Myron Bolitar, Marxist Sports Agent.
Win clapped his hands and the men were dismissed. They rose as slowly as possible—attorneys billed by the minute, sort of like 900 sex lines minus the guaranteed, er, payoff—and filed out the office door. The older men departed first, the younger men trailing not unlike Japanese brides.
Myron stepped inside. “What’s going on?”
Win signaled for Myron to sit. Then he leaned back and did the steeple thing with his hands. “This situation,” he said, “has me troubled.”
“You mean Clu’s cash withdrawal?”
“In part, yes,” Win said. He bounced the fingertips before resting the indexes on his lower lip. “I become very unhappy when I hear the words subpoena and Lock-Horne in the same sentence.”
“So? You have nothing to hide.”
Win smiled thinly. “Your point being?”
“Let them look at your records. You’re a lot of things, Win. Honest being chief among them.”
Win shook his head. “You are so naive.”
“What?”
“My family runs a financial securities firm.”
“So?”
“So even the whiff of innuendo can destroy said firm.”
“I think you’re overreacting,” Myron said.
Win arched an eyebrow, put a hand to his ear. “Pardon moi?”
“Come on, Win. There’s always some Wall Street scandal or other going on. People barely notice anymore.”
“Those are insider trading scandals mostly.”
“So?”
Win paused, looked at him. “Are you being purposely obtuse?”
“No.”
“Insider trading is a completely different animal.”
“How so?”
“Do you really need me to explain this to you?”
“Guess so.”
“Fine then. Stripping it bare, insider trading is cheating or stealing. My clients do not care if I cheat or steal—as long it is done for their benefit. In fact, if a certain illegal act were to increase their portfolios, most clients would probably encourage it. But if their financial adviser is playing games with their personal accounts—or equally awful, if his banking institution is merely involved in something that will give the government the right to subpoena records—clients become understandably nervous.”
Myron nodded. “I can see where there might be a problem.”
Win strummed the top of his desk with his fingers. For him, this was major agitation. Hard to believe, but for the first time Win actually appeared a touch unnerved. “I have three law firms and two publicity firms working on the matter,” he continued.
“Working on it how?”
“The usual,” Win said. “Calling in political favors, preparing a lawsuit against the Bergen County DA’s office for libel and slander, planting positive spins in the media, seeing what judges will be running for reelection.”
“In other words,” Myron said, “who can you pay off.”
Win shrugged. “You say tomato, I say tomahto.”
“The files haven’t been subpoenaed yet?”
“No. I plan on quashing the possibility before any judge even thinks of issuing them.”
“So maybe we should take the offensive.”
Win resteepled. His big mahogany desk was polished to the point where his reflection was near-mirror clear, like something out of an old dish detergent commercial where a housewife gets waaaaay too excited about seeing herself in a dinner plate. “I’m listening.”
He recounted his conversation with Bonnie Haid. The red phone on Win’s credenza—his Batphone, so enamored with the old Adam West vehicle that he actually kept it under what looked like a glass cake cover—interrupted him several times. Win had to take the calls. They were mostly from attorneys. Myron could hear the lawyerly panic travel through the earpiece and all the way across the desk. Understandable. Windsor Horne Lockwood III was not the kind of guy you wanted to disappoint.
Win remained calm. His end of the conversation could basically be broken down into two words: How. And much.
When Myron finished, Win said, “Let’s make a list.” He didn’t reach for a pen. Neither did Myron. “One, we need Clu’s phone records.”
“He was staying at an apartment in Fort Lee,” Myron said.
“The murder scene.”
“Right. Clu and Bonnie rented the apartment when he first got traded in May.” To the Yankees. A huge deal that gave Clu, an aging veteran, one last chance to squander. “They moved into the house in Tenafly in July, but the apartment’s lease ran for another six months. So when Bonnie threw him out, that’s where he ended up.”
“You have the address?” Win asked.
“Yep.”
“Fine then.”
“Send the records down to Big Cyndi. I’ll have her check through it.”
Getting a phone record was frighteningly easy. Don’t believe it? Open your local yellow pages. Choose a private investigator at random. Offer to pay him or her two grand for anyone’s monthly phone bill. Some will simply say yes, but most will try to up you to three thousand, half the fee going to whatever phone company minion they bribe.
Myron said, “We also need to check out Clu’s credit cards, his checkbook, ATM, whatever, see what he’s been up to lately.”
Win nodded. In Clu’s case, this would be doubly easy. His entire financial portfolio was held by Lock-Horne Securities. Win had set up a separate management account for Clu so that he could manage his finances easier. It included a Visa debit card, electronic payments of monthly bills, and a checkbook.
“We also need to find this mystery girlfriend,” Myron said.
“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” Win said.
“No.”
“And as you suggested earlier, our old fraternity brother Billy Lee Palms might know something.”
“We can track him down,” Myron said.
Win raised a finger. “One thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“You will have to do the majority of the legwork on your own.”
“Why’s that?”
“I have a business to run.”
“So do I,” Myron said.
“You lose your business, you hurt two people.”
“Three,” Myron corrected. “You forgot Big Cyndi.”
“No. I am speaking of Big Cyndi and Esperanza. I left you out for all the obvious reasons. Again if you require the prerequisite cliché, please choose one of the following: You made your bed, now lie in it—”