PRESENT DAY
George Carrick settled back in his chair, slipped off his shoes, and swung his feet up onto his desk. He was done for the day. Finally! Although he knew he shouldn’t complain. Things were bearable. They were certainly better than they had been a week ago. The Davies problem had been solved. Permanently. The idiot McNaught had been sent packing, with his sanctimonious tail between his legs. The hassle and expense of rehousing those loser tenants in Hell’s Kitchen had been avoided. So had the medical costs for that old Mason woman. Progress was definitely being made.
Carrick opened his top drawer and took out a cigar. It had been a gift from a grateful client. It was a good one. An expensive one. He held the tip in his teeth and reached for his lighter. Then put the lighter back. He couldn’t smoke that cigar. Not yet. He still wasn’t out of the woods. Jonny Evans wasn’t returning his calls, for example. Which was a problem, because he needed those stragglers out of his building. Like, yesterday. It still rankled that he had to demolish it at all. It hadn’t been bringing in a vast profit, but it had been steady. Carrick believed in maintaining a balanced portfolio, and if you want balance, you need a certain amount of steady. Now he wouldn’t have enough. And the building was in a great area. Amazing things were happening there. His instinct told him there was a killing to be made, and he hated to miss out. Although, talking of killing, deep down he knew that getting away from Madatov with all his body parts still attached put him well ahead of the game. Losing the building still stung, though…
There was a sudden knock on the door. Carrick cursed himself for letting his receptionist go home before he left himself. Maybe if he kept quiet, whoever it was would go away? No. That wasn’t his style. He swung his feet back down to the floor and slipped on his shoes. Then he paused. What if it was one of Madatov’s guys? Coming to snatch him? No. It couldn’t be. Madatov’s guys wouldn’t bother to knock.
“Yes?” He finished tying his shoelaces. “Who is it?”
The door opened and a guy stepped into the office. He was enormous. In terms of height, anyway. At least six feet eight. But the guy wasn’t wide. He wasn’t skinny, either. He was just in good shape. He had a nice suit, too. It was obviously bespoke. The tailoring was subtle, but Carrick had been around enough security-conscious guys to see that it was cut to accommodate a weapon. He opened another desk drawer with the pretext of returning his cigar. And then he left it open, his own gun conveniently within reach.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late, Mr. Carrick.” The tall guy came closer to the desk. “But it’s urgent. Mr. Walcott sent me. I need your help.”
“Walcott?” Carrick leaned back in his chair. “What does that one-armed Irish bastard think I can help you with?”
The tall guy smiled. “Nice try, Mr. Carrick. But Mr. Walcott’s not Irish. He was born on Long Island. His father claims to be able to trace his family back to the Mayflower. His mother’s German, from Hamburg. And he had both his arms when I saw him yesterday at his office on Wall Street.”
Carrick nodded. “Very good. So really, how is the old bastard? I haven’t seen him since he got back from Uzbekistan.”
“It was Azerbaijan, where he was. And the two of you have done business in the last month.”
“OK.” Carrick held up his hands. “You know Rigel. But why did he send you to me? What kind of trouble are you in?”
“I need money.”
“Well, I’m sorry, my friend. Rigel’s wasted your time. And mine.”
“You don’t understand. I’m not looking for a loan. I’m trying to sell a building. Mr. Walcott had agreed to buy it. And at the last minute, he pulled out. He thought you might be interested in stepping into his shoes.”
“What’s wrong with the place, to make Rigel pull out?”
“Nothing’s wrong with the building. The problem’s with him. He wouldn’t go into detail, but he said he has a cash-flow problem. He asked me to agree to a structured payment deal, with the first installment delayed for six months. Unfortunately I had to say no. I need the money now.”
“Why?”
“Personal reasons.”
“If Rigel pulled out, why don’t you sue him? For breach of contract. I would, and I’m basically his partner.”
“It was a handshake deal.”
Carrick shook his head. “You’re screwed, then, I guess. Unless…What kind of building is it?”
“Residential. A brownstone. It’s a big, beautiful place. I had planned to live in it myself. You could sell it as a single-family home. Or convert it into apartments. There are lots of other conversions nearby. It has great revenue potential. I have all the projections. I’d be happy to share them with you.”
“Where is the place?”
“Hell’s Kitchen.”
“How much are you looking for?”
“It was appraised for thirty-two mil. I’d take twenty-eight for a quick sale.”
“Sorry.” Carrick shrugged. “That’s too rich for my blood. I can’t help you.”
“There’s room for flexibility, if you’d be able to close fast.”
“I don’t know. Leave me whatever information you have. I’ll think about it.”
“Great.” A broad smile spread across the tall guy’s face. “And here’s something else to chew over. I’m in a situation where I need to put my hands on some cash. It would be in both our interests for the sale price to appear low. So if you want the building, I’ll knock off ten percent in return for a cash deposit, off the books.”
“I could see that part working. But your asking price is still way too high.”
“I could go to twenty-five.”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty-four.”
“Twenty-two five.”
“OK.”
“But only if it checks out. And if I like it. I need to see it. Because no one has a better instinct for real estate than me.”