The Deal (50 page)

“How much did he offer you?”

“He said I’d be helping you.”

“How much?”

“More money than I could ever hope—”

I cut him off.

“You make me sad, Damon. Not only are you a greedy fuck, but you’re an idiot. He doesn’t want me here to talk. He wants me here so he can kill me.”

He didn’t answer me.

“You’re involved in more than you bargained for. Just let it go before either of us gets hurt.”

Gun still drawn, I grabbed my briefcase and started for the door. He took a step to his left, directly into my would-be path. His gun was still outstretched as well.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

I couldn’t hold it in. Against my will I found myself starting to boil. Looking back now I understand why. It was at this moment my new reality had gotten to a point I had feared. The point where I wasn’t even safe anymore in my own home.

“You ungrateful little bastard. How fucking generous have I been? How respectful of you, of what you do for a living every day?”

“Jonah, if you just wait and talk—”

“And this is the thanks I get? You come into my own home and fuck with me? My own home?”

I looked him up and down in disgust.

“You pathetic fucking ingrate.”

“Just listen to—”

“Listen? Damon, I don’t think you get it! I have to leave. I’m not waiting for or listening to anyone. The only way you’re going to keep me here is by killing me.”

Damon, perplexed, was out of his depths. I wanted to pity him, but I couldn’t. He had entered my home, my sanctuary, my safest haven. And blinded by greed he had threatened my life.

“I could just double your current offer in order to not hurt you.” I thought out loud.

His face glimmered with hope. His mouth hung open. His gun started to droop. He realized he had made a terrible mistake. I was about to offer him a way out plus a bonus for being such an asshole.

Fuck that.

“But fuck that. You coming in here like this, with simply no regard for my life, my territory, it’s unacceptable. In fact it’s up there with the most anyone has ever disrespected me. Trust me—with what’s happened in my life over the last couple of weeks that’s saying a lot.”

The lobby intercom/buzzer rang. Someone was calling upstairs. I was puzzled.

“If you’re up here—” I said.

“Probably Gabriel,” Damon replied.

Gabriel was one of the maintenance guys. He often covered the lobby if he noticed the doorman was away from his station, most likely assisting a tenant.

“Answer it,” I said to Damon, waving him over to the intercom with my gun.

He did as I said. Then he hit a button and spoke.

Touching the intercom buttons activated a small, extremely high-resolution screen, which turned on. It was of the concierge desk area.

“Yes, Gabriel?”

“I have someone here to see Jonah.”

I shuffled to my left in order to see the screen. Gabriel was standing with Andreu Zhamovsky.

“Is he in?”

Damon and I were in a stare down.

“Don’t do it!” I whispered sharply.

Damon was hesitant.

“Damon? Is Jonah in?”

“I need to walk out of here,” I continued, my voice low.

Damon thought for another second before pushing the button.

“He’s in, Gabriel. Send his guest up.”

Before he was finished I had grabbed my briefcase and headed out through the other side of the kitchen, into the dining room. I walked straight through the dining area and into the living room to my left. Having come around, almost in a circle, I could see Damon again. He had stepped out of the kitchen back into the foyer. He was guarding the door.

His gun was still drawn. I came through the living room and made a right turn down the hallway, walking away from him.

“You’re killing me, Damon! You have no idea what you’re doing to me!”

“I’m sorry to do this, Jonah,” he called to me, his voice fading as I moved further away. “He just wants to talk to you—”

In a near run, I blew into my bedroom, into my closet, and grabbed a small, nimble Polo gym bag. I grabbed a couple of suits, ties, underwear, and socks and stuffed them in. I zipped it up, threw the strap over my shoulder, grabbed my briefcase, and headed back toward the front door.

“I’ll ask one last time.” I said as I came storming around the corner, gun drawn.

I wasn’t kidding. Every second had become crucial. Andreu Zhamovsky was on his way upstairs. Detective Morante was probably around the corner.

“You going to let me walk out of my own home?”

Damon was startled by my return. He perked up, gun still out. I was coming at him, at the door, full speed.

