Tim Green - Exact Revenge

THE TOP FUND-RAISER for the president of the United States joins me for breakfast at my home in New York City. We sit in the dining room overlooking the park. He’s a fiery congressman from Buffalo who speaks in bursts of words with his hands flying into the air like a fighter throwing a series of uppercuts. When he starts in on the importance of the upcoming elections and of maintaining control of both the House and the Senate, I hold up my hand.

I tell him the deal: five million dollars to the RNC for them and the ability to make recommendations on the upcoming Supreme Court nomination for me. Before he can protest, I assure him that all I want is input. I don’t care if my candidate is the ultimate selection or not, just that the president is willing to listen.

Breakfast is over. He tells me he’ll need clearance and rises from the table.

I stand too and shake his hand, then I slip a bank check out of the breast pocket of my blazer and hand it over to him. He looks at the number and a small smile creeps onto his face.

“I’ll call you,” he says.

“By the end of the day, if you don’t mind,” I say, and see him downstairs to the door. The day outside is warm and bright and the sky is pure blue above the full bloom of the trees in the park.

I look at my watch. There’s time for a workout before I see Andre, and I think it will do me good, ease some tension. I don’t want to end up choking him. By the time I get into the shower, my limbs are trembling from weight lifting, katas, and the heavy bag.

The peaceful emptiness of physical exhaustion keeps my temper from flaring at the sight of Andre’s sneer and his jutting chin. He is sitting in jeans and a T-shirt with his leg slung over the arm of a leather chair in my library. Bert stands off in the corner by the shelves of leather-bound books. His hands are clenched by his sides, his eyes half-lidded and directed at Andre.

“Pretty fucking nice setup you two clowns stumbled into,” Andre says, looking around until his eyes come to rest on me. “What happened to your face?”

I ignore him and move into the high-backed chair behind my desk. I fold my hands together and look at him until he snorts.

“So, loon-man, Bert tells me you can get me a recording deal, and the truth is, I ain’t got too many options these days, so here I am.”

In a low rumble, Bert says, “When the hawk flies, the mouse does well to stay in its hole.”

“Hey, fuck you and your grandmother,” Andre says.

I hold up my hand and Bert stops in his tracks.

“I have a job for you,” I say to Andre. “Helena goes on another tour starting in November. If you do the job, you get to open for her on tour. If you’re good, I’ll get you a two-CD deal with Virgin.”

Andre’s big dark eyes are gleaming and he says, “Whose fucking skull do I kick in?”

“It’s easier than that,” I say. “All you have to do is get a haircut, live like a prince, and be nice to some friends of mine.”

“What, some fag stuff? I don’t do that shit. What do you mean, prince?”

“No, there’s actually a girl involved. It would be very helpful if she were to become interested in you.”

“Some dog-face?”

“Believe it or not,” I say, taking an eight-by-ten glossy photo of Dani out of the top drawer of my desk and handing it over to him, “I think you’ll actually like this. But I’ll pay you.”

“So what’s the fucking catch?” he asks, glancing down at the picture and squinting his eyes at me.

“Part of the deal is that you don’t ask questions, Andre,” I say. “That should sound familiar enough to you.”

“Yeah, well you’re not Bonaparte,” he says, eyes flashing, teeth clenched tight.

“That’s right,” I say. “Look around. This is a long way from bingo. This is New York City. Big things can happen here. A record career is something I can create by snapping my fingers. Does that interest you, or do you want to go back to bingo?”

“This is some weird shit, man,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Why me?”

“Because you’re perfect for the job,” I say, “and I know what makes you tick.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Money,” I say. “Fame. Things I can give you, and I know you’ll do a lot for them. Kill if you have to, right? I just want you to play a part. You’re Prince Andre Koskarov.”

“What the fuck…”

I explain his role. I give him some tapes to trump up an accent. I hand him a folder with his history in it. I can tell by his face that this appeals to his creative side. His eyes glow when I push a bankbook and a wallet stuffed with cash and credit cards across my desk along with the keys to a ten-room flat on Central Park West.

“Don’t have too much fun,” I say. “It’s just as easy for me to take it all back, and I want you to do your homework. I’ve hired an acting coach to work with you for a few weeks. Be good.”

“And why should you trust me? I’d sell out my own mamma.”

“I like risks,” I say. “Besides, I’ve got friends and you’ve got a warrant. Don’t forget that. Not ever.”

Andre is vicious, but he’s not dumb. I know it won’t be long before he’s ready to meet the parents. I send him on his way and pick up the phone to arrange for a significant shift in the price of an oil company that trades on the Russian market. By four-thirty, Rangle’s hedge fund is up seventy-eight million.

Also, I can’t get Bluebeard out of my mind. The sound of his voice. The feel of that razor stubble on my neck. As a favor on the side, my Russian friends agree to send someone upstate to Auburn. They have a lively heroin trade and a good man to plant enough of it in the trunk of Bluebeard’s car to put him away for fifteen years. I think that will help him see the error of his ways.

I get a call just before five. The president would be happy to hear my recommendation and give it the highest consideration as long as I understand he has to do what’s in the best interest of the country. I ask one last favor: Someone in the president’s office needs to call Judge Villay to let him know that the president is interested in my advice and that he can expect a call from me.

The influence of power on some people still amazes me. I let Villay wait three days-giving him time to whip himself into a frenzy of uncertainty and excitement-before I call. He talks to me like I’m a long-lost friend. I invite him to bring his wife to a small dinner at my lake house upstate in Skaneateles the following week, and he says he can’t wait.

“I used to have a place on Skaneateles Lake, gosh, fifteen years ago,” he says. “Have you eaten at Krebs?”

“No, but I’ve heard about it.”

“Are you on the east side or the west?”

There is a strain in his voice.

“I think east,” I say.

He clears his throat and says, “So you get the sunsets. My place was on the west side. Actually, it belonged to my first wife’s family.”

“I can’t believe more people don’t know about it,” I say. “The first time I saw it-that aqua green color-it reminded me of the Caribbean.”

“We used to drink the water straight out of the lake,” he says. “I don’t know if they still do.”

“They do,” I say. “Haven’t you been back?”

“No. That’s kind of my past life.”

“Great,” I say. “There’s nothing like the old days.”

WHEN I WAKE UP, I am sweating. My spine is rigid and my fingers are clenched. I open my eyes and realize where I am. Sometimes, in that moment between being asleep and awake, I think I’m still in the box. I turn my head into the feather pillow to wipe away the dampness. The sheet and pillowcases are combed cotton.