The Patriots Club Page 4

  “Wait here,” said Irish.

  Bolden stood still, his heart pounding. The hood was tight and cloying, the coarse filaments brushing his lips, getting into his mouth. Someone entered the room. He could feel the change in pressure, a presence circling him, sizing him up as if he were a slab of beef. Reflexively, he stood at attention.

  “Mr. Bolden, my name is Guilfoyle. I’m sorry for any inconvenience. All I can say is that it’s necessary for us to speak and we can’t have anyone being privy to our conversation. Wolf, take off that hood, will you? Mr. Bolden must be getting a little uncomfortable.”

  Wolf removed the hood.

  “So, here’s our gadfly,” said Guilfoyle. “Persistent, aren’t you?”

  He was a short, unattractive man in his fifties with narrow shoulders and a hunched posture. His thinning black hair grew in a widow’s peak that he combed away from a lined brow. His eyes were dark, cupped by fleshy pouches, his skin sallow, cheeks sagging, a turkey’s dangling chin. The smell of tobacco hung on him like a cloud.

  “Come with me.” Guilfoyle led the way into another room. The décor was suited for a clerk or other menial labor: cheap carpeting, white walls, acoustic tiles on the ceiling. A veneer desk sat in the center of the room, along with two office chairs. There were no windows. “Take a seat.”

  Bolden sat down.

  Guilfoyle dragged the other chair closer. Sitting, he craned his neck forward, his eyes riveted to Bolden’s face. Mouth tight, lips pushed up at the corners, he looked as if he were studying a painting he didn’t like.

  He knows things about people.

  “I’d like you to keep still,” he said in a doctor’s patient, disinterested tone. “Movement makes things very difficult for me. It will only delay matters. I’ve only got two questions. Answer them and you’re free to go.”

  “Easier than Jeopardy!”

  “This is no game show.”

  Bolden took in the almost decent suit, the cheap necktie, the ease with which Guilfoyle launched into his interrogation. The guy had cop written all over him. He folded his hands. “So?”

  “Surely you know what I’m curious about.”

  “No clue.”

  “Really? How could that be?”

  Bolden shrugged and looked away. “This is crazy.”

  Fingers like steel pinions grasped Bolden’s jaw and guided his face forward. “You will kindly remain still,” said Guilfoyle, relaxing his grip. “Now then, let’s begin again. Tell me about ‘Crown.’ ”

  “Crown?” Bolden opened his hands. “Crown what? Crown Cola? Crown Books? Crown Cork and Seal? Give me something to go on.”

  “I guess I should have expected that kind of answer from a man who earns his living on Wall Street. Try again.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t get it,” said Bolden earnestly.

  The eyes flitted over Bolden’s face. Forehead, eyes, mouth. “Sure you do,” said Guilfoyle. “But let’s keep going. Play it fast and loose. How about Bobby Stillman? When did you see each other last?”

  “Never. I don’t know anyone named Bobby Stillman.”

  “Bob-by Still-man.” Guilfoyle spoke the name slowly, as if Bolden were deaf, as well as plain stupid. His gaze had acquired a weight. Bolden could feel it like a cold hand on his neck.

  “Don’t know the name. Who is it?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I can’t. I don’t know a Bobby Stillman.”

  Two questions. Two answers. He’d failed the test brilliantly. He remembered Irish reciting the facts of his life as if he were reading from a book. It was a mistake. All that work for naught. They had the wrong man. “Is that it?” he asked. “Is that why you brought me up here?”

  Guilfoyle smiled briefly, showing dingy, crooked teeth. “There’s been no mistake,” he said, almost lightly. “We both know that. You’re very good, by the way. I’ll give you that.”

  “Good?” Bolden sensed what he was driving at. “I’m not lying, if that’s what you mean. You said ‘two questions.’ I answered them the best I could. I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s not going to change anytime soon.”

  Guilfoyle remained still, the unblinking eyes ever searching. Suddenly he shifted in his chair. “You can’t really think you’ll get out of this so easily. Not you . . . of all people. You know who we are; the resources at our disposal. What with all the digging you’ve done . . . Come now, Mr. Bolden.”

