Tim Green - Exact Revenge

“I’m glad you’re pleased,” I say.

“Do you know what someone said they’re calling me?” Rangle asks. “The wizard of Wall Street. Do you think that’s a compliment?”

“Of course,” I say.

“It’s a jealous town,” he says, musing. He strokes his little mustache and then grasps his fingers.

“Pleased?” he says, shaking his head, grinning now. “My little girl’s head over heels in love. My wife is happy. No small feat there. Did I tell you that Vance International got me copies of the documents that draw a direct line from our Prince Andre all the way to Alexander III? I’d go out and buy a Powerball ticket if I didn’t know we were going to make more with our new Russian prince.”

I put my hand against the glass. It’s warm from the day.

“God, it’s a long way down,” I say in a low tone.

“Excuse me?” Rangle says. I hear his desk chair swivel my way.

“Did you ever look down?” I ask, glancing back at him. “It’s a weird feeling I get whenever I’m up high. What it would be like to have it all rushing up at you and you can’t stop it.”

Rangle is beside me now. He raps his knuckle on the window.

“Safety glass,” he says.

“That’s right. We’re safe,” I say. “We’re on the top. But just look.”

He glances at me. His eyes flicker down toward the street and the waterfront below. Cars crawl along like ants. People are specks that barely move. He clears his throat and moves back to his desk. The intercom buzzes and his secretary announces that his lawyer is on the line and says he needs to talk to him.

“Not now,” he says. “Tell him I’m with Seth Cole and I’ll get right back to him.”

I turn and take a seat facing his desk. I make a steeple of my fingertips and say, “On the twentieth, we’ll take a position in the Bank of Moscow. There will be a favorable announcement first thing on the twenty-third and the price will jump hard. It’ll happen fast and we’ll sell into the surge at four p.m. Moscow time.”

Rangle leans toward me. His hands grip the edge of the dark wood desktop.

“How much?” he asks. “I can leverage half a billion after what happened with the oil. Everyone will want in.”

“As much as you think is wise,” I say. “Just buy into it in ten-million-dollar blocks and make sure you use different brokerage houses.”

“Oh, what are you worried about?”

“Safety glass,” I say quietly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“My God ,” Rangle says, exposing half his teeth behind a smile that’s close to a sneer. “This is it. The Russian market. I was on top in the late nineties and then I took a huge hit, but I told my wife, I said, ‘It will come again. One day, the opportunity will be there and I’ll jump on it.’”

He looks hard at me, narrowing his eyes. His ears seem to flatten and he says, “I want a billion .”

I nod my head and sigh.

“That sounds reasonable,” I say. “And while you’re at it, there’s something I’d like to do… for Allen.”

“Of course,” Rangle says, “he can get in at whatever level he wants. There’s no million-dollar minimum for a friend of yours, Seth. You know you don’t even have to ask, just tell me.”

“It’s not about the fund,” I say. “That’s too obvious. In fact, I want this entirely between you and me. Charity isn’t charity unless it’s anonymous. I want to help him indirectly. I understand his father is looking for an investor in his company.”

“He’s been looking,” Rangle says, twisting his lips. “And there’s a reason he hasn’t found one. That’s not for you, Seth. Very sketchy. Casinos. Hotels. In his mind if he can sell his partnerships, he can get into the Friars Club.”

“It wouldn’t be me,” I say. “But I have a friend who represents a group of Native Americans. They’ve got some casinos upstate and they want to get into Atlantic City. I was thinking I could put him in touch with Frank’s partners. Not even go through Frank. Buy his interests out and they all live happily ever after.”

“You’ll be the first person on the planet who wanted to do a favor for Frank Steffano,” Rangle said.

“I thought you were old friends,” I say.

“That’s a strong word,” Rangle says. “Frank is a pompous goombah. All this casino stuff has gone to his head, not to mention his ass. Wears a goddamned diamond pinky ring.”

“I’d really do it for Allen,” I say with a shrug.

Rangle writes something on a piece of paper and hands it across the desk to me.

“Ramo Capozza?” I say, looking at him.

“He’s out on Staten Island. Calls himself a businessman. A casino owner. Frank helped out his nephew when he was in some trouble up in Syracuse. Frank likes to tell everyone they were business partners in a development company, but he was a cop and I heard they ran a book until the nephew got murdered.”

“Think Ramo’s a football fan?”

“His business is gambling,” Rangle says.

“The first preseason game is next Friday,” I say.

“There you go.”

“So, how do I get in touch with him?”

“Actually,” Rangle says, picking up the phone. “My lawyer that just called me? He knows Capozza’s lawyer…”

Five minutes later I have a number.

I THANK RANGLE and head uptown. I’m meeting Dean Villay for dinner at Patroon. After a week, I grew weary of watching him suffer every night. Instead, I get a report every morning from Lawrence. Two days ago, he said Villay was very close, so I wanted to see him in person. The maître d’ shows me to a round high-backed leather booth. Villay looks up from his glass. I can smell the scotch. I extend my hand and notice that his is trembling, damp, and cold.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” I say. I slide into the soft seat and the maître d’ puts a linen napkin in my lap.

Villay’s curly hair is matted. He is wearing a suit, but the knot on his tie is crooked and has been pulled loose. His eyes are red-rimmed, puffy, and moist, and there are several scabs on the side of his face. He picks at one of them and says, “I still want it.”

“I’m sorry?” I say, tilting my head. The sounds of the restaurant are muted.

The waiter appears and I order a sparkling water with lime and another scotch-a double-for the judge. Somewhere by the darkened windows a table of people laugh together, then break out in polite clapping that quickly fades.

The shoulders of Villay’s jacket are sprinkled with flakes of dandruff. He goes to work on a different scab and leans toward me, whispering.

“The Supreme Court. I don’t care about her,” he says. The ragged edges of his pupils gape open. “I care about Oliver Wendell Holmes. I want that. Think. Harlan, Rehnquist, Brennan. Great justices that no one but law students remember. And Holmes was known for his dissents . Opinions that didn’t even become law. The law is malleable. People don’t understand that. She doesn’t.”

“I felt bad that the weekend didn’t turn out,” I say. “And I wanted to check on you.”

Villay finishes his drink and smoothes out a wrinkle in the heavy linen tablecloth before clenching his empty hands.

“You know there’s nothing they can do?” he says, looking up at me through the tops of his eyes. “They complain about me. Say there’s something wrong…”

He pounds the table, jarring the silverware, and says, “Of course there’s something wrong. That’s everyone. We all have secrets. Don’t we? But I am appointed for life . No one can touch me. Even she can’t take it.”

As the waiter sets down the drinks, Villay picks at another scab. He winces and examines his finger. A crimson smear. His knee jiggles under the table. His eyes dart from side to side.