The Protégé Read online

  “I do all right.”

  “There were lots of people trying to get this franchise.”

  “What won it for us?” Gillette asked directly. “Was it price alone, or were there other things?”

  Landry put down his napkin and leaned back, folding his thick arms over his barrel chest. “I really can’t comment on that, Christian. There were lots of criteria; obviously price was very important. But the owners don’t want me to talk about what went on behind closed doors.”

  “Who were the other bidders?” Gillette asked, ignoring the soft warning.

  “Mostly wealthy individuals.”

  “Who?”

  Landry chuckled nervously.

  Obviously, he wasn’t used to this kind of cross-examination. In his position as commissioner, he probably didn’t sit on the hot seat often. When there was a controversial issue, the owners probably handled it for him. They must have anticipated that today’s lunch would be just a formality. They probably figured the winner would be so happy at getting the franchise that he wouldn’t dig for information. But Gillette was always digging. Having information others didn’t was a surefire way to make money. “It really would be helpful to know,” he pushed. “I don’t understand why it’d be a problem to tell me now that the selection process is over.”

  “All names I’m sure you’d recognize. I mean, there aren’t that many individuals around who could afford an NFL team.” Landry held up his hands. “But I, I really can’t say any more. League policy.” He grimaced.

  Like all of a sudden the meeting wasn’t going the way he thought it would, or like he wished it were one-thirty and he could leave, Gillette thought, interpreting the grimace.

  “Let’s talk some more logistics,” Landry suggested, picking at something between his teeth.

  “Okay.”

  “Tell me about the stadium construction. What’s the timing there?”

  Another indication Landry hadn’t been one of the decision makers. All that information had been spelled out in the final bid package Everest had submitted to the NFL two months ago. “The architectural plans for the stadium were in the bid package. We still need to choose a primary contractor, but that shouldn’t take long. There are only three or four serious players for this job. Our advisers tell us that once we’ve chosen the contractor, the stadium can be finished in eighteen months.”

  Landry rested his chin in his palm, as though he were thinking hard. “So, then, the plan is for your team to start playing not next season, but the season after that. We’ll have the expansion draft a few weeks after next year’s Super Bowl. That’ll give you time to see what veterans you’ve got before the college draft.” Landry grinned. “Damn, I wish I were in your shoes.” His grin grew even wider. “If I were you, I’d make sure I was there for cheerleader tryouts.”

  Gillette broke into a halfhearted laugh. Landry had no conception of what it meant to be in charge, no idea of the pressure involved. “I’ll remember that, Kurt.”

  “Now you’re getting into the spirit,” Landry said enthusiastically. “The NFL is fun, a marketing machine, the biggest damn party in all sports, and now you’re at the center of it.” He pointed at Gillette. “You beat out some people who’ve been trying to get one of these teams for a long time. There’s folks out there who are pissed off right now, but the NFL made the right choice. It always does.”

  Gillette picked up his fork and pushed the broccoli around his plate. “Why are they so pissed off?”

  “Because they lost,” Landry said, as if the answer were obvious.

  “Well, they didn’t bid enough, so they’ve only got themselves to blame, right?”

  Landry shrugged. “Right . . . I guess.”

  Suddenly, Gillette wished he could have been a fly on the wall during the selection meetings. Wished he could get his hands on all the bid packages. Something didn’t smell right. “There’s one more thing I want to talk to you about today,” he said, glancing at his watch: one twenty-three.

  “What’s that?”

  “Organized crime.”

  Landry’s body went stiff in the chair, water glass halfway between the tablecloth and his mouth. “Huh?”

  “The Mafia.”

  “What about it?” Landry kept his voice low, his eyes flickering around.

  “Do you have any information about how active they are in Las Vegas?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t, specifically, have any information.”

  “Does someone else at the NFL office have that?”

  Landry hesitated. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you guys must have looked at that hard before you decided it was all right to have a franchise in Las Vegas.”

  “Of course we did,” Landry agreed emphatically.

  “And?”

  Landry hesitated. “And I’ll talk to our people who are in charge of franchise development later this week, when I get back from my trip. But what the hell are you worried about? We’ve never had a problem with the Mafia.”

  “You’ve never been in Las Vegas.”

  “No, but we’re in New York, Chicago, and Florida,” Landry argued. “What do you think they’d do, try to make players fix games? We monitor that very carefully. We have a team of people who review every game tape with a microscope to make certain there wasn’t anything shady going on. Experts who can spot quarterbacks just barely under- or overthrowing receivers, running backs going down without really being hit, linebackers missing easy tackles, placekickers going wide on purpose. I don’t understand what you’re worried about.”

  “It has nothing to do with the actual operation of the team,” Gillette explained. “I’m more concerned about the casino and them trying to influence the regulators on license renewals and things like that. And what they might gouge me for during construction of the casino and the stadium because they control the unions. You know, slowdowns and sick-outs if I don’t pay them.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve done some checking,” Gillette continued, “and I think they’re still active out there, maybe more so than people think. I’ll have better information on that in the next day or two. I’m willing to share that with you as long as you share what you have with me.” He looked at Landry intently.

