The Protégé (8 page)

Wright moved to the counter slowly. “It would be for my wife,” he murmured.

“Of course it would,” the saleswoman said, brushing her fingers over Wright’s left hand and his wedding band. “You two having a little tiff?”

“Well, we—”

“Hi, David.”

Wright’s gaze shot from the woman’s fingers into the eyes of a man he’d never seen before. A stocky, swarthy man with dark hair and a crooked nose. “Who are you?”

The man snickered and looked at the saleswoman. “What a joker,” he said in a thick New York accent, spreading his arms wide and smiling. “He always does this to me. Acts like he doesn’t know me. It’s his thing, ya know?”

The saleswoman shrugged.

The man patted Wright on the shoulder, then reached into his jacket, pulled out a photograph, and held it up so Wright could see.

As Wright focused on the photo, his heart rose in his throat and his upper lip curled. It was a picture of him whipping the woman as she hung from the iron rings.

“Follow me,” he ordered, his tone gruff. He wheeled around and headed toward the elevators.

Wright followed him like a puppy after its mother, head down and in the same tracks, all the way to a waiting elevator. Moving into the car obediently when the man waved him in. As the doors closed, the man turned toward Wright, resting his finger on the “stop” button. Pushing it hard when the elevator had risen a few feet, halting it between the first and second floors.

“What’s going on?” Wright asked. “Please,” he begged, “tell me.”

The man smiled, his demeanor becoming pleasant again. “Everything’s going to be fine, David, as long as you cooperate.”

“How did you get that?” Wright asked, gesturing at the photo the man was still holding.

“We were there, in a side room. We saw everything. We got pictures
and
a tape of the whole thing.” The man shook his head. “Poor woman.”

“It was an accident,” Wright muttered.

“Of course it was,” the man agreed, “but the cops might not think so when they see the tape up to the point you put the noose around her neck.”

Wright started to say something, but the man held up a finger and cut him off.

“Don’t worry, David, your secret’s safe as long as you work with us. Right now, all the cops have on their hands is a missing persons case. We picked the woman up and put her in cold storage. We took care of the owner, too, so he couldn’t point the cops at you.” The man chuckled snidely. “I doubt anybody will miss him, though. Pretty much a scumbag.”

Wright shut his eyes tightly. “I didn’t kill her,” he said, gritting his teeth. “It was an accident.”

“Of course it was,” the man said, pulling a pocketful of pictures from his jacket and tossing them so they scattered on the floor of the elevator. “But try telling the cops that when they see these.”

Wright dropped to his knees, scooping them up quickly. “This is crazy,” he muttered over and over. “Crazy.”

“And don’t worry about the shop, we cleaned everything up.” The man laughed harshly and pushed the elevator’s “start” button. “The NYPD crime lab won’t find nothing.”

Wright picked up the last picture as the car jerked to a start. “What’s going on?” he whispered, looking up at the man. “Please tell me.”

The car came to a stop and the doors parted on the second floor. “We’ll be in touch soon,” the man said as he moved past several people waiting to get on. “By the way, David, my name’s Paul. Remember that, because we’re going to be talking a lot from now on.”

DÉJÀ VU,
Gillette thought, watching Stiles hoist a juicy piece of steak to his mouth. Stiles was sitting in the same chair Landry had used and had ordered the same meal—he’d shown up ten minutes after Landry left and hadn’t stopped eating or said a word since the food was served. “Taste good?” he asked, glad to see Stiles enjoying himself.

Stiles finished chewing and swallowed, then leaned back and patted his stomach gently. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything better in my life.”

“I’m just glad you
have
your life,” Gillette said quietly, leaning over and touching Stiles on the shoulder. “I was worried about you.” Worried was an understatement. Stiles had gone critical several times during the week after he was shot. The hospital chaplain had read him the last rites twice. “It was my fault you got hit.”

Stiles pointed at Gillette. “That’s crap and you know it. I signed up to protect you, you paid me a lot of money to do it, and I took the money. I did it out of my own free will, out of complete self-interest. It’s my job, I’d do it again.” He paused. “For a guy who’s big on personal accountability, I can’t believe you said that.”

Stiles was right. It was his job, it was what he was supposed to do, and he had taken money. But right now, that didn’t seem to matter. “I still feel bad.”

“Then pay me more money.”

