Стюарт Вудс - Class Act

Charley talked for a half hour uninterrupted, then lunch arrived and they resumed chatting.

“We’d like debit cards to use against the money market fund,” Jack said.

“Of course. May I ask, what are you doing with your other assets?”

“We’ll leave them where they are for a while, I think. At some time in the future, we may want to move them to the new account.”

“That’s fine,” Charley said. After lunch, everybody went home feeling satisfied with how it had gone.

Mickey and Marge sat in the center of the floor at Daniel, and dined grandly.

“I’ve never been here,” Marge said, “living in Brooklyn. I like it.”

“We’ll come here often then.”

“I should tell you that I’m divorced,” she said.

“Who isn’t?”

“Just once, though.”

“Twice for me. It wasn’t their fault. Living with a cop isn’t easy.”

“Kids?”

“Nope. You?”

“No. I’m thirty-six,” she said.

“I’m fifty. That’s how old you have to be to retire on a full pension from the NYPD.”

“Anything else you want to know?” she asked.

“You mean, like, your bra size?”

She laughed. “You can figure that out for yourself.”

“I’ll look forward to that.”

They finished their dinner and were on dessert.

“Why don’t we have a cognac at your place?” Marge asked.

“I’m not due to move in until tomorrow.”

“I have a surprise for you. It’s ready now, everything in its place.”

“In that case,” Mickey said, waving for a check, “let’s have a cognac at my place.”

“Love to.”

Mickey woke early, as he usually did. Marge was sprawled beside him, her blond hair splayed over her pillow. He eased his way out of bed and into the silk robe she had bought for him, then he stood and looked around the room. It was perfect. He loved the dressing room with his new suits and jackets hanging there. He would give his old stuff to Goodwill.

He walked around the apartment and looked at what he had first seen the night before, but with an owner’s eyes. It was remarkable how everything suited him. It was as if he’d done his own shopping, but with better taste.

He figured out how to use the coffee maker, made them some, and took it upstairs.

She was sitting up in bed, the covers only up to her waist. He set her coffee on the bedside table, shucked off his robe, and climbed in beside her. They clinked coffee cups.

“It’s absolutely perfect,” he said. “I feel lucky to live here.”

“That’s how I wanted you to feel,” she said.

The phone at his bedside buzzed.

“That’s the front door,” she said. “Just pick it up and talk.”

He did so. “Hello?”

“Hey, pal, it’s Tiny. How you doin’?”

“I’m not here,” Mickey replied. “Try to remember that.”

“But I got a horse for you.”

“Eat it yourself,” Mickey said, then hung up.

Marge laughed. “I won’t ask who that was.”

“A guy I’d like to forget is alive,” Mickey said.

Tiny squeezed his bulk back into his car. “Can you believe that guy?” He asked nobody in particular.

“Who?”

“Mickey O’Brien. I carried him for years, and now that he’s flush he don’t want to bet with me no more.”

“You made a lot of money on Mick, Tiny,” the man reminded him.

“All the reason to make a lot more,” Tiny reasoned. “And I intend to.”

“If he won’t bet, how you going to do that?” the driver asked.

“I’ll figure it out,” Tiny replied. “He’s always been mine, and he’s going to keep being mine.”

Vinnie sat in his box seat at the post at Hialeah and, using his binoculars, watched the herd turn into the home stretch. He glanced at the board to get the final odds and was pleased. His bets were well-placed. His phone rang, but he waited for the winner to cross the finish line before he answered.

“It’s Vinnie, talk to me.” He had a pencil and pad ready to take the bet.

“It’s Manny,” he said.

Vinnie winced. Manny didn’t call often, and when he did, it was always about something Vinnie didn’t want to do. “Morning, Manny.”

“That guy,” Manny said.

Vinnie knew who he was talking about but pretended not to. “Which guy?”

“That guy I just made a gift of a mil.”

“Manny, it wasn’t a gift. It was his money, and we made a bundle off it while we had it.”

“I want it back.”

“You want his money back?”

“You hard of hearing?”

“No, and I’m afraid I heard what you just said.”

“Tell me what I just said.”

“You said you want a client’s money back.”

“See? You can hear just fine.”

“Yeah, but I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“You want to come over here and have me explain it to you in person?”

“Manny, can I tell you some things?”

“If you can do it in less than a minute of my time.”

“This guy took care of Eduardo Buono in Sing Sing for over twenty years, and Eduardo never took a punch for all of that time. He lived like a king, and Johnny was his prince.”

“So what? I still want his money.”

“I told you how Johnny and I communicated.”

“With throwaways, so what?”

“I met with him just once, in a diner, where he handed over his mil. So, I never knew where he was, and I don’t know now.”

“Find him,” Manny said.

“Manny, this guy is very, very smart. Who could go into Sing Sing broke and come out with millions?”

“Eduardo’s millions. And Fratelli ain’t the kind of guy to spend it all. He’s still got it, and more. I want everything he’s got.”

“Manny, you call me up and tell me you want back a guy’s money who dealt with us straight, and then decided he wanted out, for whatever reason. And now, you want...”

“I know his reason,” Manny said, “and I know how to find him.”

“You mean, you know how I can find him.”

“Your hearing is still good, Vinnie.”

“And how do I do that?”

“You know Tiny Blanco, in Brooklyn?”

“Yeah, or I used to anyway. He’s a real piece of shit.”

“I don’t care what he is. He’s got a client named Mickey O’Brien...”

“A cop. I knew him, too; degenerate gambler.”

“Ex-cop. He wants Eduardo’s money, too, and he knows how to find Johnny Fratelli.”

“So, you want me to call Tiny Blanco and tell him we want his client? Then he’s going to want a big cut.”

“You’re right, and that’s why you don’t call him. You call somebody else who knows Mickey from when he was a cop and find out where he lives. Then you have a conversation with Mickey.”

“What’s Mickey’s motivation for telling me where to find Fratelli?”

“ ‘Motivation’? His motivation is he gets to keep living and walking around on two legs without crutches.”

“Okay, I’ll make inquiries.”

“Get your ass on a plane to New York, and call me when you’ve got your hand on Mickey O’Brien’s throat. Your number two can handle Hialeah, until you’re back.”

“I won’t be responsible for what he does while I’m gone.”

“I’ll see to that. Call me when you get to New York.” Manny hung up.

Vinnie sighed. His number two walked up and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“I got a call from Manny’s guy. He says you’re expected in New York.”

“If you screw up while I’m gone, Manny’s going to cut your balls off. You know that.”

The backup guy knew that.

Marge Twist amazed Mickey O’Brien. Day after day, she came to the house and cooked for him. She found him a daily maid; she rented the two empty apartments. And she was always ready for sex, any kind he liked — and he liked everything. So did she: front, back, upside down, it didn’t matter, she loved it. It occurred to Mickey that, since he had never had a woman like this, it might be something to do with the fact he was rich. Every day she brought a few things with her, and soon, she was using half his dressing room.