Christopher Sorrentino - The Fugitives

“Which is?”

“South Richmond Consultants. Ah.” Kat had removed a notebook and pen from her purse.

“You consult with casinos.”

“We develop business solutions uniquely suited to the gaming and hospitality industries. We also broker arrangements between resort owners and certain trades: construction, waste management, vendors of goods and services, and so forth. We bring people together.”

The bread arrived and Argenziano literally drummed his fingers while the boy set out two small dishes and poured olive oil from a decanter into the center of each.

“What sort of ‘business solutions’ have you come up with for Manitou Sands?”

“That would be proprietary information, I’m afraid.”

“And when you broker these arrangements, I take it that you earn a commission?”

“Yes, that’s the standard practice. A commission based on the value of the contract.”

“From both ends?”

“No. Generally payment is on the resort’s end. It’s very similar to real estate. The buyer pays the commission.”

“What if the resort decides, say, that it wants to hire someone on its own? Buy locally produced food, say.”

Argenziano, whose hand had made several false moves toward the bread, grabbed a piece, dipped it in the pooled olive oil on the dish before him, and took a bite. He nodded at Kat while chewing. He swallowed and took a sip of mineral water.

“Resort management is free to make any business decision that it feels is in its best interests.” This came out sounding like “innarests.” “We expect them, of course, to fully honor existing obligations. But we can work with all sorts of different contractors and vendors. They’re usually pretty quick to see the advantages of working with us. It means more business for them, sometimes considerably more. Of course, in such cases we take a commission on that end as well. It’s very similar to going to an out-of-network health care provider. You pay for the privilege.”

Kat said, “You told me that you were a ‘liaison.’ What exactly do you liaise?”

“Well, I’m the face South Richmond presents to the Northwest Michigan Band of Chippewa Indians, and vice versa.” Here he paused to smile, demonstrating the face in action. “Mostly I keep lines of communication open. In the very rare instance when one party has a complaint, I convey it to the other. I mediate in those rare instances. This is very rare, though. I must stress the rarity. Most misunderstandings can be cleared up without my ever having to pick up the phone and call back east. That’s one advantage to my being based on-site. I am the face they deal with. It’s a relationship. And for the most part, the job is the very pleasurable matter of overseeing things going very smoothly. It’s very similar to the work, speaking of journalism”—he gestured at her notebook—“of a managing editor. I coordinate the contributions many different individuals bring to a very complex series of operations.”

“And what did Jackie Saltino do?”

“Jackie reported to me. He was our transfer pricing manager.”

“What’s ‘transfer pricing’?”

“It’s pretty complicated to explain. But it has to do with maximizing profit.”

“And this is what Jackie Saltino did.”

“Yeah, until he left us.”

Kat had memorized the details, but it was the authority of the notebook to which she deferred. It was easier, sometimes, kept unpleasant confrontations to a minimum, to rattle off known facts transcribed in her own hand as if they were questionable pieces of information she herself couldn’t quite accept. She flipped a few pages back. “I have Jackie Saltino dropping out of high school in the tenth grade. Two years at Spofford Juvenile Center for auto theft and aggravated assault, remanded to Elmira Correctional Facility when he turned eighteen after pleading guilty to a reduced charge of involuntary manslaughter in connection with the death of a fellow detainee at Spofford. Paroled at twenty-one, worked for Archer Courier as a foot messenger for eight months, until he was rearrested on charges of having beaten a Henry I. Baumann, the recipient of a package who he, Jackie, thought had withheld a tip. This time he went to Auburn.” She looked up. “It kind of just goes on.”

“And you disagree with the idea of giving a person who’s paid for their mistakes a chance to wipe the slate?”

“No. I’m all for it. I was just saying that, looking at this history, it doesn’t really suggest the preparation or temperament necessary for a complicated management job.”

Argenziano gave her that tight smile again and sipped his mineral water. “Jackie worked hard to get where he was.”

“But then he left.”

“People do leave us.”

“Mr. Argenziano,” Kat said, “there’s a reason why you agreed to talk to me about Mr. Saltino, but I’m not sure what it is.”

“You called and said you were interested in him.”

“I called Manitou Sands and they put me in touch with Gary Houkema.”

“Gary. Director of public relations. Terrific guy.”

“But when I reached Gary Houkema he told me that you wanted to talk to me.”

“Jackie was my employee. He was directly under me.”

“I mean like he wouldn’t say a word to me, this Gary Houkema. And I thought, that’s funny. Usually it works the other way around. You call a person directly involved in a story and they refer you to PR.”

Sean returned with the salad and steak. He set the food before them quickly and moved off. Kat turned around in her seat to glance behind her. The restaurant had begun to fill, she could see a few people clustered near the entrance waiting for tables, but their section remained empty except for them.

“We do a lot of things differently around here,” said Argenziano.

Kat stared at her notebook. She picked up her fork and pierced a string bean. She looked at Argenziano, who had begun diligently sawing at his steak. He cut it in half, then started cutting one of the halves into bite-sized pieces. She noticed that the steak had been branded with an H.

“Have you ever heard from Saltino?”

“No, not a word. It’s not uncommon.” He shrugged, still cutting.

“Never been asked to provide a reference, or verify employment?”

“Nope. But again, people float in and out of this business.”

“Even transfer pricing managers.”

“Even managers.”

“Do you know where Saltino is?” she asked.

“No. Do you?”

“What if you were to hear some news about him?”

Argenziano put one of the bite-sized pieces of meat in his mouth. He chewed. He sipped water. “I’d be interested in catching up with him,” he said, finally.

Kat looked at the notebook, then closed it. She pushed her hair out of her face and bit down on her thumbnail.

“I’m not that sure that I need to know where he is,” said Kat. “Journalistically, I mean. Why am I interested in this guy, exactly?”

“Why, indeed.”

“Middle manager quits his job, falls out of touch with his old associates. This is America, right? Happens every day.”

“People just pick up and move.”

“Pull up stakes and head for greener pastures.”

“Make a fresh start.”

“Burn bridges.”

“Exactly,” said Argenziano. “It’s not news.”

“Except when it is,” said Kat. “The question is, is it a story?”

“That’s the question exactly.”

“If it were a story there’d be a reason for me to try to find out where he is.”

“So you’re wondering how you can determine if this is the case.”

“It’s funny. That’s really the dividing line in reporting. Interesting things happen all the time that never come anywhere near the papers or the six o’clock report. You know? Sometimes it’s an accident of context. Something kind of big happens the same day something really big happens. But more often it’s a question of whether it’s a story. What we’ve been talking about, I don’t know if it’s a story.”