The Downtown Deal (13 page)

"In
person, no less. He's in town. Now, why don't you get serious and start telling
me what I need to know."

The
line fell silent for a few moments. More people moved into the valet waiting
area, forced to stand. They huddled under the heating pole closest to me,
sucking up all the available heat while I froze. I pulled my collar up around
my neck.

Blake
spoke. "Olivera wants to buy me out. He wants to build a stad —"

"I
know all that already, all about the stadium and his designs on the team. I
also know that Sandra was working with him trying to get you to sell to him.
Tell me something I don't know."

"How's
this. Sandra was really working with
me
. Oh, she was on Olivera's side
initially, but she eventually came over to me.
Without
his knowing about it."

"W-working
with you? Why?"

My
head snapped up as I thought I saw my car come swinging out of the gaping exit
from the subterranean area where they valet-park the cars. Of course, it wasn't
mine. Way too soon yet.

Blake
said, "Olivera had promised her a commission if she was successful in
getting me to sell to him. I offered her a bigger cut if she got him to sell to
me."

I
almost fell off the bench. "She was acting as a double agent?"

"In
a manner of speaking."

"But
why would Olivera sell to you? He told me not fifteen minutes ago that if he
doesn’t get the land and the stadium deal that goes with it, the Marlins won't
move to Las Vegas. He'll see to it."

"Ah,
don't be too sure about that. He's only a minority partner. And a tiny minority
at that. He doesn't swing nearly that much weight. He's just going through a
lot of posturing to get the mayor to pressure me to sell to him. The fact
remains, after the World Series, the Marlins will be looking for a new home.
Period."

"That's
it? Simple as that?"

"Simple
as that." He quickly added, "Well … there was … there was also the
wine."

"The
wine?" I sat up a little straighter.

"Yes,
that case of wine you recovered for me, remember? It seems Olivera is an
intense wine freak, a collector, and he has to have this particular wine. Says
it's very rare."

"How
rare?"

"I'm
not sure, but he was willing to pay me an extra million dollars for my land if
I threw in the wine."

I
whooshed out a deep exhale. I could see my breath. "That's some serious
fucking wine. Is it really worth that much? I thought you said it was just
worth a few thousand."

"Like
I said, I don't know anything about wine, and when Baron Rothschild gave it to
me, he didn't indicate it was any million-dollar bonanza. He only said it was
great wine, so I thought it might be worth a few thousand or so. Maybe Olivera
is being a little over-anxious, but to be on the safe side, I'm paying you the
extra twenty-five hundred to keep it for me."

"And
Olivera was offering you another million for it?"

"Yeah,
he really wants it. But don't forget, he knows there's a lot more money in it
for him down the road if the Florida Marlins move to Las Vegas into his
stadium. He's looking at hundreds of millions of dollars here. But this wine,
it just doesn't come around every day. So … if he sells me this particular
parcel of land to get his hands on the wine, my guess is he'll scout around the
city for something equally suitable."

"He
told me you have a buyer lined up already."

"Norman
Silquist. A local developer who wants to buy the entire parcel once I get Olivera's
piece. He intends to build the stadium himself."

"Sounds
like Olivera offered you a good deal," I said. "An extra million
bucks. Why didn't you take it?"

"Because
I figured if he really wanted the damn wine that badly, he'd sell
his
land to
me
for a pittance. And of course, I would give him the wine as
part of the deal."

I
glimpsed the sky. Thick, grey clouds had moved in, trapping the cold and
tossing out the hint of rain. This was not the type of day where you wanted to
see rain.

I
said, "Colby Farrow told me Olivera is set to borrow forty-three million
dollars to buy your land."

"Oh,
yes, he's ready, but until I agree to sell to him and until his name goes on
the dotted line, it's all talk. Don't forget, that downtown land is made up of
a dozen individual parcels, each fairly worthless, none of them costing any
real money by itself. But taken together as a site for a great stadium, their
value goes into the stratosphere."

