Mystery Writers of America Presents Vengeance Page 28

  “Leverage,” he whispered back. “The lawyer walked me through it three times.” No one in the room had any interest at all in the career-counseling service, but they had to show up to keep the unemployment checks coming.

  “It worked because Fulmont had borrowed all the money, six or seven years ago,” Joe said. Fulmont was the plant’s owner, the third generation to run Fulmont Specialty Metals. “For the modernization—ISO 9000, all that? But when the economy tanked, it looked like we were about to go out of business, and Valiant’s hedge fund bought up the debt.”

  “How can you buy debt?”

  “Like Rico laying off his markers? Fulmont doesn’t owe to First City National anymore, he owes to Valiant.”

  “Oh.” Stokey squinted. “I guess.”

  “So then Valiant called the debt, drove us into bankruptcy, and the bankruptcy court let him cancel every single obligation the company had. Suppliers, customers, subcontractors—they all got totally screwed, and we lost our pensions. Everything went into Valiant’s pocket.”

  Tinny music came from the video. On the screen, young, well-dressed men and women strode through high-tech offices, smiling and making decisions and managing big projects.

  “And then he opened the plant up again, only now everyone’s getting paid minimum wage.” Joe glanced at Stokey. He hadn’t shaved either. “You could do better pumping gas at the interstate plaza.”

  “They ain’t hiring.”

  “I know.” Joe felt his shoulders sag. “I asked out there too.”

  “Valiant stole every penny that could be squeezed out of Fulmont,” said Stokey. “No different than he took dynamite and a thermal drill down to the bank after hours. Except instead of trying to stop him, the judges and the courts and the sheriff, they were all right there helping him do it.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That’s how I see it. That’s how you see it. That’s how everyone in this fucking room sees it.” Stokey was getting worked up. Joe noticed the facilitator’s eyes had opened. “What country are we living in here? Russia? France? Who wrote these damn laws anyway?”

  “The best politicians money can buy. You know that.” Joe put a hand on Stokey’s arm. “Forget it. Watch the movie.”

  Stokey subsided, grumbling, and they sat through the rest of the session. People got up wearily when it was done, chairs scraping on the worn floor.

  “Next week we’re doing social networking,” said the facilitator, shutting down her computer. “We’ll get you all going on Facebook.”

  Outside, the sun and heat was a hammer blow.

  “Where you going now?” asked Stokey. He’d taken a Marlboro box out of his shirt pocket and was gravely considering the remaining cigarettes. Seven bucks a pack. Joe knew he was figuring how long he could stretch them out.

  “Down the river, by the bluff. Thought I might shoot a deer.”

  “They ain’t in season.”

  “There’s no season on being hungry.”

  Stokey nodded. “Put some venison up for the winter.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  They separated, going to their trucks, and Stokey drove off first. Joe sat for a few minutes, despite the heat, gazing at nothing in particular.

  THE DROUGHT FINALLY broke, like it always did, and the weather turned beautiful again. Mid-September, the high school’s first home game, and some of the nights were already cool.

  On one of those nights, Joe ran into Stokey in the gravel parking lot out behind Community Baptist. Quarter to nine, mostly dark, right before the church food pantry closed up. Joe was walking out, carrying his paper sack of canned beans and margarine and Vienna wieners. Stokey hesitated, then started to turn away.

  “It’s all right,” said Joe.

  “I was just—you know.”

  “I’ve been coming every week. No shame in it.”

  “Yeah.” But there was, of course. Stokey wasn’t the only one to show up after dusk, at closing, hoping to avoid running into anyone he knew. Joe had nodded to two women inside, and none of them had spoken.

  “Annie said we had to come.” Stokey sighed. “I didn’t want to. Didn’t let her last week. But she insisted. So I said I’d do it.”

  “She trust you?” Joe tried to lighten it up, but Stokey just shook his head.

  “It ain’t right, taking handouts. It’s not her job to be begging food.”

