The Downtown Deal (20 page)

Bolino
said, "Why're we paying any attention to this jerkoff, Frank? Unless …
unless" — he pointed at me — "
he's
got the wine.
He's
got the goddam wine!"

"Save
it, pal. You've been watching too many episodes of
Law And Order
",
I said. I looked over at Madden. "Get this guy to snap out of it, Frank. I
don't have the wine. I'll tell you the same thing I told Olivera. Come on over
to my place and I'll show you around. There isn't much to see, and you'll
eventually realize I don't have the damn stuff!" Then, I added, "Frankly,
I'm expecting Olivera to take me up on my offer. He can't afford to overlook
me. If I were you, I'd do the same thing."

The
two cops went into a huddle. While they did that, I lowered my voice and asked
Colby, "Time to tell me what you know about the wine."

"What
do you mean?"

"I
mean, tell me everything you know about it, starting with when it was made, and
moving right on up to who else knew the story on it."

He
rubbed his pale hands together, while he looked down at the floor. He was
nervous, but I wrote that off to his reaction to the burglary. Seeing your home
wrecked like that can do things to a person.

Finally,
he said, "It's a very rare wine. Château Mouton, 1945. They call it the
Liberation Vintage. Not much of it was made." From there, he went into the
story of the Frenchman giving it to Blake, then Blake leaving it at Sandra's
house after their divorce. He also echoed Olivera's sentiments about its
awesomeness and rarity.

"Did
Sandra know what it was worth then? When they divorced, I mean?"

"I
don't think so. Neither she nor Blake really paid much attention to it. I think
he left it there because she was a wine drinker and he wasn't. Or at least,
that's how it looked to me."

"Go
on." By now, the cops had finished their little private talk, and had
moved on to inspecting the rest of the damage.

"Anyway,
that was about a year ago when they divorced. In fact, exactly a year ago.
October of '02. Not long after that, Sandra and Ryan began dating. But it
wasn't until around Christmas that Olivera entered the picture, and the whole
thing with the wine heated up."

"What
happened?"

"He
bought that Silverstone condo from Sandra right around then. Somewhere in
there, she mentioned the wine, you know, that she had it. When she told him it
was Mouton '45, he went crazy. That's when he told her it was very valuable."
Colby's nervous edge subsided a little. His shoulders relaxed and he said, "He
offered to buy it from her right then and there — a lowball offer, I'm
sure — but she refused. I think she began to feel that if it was that
valuable, then Blake should be the one to profit from it. It was given to him
originally, and like I said, she felt it belonged to him. That's the kind of
woman she was."

I
nodded at that and said, "That's some kind of woman, all right."

Colby agreed.
"Then she let it slip that Blake was trying to assemble some land
downtown. He'd been quietly putting that together since about a year before
they divorced, so she knew what it was all about. She knew he was going to sell
it to Silquist, who wanted to build a baseball stadium."

I
decided not to let on that Silquist was fronting for Blake. If Colby didn't
already know that, there was no need for me to tell him. Plus Blake had sworn
me to secrecy on it.

Instead,
I said, "So that's when Olivera rushed out and bought that little strip of
land in the middle of all Blake's parcels, right before Blake could get his
hands on it."

"Right.
At the very beginning, Olivera wanted that little piece just so he could sell
it to Blake cheap, provided Blake threw in the wine. But then he got to
thinking, he could turn the whole thing around and make it
his
project."

"You
mean, get a hold of Blake's land, build the stadium, and move the Marlins to
Las Vegas."

Colby
gave me a slow nod. "Olivera's a very sharp businessman, you know. It
didn't take him long to put two and two together. Pay Blake a fortune for his
land
and
the wine, much more than the land alone would've been worth
— sort of like a deal Blake couldn't refuse. It was a big, big scheme,
but for him, you know, it all really hinged on the wine."

I
said, "The deal was worth close to half a billion dollars for him. That
had to be his focus, right?"