“Yeah, good one.” Gillette looked around the restaurant, checking for his security detail—over by the bus stand. Since Whitman and McGuire had tried to kill him last fall, he checked every few minutes whenever he was in public. It had been ten months, but the most dangerous person involved in the Laurel Energy conspiracy—Tom McGuire—was still out there somewhere. And if Faraday was right, McGuire might be close. “You’re my friend, Quentin, my good friend.” Gillette took a measured breath. “I don’t let many people in,” he admitted, his voice going low. “I can’t.”

“I know.”

“Some people think I’m lonely,” Gillette murmured.

“I know,” Stiles agreed. “They want the money and all the perks, but they don’t know what you go through. The pressure of making so many important decisions all the time. It’s got to be tough.”

“It is sometimes.” Stiles understood. One of the few people who did. Gillette had to at least appear to be immune to it, but there were moments when he felt the walls closing in around him, and it felt good to tell someone that.

“It could have been very different,” Stiles pointed out. “The guy aimed at the first person he saw in that room. It could have been
you
in the hospital for the last ten months.”

“Maybe.” Gillette replayed the scene in his head for a few moments. It had been the wildest few seconds he had ever experienced. “But the most important thing is, you’re okay. Judging by the way you’re inhaling that steak, anyway.”

“It’ll be a while until I’m a hundred percent, but meals like this will definitely speed up the recovery.”

“Good. Well, since you’re feeling better, let’s talk business.”

Stiles nodded. “Sure.”

“First of all, I want to close our deal.”

“Our deal?”

“Yeah, for your company.”

Stiles’s jaw dropped. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“When have you ever known me to be anything but serious about Everest business?”

“Not often.”

“Try never,” Gillette said sharply. “Look, McGuire and Company will pay five million dollars for a hundred percent of QS. I spoke to Craig West this morning, and he’s fine with it.”

“If he wasn’t, he’d be fired.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Sure it is, Chris. Craig knows where his bread’s buttered.”

“Whatever,” Gillette muttered. But Stiles was right. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that West would object to the deal.

“You’re doing me a favor,” Stiles said. “A five-million-dollar favor, and I don’t want you getting in trouble with your investors. People get pretty crazy when it comes to money.”

“You’re telling
me
?” Gillette chuckled. “Look, I’m about to make my investors five billion dollars on Laurel Energy.”

Stiles caught his breath. “Five
billion
?”

“Yeah, so I don’t think they’ll give me too much trouble over five million. That’s chicken scratch to them.”

“Jesus.”

“And five million’s a fair price for QS, anyway. It’s full, but fair, and Craig and I think it’ll be a nice tuck-in to round out McGuire’s service offerings. McGuire has a high-end protection division, but it caters mostly to business executives. You’ve got connections in the sports and entertainment industry Craig doesn’t. After we close, I’ll expect you to work with him on those relationships, make all the introductions.”

“Of course.”

“Good. See, everybody wins. McGuire and Company gets a new business line at a decent price, you get five million bucks, and I get all your time. Okay?”

Stiles made a face as though he were trying to work through a calculus problem. “Okay.”

Gillette could see it was all just beginning to sink in. Stiles had grown up dirt poor in Harlem, and now he was about to make five million dollars. More money than he probably could have dreamed of as a kid. But Gillette didn’t want there to be any appearance of impropriety, either. They’d have to go through all the normal due diligence. “As part of the deal, you’ll sign a noncompete.”

“A what?”

“A noncompetition agreement. It’ll stipulate that you can’t start, or work for, another personal security company for at least five years.”

“Well, I—”

“And you’ll sign all the normal reps and warranties as part of the purchase agreement.”

“The normal
whats
?”

“Representations and warranties. Promises that you alone have the power to sell the company and that you’ve been a good corporate citizen while you owned it. Specifically, that you’re the only owner of QS stock and, if you’re not, that the others can’t block you, that you’ve paid all your corporate and personal taxes, and that you don’t have any lawsuits pending against you. Things like that. If it turns out some of those things aren’t accurate, and I find out about it after we do the deal, you’ll owe me my money back and then some.”

“So, I’m gonna need a lawyer,” Stiles said glumly.

“It’s all standard stuff in the deal business.”

“I don’t know deals, I know personal security and investigations.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“You wouldn’t take advantage of me, Chris.”

