10

 

BAR AGRICOLE, SAN FRANCISCO, FRIDAY NIGHT

The two men spoke in hushed voices in the crowded Bar Agricole in the financial district of San Francisco. Angled together they could hear well enough but nobody else could. In the packed bar, late on a Friday night, alcohol flowing like water in all but their glasses, no one paid them any heed, which was all part of the plan. In their dress-down Friday uniform of casual trousers and polo shirts, they looked like just another pair of still-prosperous but market-weary traders letting off steam before going home to their wives in Marin County. Braying laughs and tall tales were all the white noise they needed.

“We have a problem,” said the tall one, known to his associates as The Man. No one was quite sure who had coined the moniker—some thought The Man himself, for there was a self-celebrating machismo about him—but whatever its provenance, the name suited him and it stuck. The Man toyed with the condensation that slicked down his chilled glass, as if what he was about to say had really no import at all. He looked up, met the other’s eyes.

“Contagion of an earlier leak,” he said deliberately. “Thought it had gone away for good. Raised her pretty little head in town last week. Been making noises about a guy getting rough, blacking her eye, losing trade. Guy was drunk, talking all kinds of crap.”

The other man sucked in a breath. “Shit.”

“Potentially. Not the kind of thing the Boss would like.” He gave the shorter man a contemptuous look. “You and your drinking … Can’t hold your drink, shouldn’t drink. Plain and simple. You shouldn’t drink anyway. Double bad whammy.”

“Does he know?” The shorter man felt a stab of fear and his sweat glands seemed to have suddenly opened. In seconds, rivulets of sweat were soaking his back.

“Not yet. Maybe never. Just a little trickle now. Not sure where it will go.” The Man leaned back on the banquette, long legs stretched out before him. He radiated power and confidence. He almost seemed to be enjoying this.

“Trickles can turn into torrents,” said the sweating man, replaying his words to himself with a nervous laugh. “We know that better than any.”

The Man sat forward, complicit once more.

“We will do when the timetable starts.”

“Oh, it’s started. It’s running. It’s why we need to plug the trickle. And soon. We can put it down to expenses, can’t we?”

The Man gave him a long look, made him sweat a bit longer. He drained his water, got to his feet. “Funds are there. Don’t think the Boss will even notice. I’m on it. Count yourself lucky.” He leaned over, bent in so close he could smell the other man’s sweat.

“Don’t fuck up again,” he said slowly.

“Thank you. Thank you. And I won’t. I promise.”

“Promise your God,” said The Man, lip curling with contempt.

He slipped from the bar, already planning how he would do it. The how and where, the ruse and the trap. Seventeen Mile Drive. Perfect for both. Those seventeen gilded miles, nothing bad could ever happen there, could it? All milk and honey and money, the glittering houses in their manicured gardens, eyes focused inward, never outward on the dark beyond the security windows, oblivious to the lonely wood, the precipitous cliffs, the pounding surf.