My
head moved slowly up and down. "I get it," I said.

Blake
went on: "Olivera paid under a million dollars for his little strip of
land. I'll offer him one point two and throw in the wine. He'll make a few
hundred thousand and get his precious wine in the bargain. Then he'll think he
can look around town for a competing stadium location."

"And
Silquist? What's his part?"

"He's
prepared to pay me forty-six million for the whole thing, although Olivera
thinks that figure is a lot less. I stand to make that extra three million by
getting Olivera's land so cheaply and flipping it to Silquist. And once I ran
it down that way to Sandra, she saw her cut would be bigger, so she moved over
to my side."

"So
it was a choice between one million dollars extra profit from Olivera or buying
his land for a lot less and making three million from Silquist."

"Now
you've got it, Jack. Not much thinking required on that one, is there?"

I was
still running all this around through my mind. Blake was one sharp customer, no
doubt about it.

"One
more thing," I said, "how did he find out about the wine? I mean, Sandra
had it, not you, right?"

"She
must've mentioned it to him somewhere along the way, like maybe when he was
buying that condo. Or maybe Ryan Farrow told him. In any case, he knew about
it, and Ryan and his brother were working hand in glove with him to line up his
financing. By the way, where is the wine?"

"It's
in a safe place.
Not
at my apartment. Don't worry about it."

Blake
said, "I'm going out of town for the weekend. I'm leaving tonight. I'll
call you Monday for an update. Just keep the wine safe. That's my key to the
deal."

Now it
was my turn to be silent. If Olivera even suspected I had the wine, or knew
where it was, I'd be a fucking target. If that happened, I would probably have
no need for that retirement package I was wanting to set up.

"Like
I said, Mr Blake, it's safe. Don't lose any sleep over it."

That
ended our conversation, but I sat there for a long time in the frigid valet
pickup area with my phone still open, thinking about all of it. While I was
thinking, rain began to fall, blown by the wind in biting, drizzly needles.

≈≈≈

Once I finally got my
car — and it was a long, drawn-out wait — I thought about
retrieving the wine from Ronnie's apartment. Let's face it, that dump didn't
offer much protection outside of the fact that no one involved in this mess
knew Ronnie or was aware that I knew him. If Olivera's men found out, however,
they could roll right into it and over him with very little effort. But where
else could I put it? Martine's? I really didn't know her that well, and my life
might well depend on it. What if Ronnie decided to pry open the case and, God
forbid, drink some of the wine? He promised he wouldn't, but what if he did?
What if Olivera found out I had it? Suddenly, my assurances to Blake not to
lose any sleep were boomeranging right back at me.

I was
the one who was probably going to lie awake for long stretches. And I couldn't
forget, two people were dead.

≈≈≈

I arrived home to a
freezing apartment, so I shoved the thermostat up to around eighty and headed
straight for the Dalmore. I poured a couple of fingers' worth and took a seat
on my couch, sipping it to unleash its magic. I jerked my cell phone out of my
pants pocket and punched up Martine's number.

"Hi,
Jack." She'd seen me on her caller ID. I liked it when she answered the
phone with my name. Her voice was rich and warm, as warm as the Scotch that
soothed my insides. "How was Ryan's funeral?"

"About
what you'd expect. Plenty of somber faces and expensive black clothing. Hector
Olivera was there. I had a little talk with him."

"Did
you find out anything about who killed Sandra?"

"Not
really. The whole thing is still very cloudy. A lot of players in this game and
they're all pretty slippery."

I felt
the heat through the vents in my apartment. It relaxed me. Another taste of the
Dalmore relaxed me even further.

I
said, "How about if I come see you at the Bootlegger tonight?"

She
chuckled. "You know you don't have to ask. You can come … anytime you
want."

I took
that as a promise of a lot more than just a few songs. I said, "I'll be
there. You know, I really do want to see you tonight. And a lot of other
nights, too."

