Montaro Caine A Novel

16





LARRY BUCHANAN WAS RUNNING LATE. HE HADN’T HAD TIME TO shave, and he was already feeling self-conscious about his slovenly appearance even before he arrived at the front desk of the Carlyle Hotel where he told the skinny and officious young desk clerk that he was on his way up to see Montaro Caine. Larry hated the way the desk clerk’s eyes swept over him. Larry knew that he needed a clean shirt, but it was nine-twenty in the morning and Bloomingdale’s didn’t open until ten a.m. He waited for the string bean with a phone in his ear to grant him safe passage to the elevators across the hall.

“Yes, sir, right away,” said the string bean into the phone before hanging up. “Mr. Caine is in 1709. Do you need me to show you the way?”

Larry shook his head. Of course he knew the way to Montaro’s suite, even if he didn’t exactly look like he belonged in the hotel.

When Larry arrived at the suite, Montaro was eager to hear his friend’s report. But he had to wait until the slightly hungover Larry had demolished the cherry danish that Montaro ordered for him and washed it down with a large, freshly squeezed orange juice.

“Well, buddy, here’s what I’ve got for you,” Larry started. “The plane belongs to a company, okay?”

“What company?”

Larry held up an index finger signaling for Caine to hold on and let him finish. “And the company is owned by another company.”

Caine knew that Larry’s windy introductions usually led to substantial information, so he humored his friend. “Okay.”

“Which is owned by a trust.”

“Yeah, one of those,” Caine said.

“Which is owned by another company, and so forth, and so on—the usual shit that leads to the usual dead end.”

“I know the routine,” said Caine.

Larry proceeded, paying little attention to Caine’s impatient tone. He smiled broadly. “But because I’m suicidal and also smart, tenacious, and incapable of accepting ‘dead end’ as anything but an invitation, I got to the bottom of it. The real bottom.”

Caine brightened. “Let’s have it.”

“And there at the bottom, I found a man named Fritzbrauner.”

“Kritzman Fritzbrauner?”

“You know him?”

“I’ve heard the name.”

“I’m sure you have. Piss pots full of dough. Lives in Switzerland. He’s into oil, shipping, arms, heavy manufacturing, and pharmaceuticals. His net worth is just below ten billion dollars. He also has one of the world’s most extensive collections of rare objects. I couldn’t come up with anything that explained why he’d be interested in Fitzer Corporation, but that doesn’t mean he’s not.”

Montaro smiled broadly at his friend, as if he were seeing a Larry he had never known.

“The girl, what’s her connection?”

“Beekman? She’s Fritzbrauner’s daughter. Beekman was her mother’s maiden name. She travels sometimes on a Swiss passport issued to Colette Fritzbrauner, other times on an Argentine passport issued to Colette Beekman—the mother’s Argentinean. She left Fritzbrauner for a singer in Argentina and she’s been living in Buenos Aires ever since.”

“How about Herman Freich? Find out anything about him?”

“He’s an assistant to Fritzbrauner.”

“Fantastic. How’d you get all this?” Caine asked.

“Spent a little time snooping in Hargrove’s office around five this morning.”

“You what? Son of a bitch! Larry!”

“Yeah, I know. Jesus, I still can’t believe I did it. It was f*cking suicidal, I know it. But when my contact in Switzerland gave me all that stuff about companies and trusts owning each other and the plane, I had to dig out the names of as many of those companies and trusts as I could, and I knew the old man’s office was the place to do it.”

Suddenly Caine felt uncomfortable, but he wasn’t sure why. Hadn’t Larry just brought him more valuable information than he could have asked for? Caine thought briefly of Colette Beekman Fritzbrauner. He wondered if she was married. He considered asking Larry but didn’t want his friend to get the wrong idea. Or was it not the wrong idea?

“So,” said Larry, chuckling, “where the hell are we? You ready to fill me in?”

Caine stared at Larry with a troubled smile. He felt his breath catch in his throat. Larry had no personal investment in this case—he didn’t even know what it was about. And yet he had risked his career to help a friend. At that moment, Caine understood his discomfort. Larry was now invested in this too, as much for his own sake as for Caine’s. For Larry, it was all about being a winner, and he was willing to risk everything he had to finally become one. Does a man run faster, Caine wondered, to avoid the loser’s destiny or to embrace the winner’s reward?

Caine threw an arm around the shoulder of his friend and squeezed him affectionately. “No, not yet,” he answered gently.

Larry’s chuckle faded. “Look, buddy …” he began.

“Say it,” Caine said.

Larry averted his eyes from Caine’s, swallowed hard. He tried to crack his knuckles, but no sound came.

“Come on, I’m listening,” Caine urged.

“What I want to say is …” Larry began haltingly. “Monty, if Fritzbrauner takes a meaningful position in Fitzer, one or two credit points for my helping to bring that about could move me up a notch. Sorry I have to put it that way, but I’ve been lost in that f*cking firm for nine years now. I—I’ve just got to do something, Monty. I’m dying on the vine. You know what I mean?”

Caine was touched again by his friend’s vulnerability, surprised to find it lurking so close to the surface.

“I hear you,” he said, although he felt fairly certain that Kritzman Fritzbrauner, a collector of rare objects, was most probably a great deal more interested in a particular rare coin than he was in Fitzer Corporation.

Larry looked into Caine’s eyes. “O.K. buddy,” he said. “Your word is good enough for me.” Larry started for the door. “I gotta dash. Stay in touch.”

“You, too, and love at home,” said Caine.

“Same,” said Larry. “Love at home.”

As Larry pulled the door shut behind him, those words echoed in Caine’s mind—Love at home. He took out his phone to call Cecilia.