Clawback (2 page)

His eyes grew large. “That’s—”

“Only one ear, right. You need the other to hear me continue the discussion.” I paused. “And to make the necessary phone calls, of
course. Hands-free is nice, but they’re not making
ears
-free headsets yet.”

What can I say? If you don’t enjoy your work, you’re in the wrong job.

Hayden’s brave front was cracking.

“There’s nothing I can do!”

“I hope—I really hope—that’s not true.”

The club’s door opened and two men exited. They walked past, thirty feet away, while I sat quiet, ready to silence Hayden if I had to. But he didn’t even look at them.

A good sign.

“However,” I said, “you’ll be happy to hear that option one may not be necessary.”

“No?”

“No. Because a few hours ago I spoke with Walter Smith.”

He froze again.

“Walter told me all about your business arrangement.”

“What arrangement?” But it was barely a question.

“Walter understands how life works. See, we’re in the same world. We run into each other now and then. Me, he’s going to see again.” I shrugged. “You, on the other hand,…”

“He sold me out?” Hayden actually started to get angry. “I already paid the son of a bitch!”

“There’s that, too, of course. You should always hold a little back.”

Despite what I’d said earlier, I don’t really like the Dick Cheney interrogation style. That was all for show. You can always beat a lie
out of someone, but the truth? That takes psychology. In Hayden’s case, psychology suggested that gruesome threats might be helpful, as they often are with small minds.

As for how I found Walter—well, that’s the sort of inside knowledge my client was really paying me for, even if he didn’t know it.

I’d gotten the assignment late last night, which left zero time for backgrounding. No problem, because Hayden was cutting public tracks everywhere. Two phone calls and twenty minutes on Google revealed a man living far too carefree for a fraudster with the wrath of a powerful, politically ambitious New York prosecutor poised above his neck. Dinners at Masa, a chartered helicopter to Mill Neck, a front-row runway seat at the Chloé show—Hayden acted like someone beyond suspicion.

Or like someone with other plans.

Suppose you’re a corner-cutting hedge fund manager who’s made a killing the easy way—by cheating—and the law’s about to come knocking. Chumps like Madoff give themselves up, confess and spend the rest of their lives in prison. Smart guys, on the other hand, pull a Kobi Alexander and flee with every penny, to spend their lives like kings in nonextraditing corners of the Third World.

The problem is getting out. Hayden would have no problem funneling the cash offshore—half his job had been glorified money laundering cum tax evasion anyway. But slipping past U.S. border authorities himself? That’s a different story. How many document counterfeiters do
you
know? Are any of them good enough to forge an RFID-equipped U.S. passport?

There aren’t many, and on the midtown-Greenwich axis, the number’s even smaller. Wherever Hayden got the tip, Walter was one of only two or three possibilities.

“So here’s how it’s going to work,” I said. “Walter gave me details and photocopies.” Not traceable to him, naturally, but that didn’t matter. “If you don’t cough up my client’s balance, those copies go to the DA’s office. Not only will you remain in the United States, I doubt the judge will even grant bail. You’ll never see sunshine without bars across it again.”

And that was that. Hayden blustered and complained and argued, but we both knew he’d come through.

The transactions were finally completed at two a.m. We managed everything from Hayden’s iPhone—good thing he had a charger in the dash—except a confirmation, which I dialed from mine. When I provided my client’s bank details for the transfers, Hayden noticed it was based in the Caymans, and I could see him start to say something.

“Hayden,” I said, “I
hate
irony.” And we buckled down and finished the job.

When I opened the passenger door, grateful for the cooler night air, Hayden spoke up.

“Hey, you’re going to cut me loose, aren’t you?”

I thought about it.

“Let’s do this,” I said. “The girls inside, did you tip them okay?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Good. They’re earning a living, they deserve decent pay.”

He looked at me. “Sure.”

“This is about the time they finish up.” Connecticut bars close at
two—thanks, blue hairs! “So they’ll be coming through here soon. Just holler.”