  “It’s not begging.”

  “Same as.”

  They stood for a few minutes while Stokey finished a cigarette. Traffic noise drifted over from Route 87, across the soybean fields. The moon had risen, almost light enough to read by. Joe pulled a folded envelope from his shirt pocket. “Got this today,” he said, running his finger along the torn edge. “From the bank.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yeah.” He looked at Stokey. “Foreclosure. I must have called six times since August, trying to talk them into a workout, but no go. They’re taking the house.”

  “When?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Harrell and his wife, they’re still in their place. Haven’t paid a dime since March. Sheriff’s even been out, and Harrell just says he’s working on it, shows another letter, and they let it go.”

  “Working on what?” Joe didn’t know Harrell well, but once he’d seen him walking through the neighborhood at dawn, checking trash bags. “Buying Hot Lotto tickets?”

  “It’s a game. The bank, they don’t really want to foreclose, because then they’re stuck with it. People ain’t exactly lining up to buy houses around here, you notice that? You could string them out for months, just like Harrell.”

  Joe had thought about it, but he shook his head. “That wouldn’t be right.”

  Stokey grimaced. “What’s not right is the whole fucking system. Everything’s rigged for the fat boys.”

  The screen door at the back of the church banged, and a shadowed figure came out, carrying two sacks. A family allotment. Joe thought he recognized the woman, but she went by without greeting them, got in her car, and drove away.

  “I’m leaving,” Joe said.

  “What?” Stokey looked up.

  “Marjo’s gone, my job is gone, the house is going. I got nothing to do here.”

  “Yeah, but—” Stokey didn’t seem to know what to say. “Where?”

  “Connecticut.”

  “Connecticut? What the hell for?”

  “I’m going to…” Joe stopped. When he said it out loud, it sounded stupid.

  “What?”

  “Valiant lives there. His office is in New York City, but he lives in some little town in Connecticut. I want to talk to him.”

  “Talk to him?”

  “Ask him why he did it. Ask him to make things right.”

  Stokey made a choking noise. He put his hands up, then dropped them. “Why the fuck would Valiant talk to you? Why would he even see you?”

  “I’ll make an appointment.” Joe straightened up. “Look, he’s another human being, right? We’re all walking the earth. Maybe he just needs to see things clear.”

  “That’s just plain—Valiant’s not walking the earth, not the same one as you and me. He’ll probably have you arrested. You can spend your golden years at Fort Madison.”

  “I don’t think so.” Joe shifted the sack of food he’d never put down. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ve got nothing to do here. Seems worth a shot.”

  They fell silent. Stokey’s energy faded. A light wind rustled the bean fields.

  “You got to get in there,” Joe said finally. “They’re closing up, and Annie’s waiting on you.”

  “Yeah.” Stokey started to move off. “Hey, when are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? When are you coming back?”

  “When it’s done.” Joe felt—not happy, but somehow… eager. “When it’s done.”

  MANHATTAN WASN’T SO bad.

  Joe had been there before, but not since he was in the service—for s
ome reason he’d been shipped home via Germany, even though the West Coast was a lot closer to Vietnam. New York in the early seventies had been spiraling into chaos, bankruptcy, and gang violence, and that’s how Joe remembered it. But the modern city was all clean streets and shiny buildings. He didn’t recognize Times Square at all.

  Valiant’s firm had its offices on Park Avenue, the fortieth floor of a glass skyscraper called the Great Prosperity Building. Chinese characters on the largest logo in the atrium suggested the building was no longer owned by Americans.

  “Mr. Valiant is out of the office this week,” said the receptionist.

  “How about next week?”

  “Fully booked, I’m afraid.”

  The woman sat at her desk facing the elevator bank, but two husky young men stood by, one on either side, both staring at Joe. The carpet felt deep and plush beneath his feet.

