Two Jakes (9 page)

CHAPTER
9 – PEST CONTROL

The
Gulfstream II leveled off at 42,000 feet just as its sole passenger finished
his first glass of wine.

“Would
you like more Cabernet?”

“I’d
be a fool if I didn’t,” Jesús Garza said, holding out his glass to the smiling
Miss Universe lookalike that Victor favored for his fleet of three corporate
jets. As usual the wine served aboard the company’s planes was superb. “And
what is that scrumptious aroma?”

“Lamb
cutlets. They’ll be ready in a minute. Can I get you a salad first?”

Having
a “getaway jet” at his disposal certainly made things pleasant, Garza thought,
stifling a yawn. What the wine started the food would finish. He’d sleep most
of the way to Florida. After a mostly wet week in Seattle, he was looking
forward to some time off in Naples, where he and Christian maintained their
permanent residence. The Florida Gulf Coast town was 90 minutes by car and a
world away from the Miami madhouse. Naples was surprisingly open to other
lifestyles and had a small but vibrant gay subculture. Garza and Keitel chalked
that up to the basic practicality of Midwesterners, who dominated the town.
They had many friends of all persuasions and were fixtures at the town’s annual
Wine Festival, which raised millions for local schools and drew the elite of
Hollywood and Wall Street. Garza was hoping to surprise Christian with an
invitation to one of the private dinners prepared by Emeril or Martha in one of
the hedge fund mansions in Port Royal. Yes, Garza thought, Naples was a sweet
place to unwind, with its 100 golf courses and world-class restaurants. He
hoped Christian had called the cleaning service.

***

In
fact, Keitel had just made the call after discovering a
Periplaneta
americana
swimming in one of the condo’s four toilets. The palmetto bug
(the Chamber of Commerce name for the huge cockroach) was not primarily a house
dweller, but lived in the lush vegetation that the tropics provided and made an
occasionally memorable domestic foray. Too big to squash, the bug was now
ensconced in a small Tupperware container. Keitel carried it out to the pond on
the golf course bordering their house. He could see the breakfast swirls of the
pond’s fish. Opening the top of the container, he flipped the creature into the
water. Its six legs started kicking up ripples in every direction. The
vibrations were like a dinner bell. A huge bass blasted into the bug, coming
halfway out of the water. Apparently, it didn’t find palmetto bugs disgusting.
Damn, that was a big fish! With all the chemicals draining into the water,
Keitel thought, the pond’s bass could hit 70 home runs in the majors.

***

Christian
Keitel and Jesús Garza had been together for five years. They met in one of
Miami’s hotter clubs, which, while not catering exclusively to gays, was a
reliable place to find lovers of any sex. The German had recently arrived in
the country, and was looking for work. He had done some modeling but it was
soon apparent that his talents lay elsewhere. Garza gave him surveillance jobs
and an occasional debt collection. The ex-commando proved adept at both. Any
doubts about his potential were put to rest one night after he was accosted by
two men who tried to relieve him of his night’s receipts.

“They
used to work for the pig that owed the money,” Keitel told Garza the next
morning, sporting a bruise above his right eye.

“Used
to work?”

“Here’s
the money.”

“This
is more than he owed,” Garza said.

“I
cleaned out their wallets after I killed them. The idiots pulled knives. I’ll
take care of the pig tonight. It will be on me.”

Garza,
the more reflective of the two, occasional wondered at the odds of two
homicidal gay men of such differing backgrounds winding up together. Actually,
he had to admit, it probably wasn’t all that remarkable given the incredibly
varied and bizarre nightlife available in Miami. Some of their hangouts
reminded him of the cantina in Star Wars.

Both
were well liked within the Ballantrae organization by the majority of their
fellow employees – who knew them only as “Financial Consultants” – for their
good humor and consideration. They remembered birthdays, were the life of
office parties and avoided the politics and backstabbing prevalent in most
financial services firms. (Frontstabbing was another matter.) They shared a
large corner office on the 40
^th
floor overlooking Biscayne Bay. They
also shared a beautiful secretary whose main function was to book their trips.
They were often out of town. She wondered how brokers could spend so much time
out of the office. But that was not unusual in this company. The entire floor was
seemingly staffed by receptionists and secretaries. The plush executive offices
were usually vacant. Garza and Keitel did no mailings, gave no seminars and
rarely made a phone call. But business seemed to be thriving. It was the same
for many of the other brokers. At least her “boys” kept her busy with their
travel and active social life. She was always ordering tickets to some play or
gallery opening for them, or catering one of their parties. The other
secretaries and assistants rarely had anything to do. Over lunch or in the
coffee room some of the girls complained about being bored. Once in a while
somebody wondered where all the money was coming from. But since some of that
money was coming their way – the pay was excellent and everyone got a nice bonus
at year’s end – the talk never went past the donut stage.

