ONE YEAR AGO
George Carrick looked good in his Brioni tuxedo—the same kind that James Bond wore. He knew he did. And so he should. He’d spent a small fortune having it altered to fit him properly. A second small fortune, when you consider how much the thing cost to start off with. And he’d spent an hour in front of the mirror before leaving his apartment to make sure every last detail was right. He’d tried on four different bow ties before making his final choice. Real ones, not the ready-tied kind, and fixing the knot neatly with fingers as wide and stubby as his was no easy feat. He’d switched back and forth between alternative cummerbunds a dozen times before abandoning them both in favor of a vest, figuring that avoiding horizontal stripes was a smarter move for a guy with a figure like his.
A martini, shaken not stirred? Or a glass of vintage Bollinger? That was the question in Carrick’s mind as he approached the unmarked door to The Aviary’s private dining room. Or maybe he should start with one of their legendary signature cocktails? He’d need an appropriate drink in his hand, given that he was finally about to look down on the city that for so long had looked down on him. He was still mulling over his beverage options when he reached for the door handle and a guy suddenly appeared from a concealed alcove. He was tall. Broad. His expression was so vacant he could have been a zombie, if he hadn’t moved so fast. And he barely fitted into his tux, but not for the same reason that Carrick’s tailor had struggled with.
The guy said nothing. He just stood there, blocking the door.
“I’m George Carrick.” He said it as though it was obvious.
The guy didn’t respond.
“I’m here for the party tonight.”
Carrick wondered why the guy remained like a statue, then the penny dropped. He may have gone up in the social stratosphere, but he was still physically in New York. He reached for his wallet and took out a hundred-dollar bill. The guy didn’t make the slightest move to take it.
A subdued ping behind Carrick’s back announced the arrival of the elevator. Its door slid open and two guys stepped out. Carrick recognized them. They were investors in the project he was there to celebrate. From the Middle East. They were princes, Carrick had heard, but they never wore crowns. Just regular suits. Not even very nice ones, in Carrick’s opinion.
The princely investors approached but showed no sign of knowing Carrick. In some unnaturally fluid move the big guy swept him aside and opened the door to let the Arabs go inside. Carrick stepped forward to follow them and found his path implacably blocked again.
“I’m with them, numb-nuts!” Carrick’s voice came out louder than he’d intended it to. “I need to get inside. Will you move out of my way?”
“I can’t do that, sir.” The guy could have been a robot for all the empathy he was displaying.
“Why not?” Carrick was struggling to bring his voice back under control.
“You’re not on the list.”
“There’s a list? What list?”
“It would be best if you step back now, sir.”
The elevator door opened again and a man emerged. He was on his own, wearing a striking peacock blue suit. It could only be Rigel Walcott. The guy who’d contacted Carrick and brought him into the project in the first place.
“Rigel.” Carrick stretched out his hand. “Thank goodness you’re here. Will you please tell this jackass to move so I can join you inside?”
“George.” A flash of recognition crossed Walcott’s face, mixed with a moment of surprise. Then he took Carrick’s hand and gave it a cursory shake. “How nice to see you. Let’s sit for a minute. Over here.” He took Carrick’s elbow and guided him across to a curved bench covered in burgundy velvet in an alcove to the side of the bar’s regular entrance.
“What’s the story here, Rigel?” Carrick hissed.
“Well, you know how it is.” Walcott shrugged. “It’s a small room. There are important people. You have to get the right balance.”
“The right balance? What, do you think the building’s going to tip over?”
“Well, no.”
“No. You just mean, not me.”
“It’s not my decision, obviously, George. I’d have invited you, but that’s not how these things work.”
“That’s total bullshit. You said the party’s for important people. So tell me. Who’s more important to this project than I am? The answer’s no one. It never would have gotten off the ground without me.”
“No, George. It never would have got off the ground without money. The bottom line? Nothing’s more important than that.”
“Bullshit. You can get money anywhere. No one else can bring what I do to the table.”
“We’re talking billions of dollars.”
“We’re talking unique expertise. When you came to me this scheme was DOA. If the military was involved, they’d be calling it project fiasco. Project disaster. Project incompetent bunch of spoiled rich assholes.”
“That’s a bit harsh, George.”
“Harsh? No. I don’t think so. Why were none of your rich buddies aware that the ban on demolishing single-occupant residences was coming in? That was public knowledge. It had been for two years. When you came to me, there were forty-eight hours left. Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get all the contractors on-site that fast? The risks I had to run? There was no time to get permits. I could have gone to jail. There wasn’t even time to get the gas supply switched off. We could have blown up half the city.”
“But we didn’t, George, did we? It all worked out. There were no explosions. The contractors took the rap for the permit thing. The fine was peanuts, only a couple of million, and we paid it for them, anyway. And you got paid, too. Considerably more than peanuts. And that has to be worth more than hanging out at a boring party with people you don’t even seem to like.”
“So that’s it? I’m just an employee? A servant? Not fit to be in the same room as the money men?”
“No.” Walcott put his hand on Carrick’s shoulder. “That’s not it at all. You’re a trusted partner. A highly valued member of the team.”
“So, I can come to the party?”
“Like I said. That’s not my call.”
“Then fuck you, Rigel.” Carrick pushed Walcott’s hand away, stood up, and started toward the elevator. “Fuck you very much. For everything you haven’t done.”
“Wait.” Walcott was on his feet, too.
Carrick stopped and turned back. “I can come in?”
“Well, no. But there’s something else I want to talk about. A new project.”
Carrick started toward the elevator again.
“There’s money in it.”
Carrick reached for the Call button.
“A lot of money. And remember, money’s the only language these guys speak.”
Carrick pulled his hand back. “All right. What’s the project? Who’s the client? And what do you need from me this time?”
“The project’s whatever we want it to be. The client’s a contact of mine. A friend of a friend, from Azerbaijan. Where I used to live. I can vouch for him. And for the depth of his pockets.”