  He figured the bouncers were just guys who worked there, not real security. Their hands looked soft, and they didn’t have that wary, hooded gaze Joe remembered from the MPs. But they’d been out in the foyer already when Joe stepped off the elevator.

  He’d had to sign in at the main desk in the lobby, downstairs, and show a driver’s license; he’d received a printed pass. The guard there must have called up. Somehow Joe didn’t look right.

  “Why don’t you call him and check?” Joe said.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Valiant’s schedule is very busy.”

  Back on the street, Joe stood on the small plaza, under a tree just starting to blaze orange. Early afternoon and people seemed to be on extended lunch breaks, sitting in the sun, tapping at smartphones, eating paper-wrapped takeout.

  After a minute he walked back to his truck, drove around the block, and entered the garage underneath the Great Prosperity Building.

  On the A level, closest to both the surface and the elevator, Joe coasted slowly, counting. Two Ferraris, five high-end Audis, BMWs, Mercedeses, several Range Rovers… and a single Lamborghini Gallardo, the distinctive rear end unmistakable.

  The lawyer had mentioned the model Valiant owned. Before leaving town, three days earlier, Joe had looked through old Car and Driver issues at the library until he’d found it.

  “I didn’t even park,” he told the attendant at the exit, “I got a phone call, have to go right back out.”

  “Ten minutes.” The attendant was black, with an accent from somewhere far away. He pointed to the sign at the booth. “Five dollars.”

  Joe started to protest, then shrugged and dug out his wallet. No reason to attract more attention.

  This time there were no good parking spaces on the street. Good thing he’d had the tank filled that morning in New Jersey, at a gas station near the highway motel he’d stayed at. Joe started driving around the block again, taking his time. Sooner or later a spot would open up, one with a nice view of the garage exit. He had all afternoon.

  Valiant would have to leave the building eventually.

  THE RESTAURANT SEEMED far too crowded, barely room to walk between the tables and people standing two deep at the short bar. Despite some kind of fancy cloth on the walls and a carpeted floor, it was noisy, with constant clatter, chattering, and glassware clinking.

  “I’m meeting someone here at eight thirty,” Joe said, glancing at his watch. He’d put on his old jacket and tie, good enough to pass under the dim lamps that barely illuminated a podium at the door.

  “Certainly,” said the maître d’. “Care for a drink at the bar?”

  “That would be perfect.”

  Valiant was already at a small table, a woman probably twenty years younger sitting across from him. Joe had followed the Lamborghini straight here when Valiant left for the day, but Valiant used valet parking, and Joe had to take twenty minutes to find a spot on his own. He didn’t want to leave any more obvious a trail than necessary.

  “Seltzer,” he told the barman after jostling his way to the front.

  “Fourteen dollars.”

  He made the drink last. People drifted in and out. Finally, after a quarter hour, Valiant’s companion stood and made her way to the restroom, in an alcove at the end of the bar.

  When she came back out, Joe had maneuvered himself to stand where she had to brush past him.

  “Excuse me?” he said, as politely as he could.

  “Yes?” Up close she looked even more like someone accustomed to brushing off strange men in bars—flawlessly beautiful, dark eyes, precisely cut hair.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know if I should even tell you this, but…”

  “What?” She was on the verge of pushing through and ignoring him.

  “While you were in there? I happened to see your fella—he’s the handsome man in the blue shirt, right? He, well, he put something in your wineglass.”

  That got her attention. “Say that again.”

  “I’m waiting for my date, she’s coming down with one of her friends, so, you know, I’m just killing time. And I noticed, after you stood up—pardon me, miss, but I noticed you and I hope you’re not offended by that. But after you left, your man, he took something out of his pocket and reached across the table and held it over your drink. Like he was dropping something in.”

  A long pause. The woman stared hard at Joe, then even harder at Valiant, who hadn’t noticed her returning yet.

  “Are you sure?” she said.

  “I’m afraid so. But surely, if he’s a good friend of yours—”

  “I met him this weekend at a party.” She made up her mind. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, no. Really, I’m sorry.”

