Warren Murphy: Syndication Rites

"I'm not late, Mr. Sweet," Lawrence pleaded with the attorney as he pushed the door closed. He whimpered as he eyed the two behemoths.

"Not to worry," Sol Sweet replied. "We're early."

Lawrence breathed a sigh of relief. His briefcase a makeshift leather shield, he stepped past the two bodyguards and sank into his chair.

"The stock's performing well." Sweet smiled as Lawrence settled his briefcase onto the blotter.

In his element now, Lawrence Fine nodded. "I just checked the board. It's gone up another half point since I entered the building."

"What about block trades?"

"Not many now. But remember, it's only 9:00 a.m. And because of the nature of this, um, business, word of mouth is carrying us at the start. I'd say things are going very well. Better, in fact, than I predicted."

"What about clearing and settlement? Has everything been ironed out?"

Lawrence nodded. "Absolutely. We're a clearing corporation, as well. You chose LFB specifically because we were a large enough concern to handle all financial requirements and responsibilities."

At this, Sweet flashed a row of barracuda teeth. "LFB was chosen, Larry, because its guiding principle has always been greed," the lawyer said. "Your founders ran guns to the Indians, as well as to the pilgrims. Their descendants backed the Colonies and the Crown during the Revolution. Their sons secretly swore allegiance to the North and South during the Civil War. LFB was even a clearinghouse for Nazi funds during the end of World War II. Don't think you can coast on prestige with us. This company is big, corrupt and well-connected. That's why we picked it."

As he spoke, Sweet leaned across the desk. Lawrence Fine sat quietly as the man stabbed out a long-distance number on the touch tone. Sweet turned on the speakerphone.

Lawrence realized the moment the voice came on the line that the phone call had been set up in advance. Otherwise, the man who spoke would never have answered.

"Is that you, Sol?"

It was a warm rasp. The overpronunciation of every word was familiar to Lawrence Fine. He had heard it on television a number of times. Always on the news.

Don Anselmo Scubisci. The "Dandy Don" of the Manhattan Mafia. Although he was the one behind this operation, Lawrence had never actually spoken to the man before. When he heard the familiar voice, he felt his stomach clench.

"Yes, Mr. Scubisci," the attorney replied. "I'm here with Larry Fine."

"Lawrence!" Don Scubisci's voice enthused. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. How are you today?"

"I'm-" Lawrence's voice was a barely detectable squeak. He cleared his throat. "I'm fine, Mr. Scubisci."

"I'm so glad to hear that. I understand from Solly that you have been quite successful in your handling of our little business venture. The powers that be at LFB were wise to give you this assignment. I'm very pleased."

Pride mixed with fear. "Thank you, Mr. Scubisci."

"No, I thank you, Lawrence. I've been monitoring the situation from here. We are up two points since trading began this morning. Up overall for the week. Very nice."

Sol leaned in to the speaker. "New Jersey helped, Mr. Scubisci," the attorney said. "Since the story hit the wire services today, we've been performing well. The discreet word we put out on the street has pushed the value up."

"Excellent," Don Scubisci said. "Now, Sol, what about Raffair corporate headquarters?"

"Renovations and remodeling are finally complete. We'll be up and running tomorrow. The day after at the latest."

"And my office?"

"Will be waiting for you, Mr. Scubisci."

"Good, good," Don Scubisci said. "Sorry, but this is going to have to be a quick call, Lawrence. I have an appointment with my physical trainer in five minutes. I just wanted to call with a personal expression of gratitude for the long hours you've put into this for us. It's greatly appreciated. Keep in touch, Solly. Goodbye, gentlemen."

The line went dead.

Their business over, Sol stood. The two flanking bodyguards bundled in beside him.

Lawrence Fine remained at his desk, holding his breath as he stared at the speaker. Until now, the man who was his de facto boss in this matter had stayed firmly in the abstract. But now...

The way he studied the speaker, it was almost as if he expected the most notorious crime figure in modern New York history to come crawling out through the plastic mesh.

"This is the last face-to-face we'll need for a while," Sol Sweet announced, breaking Fine's trance. "Now that Raffair HQ is set, we'll be transferring from our temporary digs. You can call down there if you need me."

As the men turned for the door, Lawrence stood. "Um, I don't know if I should say this," the broker offered weakly. "But, um, I can get into a lot of trouble with the SEC if this thing goes south."

Sol's dead-fish eyes were flat. "Cold feet, Larry?"

"No," Lawrence said hastily. "God, no. It's just that the, um, feds wouldn't be happy with any of this."

What little spark of light that remained in them drained visibly from Sol Sweet's eyes. "Of course they wouldn't, Larry," the attorney said. "And please don't say feds. It doesn't sit well on your tongue. Besides, neither you nor any of us are gangsters."

Lawrence squirmed. "Well, it's..." He dropped his voice low. "It's just that you mentioned something happening in New Jersey. I heard this morning about some drug raid that went bad. A bunch of federal agents were killed."

It was the closest thing to a direct question Lawrence Fine dared ask. If there was a link, things here at LFB could be a lot worse than he'd imagined.

Sol Sweet's answer was terse.

"That's the price of doing business," the attorney said coldly. "Larry, your personal, ethically questionable Raffair stock has doubled in value in the last three days. If you're having any pangs of conscience, you should take them up with your checkbook."

Their meeting at an end, he offered the LFB employee his back. Without a backward glance, the attorney and his small entourage left the office.

Lawrence sank back into his chair. He closed his eyes.

It was the phone call from Anselmo Scubisci that had rattled him. If he had been thinking more clearly, he never would have mentioned New Jersey. He shouldn't have said anything to the Mob lawyer. He should have just let it go.

After a long time, Lawrence opened his eyes. He noticed his name plate was ajar. He hadn't seen before that it had been moved. Lawrence picked it up. The brass was cold.

His given name had been crossed out. By the looks of it with a set of keys. In the narrow space above, the name "Larry" had been scratched into the brass.

Larry Fine. For some reason, people loved to call him that. Lawrence had no idea why.

He let the nameplate slip from his fingers. It struck the desk with a thud.

Chapter 4

Remo's flight was an hour away from landing at Boston's Logan International Airport when the commotion began. It came from the back of the plane.

"Whadaya mean no more! Gimme a drink, now!"

Over the past two decades, everyday airfare had been drastically reduced. The practical result was that the sort of people who used to take buses had now taken to the sky, turning commercial planes into Greyhounds with wings. In recent years, the stories of obnoxious and dangerous behavior on airplanes had been multiplying at an alarming rate.

When Remo looked back, he expected to see someone relieving himself on a service cart. Instead, he saw a harried flight attendant standing in the aisle next to a seated passenger.

"I'm sorry, sir," the flight attendant offered with a weak smile, "but don't you think you've had a little too much to drink?" She blew a stray lock of hair from her face.

Fire raged in the man's bloodshot eyes. His mouth opened and closed in silent shock. And as his brain tried to catch up to the words that would not come, Remo found himself studying the man's face with narrowed eyes.