“But—”

“Since you treated them well, I’m sure they’ll help you out.”

He started to splutter, and I closed the door.

I
f I had one, my logo might be a green eyeshade crossed by a 9 mil.

It’s a small niche, though a necessary one, especially in economic times as difficult as these. Straightforward accountancy is all well and good. But sometimes you need someone packing a P226, not an HP-12c—if you know what I mean.

My own background? Military, of course, and I can’t say much more about it. When I got out, most of the guys I knew were going over to Blackwater, but I wanted something quieter. Benefits paid for some college, I took the CPA exam because a girl I knew was doing it, and I kind of drifted into independent consulting.

You hear all about how cutthroat American business has become. As if Wall Street is worse than Blofeld’s shark tank; like guys get shivved in the coatroom at L’Atelier. Now, at a few places that’s true, I admit. The way the
mafiya
has moved into penny-stock fraud, for example, I wouldn’t go near a boiler-room brokerage without a machine gun. But come on—mostly we’re talking about guys who
haven’t been closer to combat than ducking a swing from a drunken panhandler they insulted outside Grand Central.

When you find out someone’s been fiddling the books, you’ve got options. You can issue a restatement and a public apology—ha-ha, just kidding;
nobody
does that! You can take it to the U.S. attorney and prosecute in the full glare of God and everyone. You can buy the guy off. Or you can fire him and cover up, although that’s harder nowadays, what with all the reregulation.

But when you need the problem solved fast and permanent, you call me.

I thought my night was over, but when I dialed Tom Marlett—the client—to let him know Hayden had come through, it rang with no answer. Not even voicemail, and that was odd. Okay, three a.m. and all, but I’d told Marlett I expected a resolution, and he’d demanded to hear as soon as it was settled.

For ten million bucks, I’d stay up all night, too. Something didn’t feel right.

His home wasn’t far away, especially via the deserted roads of suburban Fairfield County. I had the windows down and night air washed through the car, bringing that early autumn smell of fading leaves and dying flowers. A good smell. I flashed past estates and horse farms and conservation land, dark and lonely, wondering if Hayden was still cuffed to his backseat. Even odds, I figured, that some opportunist would have stolen his phone and wallet by now, rather than releasing him.

I had to slow down, going through Old Ridgefork’s town center,
and just as well. A hundred yards after bumping over the railroad tracks, where the blacktop curved around the old cemetery, blue lights appeared down the road. A moment later an ALS ambulance shot past, lit up but no siren, going at least twice my speed.

Uh-oh.

Sure enough, all the excitement was at Marlett’s outsized “farmhouse,” as he liked to call it. I drove past slowly but without stopping, staring over the low stone wall edging his property line. The ambulance had joined three police cruisers and a fire engine, all at the top of the mansion’s long gravel drive. A uniformed officer in reflective striping stood at the estate’s entrance, arms crossed, doubtless posted to keep out bloggers and gawkers and oddballs who’d be drawn like moths to the flame of celebrity misfortune.

Well, what else could I do? Before the lights had disappeared from my rearview, I was speed-dialing my pal Johnny, who runs a three-billion-dollar incremental fund downtown.

“Wake up,” I said.

“Fuck.” His voice was groggy. “The after-hours just kick you out?”

“You’ve got fifteen minutes, tops.”

“What?”

“Emergency vehicles and an ambulance at Tom Marlett’s house. Police are standing guard on the perimeter. The 911 probably went out less than ten minutes ago.”

A pause, but only for a few seconds.

“Tom Marlett’s dead?”

“Or badly hurt. Or someone else in the house.”

“I thought he was between wives.”

“Yeah, you’re right—number three went a few months ago.” It’s a small playground, our overpaid corner of the financial world, and gossip about rich people you sort of know is a lot more interesting than gossip about celebrities you don’t. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Three police cars tell me all I need to know. It’s the morgue or the ICU or jail for Marlett. Either way his firm is about to go through the guardrails.”

