Читать книгу The Last Flight of the Ariel - Joseph Dylan Dylan - Страница 7

Hewlett had rose long before the sun. Sleep had eluded him. He had followed his clock on its rounds at 15 minute intervals. He had tried reading The New Yorker but could only manage the cartoons. Around two, he gave up, got up and went to the living room in the two bedroom apartment that sat perched above the beach on the thirty-fifth floor of the structure. From the living room, he went into the kitchen where he kept a bottle of Courvoisier. He poured himself a cocktail glass half full. He had a corner unit, and while the main part of the apartment faced the Atlantic, the smaller side of the unit faced north. Like fireflies losing their luminescence, the lights gradually extinguished in the apartments to the north.

He sipped and thought about his class in abnormal psychology at Dartmouth and Professor Zimbardo’s class on paranoia. William Burroughs remarked that paranoia was having “all the facts.” He didn’t have them all, but he had enough to know his was going to change and not for the better.

He sat there wondering; things might have been different if he’d never dealt cocaine. But it was too late now. He had been surprised at how well Jake took the news. It confirmed his feeling that Jake always wanted to play in the big leagues. He hadn’t even been bothered by the sixty/forty split. Jake immediately grasped the fact that they would make that up in increased revenue. Hewlett wanted to tell him to get it together because he wanted out. But it was pointless: Jake was Jake. By nature, he was who he was. He would never be buttoned down enough to inspire the confidence on the level Hewlett did.

Watching the lights come on and go off, he thought of how many permutations life provided us if we were lucky. But Paul Hewlett had been lucky enough. He had been given more than his fair share of chances in this world. Looking back on it, looking back on all of it, he felt that he had really blown it. Still in his late thirties, he was coming off a failed marriage, and his successful brokerage business was just a front to sell cocaine and now a stranger would alter his world. What galled him the most was there was no one to blame but himself.

At three-thirty in the morning, still unable to sleep, he took two Xanax. Wanting his wits about him, he didn’t take anything stronger lingering in his system when he went to meet Roland Rosario at Simon Bolivar Park later in the morning. Turning the television on, Hewlett turned it to the Turner Classic Movie channel. They were showing an old Robert Mitchum movie, a film noir, in which he plays a private detective who plays both sides of the law. As he watched the old movie, he could still feel the palpitations that accrued after his surprise visitor. Though the movie was filmed in black-and-white, the picture had been colorized, somehow making it all seem less real, less dramatic. Robert Mitchum had always been his hero; what would he do in this situation? At some point past three in the morning, he nodded off for about a half hour, only to wake up startled by the howling of some semi-feral canine patrolling the alleyway. At some point after five, he got up and went to the kitchen. He ground a pot of Kenyan decaf and plugged it in to percolate. Fear was a better stimulant than caffeine. As the coffee did its job, he made himself an omelet, using three types of cheeses, elk sausage that a client had given him after a canned hunting trip to Cody, Wyoming, and onions, scallions and green peppers. Once the coffee was ready and the omelet had been cooked, he sat down at the kitchen table. Whereas he normally liked cooking, and he normally liked what he cooked, it was all he could do to finish the omelet.

Like a cat in the darkness, he sat on a chair next to the east-facing balcony waiting for the sun. Though he disdained the loss of sleep, he still loved greeting the day — the scent of oleander drifting up from the garden of the apartment; the fishing boats heading out, their trailing wakes looking like contrails in the sky; the silence of the street before rush hour, their horns pouting with impatience. So it was that he embraced the promise of a new day, even if it was a world where people like Rosario roamed the earth. Gradually, the beach, the buildings on the beach and the streets bordering the beach all became crowded took on one new pastel hue blending into another, as the blinding fire of the new day’s sun rose higher and higher in the firmament of the Sunshine State’s clear, blue atmosphere. Now the prospect loomed that he could very well find himself at the penitentiary in Starke, where he’d know nothing more than a cold, grey cell. Was he in any less of a prison now? He felt like an animal caught in a trap trying to chew the caught paw off.

By a quarter of nine, Paul Hewlett was at work. Never being the type of boss requiring that his employees be on time, he’d just let them sort out what needed to be done and do it. His only demands were that they be cheerful to the clients and that they didn’t share information with anyone outside the firm. Beyond that, he could care less if they were playing volleyball down on the beach. Though some were undone by this unfettered routine, most of the secretaries, managers and other staff appreciated the freedom that working for Hewlett afforded. The stockbrokers, however, were judged not by the hours they put in the firm, but by how much money they brought in. For them, Hewlett used another strategy, preferring to use the carrot and not the stick. So far, the strategy had worked well, with the stockbrokers increasing business at the new investment firm by at least ten percent each year since the doors were open. Now he and Jake had put them in jeopardy as well. Now, there was no carrot for the two of them, only the stick.

This morning, as Hewlett and Townsend drank coffee in the conference room, they stared out the glass pane wall made of glass so that the stockbrokers in their offices could keep an eye on a financial ticker tape, giving all the associates a quick way to check their customer’s stock. Hewlett watched the employees enter for the day, one-by-one. He knew them all by name. That was a trick passed down by Fauci when he worked at Hauser, Longo and Fauci. “Know your employees,” Fauci told him. “Know their names, their spouse’s name, whether they have children. Know what makes them tick. You never know when it could come in handy. They’ll work for a boss they think cares.” Though he had run into one or two employees who acted as though he was being too intrusive, most appreciated the friendly, almost paternal feeling that Fauci taught him to convey to his employees. At most investment firms, the employees were simply bodies attached to faces.