It
was well for them that it didn’t. The whole operation was a sham and
hemorrhaging money. The brokers – the men and women who occasionally showed up
– were all legally registered with Series 7 and 63 certificates and were
licensed to buy and sell securities. But they rarely did that. True, there were
a couple of old-timers hired as window dressing. Any clients they brought in,
any assets they gathered, any trades they generated, were gravy.

For
the main business of the financial services section was laundering money. So
much that the brokerage operations could afford to “lose” $30 million a year.
Jesús Garza and Christian Keitel had their Series 7, but also a few Glock 9’s.
They would argue that of all the executives on their floor, they were the only
ones with real jobs. The company employed many tough characters in its Security
Division, but Garza and Keitel were the problem solvers. They took pride in
their work and made it as entertaining as possible, believing traditional
assassinations too dangerous. A double tap to the back of the head with a
silenced .22 aroused suspicions even in the dimmest cops. But bizarre,
hard-to-explain deaths were usually written off as bad luck. Garza, with his experience
in Castro’s service, was by far the more innovative. That rankled Keitel, whose
only real coup involved the impregnation of one target’s toilet paper with
tetrodotoxin, an instantly fatal nerve poison. And even that he’d borrowed from
the Mossad, something he neglected to tell his partner.

***

Keitel
was lying naked on his stomach on a lounger, his head hanging over the end,
where he had placed a Kindle on a wooden stand. He was half way through
The
Old Man and the Sea
. Garza had started him on Hemingway; like many Cubans
he revered the American author.

Keitel’s
body was muscled and golden, broad shoulders tapering to an absurdly thin
waist. His buttocks were taut; he was an accomplished runner, both at sprints
and distance. At the base of his spine, where there was a small knob, a tuft of
golden down waved gently in the breeze provided by an overhead fan in the
covered part of the lanai a few feet away. Keitel knew that the prominence of
his tailbone was caused by too many rough parachute landings (and idiotic boat
rides). It was, literally, a pain in the ass, but the hard little knot couldn’t
be surgically repaired without risk. Besides, he knew that many of his lovers
found the little “tail” attractive.

Keitel
barely remembered his parents, who died when he was very young. He and his
older sister were taken in by an aunt and uncle who were as kindly as they were
dull. The couple had no children of their own, and apparently few friends, the
result, Christian suspected, of the Keitel family’s rather checkered past,
which included a distant relative who had been Hitler’s chief of staff. That
was a Keitel who didn’t run fast enough; his wartime service earned him a trip
to the gallows. The aunt and uncle were farmers, so both Christian and his
sister, Hannah, grew up strong. There was plenty of good solid food, but farm
work melted off the calories. He rarely saw Hannah anymore, but recent photos
indicated that she should not have given up milking cows. Still, she was a
pleasant enough woman. Keitel regularly sent her large amounts of money with
the understanding that half would go into German and French real estate, and
the rest to educating her ever-growing brood of children.

A
track star in school, Keitel immediately distinguished himself as a non-commissioned
officer and eventually wound up in Germany’s elite KSK, or "Special Power
Commando" battalion, the equivalent of the British SAS. He participated in
several secret combat operations, often with allied units.

Keitel
stopped reading. He watched a small lizard feasting on ants. It was
fascinating. The lizard, a dark green anole, was perched on the bottom rung of
the umbrella table next to Keitel’s chaise. The ants were trying to navigate a
no-man’s-land between the pool and the small flower garden bordering the lanai.
The ants often stopped in patches of dappled shade caused by the leaves of
nearby plants. Some even paused near drops of water that had sprayed from
Keitel’s body after his frequent cooling-down swims. Were they drinking? Or
just made momentarily cautious by the change in their almost microscopic
environment? The tiny reptile stayed motionless, but for its bobbing head,
until an ant wandered into the killing ground. Keitel estimated that the
distance between the lizard’s ambush site and the ant trail was three feet.
Once the anole targeted an ant it was over in seconds. A few lucky ants veered
away under Keitel’s chaise before the lizard pounced. Their good fortune
annoyed Keitel and he finished them with a finger. The only other part of his
body that moved was his head, moving up and down in rhythm with that of the
lizard.

***

Garza
dropped his bag on the kitchen counter and grabbed a Dos Equis from the
refrigerator. Kicking off his shoes he padded silently out to the pool.

“Christian,
I believe you have finally gone around the bend.”

