Montaro Caine A Novel

32





EVER SINCE MONTARO CAINE HAD BEEN THRUST PREMATURELY into the world of adult concerns at the age of eight when his father died, he had been conscious of the sensation that he inhabited more than one world at any given time. But in the days that followed his visits to Luther John Doe and Tom Lund, he felt that sensation more profoundly than ever. How many worlds did he actually inhabit? It had become hard for him to keep track. He was Montaro Caine, CEO of Fitzer Corporation, trying to survive a hostile takeover bid that was persisting even as news of the fallout from the Utah mining accident was beginning to recede. He was also Dr. Montaro Caine, the M.I.T.-educated Ph.D., leading an ad hoc team of scientists and medical professionals trying to gain control of two mystery coins that could revolutionize industry, perhaps even prevent disasters such as the one that had taken place in Utah.

He was Montaro Caine of Kansas City and he was Montaro Caine of Westport, Connecticut; he was Montaro Caine of The Carlyle Hotel, and at the same time, he was Montaro Caine, citizen of planet Earth, whose citizens would have to find a new home someday when their sun began to die. And, as Montaro led a meeting in the living room of his Carlyle apartment, where he debriefed Drs. Howard and Elsen Mozelle, Dr. Michael Chasman, and Anna Hilburn about all he had learned from Tom Lund and Luther John Doe, he was soon made aware of another important role he held, one that he realized he had been somewhat neglecting during all this drama; he was also Monty Caine, Cecilia’s husband and Priscilla’s father.

The meeting in The Carlyle was contentious and highly charged, so much so that Montaro ignored his cell phone each time it rang and didn’t even take the time to check to see who was trying so persistently to get hold of him. He was emphasizing to everyone gathered in his living room the need to focus on the most pressing matter at hand—finding Whitney and Franklyn Walker as quickly as possible so that the couple would have their child in Manhattan under Dr. Mozelle’s care; Matthew Perch’s prophetic words suggested that something magnificent would surely happen upon that occasion. And Luther John Doe’s story, no matter how improbable it had sounded, only added to the sense of urgency.

“We must do all we can to have Whitney’s child delivered here,” Montaro was saying when another chirp from his telephone made him finally shut off his ringer.

Meanwhile, Dr. Chasman, Anna Hilburn, and the Mozelles debated whether or not they should inform government agencies about the coins’ existence, and if so, which agencies? NASA? The FBI? The CIA? The Department of Homeland Security? Elsen Mozelle insisted that doing so would be prudent, but her husband remained dubious.

“If those government fellows ask when this ‘spaceship’ is coming, what do we say?” Mozelle asked. “If they ask where it’s going to land, what do we tell them? If they ask what kind of creatures are on board, how do we respond? That there are none? That the ship operates itself? That it roams the galaxy at the speed of light looking for a hospitable planet? That the last ship of those extinct alien creatures will be reborn here so that they can retrieve their entire civilization and culture, which has been preserved in human genes, DNA, and chromosomes, all of which is materialized in the form of coins that were found in the hands of newborn babies? If I were at NASA and someone told me all that, I’d laugh them out of my office; it’s too off the wall. Plus, we’d lose control of the coins.”

“But we know that the story isn’t off the wall,” Elsen said, scooting forward from the corner of the couch. “Each element of it has been experienced by one or another of us in this room.”

Throughout the meeting, Michael Chasman played the role of skeptic, scoffing at Luther John Doe’s words. “A race of creatures so advanced that they possess the technology to survive longer than the sun that gave them life? Nonsensical prattle from an autistic old man.” Nevertheless, Chasman admitted that the very existence of the coins suggested profound implications that might lie beyond the scope of human understanding. “Of course, as a scientist, I have to dismiss Luther’s mumbo jumbo, but at the same time, I also do have to give serious thought to what Montaro said about the organic nature of the particles,” he said. “If what you’ve told us is right, Montaro, then we are no longer simply in a race with Fritzbrauner and Gabler for possession of both coins. We could be either at a new frontier for science or at a tragic new turn in human error. In the latter case, the risk we run in not sharing what we’ve learned with the government could be catastrophic. Not only for us but for the entire country.”