Gillette grinned. “Sure I would. It’s what I do. That’s why you’re going to get a lawyer.” He could see Stiles was struggling, unsure of himself in this situation but trying to maintain his signature cool. Stiles didn’t want to insult the man who was going to make him rich, but he’d sacrificed and risked a great deal to get QS where it was now, and he wasn’t going to throw caution out the window for anyone. “I’d never take advantage of you, Quentin,” Gillette said seriously. “You’ll get your five million, and you’ll never have to pay me back anything. Unless you lie to me, and we both know you’d never do that.”

“Of course not.”

“I’ll get the lawyers started on the documents. We should have everything finished up in thirty days, okay?”

Stiles nodded deliberately. “Thanks, Chris. This is all pretty amazing.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve worked hard, you deserve it. Most people fail where you’ve prospered.” Gillette could see Stiles appreciated that someone else understood how much sacrifice it had taken to make QS successful. Just as he appreciated Stiles understanding how isolated he felt sometimes as chairman of Everest. It was one of the reasons they’d gotten so close. Each took the time to understand the other’s situation.

Stiles cut another piece of steak and put it in his mouth. “How did your meeting with Landry go?”

“The guy tried to back me off on the casino.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I had a feeling he’d try that,” Gillette said, folding his napkin. “I figured the owners agreed to the casino initially to get the four hundred and fifty million, then thought they could jerk it away once they gave us the franchise. You know, they thought I’d be so happy to be an NFL owner, I’d do anything they wanted after the fact.”

“What tipped you off that they’d try the bait and switch?”

“I figured they knew the Mafia was still active out there, and I know they don’t want any chance that the same people who own one of their franchises would be tempted to get in bed with organized crime. That’s one of the last things they want to see splashed across the front page of
The New York Times.
”

“Why did you think they were on to the Mob in Vegas?” Stiles asked.

“
You
were. I figured if
you
knew,
they
must.”

Stiles’s expression sagged. “You think their people are better than mine?”

“That’s a fucking joke. You figured it out in a few hours, so I figured they could do it in a few months.” Gillette pulled out his Blackberry and scrolled through his e-mails. “You find out anything more about what’s going on? Anything specific about what we’re likely to run into?”

Stiles nodded and leaned forward in his chair, motioning for Gillette to do the same.

“What is it?” Gillette asked, putting his elbows on the table and looking around suspiciously.

“Hey, this is Sparks Steak House,” Stiles said quietly.

“Yep. Best steak place in Manhattan. So what?”

“There’s probably Mob guys in here right now,” Stiles said, looking around.

“Oh, come on.”

“Hey, don’t you remember?”

“Remember what?”

“John Gotti shot Paul Castellano dead on the steps of this place one night as Castellano was coming in to eat dinner. Castellano was godfather of the Gambino family. Ultimately, Gotti became don of the Gambinos. He used to eat here, too. Before the feds finally took Gotti down and sent him away for life.” Stiles glanced around at a few tables. “But, like we all know, you take one wiseguy down and a new one takes his place, so I figure the walls here have ears.”

Gillette nodded. “Yeah, but any ears in this place probably belong to the feds. If any Mob guy talked business in this place, he’d probably be killed by his own family before the feds could get to him.”

“But they can hear what we’re talking about if they’re around, and I figure you don’t want that.” Stiles glanced at one table in particular, four tough-looking guys dressed in silk suits.

Gillette followed Stiles’s glance. “Okay,” he said quietly, “what do you have?”

“There’s three families active in Vegas right now,” Stiles answered. “Branches of the Chicago Treviso and Barducci families are there, but they’re small-time. Penny-ante stuff, mostly, like retail ‘protection.’ They target off-the-strip restaurants and shops owned by foreigners who can’t go to the authorities for help because most of their workers are illegal aliens and they haven’t paid FICA in years. Easy pickings for extortionists who kill somebody every once in a while just to make a statement, whether he pays his arm-twist money or not. They’ve been targeting mainly Asians, from what I’m hearing. So, of course, the Asian Mobs see an opportunity and they’re moving in to ‘protect’ their people. Problem is, those guys are worse than Italians. They charge more and kill for less.” Stiles paused for a moment. “The family you need to watch out for in Vegas is the Carbone family. They’re out of New York, and they’ve got all the local construction companies tied up, so you got to make certain everyone wants to work hard all the time. If you try to bring someone in from the outside who doesn’t gouge you for the extra incentive, you find out your equipment breaks down real often. They’re also close to the gaming commission and the other state regulators involved with the gambling industry, so you’ll run into them whenever you need licenses and approvals. Don’t believe the local city officials who tell you everything’s clean. It isn’t.”