“I...uh...”

I was done dicking around with my doorman. I had given him his chance and he blew it. I was simply out of time. I moved the point of the gun slightly left and fired, hitting the wall no more than six inches from his face. He jumped, gasped. He looked at the bullet hole then turned back to me. I was still coming, gun poised.

“The next one doesn’t miss.”

Chapter 51

Damon threw his gun down and stepped aside. My front door slammed behind me. I hadn’t yet taken two steps before I could see an elevator opening. Just as I got a glimpse of Andreu, and he of me, I ducked into the stairwell. Briefcase in hand, gym bag slung over my shoulder, I bounded down the stairs—three, four, five at a time—like I was in a video game. I was listening for the stairwell door to open again, and was surprised when it didn’t.

I kept going as if Andreu was right on my heels. I reached the basement and ran through the door leading to the garage. When I reached my car I dropped the briefcase and gym bag and peeled back the gray tarp. I wrestled the canvas sheet into the backseat and threw both bags into the passenger seat. Then I fired her up.

Once at street level, I inched up to the curb. The garage exited on the side street as opposed to Park, which was a good thing since the building’s main entrance was on the avenue. The only problem was that the side street was a one way that flowed west, or back in the direction of the front of the building. I would have gone against the grain but there was a steady, single-file row of oncoming traffic. The light was green. I figured my best bet was to fly through the intersection and make a left on Park, heading downtown. I jumped into line. But just as I did, and was almost at the intersection, the light turned yellow then red. I was the second car back. To my right I could see around the corner toward the area in front of my building. I could see Andreu out front looking for me, no more than a hundred feet away.

My eyes bounced back and forth between the traffic light and Andreu. For the fifth time I looked at the hanging red circle. Then I looked again at the slippery Russian, who was now looking at me dead-on. Our eyes locked. He started in the direction of the car. As he walked toward the Porsche, a greasy smile dripped onto his face. He pulled out his gun and kept coming. At about fifty feet he fired his first shot.

People walking on the sidewalks scattered immediately. Some hit the ground while others jumped into the first building they could. The light was still red, which by this point it seemed to have been for twenty minutes. Still slumped down I looked to my right over the top of the passenger door. Andreu was still coming. He was getting closer. As he did, realizing he needed me alive, he lowered his gun and fired for a second time. The bullet bored into the side of the car letting out a sharp ping. Andreu was aiming for my tires.

The light became irrelevant. I could swing around the Lincoln Town Car in front of me to either the right or left. I had two options. To go left meant squeezing between the boat with wheels and the BMW parallel parked next to it. To go right, even though there were no cars parked, left me exposed and kept him with a clear shot.

I slammed the car into gear. Tires spinning, screeching, I tore left. The amount of space was less than I thought. I scraped both cars as I blasted through, filling the street with the loud, piercing sound of metal sliding unwillingly against more metal. The Beamer’s alarm went off. Once through, without hesitation, I barreled into the intersection with no safeguard other than my horn. Cars swerved, slammed on their brakes as I darted through. Still slouched, but driving aggressively, I went to make the left turn down Park. When I did I heard a third shot fired, then a fourth. Both hit the back of the car, neither finding the tires. About three blocks down I finally lifted myself up. With a final glance at the rearview mirror I took in a huge gulp of wind. As I did, I saw the unmarked SUV of one Detective Morante charging up the other side of Park Avenue. He never saw me.

“Tell me—”

It was a little after seven. I was on a pay phone downtown speaking with L.

“Fucked up girl, man. Her mother getting killed completely washed her out. Her grades went plummeting and she went wild with drugs and alcohol. She became a total burnout and basically disappeared for a while. Probably some kind of rehab or institution. Anyway, she came from the wrong side of the Hampton tracks. She was a local who didn’t grow up with much. So once she resurfaced she was all about the high-rolling guys. Crashed a few parties, broke up a couple marriages, even got in trouble with the law…”

“How the fuck do you know all of this?”

“Played a little NYPD detective today, that’s how.”

“No, seriously.”

