One year earlier . . .
Jimmy Spain paid the cabdriver, then turned and walked up the winding driveway to the house, his single suitcase in hand. He’d last seen Harold P. Landrigan as the man left Marion penitentiary. Spain figured the day Landrigan walked out the doors he forgot about him—or, at least, pushed him to the back of his mind. He figured once Harold was out among his banking and Wall Street cronies he’d forget all about what had happened inside. He hadn’t left prison rehabilitated; he’d left because his lawyers and money—lots of money—had finally reversed the pull of the strings.
Now here Jimmy was, sprung five years earlier than he was supposed to be, sure he knew who to thank for that.
He’d called Harold when he knew he was getting out. The man didn’t have time to talk to him that day but said, “Come straight to my house in Brentwood.”
Brentwood, Jimmy had thought as he hung up. California. How was he supposed to get from Illinois to California? But Harold had thought of that, too. The guard who handed Jimmy the cash and train ticket was either honest or well bought. Landrigan had even remembered that Jimmy hated to fly. He wasn’t afraid; it was just a pain in the ass—and no doubt more so since 9/11.
Jimmy’s eyes felt gritty because the only sleep he’d gotten had been on a train. He still smelled like prison as he set the suitcase down and rang the doorbell, fully expecting a tuxedo-wearing butler to answer it and send him to the back door. Instead, there stood Harold Landrigan himself. He’d put back on the weight he’d lost in prison, plus some. Also, he’d kept the do he’d adopted in prison when he could no longer get the blow-dried look. It was a little longer, but then he wasn’t the blow-dried banker who had first entered the prison system.
“Jimmy! Goddamnit!” He grabbed Jimmy in a bear hug, pulled him to his barrel chest, and pounded on his back. When he released him, he immediately grabbed Jimmy’s suitcase. “Come on in! Goddamnit, it’s good to see you!”
He kept up that kind of chatter as he led the way through an expensively tiled entryway, down a hall to a plushly furnished, bookcase-lined office. The house was huge, and Jimmy hated to admit he was a bit dazed. Oh, he knew Harold P. Landrigan was supposed to be wealthy, but to actually see it. Damn!
“Doesn’t look like being inside hurt you any, Harold.”
The one concession Jimmy had made to the man in prison was his request never to be called “Harry.” Why not? It was an easy request to honor, and Jimmy certainly wasn’t looking to piss Landrigan off, just keep him alive to be of use later.
This was later.
“No, no,” Landrigan said, putting the suitcase down behind a chair. “In fact, it’s helped me. You’d be surprised at how many of my colleagues are impressed that I did time.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Have a seat. You want a drink?”
Jimmy lowered himself onto the cushy chair and said, “Bourbon, if you got it. It’s been a long time.”
“Jack Daniels,” he said. “I remember.”
He went to a side bar filled with bottles and poured them both some Jack. He served Jimmy’s on the rocks. He did remember. Jimmy shuddered as Landrigan added some water to his. He would’ve put Landrigan back inside for watering down good bourbon if he didn’t owe him.
“Thanks,” he said.
Landrigan took his and instead of sitting behind his desk sat in a chair facing Jimmy. Jimmy appreciated that. Putting the desk between them would have been like putting him in his place.
The room—all reds (the upholstery and curtains), golds (the rug), and cherrywood (desk and paneling)—was in stark contrast to prison gray. Jimmy had the feeling this might have been Harold’s intention, to set this room up so that it’d be completely different from the walls he’d had to stare at for two years. After ten years it was sure as hell easy on Jimmy’s eyes.
“What are your plans?” Landrigan asked.
Jimmy let the bourbon sit on his tongue for a moment, savoring it, before swallowing so he could speak. “Well, I damn well hadn’t been planning on coming to California. But now that I’m here . . . I don’t know. I was thinking of hitting you up for a wad of start-up cash, but I can’t do that now.”
“Why not?”
“Come on, Harold,” Jimmy said. “I’m out five years ahead of time. I know who did that. It must have cost you plenty.”
He waved his hand. “I have plenty,” he said, “so don’t sweat that, Jimmy.”
“Naw, Harold,” Jimmy said. “A plane ticket, some cash—” he touched his pocket, where the cash he’d already been given resided, “—and a glass of good bourbon, that’s all I expect to get out of you now. We’re square.”
“We’re not even close to square, Jimmy,” Landrigan said. “Not by a long shot.”
“As far as I’m concerned we are.”
Jimmy finished the bourbon, put the glass down, and stood up.
“Stay, Jimmy,” Harold said, also standing. “Have a meal, a shower . . . stay overnight and listen to what I’ve got to say.”
“About what?”
“I want you to work for me.”
Jimmy laughed. “Yeah, right. Vice president of the bank? Stockbroker? I know, debt management. I think my qualifications are kinda lacking.”
“But you are qualified for one particular thing, aren’t you?”
Jimmy stared at him.
“Poker?” he said, as if reminding Jimmy.
“I know that, Harold, but how does that help you?”
“Like I said,” he answered, “stay, eat, and listen.”
Jimmy hesitated.
“I’ll give you five grand,” he added. “No strings attached.”
“Five grand? To stay, have a shower, a meal . . . and listen? That’s all?”
“I hope it’s not all,” he said, “but, yeah, that’s what five thousand will buy me. Whaddaya say?”
Jimmy might have said no but he caught a whiff of himself at that very moment.
“Okay, sure,” he agreed with a shrug. “Why not? I’ve got nothin’ to lose, right?”
“Great,” Landrigan said. “I’ll tell Cook to set another place for dinner, and then I’ll show you to your room.”
Cook, Jimmy thought, as Landrigan rushed out. Aside from the house and money, that was the first sign he’d seen that prison had not squeezed all the affectation out of Harold P. Landrigan.