the closest column. “He’s a fine young man.”

My mouth is dry and my throat tight, but Frank’s pale blue eyes relax.

“You got that right,” he says with a slight nod. “Best thing I’ve got going. Plays quarterback for Syracuse. Did he tell you? I guess you know about the game. Buying the Jets, right? My casinos make a mint off the NFL.”

“It’s an investment,” I say, “but I know every team likes to draft hometown players when they get the chance.”

“Good,” Frank says with a chuckle, then he slaps Allen hard on the back and grabs him by the upper arm to give him a little shake. “But you’ll have to negotiate with me if you want this guy.”