“I am being serious,” he responded, proud. “I called the East Hampton police station and pretended to be NYPD. Detective Robert Barone. I’ll probably get in mad trouble for this shit.”

“Detective—”

“Robert Barone.” he repeated.

Ray’s brother on Everybody Loves Raymond.

“I forgot to plan a name. It was the best I could come up with on short notice.”

I smiled. Nothing like a real friend.

Chapter 52

I stepped off the Tribeca sidewalk and into Acappella at eight ten p.m. I nodded hello to the Mediterranean coat-check girl, wishing for a moment I could have responded to the twinkle in her eye, then walked past the bar that sat just beyond the entryway. Tony, one of the owner’s sons, greeted me with the same enthusiasm he always did. As he spoke, I surveyed the dining room. My three partners were seated at a table for four at the far end.

As I made my way toward them I couldn’t help noticing the alluring restaurant was buzzing just right. The crowd was eclectic. There were Wall Street suits and there were couples looking to have a romantic evening. The tables were full of people and dialogue. A small ocean of voices was rolling along not too loud for four colleagues to have a private conversation.

As I wove through the tables, robust scents of Northern Italian fare from the finest ingredients filled my nose. Aromas of different meats and sauces laced with flavorful spices danced in midair. As my feet continued to guide me toward my fate, I was surprised at myself for noticing such simple pleasures.

“Jonah, what’s the deal?” Jake asked as I approached.

Finally, able to see my banged up face and unkempt hair, all three started to get out of their chairs.

“Christ, Jonah!” Perry quipped. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

I calmly motioned for them to sit back down.

“I’m fine.”

“Tell me, Jonah,” Jake said sternly. “I’m serious. I don’t care who it is. I’ll deal with them.”

“Seriously, killer, I’m fine. It’s just a split lip. Looks much worse than it feels.”

A black-tied waiter pulled out my chair. I thanked him, put my briefcase down, unbuttoned my jacket, and took my seat. My partners sat back down with me. The same waiter then placed my napkin in my lap. He offered me a drink, which I declined, and left us.

“Why are we here?” continued Perry. “And why couldn’t we know the others would be?”

“We’re concerned, Jonah,” Tommy said. “We appreciate that you’re dealing with a lot of pain, but we can’t function properly as a team—more important, we can’t help you as your friends—if we’re not all on the same page. Now we’ve given you respect and loyalty. We deserve the same in return.”

I didn’t know where to start. I remained silent.

“Well?” Perry went on, throwing her hands in the air.

I took a sip of ice water.

“I love you guys,” I started, “I consider you family. You need to remember that above all that I’m about to tell you. No matter how this ends up—”

“All of what?” Perry asked.

I looked at my watch. All the time in the world wouldn’t have been enough to tell them how sorry I was. As much as I wanted to unburden myself there simply wasn’t time. I had to stick to the relevant facts. There was too much at stake for all of us.

“Fuck it,” I exhaled. “The Prevkos deal. It’s complete bullshit.”

No one stirred.

“Excuse me?” Tommy said.

“It was a front.”

“Come again?” he went on.

“Every aspect of the deal was a lie. As a company they may have had discussions about entering the world of commercial real estate. This deal, New York City, now, was a façade Andreu created for his own agenda. Everything about this specific deal was, is, complete nonsense.”

The three tossed around predictable glances.

“Why?” asked Jake.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Shouldn’t we be allowed to determine that for ourselves?”

“Let’s just say the deal was set up as a platform for moving cash, only not for buildings.”

“Then for what?” asked Perry.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It might matter to me,” she shot back.

Part of me just wanted to tell them each detail step by step. I knew the less they knew about, well, all of it, the less lying they’d eventually have to do. I owed them that.

Suddenly I was famished. Not knowing when my next chance to eat might be, I popped a slice of hard salami, one of the delicious antipasti selections gracing the table, into my mouth.

“Andreu Zhamovsky has decided to use his shareholders’ money to play a very dangerous game. One that includes my downfall. That’s as much as I’m going to tell you. That’s all you need to know.”

They processed this for about three seconds.