By meeting’s end, Anna Hilburn agreed to help Montaro’s investigative team, which had not yet succeeded in tracking down Whitney and Franklyn Walker; Chasman and the Mozelles volunteered to contact the Department of Homeland Security and the office of New York senator Alfonse Alfaro to inform them of all they knew about the coins. At which point, Montaro finally took the time to take out his phone, turn it back on, and look at the message displayed: “You have ten missed calls.” When he checked his voice mail, he discovered that all the messages had come from Cecilia.

“We’ve got to talk about Prissy,” Caine’s wife said after he called her back. “Your ‘friend’ Whitcombe called. We’re due at the Stockbridge police chief’s office tomorrow at one.”





33





THE WALLS OF THE OFFICE OF ALBERT MASTERSON, CHIEF OF POLICE of Stockbridge, Massachusetts, one hundred and fifty miles and more than a few light-years away from Fitzer Corporation, were covered by citations, awards, trophies, and a variety of framed photographs of the chief in familiar poses. There was Masterson in his dress blues, shaking hands with the former Stockbridge chief; here he was receiving a commendation from Massachusetts governor Deval Patrick; and there he was standing proudly in pinstripes with his arms around two star players of the Little League baseball team he coached.

Gordon Whitcombe, already somewhat sweaty and rumpled, was waiting inside when the desk sergeant showed in Montaro, Cecilia, and Priscilla, each of their faces displaying varying aspects of uneasiness. At the sight of Whitcombe, Priscilla flinched. When her mother had told her that she would have to attend this meeting, she had loudly protested, but after her father informed her that she had no other option, Priscilla consented—Montaro Caine was CEO of his family, and unlike at Fitzer Corporation, about which she had been reading all too much lately, Priscilla knew that there was no chance for anyone to launch a successful takeover against him, hostile or otherwise.

“I’m glad we’re all able to meet like this, before formal charges are filed and the law takes its usual course,” Masterson said after the Caines had sat down in the chairs positioned across from him. “I’ve found that having a chat with the family is always useful, especially when the lawbreaker is still in her teenage years. Mr. and Mrs. Caine, I appreciate your being here to support Priscilla in light of the seriousness of the allegations. And, Priscilla, I hope you can appreciate the importance of having your parents’ support at a time like this. Still, I would be less than candid if I didn’t point out that the evidence against you is pretty conclusive. It would help your situation if you would, in turn, be candid with us.”

Priscilla prepared herself to do battle, to defend Nick at all costs. But she was disarmed by the sound of a knock at the door. “Come in,” Chief Masterson called out. The door opened and the desk sergeant entered, followed by Nick Corcell.

Priscilla’s eyes bulged.

“Good afternoon, Chief Masterson.” Nick was dressed uncharacteristically in a jacket and tie, and his blond hair was cut short. He looked less like the often shirtless, always smooth-talking, working-class, athletic scholarship jock she knew from campus and more like a wannabe pre-law student toadying up to the partners in some white-shoe firm. But it was unmistakably Nick; even with her eyes closed, Priscilla could have recognized him by the smell of his aftershave.

“Afternoon, Nick, thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for asking me, Chief.” Nick turned to face Montaro and Cecilia. “You must be Prissy’s parents; I’m Nick.”

Montaro shook the young man’s hand and Nick stared steadily into Montaro’s eyes. Montaro stared back, impressed and somewhat alarmed by the young man’s composure. Cecilia’s response was less cordial; she looked blankly at the hand Nick was offering her.

“So, you are Nick,” she said coldly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nick stepped over to Priscilla, all the while sensing Cecilia Caine’s watchful eyes upon him. “Hi, Prissy. How are you?”

“I’m good, Nick.”

“Great.” He touched her arm gently and Priscilla seemed to take strength from his calmness.

Looking back at Montaro and Cecilia, the young man said, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you both, Mr. and Mrs. Caine; Priscilla has told me so much about you. But I’m sorry it has to be under these conditions.”

Knowing from the world of business that there was usually little to be gained from rudeness or hostility, Montaro nodded politely. For her part, Cecilia kept her suspicious eyes fixed on the young man as he sat beside Priscilla.

“Nick,” Chief Masterson began, “it’s obvious to us that you and Priscilla are very close and that you want to do anything you can to help her. We understand that. But we don’t want you to bend the truth in any way just because of your feelings for her. All we want is for you to be straightforward and honest.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Nick said.