  “It sounds like you’re the one who did the digging and it was for nothing. I’m sorry that you made a mistake, but I’d like to go. This bullshit has to end sometime and I think now’s the right moment.”

  Guilfoyle exhaled and sat straighter, as if taking a new and harsher measure of the situation. “Mr. Bolden, I had you brought here for the express purpose of learning what you know about Crown. I won’t leave until I have my answer. I’d also like you to tell me how you came by the information—and by that, I mean a name. You see, we’re very much like an investment bank ourselves. We don’t like our people divulging inside information. Now then, I’d appreciate some answers.”

  “I can’t help.”

  “I think you can. Crown. Bobby Still—”

  Suddenly, it was too much. The confined space. The questioning. The insistent eyes boring into him like ice picks. “Jesus, would you get off of it!” said Bolden, bolting from his chair, sending it tumbling. “How many times do I have to say it? I don’t know. Got it? I don’t know anything about your resources or who you work for. I haven’t been doing any digging. You’re the one who’s mistaken, not me. Look, I’ve tried to be patient, but I can’t give you what I don’t have. I don’t know who you are, Mr. Guilfoyle, or why you’re asking me these questions. And frankly, I don’t want to know. One last time: I have no idea what Crown is. As for Bobby Stillman, what do you want me to say? We met for tea at the Palm Court in the Plaza last Thursday? The name means nothing to me. It’s a blank. That’s the truth.”

  “That would be impossible,” said Guilfoyle. He remained seated, his voice collected, untroubled.

  “What would be impossible?”

  “We know the two of you are working together.”

  “On the same team,” Bolden suggested, throwing up his arms.

  “I haven’t heard it put that way before, but yes . . . the same team. Crown,” repeated Guilfoyle. “Bobby Stillman. You will tell us, please.”

  “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about!”

  With surprising speed, Guilfoyle stood and pulled a snub-nosed .38 Police Special from his jacket pocket. Taking a step forward, he pressed the muzzle against Bolden’s forehead. “Wolf,” he called, without unscrewing his gaze from Bolden. “Some assistance.”

  Massive hands clutched Bolden’s arms, pinning them to his sides. Guilfoyle opened a door at the far end of the room. Wind howled from the darkness beyond. “Looks like the storm’s on its way.”

  “Walk,” said Wolf.

  Digging his heels into the carpet didn’t help. Wolf lifted Bolden off his feet as if he were no heavier than a case of beer and carried him outside. He set Bolden down on a wood platform twenty feet by twenty, spread across two girders. The door flapped noisily against a metal wall and Bolden realized that he’d been in the construction foreman’s temporary office. Above him, the skyscraper’s unfinished exoskeleton rose another ten stories or so, the taut girders clutching at the sky like a drowning man’s hand. He was facing north, the view over Harlem and into the Bronx obscured by fast-moving clouds.

  This was bad, he thought. This was definitely lousy.

  “Now, listen . . .” Bolden turned his head to look behind him. A kidney punch dropped him to a knee.

  “Stand up,” said Guilfoyle. He waved the pistol toward the opposite side of the wooden platform.

  Bolden raised himself to his feet. Haltingly, he crossed the platform. A girder extended from beneath the wood, and beyond the skyscraper’s superstructure like a diving board. A heavy chain was
anchored to its end. A pulley of some sort.

  “As I said, you’re quite good, but my patience has worn thin. It’s your choice. Tell me about ‘Crown’ and your relationship with Bobby Stillman, and you’re free to come back inside. We’ll all go downstairs together and I’ll see to it that you get home safely. It’s a matter of security. I can’t leave here until I know for certain the full extent of your involvement.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “You can’t or you won’t?” Guilfoyle shrugged, and his eyes dived over the platform to the ground, seventy floors below. “Even you must know the answer to that question.”

  Glancing down, Bolden saw only a void, the building’s empty guts, and far below, the reflected white of the wooden fence surrounding the construction site. A street ran parallel to the building. Taillights sprinted from block to block, stopping at red lights. A gust lashed his face. The wind unsettled the platform, and Bolden’s knees buckled, before he regained his balance.

