Hades (31 page)

“What happens there?” Justin asked.

“It’s where the money is,” Jonathan explained. “Rockworth invites its top clients—and people it wants to woo as clients—so it’s where the hedge fund guys go. They meet, they talk, they drink, and if they meet and talk and drink well, they come away with a lot of that money.”

“Dad,” Justin said, “does anyone keep a record of who attends this conference?”

“I’m sure Rockworth does. It sends out the invites.”

“Do you know anyone there who can get me that list? Immediately?”

“I can call Lincoln Berdon and—”

“No,” Justin said quickly. “Not that high up. You know a low-level person there, someone who’d be under the radar, wouldn’t think it strange if you asked for the list? And wouldn’t think to mention it to anyone?”

“Sure,” Roger said. “I know plenty of analysts who owe me favors, and I’m sure they could get their hands on it, no problem.”

“Do it.”

“Now?” Roger asked.

“Right now,” Justin said. “Please.”

So Roger made his call. Schmoozed a bit with whomever he was talking to on the other end, then gave out Justin’s fax number. Two minutes later the list was faxed through.

“About five hundred names on this,” Roger said. “You looking for anyone in particular?”

“Not necessarily. But I’m hoping I know it when I see it.” Justin took the paper out of Roger’s hands, began scanning down the list. And then he said, “And I see it.”

He picked up the phone, called Reggie Bokkenheuser. When she answered, he said, “I’ve got our connection to Lenny Rube.” He also told her that her hunch about platinum seemed to be paying off big-time. He explained about the boat sinking and about the shortage of the precious metal in a competitive marketplace. He also told her about the links between all the travel destinations—once again tying into that platinum wheeling and dealing was somehow central to everything else that had gone on. She started to pepper him with questions, but he said he needed to get a bit more info from Roger and that he’d call her later. Then he said, “Wait,” and when she said she was still there, he said, “I know we’re low on the Feebie totem pole, but can you use Immigration and get some info about someone going in and out of the country? And while you’re at it, check into a few specific destinations?”

“I think we’re still able to do that,” she told him. “Immigration, Customs, they still like us. Who am I checking on?”

He told her and she whistled in surprise. She said, “Will wonders never cease,” and before he could get annoyed, she said, “Later,” and hung up.

When he hung up on his end, Justin turned to his father and to Roger Mallone and said, “Leonardo Rubenelli, the head of the New England mob, at a hedge fund conference. And I thought I’d seen
everything.”

30

Justin spent another hour with Roger and his father as they explained in greater detail the trading aberrations that Roger had spotted going through the Ascension data. It was not incredibly complicated, but there were twists and turns and obfuscations. Roger had isolated companies that had shorted platinum and lost money. Then he isolated companies that had lent their shares to the shorter and had raked in millions of dollars of profit as the price of platinum rose. Early in the scheme, the companies that had taken a bath were Charles Chan & Associates and the Noodleman America Corporation. Roger was disgusted at the names.

“Hedge fund assholes. They think that kind of stuff is funny.”

“Chinese companies, obviously.”

“Yeah, but shells. I’d bet my life on it. They make up the companies and give them fuck-you names. They’re so smug, they like to flaunt their dishonesty. You look at all the companies Enron created before it took its fall, it was the same kind of thing—same kind of stupid, arrogant names.”

“So the Chinese shells are losing money. What about the companies making a profit?”

Roger listed them: “Flame Bros. Ltd., the National Beet Growers Association of America Pension Fund, Pinkney & Associates, Rossovitch and Sons, Scarlet Knight, Inc.”

“Just as stupid,” Justin said. And when his father and Roger looked at him, confused, he said, “Lenny Rubenelli. They also call him Lenny Rube. And Lenny Red. All these companies . . . they’re red.”

“But there’s still something off here,” Jonathan insisted. “The profits are switched over the past few months. The companies making money on the shorting change at a certain point. Lately the ones taking in the profit are Eggleston Catalytic Converters; Goldman, Inc.; the Tintagel Group; and Silverado Jewelry Association. And the Chinese companies are back to making money.”

“Because they’ve had shares transferred to them in those companies,” Roger said. “And those companies are making money. Lots of money.”

“And Lenny Rube’s companies are down,” Justin noted. And as he pondered the impact of that statement, he said, “I think we should have some dinner. Or some alcohol, at least.”

“Excellent idea,” his father said. “I don’t suppose you have a decent wine in the house? Or clean wineglasses?”

“Hello,” Roger said, a stilted, suddenly polite lilt to his voice.

Both Justin and Jonathan looked up, wondering why he was saying hello to them. Justin was about to tell him that it might be time for him to take a lengthy break, but then he saw that Roger wasn’t saying hello to them. There was a man standing in the kitchen doorway. A Chinese man. He was standing very still, and it didn’t take Justin more than his first glance to understand that this man was not here for any reason that could possibly do them any good.