  “Of course, of course.” Landry cleared his throat as he checked his watch. “Look, maybe the best thing is for you to back off on this casino idea for a while? Get the franchise established first, then we’ll talk about the casino again in a few years.”

  Landry suddenly seemed nervous, pulling the napkin through his fingers, bouncing one knee.

  “No way,” Gillette said firmly. “The only reason we offered four hundred and fifty million for the franchise was so we could build the casino. Without that, the bid doesn’t make sense.” Not entirely true, but Landry didn’t know that. “That was clearly stated in the bid package.”

  “Right, right, but things change. We all know that. Everything’s always up for renegotiation, right?”

  “Not this,” Gillette answered coldly. Landry gazed back for a few seconds, then glanced away, unable to stare Gillette down. “I hope I’m making myself clear.”

  “Let me get back to you.”

  Gillette shook his head. “No, I need an ironclad yes right now, or I go to our friends in the press and let them know you’ve reneged. If I do, you won’t get close to four hundred fifty million when you reoffer the franchise. People will smell a problem, especially when I tell them why we backed off.”

  Landry blinked. “No, no, don’t do that.”

  “What’s your answer, Kurt?” Gillette demanded, glad the Wall Street lawyer hadn’t won the election for commissioner. “I need to know right now.”

  Landry took several gulps of water, then nodded. “Okay, okay, you got your casino.”

  WRIGHT MOVED slowly through Saks Fifth Avenue’s main entrance across from Rockefeller Center, then meandered through a maze of glass counters full of perfumes and body lotions. He gazed emptily at
the perfectly made-up women behind the counters who were smiling back, ready to sell him something outrageously expensive.

  He stopped and rubbed his face hard in the middle of an aisle, hoping he’d wake up in his bed beside his wife and realize that what had happened at the sex shop had all been just an awful nightmare. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, praying, knowing he was being irrational—which he prided himself on never being—but unable to calm down. He was holding on to anything at this point, anything that might give him a shred of hope. But when he opened his eyes, he was still in Saks, still in trouble.

  “You all right?” asked a pretty, dark-haired woman from behind one of the counters.

  Wright glanced over at her. “Huh?” He’d been thinking about how he hadn’t seen or heard anything on TV or radio about a woman being found dead between two parked cars in the West Village. Which seemed strange. The story might not be enough for CNN, but it should have made the local news.

  “You look like you’re having a bad day,” said the saleswoman. “Girl trouble?”

  Wright gazed at her, the horrible image of the woman dropping from the block of wood still vivid in his mind.

  “You know,” the saleswoman continued, “you should give her something nice.” She reached for a small bottle on a purple velvet cloth. “This is called Allure,” she said. “It’s one of our best sellers.”

  Wright moved to the counter slowly. “It would be for my wife,” he murmured.

  “Of course it would,” the saleswoman said, brushing her fingers over Wright’s left hand and his wedding band. “You two having a little tiff?”

  “Well, we—”

  “Hi, David.”

  Wright’s gaze shot from the woman’s fingers into the eyes of a man he’d never seen before. A stocky, swarthy man with dark hair and a crooked nose. “Who are you?”

  The man snickered and looked at the saleswoman. “What a joker,” he said in a thick New York accent, spreading his arms wide and smiling. “He always does this to me. Acts like he doesn’t know me. It’s his thing, ya know?”

  The saleswoman shrugged.

  The man patted Wright on the shoulder, then reached into his jacket, pulled out a photograph, and held it up so Wright could see.

  As Wright focused on the photo, his heart rose in his throat and his upper lip curled. It was a picture of him whipping the woman as she hung from the iron rings.

  “Follow me,” he ordered, his tone gruff. He wheeled around and headed toward the elevators.

  Wright followed him like a puppy after its mother, head down and in the same tracks, all the way to a waiting elevator. Moving into the car obediently when the man waved him in. As the doors closed, the man turned toward Wright, resting his finger on the “stop” button. Pushing it hard when the elevator had risen a few feet, halting it between the first and second floors.

  “What’s going on?” Wright asked. “Please,” he begged, “tell me.”

  The man smiled, his demeanor becoming pleasant again. “Everything’s going to be fine, David, as long as you cooperate.”

  “How did you get that?” Wright asked, gesturing at the photo the man was still holding.

  “We were there, in a side room. We saw everything. We got pictures and a tape of the whole thing.” The man shook his head. “Poor woman.”

  “It was an accident,” Wright muttered.

  “Of course it was,” the man agreed, “but the cops might not think so when they see the tape up to the point you put the noose around her neck.”

  Wright started to say something, but the man held up a finger and cut him off.

  “Don’t worry, David, your secret’s safe as long as you work with us. Right now, all the cops have on their hands is a missing persons case. We picked the woman up and put her in cold storage. We took care of the owner, too, so he couldn’t point the cops at you.” The man chuckled snidely. “I doubt anybody will miss him, though. Pretty much a scumbag.”

  Wright shut his eyes tightly. “I didn’t kill her,” he said, gritting his teeth. “It was an accident.”