  Wolf walked confidently across the platform, a lead pipe in his hand. “Now’s the time, Mr. Bolden. Talk. Tell Mr. Guilfoyle what he needs to know.”

  Bolden took another step back, his heel dipping into air, then finding the wood. It came to him that Guilfoyle did not want to shoot him. A body that fell from the seventieth floor was a suicide. Add a bullet and you have murder.

  “Crown. I want an answer. Three seconds.”

  Bolden racked his brain. Crown. Crown of England. Crown Cola. The Thomas Crown Affair. He’d always thought Steve McQueen in that glider was the coolest guy on the planet. The Jewel in the Crown. Wasn’t that some book he’d been force-fed in college? Crown . . . crown . . . What was the use?

  “Two,” said Guilfoyle.

  “I don’t know. I swear to you.”

  “Three.”

  “I don’t know!” he shouted.

  Guilfoyle raised the gun. Even in the dark, Bolden could see the tips of the bullets loaded in the firing drum. A spray of orange erupted from the pistol. A terrific heat blasted his cheek. The gun roared. Too late, Bolden covered his head. And then there was silence. Seventy stories up, a gunshot is no more than a clap of the hands.

  “Bobby Stillman,” said Guilfoyle. “This time’s for keeps. Count on it. One . . .”

  Bolden shook his head. He was sick of saying that he didn’t know.

  “Two.” Guilfoyle turned to Wolf. “Give our friend something to jog his memory.”

  Wolf took a step forward, swinging the pipe as if he were trying a saber. Bolden inched backward, one foot on the girder, then the next. Another inch, then another, until he was three feet from the platform, balanced on a steel toothpick, and he couldn’t retreat any farther.

  “It’s a mistake,” he said, keeping his eyes on Guilfoyle. “You screwed up.”

  “All right then. Have it your way.” Guilfoyle took a last look at him, then turned and walked back into the office. Irish followed, closing the door behind them. A few seconds later, the elevator began its descent to the ground. Bolden watched its controlled fall. He kept imagining bodies tumbling through the air. Twirling slowly, gracefully, silently.

  Wolf put a foot onto the girder, trying his weight on it. He held the pipe in front of him and advanced along the eight-inch-wide beam. “If you’ve got any wings, now’s the time to put ’em on.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Bolden asked. He refused to look down.

  “It’s my business.”

  “What do you mean? You mean killing people?”

  “I mean solving problems. Doing what’s necessary.”

  “For ‘your team’? Who are you guys, anyway?”

  “It’s our team, actually. Yours. Mine. Everyone’s.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “Everyone. The country. Who else?” Wolf’s mouth hung open, shadows melting his features into a dark, vengeful mask. He stared at Bolden. “Jump.”

  “Ladies first.”

  “Smack me in the head, eh?” Wolf swung the pipe. Bolden spun away, the lead scraping his chest. Wolf came closer, too close to miss. “Long way down,” he said, drawing his hand back. “Enjoy the trip.”

  Bolden launched himself at the larger man, wrapping his arms around his chest, squeezing him as tightly as he could.

  “Sonofabitch, you’ll kill us both,” Wolf muttered angrily. His eyes were open very wide now. He dropped the pipe, his massive hands seizing Bolden, prying him off his body. Bolden clutched the muscled torso harder. For a moment, he felt his feet leave the girder. He managed to extend a leg. His foot touched steel. With his last bit of strength, Bolden tipped himself over the edge. Gravity did the rest.

  He fell headfirst, the icy wind whipping at his eyes, streaming tears across his cheek. He felt Wolf near him, but it was hard to see. A silence louder than any scream flooded his ears. He couldn’t breathe. He was falling backward, arms flailing, his heels turning him around. Below him was blackness, and above him, too. Falling. Falling. He opened his mouth to yell. He gave a terrible, desperate effort, but nothing would come.

  He was caught by a slack safety net three stories below. Somehow he’d managed to land on top of Wolf, striking him in the head with his elbow. The man lay still, eyes closed, a web of blood running from his nose.