“Be
quiet. Don’t frighten him. It’s almost in his kill zone.”

Garza
ignored him and sat down in a chair next to the table. That was too much for
the anole, which shot into the garden.

“Thank
you very much.”

“Just
what are you doing?” Garza was exasperated.

Keitel
told him.

“I
know this is Naples, Christian, but aren’t you a bit young for a retirement
home?”

“Show
some respect. We are amateurs compared to that little assassin. Look at how far
he had to traverse. It would be like one of us running a city block for a bite
and back again in ten seconds.”

“Remarkable.
But I prefer our diet, no? Which reminds me, I am hungry. Get dressed. Let’s go
out for dinner. I will tell you how it went in Seattle.”

“Let’s
try that seafood place on Third Street,” Keitel said, springing up.

“Good
God, no! It will be some time before I can look a fish in the eye again. I want
French food. You can satiate your blood lust by stalking a snail. By the way,
what are you doing home? I thought you had jury duty again.”

“I
did. Criminal trial. A redneck pederast from Everglades City who raped a little
Hispanic boy in Immokalee.”

Garza
lit a cigarette as they walked into the house.

“I
remember the story. As if those poor people out there don’t have enough
trouble. What happened?”

“The
guy pleaded out before it went to the jury. Lucky for him. We were ready to
kill the bastard ourselves.”

“Don’t
worry; it’s a death sentence for him. They don’t mess around with that kind of
scum down here. The cons at Raiford will deal with it. But tell me, Christian,
what do you say in court when they ask about your occupation? I’ve always
wondered.”

“Pest
Control Specialist.”

They
both laughed.

CHAPTER
10 – AN ADORING PRESS

“Watch
your ass in Miami,” Dudley Mack said as he drove Scarne to catch the 7 A.M.
ferry to Manhattan Monday morning. “It’s a rough town, despite all the Chamber
of Commerce bullshit. Third world. If you get jammed up, I know people who owe
me down there. Big time”

“I’m
sure you do. Some of them may even be out on bail. If I spot anybody following
me wearing a ski cap, I’ll call 911.”

“Anybody
ever tell you you’re an asshole?”

“You,
all the time,” Scarne said as he got out of the car and with a wave waded into
the throng of half-somnolent commuters.

He
was in his apartment by 8 A.M. He had purchased the one-bedroom at 2 Fifth
Avenue, just above Washington Square Park in the East Village, with most of his
inheritance. Now, he probably couldn’t afford to sell it. The flats in the
40-year-old, 18-story building apartment were almost twice as large as those in
newer buildings. Scarne had almost 1,600 square feet of living space, and that
didn’t include all the closets, two of which were walk-ins. To get comparable
value, he’d have to move back to Montana.

The
apartment was sparsely furnished. He told people it was “manly” or “Spartan.”
In truth, he couldn’t make up his mind on the décor. Living in the Village
didn’t make a decision easier. There were so many antique and specialty shops
around he found himself changing his mind every week. The women who
occasionally slept over were not Spartan in their opinions or suggestions. A
couple had even “dropped off” paintings or accent pieces, most of which quickly
took up residence in the back of a closet (unless the gifter was scheduled for
a return visit). That didn’t happen often. Scarne valued his privacy. Besides,
the majority of his flings preferred their own beds.

The
apartment was not totally bereft of refinement, thanks to the burnished St. George
Rosewood chess set on a Staunton pedestal game table in his living room. He had
debated putting the set in his office, but thought that would be a bit much.
Both table and set had belonged to his grandfather and were nonnegotiable in
any redecorating scheme. At the moment Scarne, a good college player whose game
had improved under fire in pick-up games in Washington Square Park, was engaged
in a tough battle with an Internet player who was using a confounded Ruy Lopez
defense. It was Scarne’s move, and he had been mulling it for days.

He
was just getting out of the shower when Evelyn called.

“I
just got off the phone with a fellow named Nigel Blue.”

“As
in red, white and…”

“Yes.
He works for Randolph Shields.”

That
didn’t take long, Scarne thought.

“What
did he want?”

“Mr.
Shields would like you to be his guest tonight on the corporate yacht. La dee
dah.”

“That’s
the name of the yacht?”

“No,
you goose. That’s my comment on your recently exalted status. The name of the
yacht is
Emerald of the Seas
and she is supposed to be a beauty. Anyway,
Randolph is hosting some sort of party. Starts at six. They can send a car for
you. What do you want me to tell Mr. Blue?”

“That
I will be delighted. It will give me a chance to wear my tie with the little
sailboats on it.”