For the next fifteen minutes, Nick Corcell responded amiably to Chief Masterson’s questions. Cecilia Caine was not the least bit convinced by the young man’s “Yes, ma’am; No, sir” act, but she did find herself glad that her daughter’s friend—she did not let herself think of him as a boyfriend, let alone a lover—was so gifted at glib insincerity. His answers were all crisp and to the point. Taken together, they painted a picture of Priscilla as a young woman too decent, too well brought up, too morally well balanced to consume drugs, let alone distribute them on campus. It was a picture that Cecilia wanted desperately to believe was true and that Montaro knew without question was false. Nick told the chief that he was certain Priscilla was innocent of any wrongdoing and was willing to sign any document attesting to that assertion.

“Sure, there are drugs on campus, Chief,” he said. “People pass joints around fairly openly. I have heard of the selling and buying of marijuana on and around campus all the years I’ve been a student there, and I know more than a handful of people who have occasionally indulged. But, to the best of my knowledge, Priscilla is not one of them.”

Whitcombe twisted uneasily in his chair, regretting that he would not have a crack at questioning this slick pretty boy. There was something dangerous about this kid, the lawyer thought, something too cool and smooth, something that someday could cause harm to Priscilla and her family. But for the moment, Nick seemed to be winning over Chief Masterson, and as the Caines’ lawyer, that was precisely what Gordon Whitcombe needed the kid to do.

When the chief stopped questioning Nick and turned his attention to Priscilla and her parents, Nick Corcell smiled, proud of himself. He felt suddenly flushed with a sense of his own power. It was the second time that day he’d felt that way. In fact, as far as he was concerned, the most dramatic events of the day had already played out hours earlier. First thing in the morning, he had been cruising west along the Massachusetts Turnpike in his Volkswagen Beetle convertible, gusts of summer wind warm against his bare, suntanned torso. His mind was in high gear, too, moving methodically over the few remaining points that needed to be smoothed out before the business transaction awaiting him could close.

Nick’s Volkswagen exited the turnpike and picked up US-20. His left hand was draped lightly on the wheel while his right hand rested on the overnight canvas bag on the passenger seat. He checked the car’s clock and saw that he was running ahead of schedule, so he relaxed his speed as a Bruce Springsteen song came blasting from the speakers. Nick changed the station before he could even identify the song; the Boss was his stepfather’s favorite, and the only time Nick ever listened to Springsteen music was when he was trying to impress naïve, upper-crust Connecticut girls like Priscilla Caine with his blue-collar street cred. For the remaining fifteen miles of his drive, Nick blasted Eminem.

Nick had grown up in South Boston in a small two-bedroom apartment. He had lived there with his mother, Angeline Corcell, and her husband, Nick’s stepfather, Anthony Stavros, who every weekday evening brought home with him the nauseating stench of the fish market where he worked. One time, long before he had begun to shave, Nick spent his entire weekly allowance on aftershave lotion, which he’d splashed around his room to chase away that smell he hated so much.

Nick had been only six when his father left for reasons that Nick still couldn’t understand. Piero Corcell had worked in the fish factory, too, but his smell was different; Nick had associated it with a time his family had been together long before Stavros entered the picture. Even now, Nick wore a healthy splash of aftershave lotion every day, even on days when he didn’t shave.

When Nick arrived in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, the hotel was busy. A weekend convention of manufacturing associations was being held there, a fact that Nick had taken into account when he had chosen this date and location. The parking lot was nearly full. Nick paid close attention to every vehicle in the lot, making sure that there wasn’t a gray Mercedes in sight, eventually guiding his car into one of the few available slots before turning off the motor.

Nick reached into his overnight bag, fished out a T-shirt, and slipped it on before he exited the car, overnight bag in hand. Upon entering the air-conditioned lobby, he checked out everything and everyone. Looking behind the hotel’s front desk, he made sure that there was a small white envelope in the key box for Room 371. Then he casually altered his course in the direction of the coffee shop. The place was packed with an early lunch crowd, but he found a seat at a vacant window table, which afforded a perfect view of both the lobby and the lot. When the waitress came by, he ordered a Coke.

From his table, Nick watched the battleship gray Mercedes as it entered the parking lot and cautiously circled the area twice before it came to rest in an empty spot by the hotel entrance. The Mercedes’s windows were tinted, so Nick couldn’t see inside, but soon his eyes focused upon Millard Wilcox and Norton Lightman, who were emerging from the vehicle. Wilcox was a tall, handsome man in his midthirties, with wavy black hair and a Mediterranean complexion. Though Lightman may have been about the same age, he was a striking contrast to his companion; he had an overhanging gut, an accumulation of fat under his chin, and he wore a preposterous red bow tie.