  “Yes.” And she walked straight out of the restaurant.

  Joe finished his seltzer, placed the glass on the bar, and went into the dining area.

  “Mr. Valiant?” He pulled out the woman’s chair and sat down. “Mind if I join you for a moment?”

  “Wha—”

  “Don’t worry, your companion won’t be here for a few minutes.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Joe Beeker.” Joe held out his hand, not expecting Valiant to take it. “I used to work at Fulmont Metal.”

  Valiant looked around. Up close, he had presence—fit, strong, clear-eyed, with a haircut and clothes that even Joe could tell cost vast amounts of money. Someone accustomed to watching other people get out of his way.

  “You’re interrupting a private dinner,” he said. “Leave now, or the police will haul you away.”

  “Yeah?” Joe said. “Do you really want to do that? Because I won’t go quietly. I’ll be hollering about how badly you treated us, stealing the company, stripping the pensions, cheating the suppliers. I’ll bet there are forty cell phones with cameras in here. You’ll be all over the internet in half an hour—and I’ll walk, since I haven’t actually done anything wrong.” He paused. “Unlike you.”

  A smile flashed. “You’re trying to threaten me?”

  “Me? I just turned sixty-two. I’m a tired old man. I’m not threatening anybody.”

  Valiant shrugged. “What do you want?”

  “Just to talk for a couple minutes.” Joe looked closely at Valiant’s eyes. “Mostly, I’m wondering, do you understand what you did to us?”

  “I—”

  “Deep down? Because I don’t think a regular person would have gone there. I think you just don’t realize the suffering you caused in order to make an extra few million bucks for yourself.”

  “Just business.” Valiant looked toward the bar, frowning a bit, then drank from his wineglass. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Oh, I—”

  “Everything we did was perfectly legal. By the book.”

  “I keep hearing that.”

  “Your boss had run the company into the ground. What you don’t get is, we saved the place. If we hadn’t come along to fix it, the entire operation would have gone under, and nobody would be working anymore.”

  “Fulmont was doing fine until you called the debt.”

  “That was e
ntirely within our rights.”

  “That was ruthless and unnecessary—except to give you an opening to loot the place.” A waiter appeared, looking confused.

  “Excuse me, sir, are you joining the party? And the lady…?”

  “We’re fine,” Valiant said.

  “Ah, shall I bring out the first course?”

  “I’ll let you know when.”

  “Very good.” He slipped away, still frowning.

  “You can’t fix everything,” said Joe. “Not completely. I know that. But at an absolute minimum, you need to give the pension back.”

  “Oh, go to hell.” Valiant’s patience had begun to wear.

  “It’s only six million dollars. Last year you boasted about earning, what, nine billion? You can afford it.”

  “It was all legal. There’s no obligation.”

  “Legal.” Joe sighed. “What you did—it was wrong.”

  He didn’t get anywhere. Valiant sat obstinate for another minute, disregarding him. When the waiter came back again, with the maître d’ for support, Joe stood up.

  “Thanks for the time, Mr. Valiant,” he said.

  “If I ever see you again, you’re going to jail.”

  “Beeker,” said Joe. “With three e’s. You need some time to think it over, that’s okay. Let’s say, by Wednesday? A public announcement. I’ll be waiting.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Joe nodded. “Wednesday,” he said again, and left.

  NOTHING HAPPENED, EXCEPT that Valiant hired some bodyguards. They were at his house—Joe followed the Gallardo one evening, an hour’s drive out of the city and into horse country, to see a blacked-out SUV waiting at the gate. In the morning the bodyguards arrived early at the office, and when Valiant went out for lunch, Joe saw at least one musclehead nearby the entire time.

  On the other hand, they didn’t actually drive with him. The sports car was a two-seater, hardly built for six-foot linebackers carrying automatic weapons. Joe thought about this, and he followed Valiant to and from his house for a few more days.