***

“The
52-story New York Times Building, designed by noted Italian architect Renzo
Piano and constructed almost exclusively with recycled steel, is the
seventh-tallest building in the United States and one of the most energy
efficient in the world. Located on the east side of Eighth Avenue between 40
^th
and 41
^st
Streets across from the Port Authority Bus Terminal, it
features a natural gas cogeneration plant, an exterior tinted-glass curtain
wall that gives the illusion of transparency and 18,000 individually-dimmable
fluorescent lights. It also has under-floor air distribution, a free-air
cooling system that brings outside air inside and mechanized shades to reduce
glare.”

Robert
Huber looked up from the glossy brochure.

“I
really like the next part.”

“There
is no on-site parking, although building managers recently established indoor
space for 20 bicycles.”

“This
is all very fascinating,” Scarne said, passing a coffee and bagel across the
desk. “Cinnamon with a smear, right?”

“They
never should have built the fucking thing,” Huber said, biting a huge chunk out
of the bagel. “They sold the old building for $175 million in 2004, and in 2007
the new owners, a bunch of sharks, resold it for $525 million. This joint cost
a billion. Do the math. I warned them.”

Indeed
he had, Scarne recalled. With 34 years at “the paper of record” Huber was a
true journalistic dinosaur. Even though he favored grey three-piece suits,
maroon ties and cordovan wingtips, he had the waspish mien of a tough police
reporter. He kept his white hair in a buzz cut and his stocky build hinted more
of muscle than fat. All you had to know about Huber was the legendary – and
documented – incident when he demanded cab fare from a pistol-wielding mugger
who had just relieved him of his wallet. And got it.

He
was also a fearless and prescient reporter. In a series of articles in the
Times
business section he had explained why the nation’s real estate boom could not
be sustained. The extensively researched stories noted that even if Manhattan
prices held up better in a crash, media companies facing new competition should
preserve capital or invest only in new technologies, not bricks and mortar.
While he never mentioned
The New York Times
by name, it was clear who he
meant, especially within the walls of the old building at 229 West 43
^rd
Street, where he lobbied against the new edifice. Huber was something of an
embarrassment to management, which was now shedding staff and drastically
cutting costs to service a huge debt load. Not surprisingly, they offered him a
buyout. Also not surprisingly, he refused and with a George Polk business award
in his quiver, they had to put up with him. He was moved off the real estate
beat, however, and now covered Wall Street. (“Same catastrophe, different pew,”
he said.)

Scarne
and Huber were sitting in a starship-like newsroom overlooking the ground-floor
gardens. All around them were the accoutrements of modern media. Reporters sat
in front of the latest computers, working their iPhones, Blackberries or more
advanced wireless devices (Scarne found it hard to keep up), occasionally
glancing at wall-mounted plasma televisions and their streaming news: An
electronic sea of instant information designed to make the organization they
worked for obsolete. Some of the brightest minds on the planet were in this
building, Scarne knew, and while he often disagreed with the “paper of record,”
especially its frequently facile dismissal of the traditions and collective
memory of the society that protected it, he believed that its demise would be
one more indication that the barbarians at the gate had the code that would
unlock civilization’s protective keypad. To his mind, too many people relied on
the Internet, which for all its power and promise was becoming a lowest-common-denominator
sewer of libel, scandal and vulgarity.

“What’s
the pastry bribe for,” Huber mumbled with a mouthful of bagel.

“What
can you tell me about Victor Ballantrae?”

“Why?”

Scarne
sighed. Over the years the two had traded favors, but Scarne was at least one
down to Huber and the reporter wanted to let him know.

“When
you ask about someone,” Huber said, “it’s usually because a bowel movement is
about to hit the fan. So, I get curious. It’s what they underpay me for. Why do
you want to know about Ballantrae?”

“I
think he landed in a spaceship at Area 51 and is really a lizard.”

“Well,
that’s OK, then. As long as there’s not a story in it for me.”

“So,
what about him?”

“You’re
not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope.”

“That’s
it? I bend over for a fucking bagel?”

“And
I’ll buy you dinner at The Waverly Inn.”

“This
century? No way. You ain’t got the clout.”

“Yeah,
I do” Or rather, Dudley Mack did. “And I’ll renew my
Times
subscription.”

“Now
you’re talking. Every little bit helps around here. But why don’t you just
Google the guy? That’s what these numbnuts do for background.” Huber made a
dismissive wave at reporters nearby, making sure he could be overheard. An
attractive young woman at the next desk gave him the finger.

“I
did. Mostly PR stuff. He’s apparently the second coming. I thought you might
provide something more down to earth.”