"Well,
sure. But he never took his eye off the wine. He really wants it."

I
figured there was no need in mentioning that Sandra and Olivera were having a
torrid affair right under Ryan's nose.

"Thanks,
Colby. You've been a big help." I brought my voice down a couple of
notches, leaning in toward his ear. "Now try not to let this Bolino get
under your skin, all right?"

His
nerves returned at the mention of Bolino's name and he let go with a nervous
nod. Under people's skins was a place where dickheads like Bolino spent a lot
of their time.

The
cops came back from their search. Bolino spoke. "What do you know about
this that you're not letting on, Barnett?"

I
sighed. "I told you everything, including the fact that Olivera is behind
this break-in, as well as the break-ins at the homes of Sandra Blake and John
Brendan Blake. Maybe even the two murders. Like I said earlier, I suspect I'm
next. For a break-in, that is."

He
said, "Get your ass out of here and don't ever let me see you again."

I
looked at Madden. "Frank, I'm telling you, you better get this guy out of
my face."

Bolino
lunged for me, fists high. "Why you piece of shit, I'll —" I
quickly squared off into fighting stance, but Madden grabbed him at the last
split-second, holding him at bay. Bolino struggled to break free from Madden's
grasp, but Madden was by far the bigger man, with his arms firmly around Bolino's
chest.

"Keep
this fucker away from me, Frank!" I shouted, still ready to mix it
up.
 
Of course, I hoped Madden would
do exactly the opposite and turn him loose so I could rip that fucking sneer
right off his New York face.

"Don't
do it, Nick," he warned him, grappling to restrain Bolino's lunging
figure. "Take it easy." Madden continued his firm grip until Bolino
settled down. Then he turned to me and said, "Better clear out,
Jack."

I told
Colby I'd be in touch and left. Out in the parking lot, I noticed the Ferrari
I'd parked next to was gone.

To an
all-night car wash, I was sure.

I
went back to Martine's to spend the night. The trip to the
dam, our afternoon delight, topped off by my stressful visit to Colby Farrow's
condo … shit, I was completely worn down. Sleep called, and I answered.

When I
awoke, Martine was still asleep, so I quietly got dressed and tiptoed out the
door. I wanted to get back home, because I was sure Olivera's men were probably
still in town, and had likely paid me a visit during my twenty-four hour
absence.

The
day was warm, like the day before, with no wind. I peeled my jacket off before
getting in my car, then pulled in a big dose of fresh autumn air. Once I fired
my engine up, I rolled down the window, and made the drive home. I turned on
the radio, searching for something that suited my mood, but I got nowhere.
Mindless pop, mindless rap, more mindless rap, more mindless pop. While I
cursed commercial radio, I landed on a station that was just finishing up its
news.

"—
cording to the mayor, the stadium could be ready for the 2006 season. Turning
to national news, in Washington today, federal sources report —"
Click.

I
turned on the speed. Before I knew it, I swung into the parking lot of my
apartment complex and into my assigned spot. Leaping out of the car, I saw my
newspaper sitting outside my door. At least, no one had stolen it. I hurried
inside, noticing right away that everything was still in place. There had been
no burglary, not even a hint of the smash-and-slash wreckage I saw at Sandra
Blake's and Colby Farrow's.

Moving
straight to the kitchen to make coffee and toast, I unfurled the paper. There
it was on page one, above the fold, spanning the page:

TENTATIVE
STADIUM DEAL ANNOUNCED

Major
League Baseball in LV's future?

I read
the article quickly for the general thrust of the story, then, as the coffee
was percolating, reread it much more slowly to get the between-the-lines shit
that most people miss. The mayor, unable to contain herself over the mere possibility
of a big league team moving to town, held a news conference yesterday afternoon
in which she said that "plans were being developed" for a stadium
"in the vicinity of downtown". She didn't mention Blake or Olivera by
name, but said she'd had "talks with ownership" of an unnamed team.
Those talks were aimed at "moving the team to Las Vegas", she said.