Nick’s eyes tracked the two men into the lobby where they requested the key to Room 371, which was registered to a Mr. MacAllister Brown.

“Right away, Mr. Brown.” The smiling clerk turned toward the key boxes where Lightman caught sight of the small white envelope.

When the clerk handed Lightman the envelope, Lightman ripped it open. Inside was an unsigned typewritten note: “Minor changes necessary. No problems. Will explain later. Go to the phone booth across the street from the Main Street CVS. Repeat, no problems.”

Nick sipped his Coke as he watched Lightman pass the note to Wilcox before the men left the lobby. They returned to the Mercedes and sped off. Nick paid for his drink, then strolled briskly back to his Volkswagen and started it up. He gunned the car over a familiar back-road shortcut that quickly took him to the rear of the CVS. He entered the store, then walked toward the windows at the front of the store.

When Nick saw the big Mercedes approaching, he waited until it nestled close to the empty phone booth across the street before he dialed a number on his cell phone. Nick watched Lightman leave the car and approach the phone booth; there, the man picked up the receiver, looked at it suspiciously, then answered, “Yeah?”

“I’ll see you at the Berkshire Motel. Room 63 is booked under the same name as before, MacAllister Brown. I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes.”

“What the f*ck is up?”

“No problems. Save your questions,” Nick replied, then hung up.

The Berkshire was a no-frills establishment, one of the few in the region. A few minutes after Lightman and Wilcox made their way to Room 63 on the motel’s second floor, there was a knock on the door. Wilcox sprang from the plastic chair where he had parked his beefy body. He thumped across the room and yanked the door open, revealing Nick Corcell.

“May I come in?” Nick waited until Lightman waved him forward with an impatient gesture. After Nick entered, Wilcox closed the door and moved behind him. Nick stopped a few feet away from Lightman. “You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked.

“What the f*ck is this? What’s going on?” Lightman whispered.

“What do you mean? Nothing’s going on. You said you had something to show me. That’s why I’m here, to see what it is.”

Lightman gave Nick a long, searching look, then glanced questioningly around the room. “How come we’re here instead of the other place?” he asked.

“What other place?” queried Nick.

Lightman’s jaw tightened. He centered Nick in the crosshairs of a cold, threatening stare. “Are you crazy? What kind of game is this, kid?”

“Game? I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister.”

A look of understanding flashed in Lightman’s eyes. “Oh, he thinks we’re wired. Isn’t that right, kid?” he asked.

“Son of a bitch,” Wilcox said and laughed.

The tension seemed to drain from Lightman. “Relax, kid. If anyone in here is wearing a bug, it’s you.” Listening to his own words, Lightman seemed to tense up again. “What’s in the bag?” he asked.

“No bugs,” Nick said with a shrug. He tossed his overnight bag to Lightman. “Take a look.”

Lightman caught the canvas bag, looked inside, and found only a change of clothes and a bottle of aftershave. “O.K., kid,” he hissed. “Explain. Get to the f*cking point.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” Nick said. “May I see what you said you wanted to give me?”

Lightman nodded to Wilcox. The pudgy man laid his briefcase on the bed and opened it to reveal stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

Nick looked down at the money, then up at Lightman. He smiled.

Lightman did not return the smile. “Now, have you got something for us?” he asked.

Nick studied the two men at length before he answered. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I better get outta here.” He turned abruptly and headed for the door.

“Hey, wait a f*cking minute,” said Lightman. Nick opened the door, made as if to step through it, then suddenly stopped. He looked down—there was a package in the doorway. He spun around to face Lightman and Wilcox.

“It looks like a package has been left here for you. Want me to bring it in?”

“Sure,” Lightman answered.

Nick picked up the package, closed the door, and reentered the room. He handed the package to Lightman. They held each other’s gaze for a moment before Lightman gestured to the money lying on the bed in the open briefcase.

“Why don’t you check the package to see if it’s exactly what you were expecting.”

Lightman and Wilcox huddled over their package to make sure the six pounds of pure cocaine they were paying for was all there. Meanwhile, Nick counted twenty stacks of hundred dollar bills. When he was done counting, Nick dumped the money into his canvas bag.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for being so generous.”