“To
tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking about pitching a piece on Ballantrae to
the bullpen.” Huber smiled and lowered his voice. “After I Goggled him, I made
some calls. I hear he’s looking to make a big move into the media. Couple of
interesting names being thrown around. Tri-City Communications, Shields, even
this place, though management insists the Old Grey Lady isn’t for sale.”

Scarne
kept his face impassive at the mention of Shields, but Huber must have noticed
something.

“Is
that it, Jake? You doing some due diligence for a takeover target? I could use
some confirmation. My editors get nervous when I look into anything to do with
the media.”

“I
don’t work for any potential takeover target.” It wasn’t really a lie, Scarne
rationalized. “Satisfied? Now can we get to it?”

Huber
reached into his desk, pulled out a reporter’s notebook and began flipping
pages.

“Victor
Ballantrae is 45 years old, born in Australia and a billionaire. He’s also a
citizen of Antigua, which may knight him, so he’d be Sir Victor.”

“Antigua
has knights?”

“Days,
too. Sorry. Yeah. It’s an honorary thing. If you have enough money, you can get
the title. You know what I say, at my age once a knight is enough.”

Huber’s
cell phone buzzed. He picked it up and listened for a minute.

“Oh,
for Christ sake! Just find out who it is and tell ‘em we’ll evict them if they
don’t stop. I know it’s a stupid fuckin’ law. But we have to be purer than
Caesar’s wife. Caesar. Julius. He was – shit, never mind. Just do it.”

He
flipped the phone onto his desk and looked at Scarne.

“My
super. Can you believe it? Indian guy in my building is bitching about another
tenant smoking. Threatening to go to City Hall. Says it’s coming through the
vents.” Huber and a couple of older editors owned a small SRO building in the
Bowery. It didn’t surprise Scarne that Huber handled complaints. “Might not
even be on his floor. I don’t know how he can even smell it. You can smell the curry
crap he makes in Hoboken.” Sighing loudly, he went back to flipping pages.

“Anyway,
Ballantrae recently applied for American citizenship. He’s his own fucking UN.
Apparently never been married, but his early years are a black hole. According
to the corporate bio bullshit he led a hardscrabble life in the outback then
made a fortune in mining and insurance before getting into banking. Arrived in
the U.S. with a shitpot of money and then branched out into the Caribbean,
setting up a big international bank in Antigua. Also very successful in the
Texas oil patch, real estate and in insurance again. Over the last five years
or so, he has moved aggressively into financial services. He owns homes in
Houston, Miami, Colorado, Antigua, and London, and a 120-foot yacht. You ever
see it? It’s over at Chelsea pier.”

“No,
I haven’t,” Scarne replied. He didn’t mention that he would be on the Shields
yacht in a few hours.

“Then
there’s the three jets and, if you count all the dough he’s spread around,
Antigua and several American Congressmen who oversee offshore banking.”

“Sounds
like a self-made man,” Scarne said. “Nothing wrong with that. Anything make you
suspicious? Why were you thinking about doing a story?”

Huber
threw his notebook on his desk and sat back.

“Ballantrae
may have cut some corners moving so fast into financial services. There’s been
a few minor run-ins with the S.E.C. But he’s never been accused of any
criminality. My sources tell me that he’s getting a reputation on Wall Street
for sharp elbows. Could be sour grapes. He’s beginning to grab deals from
established players and snapping up their talent. But even his rivals give him
credit for his philanthropic work. A lot of people think he’s a breath of fresh
air on Wall Street. The new paradigm after what we’ve been through.”

Huber
picked up his coffee and tilted his chair back.

“That
sets my bullshit antenna tingling. Tell you a story. When I was covering Wall
Street the first time in the mid-80’s, I sat in on a meeting with the top
editors, people who couldn’t find their asshole with a GPS system now. They
wanted their reporters to prepare glowing profiles on the brilliant financiers
who were then changing the paradigm – there’s that word again – of Wall Street.
They asked my opinion. I said it was a marvelous idea because when the people
we profiled got indicted we’d scoop everyone else.” Huber sat forward and
laughed, almost spilling his coffee. “You’d have thought I farted in church! I
told them that I didn’t know what their superstars were doing but it had to be
illegal. Couple of months later, Boesky, Milken and the rest were busted.
Twenty-five years later, it was Madoff, Drier, Stanford. All of whom got their
balls licked by an adoring press before the cuffs came out. Things never
change. Ballantrae may be legit, but he fits my profile for shysterism. He has
a piece of a couple of casinos in Vegas and the Caribbean. They say he’s his
own best customer and drops two, three hundred grand a night. He’s also a
fanatic golfer and plays at all the best clubs, usually for very high stakes.”