  Bolden crawled off the net to a girder. He lay there for a moment, the steel cold and rough against his cheek. He’d seen the net in the half-light. He’d thought it was closer. He got to a knee, his elbow aching badly, and figured that was what had hit Wolf. Pure luck.

  The work elevator was situated on the side of the superstructure. Arms raised like a tightrope artist, he negotiated the steel beams, moving slowly at first, faster as his confidence built. A control box hung by a cable at the elevator. He snatched it in his hands and punched the green button in its center. The cables whirred efficiently, the elevator rising. He looked behind him. Wolf hadn’t budged. He lay still as a shark entangled in a drift net.

  The elevator arrived. Bolden rode down in darkness. Guilfoyle was gone. He knew that much. There was no reason for him to stick around. Not when he had someone like Wolf to finish the job. But what about Irish? Irish would be waiting for the body to fall. He would be waiting for his partner.

  Through the mesh grate, Bolden peered at the ground below. Because the elevator ran up the side of the building, and because there was only a cage and no doors, he had a good view of the entire construction site. The Town Car was parked inside the gates. No sign of the driver. He spotted Irish standing near a forklift at the opposite side of the site. The ember of his cigarette glowed and dimmed like a firefly. As the elevator approached the ground, he didn’t move. The elevator was quiet, but Irish had to be wearing headphones or earbuds not to hear it come to a halt.

  Bolden slid open the grate and ran across the dirt, dodging stacks of plywood. The fence surrounding the work site was ten feet high and topped by a coil of barbed wire. The gate at the vehicle entrance was lower—maybe six feet—but there was still the barbed wire to contend with. He checked behind him, seeing Irish’s blond head begin to turn. Just then the front door of the Town Car swung open. A head rose from the driver’s seat.

  “You! Stop!”

  Bolden threw an upraised palm into the driver’s jaw, snapping his head ferociously. The driver hit the door and fell backward across the seat, one foot inside the car. Bolden heard steps coming from behind. He shoved the driver across the seat and squeezed in next to him. A keychain dangled from the ignition. Door still open, he turned over the motor and threw the car into drive.

  The gate didn’t stand a chance.

  7

  Jennifer Dance stood from the examining table and gingerly probed the latticework of stitches running along the top of her left forearm. “How long do they have to stay in?”

  “Seven days,” answered Dr. Satyen Patel. “Provided there is no infection. It looked to be a clean cut. Very easy to stitch. Can you flex your fingers? Everything feel all right?”

  Jenny cur
led the fingers of her left hand. Thankfully, the blade hadn’t damaged any nerves. “Just fine.”

  “I’m going to bandage it now. I want you to keep the arm dry for five days. Rub Iamin gel on the wound twice a day. No sports, no strenuous activity until you come back to have the sutures out. Expect some soreness, but that should be it. Do as I say, and there’s a good chance you won’t even have a scar. I do first-rate work.”

  And you’re modest, too, added Jenny silently. She stood still as the doctor wrapped the forearm in gauze and applied a length of tape. Her last visit to a hospital had taken place a year ago. Her mother was suffering from terminal lung cancer and Jenny had flown to Kansas City for a final good-bye. There were no bruises to patch up, no long-simmering grudges. It was just a daughter’s chance to say thank you. I love you.

  Instead of driving directly to the hospital after landing, she’d stopped at her brother’s house first. It was on the way, and frankly, she was scared of seeing her mom. The two drank a beer, and finally, she felt ready. When she arrived at the hospital, she found a priest leaving the room. Her mother had died ten minutes before she’d arrived.

  “All finished,” said Dr. Patel, cutting the tape.

  “Thank you.” Jenny grabbed her purse and headed to the door.

  “One moment!” Dr. Patel finished scribbling on a sheet and ripped the paper from its pad. “Go to room three fifteen and give this to the nurse. You’ll need a tetanus shot.” He groped in the pocket of his jacket and came out with a smaller prescription pad. “Take this to the pharmacy afterward and have it filled. Antibiotics. Infection is our worst enemy. You’re not taking anything else, are you?”