Стюарт Вудс - Class Act

“Use the money well,” she said, “but not on the horses. That’s over, or your inheritance ends there.”

“Gotcha. May I have some advice?”

“Well, that’s new. What do you need?”

“Are you happy with your stockbroker?”

“Very.”

“May I have his name and number? I want to invest about half the money.”

“His card is in my center desk drawer,” she said. “Take his advice.”

“I’ll do that.”

“What are you doing with the rest of the money?”

“Well, I bought a house.” He gave her the address. “A duplex and two rental apartments and a garage.”

“Good move. I suppose you’ll need a car to fill the garage.”

“It crossed my mind.”

“There’s also a card in my desk for a man named Herman Goldsmith. He deals in high-end cars, independently; he’ll find you what you want.”

“Great. I need some clothes, too. The rest I’ll spend on wine, women, and song.”

“You’re entitled. Now, let me eat my breakfast and read my newspaper before the eggs get cold.”

Mickey called the broker and made an appointment, then he got ready to go out. He was early, so he called Herman Goldsmith. “I’m Michael O’Brien. My mother, Louise, sent me to you.”

“Great. Nice lady. What can I do for you?” the man asked.

“I want a Mercedes S-Class four-door, loaded.”

“What color?”

“A nice shade of silver would be good.”

“Interior leather?”

“Tan or dark brown.”

“Give me your cell number, and I’ll get back to you.”

They both hung up, and Mickey went to see the broker. An hour later he was a growth-oriented shareholder.

He was waiting for the elevator when Herman Goldsmith called.

“Check your e-mail. You’ll find pictures and equipment lists for three Mercedes S 560s. One of them has the sports engine and package, which is very expensive. They are available immediately. Call me.” He hung up.

Mickey let the elevator slide and made himself comfortable in the broker’s waiting room while he checked out the photos of the cars and their prices. He called Herman back. “I’d like the one with the dark brown leather.”

“Where do you want it delivered?”

Mickey gave him the address of his new house. “What time?”

“An hour and a half. The guy will give you a package with the invoice, title, and other stuff. You give him a check for the amount of the invoice. My company name is on it.”

“Thank you, Herman.”

“Anytime. My best to Louise.” They both hung up.

As Mickey left the building he saw something he had seen when he had left the house: a gray van with the name of a plumber emblazoned on its panels. It had darkened windows, too. Odd, he thought, that he should see the same van in two different places on the same morning.

He walked down the street for a block and stopped before a store window that gave him the reflection of the street behind him. The van pulled out of its parking spot, drove past him for a couple of blocks, then made a turn and was gone. He had gotten spooked for nothing. Besides, who would give a damn how he was spending his morning?

Mickey was at his new house with the garage door open, when his new car showed up on time. He did a walk-around with the deliverer, pronounced it okay, and wrote a check. The guy gave him the envelope with the window-sticker, the title, and the invoice marked Paid .

He showed Mickey how to set up the electronics, then left. Mickey got into the car and started it. The thing made a beautiful noise.

Jack Coulter turned on his iPhone at 11:00 am and logged onto his offshore bank account. No sign of the money he had demanded. Well, they had another hour. He sat by the pool until noon, then called back; the money was there, all of it. It paid to be remembered as someone who kept his promises, he reflected.

Hillary came down from their apartment at the Breakers, and they ordered a good lunch.

“I’ve had some interesting news this morning,” she said over her lobster salad.

“Tell me.”

“We’ve had an offer for the company,” she said.

“That is interesting.”

“My share would be just over a billion dollars, and that’s after taxes.”

Jack had just stuffed a large piece of lobster into his mouth and he chewed it carefully for a while before swallowing. He considered that the delay might make him appear thoughtful. “That’s very nice,” he said finally, keeping calm. “Is it a first offer?”

“Yes.”

“Turn it down,” he replied.

“Are you sure?”

“Always turn down a first offer. Ask for twenty percent more, then take fifteen.”

“All right,” she said, picking up her phone.

Jack went to the men’s room to give her some privacy. When he came back, she was smiling. “They went for it,” she said. “You made me a million and a half dollars more on the transaction. That’s your commission: a million and a half.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, “so don’t argue with me!” She kissed him.

“You win,” he said.

Mickey was back in the real estate office in time for the closing. Marge had taken care of everything; all he had to do was sign a lot of stuff, then call the bank and do the wire transfer.

“Congratulations,” Marge said when they were done. “You’re officially a homeowner. When do you move in?”

“Hey, wait a minute. I don’t have a stick of furniture.”

“I’ve got a friend in SoHo who sells and rents all sorts of furniture.”

“Rents?”

“For theatrical productions and movies. She’ll sell you anything she’s got, right off the floor, and the prices are good.”

“How about you be my decorator?” he said.

“I do that sort of thing,” she said. “How much do you want to spend?”

“How much stuff will twenty grand get me?”

“ Fully furnished?”

“Yep.”

“Better start with fifty thousand. That will get you the basics, and you can fill in the gaps later.”

“You do it,” he said.

“You’d trust me to do that?”

“You’ll do a better job than I would.” He unsnapped a key from the ring she had given him. “Let me know when it’s done.”

“It’ll be faster than you think. Tell you what, give me three days, then you can come and take a look at what I’ve done.”

“You’ve got a deal,” he said.

“I get ten percent of what you spend.”

“Done. Call me, if you need more.” He gave her a credit card. “Put it on this. It has a zero balance.”

“You want art, too?”

“Sure. You pick it out.”

“I’ll need to spend another fifteen grand on that.”

“Okay. One thing I want is an electric bed. Two electric singles with king sheets and a duvet on top.”

“I can do that. You come to the house at five o’clock on Friday. No peeking before that.”

“You’ve got a date,” he said. “Then I’ll buy you dinner.”

“Done.”

When Stone came down to work, Bob Cantor was waiting for him. “Let me save you some money and pull my guys off Mickey O’Brien,” he said.

“Why?”

“He’s bought a house, and a woman is decorating it for him. He opened an account with a stockbroker. He bought a new Mercedes S560. He’s not after your client’s money, at the moment. Why pay for the moment?”

“Well, my client is out of town anyway,” Stone said. “Pull ’em off and give Joan the bill.”

“I’ll have somebody check on him once a week. If there’s a change in his intentions, we’ll get right on it.”

“All right, all right.”

Bob left Stone and the other Bob, the Labrador retriever, keeping each other company, the Lab in his usual spot by the fireplace.