Lightman extended his hand to Nick. “You’re a pretty strange kid. But I guess a guy can’t be too careful, can he?”

Nick took his hand. “Whatever you say, mister. Whatever you say.” He turned to the door, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

“Maybe we’ll see you again, if the price is right,” Lightman called out.

Nick looked back at him. “Maybe,” he answered. Then he opened the door and was gone.

In the quiet, empty hallway, Nick could taste his own fear; he could smell it, too. As he started toward the stairwell, his awareness of his surroundings heightened. Entering the stairwell, he began to sweat. When he reached a first floor hallway, he saw a maid carrying linens and towels into an empty room; an elderly couple hobbled past him. Nick continued briskly along the hallway until he reached Room 21. He knocked lightly.

Frankie Naples, a wired and wiry young man in his midtwenties, opened the door just enough to let Nick slide in, then slammed it shut. Inside, Frankie turned from the door to face Nick. “Everything go okay?” he asked.

“Smooth,” Nick replied, then moved quickly to the bed.

“Great. F*cking great. You did good, kid.” Frankie watched Nick unzip his bag and dump the hundred thousand dollars onto the bed.

“It’s all there. I checked it. You check it again; then I’m outta here.”

Frankie, a courier for a sophisticated Boston-based narcotics syndicate, grabbed a stack of bills and started counting while Nick glanced at his watch. His job was nearly done. From here, according to the plan, Frankie would take the money to Boston where it would be processed, stored, and eventually shipped out of the country to be washed.

“It’s all here,” Frankie finally said.

“Good,” Nick replied, and the men shook hands.

“See ya.” Nick broke for the door.

“Where you heading?” asked Frankie.

“Gonna pass by school, pick up some clothes, then pop down to Manhattan to hang out for a day or two.”

“Ain’t you graduating this week?”

“Yeah. In three days.”

“Then what?”

“College, eventually. Look, Frankie, I gotta split. Don’t break the speed limit going back with that stuff.”

A half-hour later, at his dorm room, Nick was packing his carryall bag when he heard the hallway phone. A half-minute later, he heard a voice call out: “Nick Corcell, phone for you. Are you in there?”

“Yeah,” Nick yelled back. “Who is it?”

“Some guy named Albert Masterson wants to talk to you.”

A shiver ran through Nick as he walked down the hallway and picked up the phone. He knew that name. “Hello?” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Hi there, Nick, this is Police Chief Masterson again. Remember me?”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“I’m calling to ask you to come down to our offices. Mr. and Mrs. Caine are coming up from Connecticut with their daughter, Priscilla. The last time we talked, you offered to speak on her behalf. Would you mind?”

“Oh, no, be glad to. What time?”

“Soon as you can. They should be here any minute.”



The hardest part of the day seemed to be over for Nick. He had already done his part in defending Priscilla, and at this point, most of what he was doing was listening. The chief was continuing to drone on and on as Priscilla reached out to touch Nick’s hand. He turned to her. She looked into his eyes and he smiled.

“Mr. Whitcombe,” the chief said as he faced the portly lawyer, “would you care to add anything to what’s been said here?”

“Well, Chief, as you know, I’ve known this young lady from the day she was born,” he began.

Priscilla scowled. It wouldn’t take much more of this bullshit to make her throw up, she thought. She hoped Whitcombe would choke on his words. But Whitcombe’s remarks were not the snot-nosed flattery she had anticipated. The lawyer was critical in the same tough, honest way that her father usually was. He ripped her to pieces, but only in those areas where she knew she deserved it.

“Priscilla thinks she knows a great deal more than she, in fact, does. Her parents are somewhat of a disappointment to her, since she’s convinced that they don’t know nearly as much as she does. It’s a typical teenage assessment; she’s spoiled, but not rotten. Not yet. There are strong, steady hands on the parental controls still. And they will continue to guide Priscilla with loving concern and with respect. Priscilla is not a bad person, Chief. She’s a pain in the butt a lot of the time and a little too selfish and self-centered at other times. My call on Priscilla Caine is that she’s a good kid with lots of room for improvement.”

“Thank you, Mr. Whitcombe.” Chief Masterson rose from his seat. “I thank you all for coming in. We will be in touch when we decide whether we will be going forward with the charges.”

Cecilia and Montaro shook hands with Chief Masterson. Then Priscilla stood and did the same. Whitcombe followed her and Nick followed Whitcombe.

