Reid Treadwell was panting into Heather Rockingham’s bare shoulder, and when he calmed down a little he raised his head so their faces were inches apart. “Christ, that was good,” he said, and meant it.
“We corn-fed Midwestern girls can show up your refined New York ladies anytime,” she said, grinning. She squeezed his hips with her thighs.
“Now I know why I like an early lunch,” Reid said. He made to pull away, but she held him in place with her legs.
“Stay,” she said.
He settled in. “Obliged,” he murmured.
She laughed lightly. “You have a lot of stamina for an old guy.”
“And you have a lot of technique for a kid.” Of all the women he’d bedded, the ones half his age were always a special treat.
“I like older men,” Heather said. “Especially successful ones.”
“And I like you.”
She laughed again. “No, you don’t. You just like getting in my panties.”
“I hope you’ll be sticking around town for a while. I’d like to see more of you.” He didn’t know how she was going to feel in the morning when the bottom dropped out of the market. But he didn’t give a damn. Here was here and now was now.
“Here’s the deal, Reid. I’ll let you recharge for a bit, but then we’re going to do this again. Do you think you can handle it?”
“Easy,” Reid said.
Her legs parted, and when he slid out of her it was almost painful. He rolled over on his back, and she turned to him and nestled against his chest, one leg thrown over his, and played with his chest hair.
They lay in a broad California king bed in the penthouse apartment’s sumptuous bedroom, done up in a Middle Eastern theme: bright kilim rugs from Turkey, ceramic urns from Egypt, bronze lamps from Morocco.
Treadwell had always left home décor to his wife, and it amused him that she had decorated this place as a guest apartment for visiting financial dignitaries from all over the world, and not for the real purpose he used it.
The midday sun bathed the broad patio outside the door with a soft light. For a half minute or so, he closed his eyes, thinking that everything was perfect, until it suddenly struck him that his cell phone had chimed while he and Heather were making love.
“Sorry, love, I have to check my phone, crazy day in the markets,” he said. “Just be a sec.”
“No problem,” she said, swinging her legs off the bed. “I need the loo.”
He got his phone from the nightstand, and for a moment he simply watched Heather’s great ass as she headed for the marble bathroom. When she shut the door, he checked the missed calls. This one was from Dammerman. He hit replay.
“Call me ASAP, Mr. T. I was going to have one of Butch’s boys come fetch you, but I thought you’d like a call first.”
Treadwell got off the bed and walked to the patio window looking out toward the Hudson River, traffic heavy as usual thirty stories below on Rector Street.
He was about to return Dammerman’s call when his phone chimed, and Betty Ladd’s name came up.
He answered. “What do you want? I thought I’d heard all the lovely things you had to say earlier.”
“I forgot to ask you what you were doing this morning at Kittredge’s with Spencer.”
“Discussing economic policy, what else? The debt bomb. The Chinese situation. Spence is just as pessimistic as Seymour. Anyway, what the fuck business is it of yours?”
“You’re cooking up something. I know goddamn well you are. And I’m telling you, Reid, I will absolutely destroy you if you’re fucking with the markets for your own gain. I shit you not!”
“Crude as usual, Betts,” he said, and he broke the connection.
He phoned Dammerman. “What’s up, Clyde?”
“I thought you’d better know that Butch put a tail on Julia. She met with Betty Ladd at Zuccotti Park.”
It was if an electric prod had been zapped against his balls. “Did they get any of the conversation?”
“Apparently not,” Dammerman said. “I’m at Mongo’s right now with Butch. He got a call that she talked to Ladd for maybe five minutes. And it was cozy, like they were old pals. But when Julia got up and walked away, she didn’t look happy.”
“What’s the connection between Julia and Betty?” Treadwell demanded. This was not good.
“Beats the shit outa me. But Butch says that he doesn’t trust Julia any farther than he could throw our building. Me, I never liked her. All those geeks are wired different than us. We needed her to get us Abacus, but now that’s a done deal, she’s yesterday’s fish.”
“Don’t mention that word on the phone, goddamnit,” Treadwell said. He could feel his cool slipping. They were so fucking close he could almost taste it. Nothing was going to screw the deal. Nothing and no one.
“Whatever, Mr. T. All I’m suggesting is that maybe we should add her to the Brighton Beach list. We don’t need her now.”
“We don’t know that. Something could go wrong, and we’d need her help. Any of a thousand technical glitches to the system. And besides, the Levin girl claims she’s come up with evidence of a virus in our system for which she’s apparently developed a cure. She’s supposedly delivering it on a flash drive or something to Julia today.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“I’ll talk to her,” Treadwell said. “This is the endgame now, and I’ll take care of it.”
“I meant about Levin?”
“Get the flash drive. Whatever it takes.”