“Yeah.” Johnny fell silent for a few moments as he sorted through options. “Shit. I can’t do anything with it.”

“What?” I slowed at a crossroads and turned right, aiming to get back on the Merritt. “Why not? This is the tip of the year, for Christ’s sake. Beat the vultures to it.”

See, Marlett basically ran a one-man band. Typical for a small investment shop, the kind of firm with a billion or two under management, mostly for other rich guys and some banks and so forth. He was a dabbler: a little private equity, a little trading, a little debt arbitrage. That deal with Hayden was the sort of one-off that would scare any sane investor away from a Marlett prospectus, but he found his investors on the golf course and the yacht club. You know, places where due diligence didn’t run much further than seeing if Marlett picked up the bar tab.

Which meant that Marlett Capital’s returns depended entirely on Tom Marlett himself. Whatever happened a half hour ago, the short-term outlook for his investors was a flashing-red
SELL
! I thought Johnny could use the information to get in and short Marlett ahead of the crowd—a sure bet on the rigged roulette wheel of Marlett Capital’s forthcoming swan dive.

“It’s not a public company,” said Johnny. “There’s no stock to sell short.”

“Jesus, I know that.” What was I, an idiot? “So go after his debt. Or whatever deals he’s got cooking—it’s all going to tank as soon as Wall Street wakes up this morning.”

“The problem is he’s
already
in the basement.” Johnny laughed. “The sub-subbasement, in fact. With rats and sewage and broken utility mains.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad.” True, rumors had been zipping around, especially after Marlett had delayed his quarterly perfor-mance letter. I’d figured that was why he was so keen on recovering the ten mil from Hayden. But because I was on a contingency funded directly by Hayden’s cash, I hadn’t done any kind of liquidity check. “What do you know?”

“I heard from a guy that Marlett’s going to announce a seventy-eight percent loss for the last quarter.”

“What? Wow. That’s awesome!”

“Yeah.”

And if Johnny knew, so did enough other smart money. I could see the problem—no one was going to touch Marlett, no matter what Johnny offered. All that first-responder excitement I’d seen was just icing on a cake that had been scavenged down to crumbs already.

I didn’t bother asking “What guy?” either.

“Wait a minute,” Johnny said. “How do you know about this?”

“I was driving by.”

“Is that
all
?”

He was a longtime friend, so I could overlook the implication.

“Nothing to do with me,” I said. Which I thought was true—I couldn’t imagine any connection to Hayden, who was probably still in the Bazookas parking lot. And who had no idea it was Marlett who’d hired me, for that matter.

“Uh-huh. Come by tomorrow, we’ll talk.”

A sign for the Merritt Parkway appeared in my headlights, then the on-ramp itself. At the top of the incline, merging on to the mostly empty highway, I could see a faint glow of false dawn in the rearview mirror.

“Sorry to wake you up,” I said.

“Nah, still good to know. Maybe I’ll call around. See if I can find anyone who’s still exposed to Marlett—salt the wounds.” He would, too. Inside knowledge is always good for
something
, even if only to talk smack.

On the way back to Manhattan I considered the ten million Hayden had grudgingly coughed up earlier. I’d already extracted my cut, of course, but Tom Marlett might not be needing all the rest. Maybe he wouldn’t even know about it…When I got home, and had access to a securely anonymized computer connection, I would see if the recovery was still sitting at that bank in the Caymans.

Even if Johnny couldn’t profit from Marlett’s misfortune, maybe I could.

I
slept until birds woke me up. Midmorning sunshine slanted through the window slats. Pigeons don’t chirp, but what the hell else lives in the city? Every year some nature-loving reporter runs a story on peregrine falcons roosting on City Hall or Trump Tower, but I don’t think they chirp either. Sparrows? Robins? Where’s John James Audubon when you need him?