The chief pumped Nick’s hand firmly. “Where’re you parked, Nick?” he asked.

“Out back,” Nick said.

“Good. I’ll walk you to your car. There’s something I’d like to ask you.”

“O.K.” Nick turned to Priscilla, who was waiting in the doorway, and waved. “I’ll talk to you later, Prissy.”

Priscilla waved to him, then followed her parents and Whitcombe out of the chief’s office. The chief watched them go, then closed the door.

Turning to face Nick, he said, “I wanted to tell you this in private, Nick. You don’t need to worry about Priscilla being pregnant. Her parents had her checked. She just missed her period for whatever reason. That’s all. No pregnancy. I know you’re glad to hear those words.”

“I sure am,” Nick said sheepishly.

“Come on, we’ll go this way to your car.”

Chief Masterson led Nick from his office through a rear door that opened into a back hallway. The two men walked until Chief Masterson suddenly stopped in front of a closed door. “Let’s just stop in here for a second.” He opened the door and gestured for Nick to enter.

When Nick saw who was in the room, he gasped. There, seated at a table before him, were Norton Lightman and Millard Wilcox. Between them was Frankie Naples. Spread out on the table was the hundred thousand dollars he had turned over to Frankie less than an hour and a half earlier.

“I’m sure you know these gentlemen. Business acquaintances of yours, aren’t they?” the chief asked Nick.

Nick stared at Lightman’s and Wilcox’s detective badges, then lowered his eyes to meet those of the young man seated at the table like trapped prey. He saw only panic and resignation in the eyes of the once feisty bundle of energy he knew to be Frankie Naples.

“Sit down, son.” Chief Masterson indicated the unoccupied chair beside Frankie and Nick numbly obeyed. When he was seated, the chief continued. “Read him his rights, Joe.”

Dazed, Nick Corcell suddenly thought he could see everything clearly. He thought he had been so clever and careful, but it had all been a setup, probably even the words he had spoken on behalf of Priscilla Caine. No one would press any charges against her; society protected rich bitches like that girl, and working class folk like him always paid the price.

Nick listened to Detective Joseph Delconsini, the man Nick knew as Norton Lightman, monotone the familiar words that he had heard so often on TV procedurals—you have the right to remain silent; anything you say or do can and will be held against you. When the detective finished, Masterson sighed deeply, then spoke. “So, my babies, with time off for good behavior, each of you will be locked away for no less than ten years. By the time you get out of the slammer, the world will have passed you by.” He glanced at Nick. “College will have passed you by, son. You will probably spend the rest of your miserable life on the dung heap of society, eating shit. Which is, as far as I’m concerned, exactly where you belong.”

The ring of a wall phone interrupted him. Detective Howard McGraw, who had been known to Nick as Millard Wilcox, stepped over to the phone. “Yeah,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Yeah. Right. O.K.” He jerked the receiver toward Masterson. “For you, Chief.”

Masterson scurried across the room, grabbed the receiver from McGraw’s hand, and growled into it. “Yeah? All right, we’ll be right there.” He hung up, looked at his detectives, and made his way to the door. “We’ll be back in a few minutes,” Masterson told Nick and Frankie. “Don’t get any ideas about walking out the back door. It’s locked. As you probably know, you’re entitled to one phone call. Think about how you want to use it.”

Masterson followed his detectives out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“Bullshit. It’s all bullshit,” Frankie blurted out when they were gone.

“What is?” Nick asked weakly.

“That phone call. Them leaving the room. It’s all bullshit. They want to make a deal. That’s what they’re fishing for. But they want us to ask for it.”

“What kind of deal, man?” Nick asked anxiously.

“They want our guys in Boston,” Frankie told him lowering his voice.

Nick noticed that his hands had begun to shake.

“We could do it. We could walk out of here like nothing ever happened,” Frankie said. “I can take this money on to Boston just like I’m supposed to.”

Nick nodded his head in the direction the cops had gone. “And what do they get?”

“They get you and me, a couple of scratchers, working on the inside for them.”

“How do you know?” Nick asked.

“I can smell it. Sometimes you know things without seeing or hearing ’em. Sometimes you gotta rely on your other senses, kid,” said Frankie. “The question is how bad do you want to stay out of the warehouse? We’ve got a shot we play our cards right.”

“Our cards?” Nick thought. He considered the Caines and their pretty Westport mansion and he considered his mom and her husband’s two-bedroom apartment in South Boston. He thought of Priscilla who would be going off to college in a couple of years, and he thought of himself in prison.