“Give me papers, please,” the Chinese guy said in halting English.

“What papers?” Roger asked. Then he waved at the records from Ascension. “These?”

“Give papers,” the man said.

And Justin said, “Roger, move away from him. Move behind me.”

“What?” Roger said.

“Don’t give him any papers and don’t get any closer to him. Move away right now.”

Roger began to walk toward Justin. Justin glanced toward his desk. His spare gun—the one he hadn’t handed over to Captain Holden—was in the drawer.

“Don’t try to reach gun,” the Chinese man said, his voice calm and quietly authoritative. “You will not.”

The room was very quiet now. “Dad,” Justin said, “get out the front door.”

“Do not move to door,” the stranger said. “Do not try. Will not make.”

Justin nodded and smiled and did his best to look as listless as possible, and then he dove for the desk drawer and the gun.

He did not come close. The little Chinese man moved so quickly and with such balletic precision that even Justin had to appreciate its beauty. The man’s left foot planted, and he whirled and his right leg swung in a graceful arc, and Justin’s appreciation of the beauty disappeared in a flash, replaced by a searing pain and the recognition that at least one rib was broken. He doubled over in pain, saw the man relax for an instant, and Justin reached over, grabbed a lamp off the nearest end table and swung it with all his might at the Chinese man’s head. The pain in his chest was staggering, and it was made worse when he connected only with air. The Chinese man had moved effortlessly out of the way. Justin didn’t even see the movement—it was as if he was in one place and then suddenly he was in another—and the man’s leg lashed out again, catching Justin in the same spot in his ribs, and Justin thought he was going to pass out from the fire that seemed to envelop him from within.

He saw the Chinese man moving slowly toward Roger Mallone. Roger was frozen with fear; he did not even back away as the man approached. The Chinese man smiled, a gentle smile, and moved one hand on Roger’s neck. Justin could see the pain in Roger’s eyes. He didn’t make a sound, just began to sag, and Justin did the only thing he could think of; he grabbed a brass floor lamp and swung it at the back of the Chinese man’s knees. The man staggered and let go of Roger, who still had not moved, but Justin could see he was still alive. And now the Chinese man’s legs were steady, and as he took one step toward Justin, his left hand jabbed at Justin’s heart. Justin moved, diving backward, so he didn’t take the hit full on, but it still felt as if the man’s fist had penetrated his chest and grabbed his heart and squeezed. Justin saw the look of disbelief and terror on his father’s face as the Chinese man was moving toward him now. Jonathan had no chance to escape—there was nowhere to go—and so Justin was moving again, despite the pain, and this time he grabbed the man from behind, used his heft to pick him up and heave him, the whole time screaming at his father and Roger, “Go! Go! Go! Get out!” The man landed on his feet, near the kitchen, and Justin didn’t give him a moment to breathe. He charged headfirst and barreled into the smaller man, as they both were swept into the kitchen, slamming into the refrigerator and caroming off a cabinet. Justin shook his head to clear it and that was a mistake, a big mistake. The Chinese man’s hand snaked toward him again in that one instant and caught him in the cheek, and Justin tumbled backward. He braced himself against the counter, clawed at a drawer, managed to yank it open, and had time to pull out a butcher knife. But it was in his hand for a second at most because the Chinese man’s leg whirled again, and Justin’s wrist felt as if it had been broken in two, and the knife was clattering along the kitchen floor.

“I kill you,” the Chinese man said just as quietly and calmly as before. “I kill them. You stop. No fight more. Less pain.”

“Fuck you,” Justin spat. “Less pain,” he gasped. “You like torturing people. Fuck you, less pain.” He realized blood was pouring from a gash on his face. But he charged again, and for a moment his weight advantage seemed to mean something because he could feel the smaller man toppling backward, but it didn’t last long. Justin felt another pain in his neck, this one almost paralyzing, and then he felt himself being propelled backward again. He banged into the stove, put his hand behind him to try to prop himself up, and now he felt a searing pain in his right hand, only the man was nowhere near him. What the hell was this pain? And Justin realized that, yet again, he’d left the burner on high, and he’d just scorched the hell out of his palm. He thought,
Goddamm it to hell, fucking goddamn hell,
and he was all set to charge again—he was going to charge until he was dead—but suddenly he stopped. He stood up and sucked air back into his lungs.
This can work,
he thought.

“Is good,” the man said softly, seeing the way Justin had thought better about continuing the brawl. “Fight no help you. I kill men. Come back for you. No touch knife. It be bad for you.”

The Chinese man turned toward the living room, and Justin thought,
Is it possible he’s telling the truth, that he doesn’t like pain, doesn’t like torture? And, if so—if he’s not the one who likes it—who does?
And hoping he knew the answer, he said, “Where’s your girlfriend? You’re gonna need her help to kill me, you motherfucker.”