She
also claimed to have had "frank discussions" with Major League
Baseball's upper management, who would ultimately have to greenlight the entire
affair.

In
addition, she chirped loudly that the city was "prepared to put up a small
portion of the stadium funding" in order to "fully share in its
revenue". This would only happen, she said, once the "land
issues" were settled, which she predicted would be any day now. She also
hinted darkly at the possibility of "necessary city intervention" to
settle these issues, should the parties involved be unable to "come to an
agreement".

This
of course, meant eminent domain. In case of a deadlock, the city was just going
to take the land from one of the parties — paying for it, naturally
— then sell it to the other so the stadium could be built. The bottom
line was that there were no real promises made. It just amounted to a lot of
vaporous teasing, hard to grab onto.

One
thing was for sure, though. These headlines did not make Mr Black happy.

My
coffee was ready. I poured it and drank some immediately. It got my brain
started.

I
couldn't blame the mayor, really, for blabbing this to the media. Mayors are
supposed to be world-class cheerleaders for their respective cities. I needed a
different perspective, however, so I phoned Blake at his office. They put me
through.

"Jack,
you'll have to make it quick. I'm very busy." His silky voice glided
through the phone lines like a pool ball across a smooth green felt table on
its way to a leather pocket.

"I
assume you've seen the paper today?"

"Yes,
of course."

"What
do you think?"

Without
missing a beat, he said, "Mayor Niekamp's just showing off. Trying to
build public sentiment, and mostly, trying to shovel some positive news out
there to make herself look good. Hoping, of course, to make people forget all
the negative stuff that she's been responsible for."

"She
implied she would use eminent domain to settle the issue. Presumably against
you."

"She
only said that to keep Olivera happy. He thinks this whole thing is in the bag
now."

I had
to admit, it looked to me like it was, too. "You're not worried?"

"Did
you see that part about her 'frank discussions' with Major League Baseball?"

"Yeah,
I saw it." I took another sip of my coffee.

"What
does that tell you?"

"That
she talked with them and let them know this deal was cooking."

"Wrong.
It means she told them of the deal and they dumped cold water on it. 'Frank
discussions' is code for 'major disagreements'."

"What
are baseball's objections?"

"Ha!
You really don't know?"

Well,
once he said that, of course, I realized I did know. But Blake continued.
"The presence of gambling, especially legalized sports betting, is the
main reason we don't have any big league sports teams in this town. I'm not
saying it can't be done, and baseball is the one sport most likely to come
here, but it's going to take a lot more than Olivera's pretty promises. It'll
require some tough jawboning with the baseball establishment. And Niekamp knows
it. I'm not sure if she's up to it. And frankly, neither is she."

"No?
Well, won't that shatter your entire deal? I mean, if she can't convince the
lords of baseball to come here, then there's no need to build a stadium,
right?"

"Don't
forget, baseball's got to look tough, especially in this stage of the deal.
They can't look like they're too anxious to jump in bed with Niekamp and Las
Vegas when the land isn't even put together for the stadium yet. Having said that,
though, they're still not going to lay down for her even when the time
comes."

I
said, "So what can you do about it?"

"When
the land and the financing are in place, and when Niekamp makes her pledge in
writing to commit the city to their share of the funding — and remember,
she hasn't done that yet — then the Marlins ownership will pick up the
ball. They'll say they want to come here and that nothing will stop them,
especially once they get a load of the plastic model of the shiny new stadium.
Not even the baseball commissioner would be able to stop them if every last
detail is in place. He'll get concessions out of Niekamp, of course, but he
won't stand in the way of the deal."

"By
the way, Colby Farrow's condo was broken into last night. It was pretty well
demolished."

He
thought for a moment. "My house, then Sandra's, now Farrow's. You better
take care of yourself, Jack. They'll probably get around to you pretty
soon."

"I
know." And I really did know.