“What would I have to do?” he asked.



Montaro Caine was behind the wheel of his Mercedes, speeding along Route 7, joining the rapid flow of vehicles rushing toward Connecticut. Cecilia, who was never comfortable on highways, kept her eyes focused on the speedometer. But she waited until the car was traveling well above the speed limit before she offered a gentle reminder.

“Better late than never, honey. Get us home in one piece, O.K.?”

Caine’s foot eased up on the gas pedal as he briefly glanced over to his wife. “Sorry,” he said with a distant smile.

Silence fell as Caine found his mind had already drifted many, many miles away from the Berkshires; he was thinking of coins and Fitzer Corporation and Matthew Perch and of all those other roles he had to play when he wasn’t being father and husband, responsibilities that he didn’t always know how to shoulder properly. As always, he would have to rely on the example set by his grandfather, whose ninety-ninth birthday was rapidly approaching; how much longer could Montaro rely on the wisdom of P. L. Caine, he wondered. At least a few more years, he hoped. So lost in his own thoughts was he that when he paused to glance down at the dashboard clock, he realized that nearly an hour had passed since they had left Stockbridge. He looked up into the rearview mirror and saw his daughter’s reflection.

“Priscilla,” he said. She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze in the mirror. “That’s the last you’ll see of Nick Corcell.” Her father spoke in the no-nonsense tone Priscilla had learned early in life never to challenge. “I’m sorry. Your mother and I will do everything we can to help you ride this through, but you won’t be seeing Nick again.”

Tears instantly welled up in Priscilla’s eyes. She felt a rage against her parents, wanted to lash out at them. Cecilia half turned in her seat to look at her enraged child and reached out to her, but Priscilla ignored the gesture. “That really sucks, Daddy. I mean that really f*cking sucks!” she blurted out, before collapsing into sobs.

Still, as her father drove along the Merritt Parkway and Priscilla was able to dry her eyes and catch her breath, she found herself beginning to develop some small new hope. If the events of the past weeks and the experience of seeing her father’s name in the newspapers in association with the mining disaster and the Fitzer takeover rumors had taught her anything, it was that Montaro Caine might not always be as right as his daughter had once thought him to be. Her father had said that she would never see Nick Corcell again, and he seemed sure of himself, but as for Priscilla, she was not so sure that Nick would disappear from their lives quite so easily.

As for Nick himself, he was cruising toward Boston along the Massachusetts Turnpike with what he felt to be a new lease on life. Frankie Naples had left Stockbridge a half hour earlier with the hundred thousand dollars in the trunk of his car. Nick wasn’t wearing his confining, fancy suit anymore, and the sunshine had never felt so good against his back. As far as Nick was concerned, the rich Connecticut bitch and her big-time parents were history. Bruce Springsteen was singing “Working on a Dream” on the radio, and Nick didn’t even feel moved to shut it off.

In fact, Nick turned the volume of the stereo louder and began singing along up until the moment when he became aware of a black sedan riding close behind him, flashing highway lights at him. Assuming the driver wanted to pass, Nick pulled right, but the car remained behind him. Looking into his rearview mirror, Nick could see that two men were inside the sedan, wearing sunglasses; the man in the passenger seat was waving, gesturing for him to pull off the turnpike.

The men could have been undercover cops from the Stockbridge P.D., friends of Frankie Naples, or members of the Boston outfit—Nick had no idea. The only thing Nick knew for sure was that whoever was in that car was someone he didn’t want to talk to. He briefly considered flooring his VW, but he knew that the Beetle could never compete with the eight-cylinder American sedan behind him. Good looks and a polite manner had gotten him through every scrape he’d ever been in; he’d have to hope that would prove true again. Resigned, he signaled a turn into the right lane, then got off at the Newton exit.

Nick parked the car in the first parking space he saw—in front of an upscale coffee shop called Taste—and the sedan pulled in behind him. He got out of his car at the same time as the men in their dark suits and sunglasses.

“How can I help you, officers?” Nick said with a smile as he approached them. They looked like Federal agents or narcs, Nick thought, but when they flashed their business cards at him, he understood that they were neither.

“We’re not cops, Nick,” said the bulkier of the two men. “My name is Alan Rothman and this is Carlos Wallace. I think you might be able to help us.”