The man turned slowly back toward Justin. “How you know her?” He stared at Justin curiously, then shook his head dismissively. “You no know her.”

“How do I know her?” Justin could hear how fast his breath was coming. “I fucked her.”

The man didn’t smile. Justin didn’t think he
could
smile. Didn’t think he had any range of emotion in him. But there was something on his face that showed amusement. As if Justin’s last-ditch attempt to rattle was, if nothing else, entertaining. “You liar. You crazy.”

“I fucked her in this house,” Justin said. “Right here. On that table.”

The Chinese man didn’t smile now, didn’t frown, didn’t look amused or any different at all now. He was back to his robot persona. Justin’s words had no apparent effect on him at all.

“You no know her. You no see her.”

“No? Think I no see her?” Justin managed to say. The pain in his chest made it harder and harder to speak. And harder and harder to breathe. The burn on his hand was also beginning to throb as waves of heat seemed to be shooting up his arm. But he began to describe the woman he’d seen by Wanda’s car, in as much detail as he could remember. He described her eyes and her hair and the clothes she was wearing. He described her skin and even her shoes. All the information he’d e-mailed Billy DiPezio, who’d asked him to put together a detailed description. “You want me to describe her pussy?” Justin spat. “Want me to tell you how I fucked her?”

And now he saw it. The flicker in the man’s eyes. The first touch of genuine human emotion.

Anger.

Jealousy.

Fury.

And that’s when Justin screamed, screamed so hard he thought he broke another rib. “Dad! Get the hell out of here! Go now!” And it distracted the man, just for a moment—no longer than that, he was too good to ever get distracted for more than a moment—but that was the moment Justin needed. He grabbed for the thermos and flung it, and the man had to move, to duck, and that took only another moment, but it was enough because Justin charged. He saw the man raise his arms, knowing he could easily fend off any blow, only Justin didn’t try to hit him or throw him; he didn’t do anything but grab the man, get him in a bear hug, and pull him close. He felt a knee come up and strike his thigh and a short jab into his broken rib, but he didn’t feel pain anymore, didn’t feel a thing; he just kept thinking,
I can do this, don’t let go, I can do this,
and instead of fighting back, he just shoved the man toward the stove, never letting go, never relaxing his grip. He felt the man’s head butt, a crack right into his forehead; but he didn’t let go, just held on tighter, and the man didn’t realize what was about to happen, didn’t have any sense of urgency, and then Justin spun him and slammed him down on the stove. The Chinese man got his hand in front of him, was ready to use it to propel himself backward and immediately attack, but he yanked the hand away in surprise—he couldn’t stop that instinct—as the burner seared his palm, and then Justin was on his back, pushing him forward with all his might, holding him down with all his weight, the man’s face flat against the hot burner. And the man fought back as if he were a wild animal, kicked and squirmed and tried desperately to buck Justin off, but Justin wouldn’t back off. He heard the man make a sound, not a scream, because he couldn’t scream now—his lips were melting. Justin pushed down harder, had his hands on the man’s neck, on the back of his head, holding him, shoving him deeper onto the scalding-hot burner. He smelled the horrible odor of burning flesh, heard the sizzling sounds of skin being seared, but he wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t move back, not an inch; and the Chinese man was twitching and jerking now, like a live lobster thrown on a grill—crazy, wild gyrations—and Justin knew he couldn’t hold on for much longer. And then he didn’t have to, because the man wasn’t moving much, wasn’t moving at all anymore, couldn’t move anymore; and Justin let go, flung the body across the room, and he saw the man’s face, or what was left of it, which wasn’t much. Just a burned and melted and charred circle of flesh. And he watched as the man’s body twitched and jerked again, a fish on a hook, nerves responding to overwhelming pain; and then the movement stopped. And then everything in the kitchen was completely still except Justin, standing by the stove, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

He looked up. Saw his father standing in the doorway. Justin’s gun was in his hand. Jonathan, pale and trembling, stared at the faceless man on the floor. He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a towel from the counter, held it against his son’s cheek to stop the flow of blood. Justin took the gun from his father, stepped back, turned, and vomited violently. Pain surged through his chest again and his ribs. Then he straightened up, did his best to smile weakly at his father, walked slowly past him, touching him lightly on the arm as he went into the living room. He saw Roger Mallone, standing now, propped up against a corner. Roger nodded, a sign he was all right, an acknowledgment of what had just happened. Just went to the phone. He picked it up and dialed.

When Reggie answered, Justin said, “You’d better get over here. And you’d better call your boss.”

She heard his tone, didn’t ask what had happened, just said, “Anything else?”

And he said, “Yeah. I think an ambulance might be a good idea, too.”