From the desk in the conference room, he watched the electronic ticker tape as it ran high along the walls. General Electric was doing well; Alcoa was up. In his mind, the electronic ticker tape continued to play out. When he closed his eyes, he could see the companies that a particular patron had in his portfolio. Then he would see Rosario sitting there in his office telling him that he couldn’t just quit.

There were many things to be said during his meeting with Rosario. Though he had a lot to say, he had to be careful just what he said, and how he said it. No less important was that he listen to what Rosario had to say. Nor could he have Townsend at the meeting with the man. Jake had a poor grasp of the business, particularly for its nuances and its implicit promises. Nor was Jake significantly impressed with the pernicious and deadly entanglements in doing business with the mob. Jake could not be counted on to listen, as one must, to Rosario. It was not only what he would say, it was how he would say it, what he implied by it.

Outside, the sun was out. By the standards of southern Florida, it was cool, but not so cool that the humidity, and the state of his nerves, kept him from perspiring. The pigeons had gathered on the granite immediately surrounding the bronze statue of Simon Bolivar. He had brought his brown paper bag of breadcrumbs for the pigeons. He was sitting on the park bench feeding the pigeons when Mr. Rosario appeared. Precise and punctual. Driving the black Ford LTD was a large stocky man, who, though, undoubtedly packing, had the least need of having a gun to appear intimidating. The pigeons scattered as soon as Rosario stepped out of the car. Hewlett stood up as Rosario came over to speak to him.

“Mr. Rosario, I told you didn’t have to bring any of your business associates.”

“Good morning, Mr. Hewlett. He’s not my business associate. His name is Gus Richmond. He’s a personal assistant.”

“Personal assistant at what? Breaking legs? He looks like he played defensive end for the Dolphins.” Richmond glared at him like a police officer might look just before pulling a piece on him.

“Ah, Mr. Hewlett, it’s good to see that you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” As he said this, he did not so much as smile.

This morning, Rosario extended his hand in greeting. Mr. Hewlett hesitated for just a moment. Shaking hands with Rosario was like shaking hands with a sixth grader; it was soft, dry, almost effeminate. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” said Rosario, as they both sat down side-by-side on the park bench.

“Townsend and I have had many a discussion about our operations on this very park bench since we opened the firm.”

They watched the pigeons in the distance still hopeful of a free lunch.

“Mr. Rosario, just how can Mr. Townsend and I expect protection from the people you represent when you approach us in such an adversarial way?”

“You do get to the point, don’t you, Mr. Hewlett?”

“That is the point, Mr. Rosario. It kept me awake most of the night wondering about it. See, I’m a little paranoid about your business associates. I don’t want to wash up on some beach in south Florida.”

“Ah, Mr. Hewlett, I am not a man of violence. Violence, I find completely repugnant. At times, in my universe, it cannot be avoided. But there are things I can’t countenance. Nor can the people I work with.”

“Mr. Hewlett — may I call you Paul — people are warned before we take any physical recourse. They are no longer children. They know what they are getting into. When they fail to listen, when they fail to abide by the rules of my organization, well, only then do we send in people like Newell and Spade. Again, that’s as a last resort. No the ones who’ve crossed the line, crossed it knowingly, leave us no choice but to seek physical recourse. At that point, my organization sends in people who are more difficult to reason with, those with really mean, truly tormented souls. For instance, so far, you’ve done nothing to earn a visit from one of them. Let’s just keep it that way.”

“Yes, let’s.”

“You will find doing business with us has its own rewards, Paul.”

“And you still won’t let me go my separate way?”

“No. I’ll be honest with you. It’s you we want, not your cousin. He’s too much of a loose cannon. I personally guarantee his safety while you are with us.”

“But I don’t want to deal anymore. I really don’t. It’s just time to go. It has nothing to do with you or the money.”

“Mr. Hewlett, you made yourself a player many years ago. The first time you charged another person for a joint or for a gram of coke, you became a player. You are a player now, whether you like it or not. You will always be a player.”

“What about Jake?”

“We’ll afford him the same protection that we do you, so long as he works for us and does nothing from which there’s no going back.”

“And you guarantee protection from the law.”

“One can only offer someone so much protection from the law. Nothing is foolproof, but the organization I work for is as close as you’re going to find to it. Were you to keep on dealing, Paul, you’d find that sooner or later you’d be busted. Either the DEA would nail you, or more likely they would nail your cousin, and he’d bring you down. In your heart, you know I’m right.”

“That’s part of why I said I wanted out.”

“Paul, you’re too good at what you do. Way too good. It would be a waste of talent to quit at this unique opportunity.”

“Not if what I’m good at is breaking the law.”

“Ah, but you see, we can almost certainly provide just the protection that would prevent that.”

“I still want out.”

“Mr. Hewlett…Paul… that is out of the question. Should you leave before I can find a man of you stature, I will feed Mr. Townsend to the lions.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Come, come, Paul, I wasn’t being cryptic.”

Once his father remarked that Mr. Simmons, who lived two doors down from them, was a broken man after his wife died. Hewlett had no idea what his father had met until he stood up from the park bench and proceeded to go back into his office. He was, for all intents and purposes, a broken man, himself.