"I
do, too, Jack. I miss you when you don't come to the club."

I
said, "I wish I could get out more often, but you know, this case is
taking up all my time, time I'd rather be spending with you."

I
heard myself say that and realized that I meant it. Martine was the first woman
in a long time who I wished I could spend a lot more time with, who really got
through to me on almost every level.

The
first one since Lyla. Since I released her from my grip back in 1992, allowing
her to drift all alone into the abyss. Like Kate Winslet reluctantly letting
loose of Leonardo DiCaprio in
Titanic
.
I've never really forgiven myself.

Lyla
was my world. She was once the fire in my heart. And now I could feel her fade
into the mists of my memory. At last.

I
woke up the next morning curled up behind Martine. As soon
as I realized where I was, a smile immediately burst out onto my face. Her body
formed a question mark against mine, her backside warming me against the chilly
nip that had invaded the bedroom during the cold night. I ran a hand across her
stomach, then up around the swell of her breasts, and she let out a groan. I
could grow to like this, I thought. And I was pretty sure she felt the same
way.

 
Sidelong, I caught a quick look at the
drawn curtains. The sun was fully up and running, shards of midmorning light
slipping in through the cracks. The clock was on the night table on her side of
the bed, out of my sight, but looking at the brightness sneaking into the room
from the new day, I made it to be around ten-thirty.

To
tell you the truth, I could've stayed there, in that position, with her,
beneath that thick comforter, all damn day.

She
nudged me off of my cloud by saying, "Oh-h-h, look what time it is. I've
gotta get up."

I held
her tighter. "No, you don't."

"No-o-oo,
honey, you don't understand. It's almost ten-thirty. I have a doctor's
appointment at quarter of twelve."

"Doctor?
Are you okay? Anything wrong?"

"No,
no. Just girl stuff. Checkup only. But I have to be there." She slid out
of the warm cocoon we had created for ourselves. Suddenly, everything felt
empty, as my hand slowly slid across the warm spot she had just vacated. I
moved over into it.

I
watched her sway naked into the bathroom. Without turning around, she said,
"Don't you have anything to do today? You know, stuff to do on Sandra's
case?"

"Yeah.
Yeah, I do," was my halfhearted response. I mean, who gives a shit about doing
PI work at a time like this?

As she
was brushing her teeth, she came over to the windows and pulled the drapes with
one hand. Sunlight flooded the room instantly. And I don't mean just the light.
The sun itself was positioned right outside her window, attacking my poor,
sleep-weary eyes.

"Up!
Up!" she cried through the toothbrush. When she did this, toothpaste
started dribbling down her chin and onto her throat. I wanted to lick it off.

But
instead, I got up and threw my clothes on. Right before she stepped into the
shower, I gave her a peck on the lips, then headed out the door.

Despite
the bright sun, it was much colder than it had a right to be, unseasonably so,
with the temperature hovering somewhere in the low forties. There was no wind,
though, so at least the day would be almost bearable. When the wind kicks up
around this town, which is often, it can make for plenty of misery, especially
when combined with colder temperatures.

I
hurried home and got cleaned up. I had more business with Colby Farrow, but it
would have to wait. This morning was his big meeting with Olivera and the
pension fund people from California. Instead, I went to the computer and
googled "Norman Silquist".

He was
the president of an outfit called Nevada Premier Development. Their offices
were in an unpretentious two-story building on West Sahara, about a mile or so
off the Strip. I logged off, then started to get up from the table, fully
intending to make the drive out to see Silquist.

But an
idea came to me.

I went
back to the table and logged back on, then pulled up the city's interactive map
again, steering it to the address on West Sahara. I clicked on that parcel and
saw the relevant information along the right-hand side of the screen. According
to city records, the building was owned by JBB Properties. After a little
further checking, and following a long, tortuous trail of shell companies, my
thoughts were confirmed. JBB Properties
and
Nevada Premier Development
were both in fact subsidiaries of Blake Enterprises.