  “Of course it was,” the man said, pulling a pocketful of pictures from his jacket and tossing them so they scattered on the floor of the elevator. “But try telling the cops that when they see these.”

  Wright dropped to his knees, scooping them up quickly. “This is crazy,” he muttered over and over. “Crazy.”

  “And don’t worry about the shop, we cleaned everything up.” The man laughed harshly and pushed the elevator’s “start” button. “The NYPD crime lab won’t find nothing.”

  Wright picked up the last picture as the car jerked to a start. “What’s going on?” he whispered, looking up at the man. “Please tell me.”

  The car came to a stop and the doors parted on the second floor. “We’ll be in touch soon,” the man said as he moved past several people waiting to get on. “By the way, David, my name’s Paul. Remember that, because we’re going to be talking a lot from now on.”

  DÉJÀ VU, Gillette thought, watching Stiles hoist a juicy piece of steak to his mouth. Stiles was sitting in the same chair Landry had used and had ordered the same meal—he’d shown up ten minutes after Landry left and hadn’t stopped eating or said a word since the food was served. “Taste good?” he asked, glad to see Stiles enjoying himself.

  Stiles finished chewing and swallowed, then leaned back and patted his stomach gently. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything better in my life.”

  “I’m just glad you have your life,” Gillette said quietly, leaning over and touching Stiles on the shoulder. “I was worried about you.” Worried was an understatement. Stiles had gone critical several times during the week after he was shot. The hospital chaplain had read him the last rites twice. “It was my fault you got hit.”

  Stiles pointed at Gillette. “That’s crap and you know it. I signed up to protect you, you paid me a lot of money to do it, and I took the money. I did it out of my own free will, out of complete self-interest. It’s my job, I’d do it again.” He paused. “For a guy who’s big on personal accountability, I can’t believe you said that.”

  Stiles was right. It was his job, it was what he was supposed to do, and he had taken money. But right now, that didn’t seem to matter. “I still feel bad.”

  “Then pay me more money.”

  “Yeah, good one.” Gillette looked around the restaurant, checking for his security detail—over by the bus stand. Since Whitman and McGuire had tried to kill him last fall, he checked every few minutes whenever he was in public. It had been ten months, but the most dangerous person involved in the Laurel Energy conspiracy—Tom McGuire—was still out there somewhere. And if Faraday was right, McGuire might be close. “You’re my friend, Quentin, my good friend.” Gillette took a measured breath. “I don’t let many people in,” he admitted, his voice going low. “I can’t.”

  “I know.”

  “Some people think I’m lonely,” Gillette murmured.

  “I know,” Stiles agreed. “They want the money and all the perks, but they don’t know what you go through. The pressure of making so many important decisions all the time. It’s got to be tough.”

  “It is sometimes.” Stiles understood. One of the few people who did. Gillette had to at least appear to be immune to it, but there were moments when he felt the walls closing in around him, and it felt good to tell someone that.

  “It could have been very different,” Stiles pointed out. “The guy aimed at the first person he saw in that room. It could have been you in the hospital for the last ten months.”

  “Maybe.” Gillette replayed the scene in his head for a few moments. It had been the wildest few seconds he had ever experienced. “But the most important thing is, you’re okay. Judging by the way you’re inhaling that steak, anyway.”

  “It’ll be a while until I’m a hundred percent, but meals like this will definitely speed up the recovery.”

  “Good. Well, since you’re feeling better, let
’s talk business.”

  Stiles nodded. “Sure.”

  “First of all, I want to close our deal.”

  “Our deal?”

  “Yeah, for your company.”

  Stiles’s jaw dropped. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

  “When have you ever known me to be anything but serious about Everest business?”

  “Not often.”

  “Try never,” Gillette said sharply. “Look, McGuire and Company will pay five million dollars for a hundred percent of QS. I spoke to Craig West this morning, and he’s fine with it.”

  “If he wasn’t, he’d be fired.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Sure it is, Chris. Craig knows where his bread’s buttered.”

  “Whatever,” Gillette muttered. But Stiles was right. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that West would object to the deal.

  “You’re doing me a favor,” Stiles said. “A five-million-dollar favor, and I don’t want you getting in trouble with your investors. People get pretty crazy when it comes to money.”

  “You’re telling me?” Gillette chuckled. “Look, I’m about to make my investors five billion dollars on Laurel Energy.”

  Stiles caught his breath. “Five billion?”

  “Yeah, so I don’t think they’ll give me too much trouble over five million. That’s chicken scratch to them.”

  “Jesus.”

  “And five million’s a fair price for QS, anyway. It’s full, but fair, and Craig and I think it’ll be a nice tuck-in to round out McGuire’s service offerings. McGuire has a high-end protection division, but it caters mostly to business executives. You’ve got connections in the sports and entertainment industry Craig doesn’t. After we close, I’ll expect you to work with him on those relationships, make all the introductions.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. See, everybody wins. McGuire and Company gets a new business line at a decent price, you get five million bucks, and I get all your time. Okay?”

  Stiles made a face as though he were trying to work through a calculus problem. “Okay.”