Money to Burn

Burn capped his lighter, extinguishing the flame. Another thug jumped out from behind a tall stack of tires, and two more emerged from behind a canvas tarp. Before Girelli could react, there was a gun at this head. They forced him into a wooden chair and tied him to it with a heavy-duty extension cord that wrapped around his body several times.

Burn stepped closer and dropped a handful of eight-by-ten photographs on the concrete floor in front of Girelli. Wald switched on a snake light and aimed the beam at the photos.

“Jason shot these from his uncle’s building,” said Burn.

Immediately upon seeing the close-ups of the woman seated at the table in front of Prometheus-Vanessa-he knew he was in trouble.

“You lied,” said Burn. “And some very important people are extremely angry.”

Girelli stood firm. “That’s not who you think it is.”

“Really?” said Burn. He took a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and dropped it on the photo at Girelli’s feet. “A hundred bucks says you’re lying.”

Girelli knew the routine, and he forced a nervous smile. “Come on. Let’s not play this game.”

“You’re right. You aren’t worth a hundred bucks.” But he wasn’t smiling. He never smiled.

Burn tucked the bill back into his pocket, then grabbed a paint can from beneath the work bench. The can had no lid on it, and beside it were the remnants of several Styrofoam coolers that had been chopped to pieces-a ready source of polystyrene. Burn pulled on a pair of thermal gloves, then grabbed a paint stick and stirred the sticky mixture inside the can as he approached Girelli. The consistency was near perfect, but for Girelli’s benefit he dropped another chunk of Styrofoam into the can and let it dissolve. He stirred slowly, making sure that Girelli could smell the gasoline. And the benzene. Most of the amateur pyromaniacs on the Internet simply dissolved Styrofoam in gasoline, which basically created a sticky gel that burned. Add benzene-available from chemical companies if you had phony credentials-and voilà: You had essentially the same “super napalm” used by the U.S. military in Vietnam.

“This burns at about a thousand degrees centigrade,” said Burn.

He lifted the stick from the can. A big glob of gel clung to it. Burn held it over Girelli’s head and let the gel slowly drizzle down onto Girelli’s hair.

“Ever seen the pictures of the napalm girl from ’Nam, Tony?”

The goo ran down Girelli’s forehead, swallowed the bridge of his nose, moving at a lavalike pace until it covered his right eye.

“That shit stings!” Girelli shouted. “Get it off!”

Burn scooped a second glob from the can and again held the stick over Girelli’s head. This one oozed over his left ear and down his neck.

“Not a pretty sight, that napalm girl,” said Burn. “Clothes burned off, ru

Girelli’s hair was soaked with gel, the right side of his face completely covered.

“This gel sticks to your skin,” said Burn, “and you can’t get it off. It just keeps burning and burning, hotter and hotter.”

“Okay, okay!” Girelli shouted. “It was her!”

Burn dropped the stick onto the concrete floor and set the can aside. “That’s a problem, Tony. Because you were supposed to get rid of her four years ago.”

Wald said, “He told us he did get rid of her.”

Burn pulled a stick match from his pocket.

“Don’t burn me!” Girelli shouted.

Burn struck the match, but he held it away from the gel. “Why’d you lie to us, Tony?”

Girelli’s voice raced with fear. “I thought she was dead! I really did!”

Wald said, “You told us you shot her. You said you took her from the sailboat, did the job, and fed her to the sharks.”

“She was dead!” Girelli shouted. “That’s all that mattered. You wanted her dead so-”

“So you told us what we wanted to hear,” said Wald.

Burn dropped the match. It fell onto the glob on the floor, igniting it instantly. The fire produced a black, noxious smoke. Above them was a huge overhead fan that normally sucked out car exhaust. One of Wald’s thugs switched it on to keep them all from suffocating.

“Why did you lie?” asked Burn.

“I thought she was dead, I really did.”

“Did you work with her? Did you help fake her death and let her run?”

“No, no! I swear, I thought the bitch was dead. I just needed the money, and the only way to collect my fee was to say I shot her before the shark got her.”

The homemade napalm continued to burn near Girelli’s feet. It was close enough to make him sweat, and he was peering out nervously with the eye that wasn’t covered in goo.

“Tony, Tony,” said Burn, shaking his head. “What are we go

“Get this shit out of my eyes. It’s killing me! Please, just give me another chance!”

“Hey, now there’s an idea,” said Burn.

“Yeah,” Wald joined in. “We let Tony live if he does the job right this time.”

“I’ll do it for free,” said Girelli. “Just don’t burn me, dude.”

“Brilliant,” said Burn, and then he glanced at Wald. “Why don’t you and your buddies beat it so Tony and I can work out the details.”

Wald smiled as he reached for his car keys and climbed into his Lamborghini. The garage door opened, and he pulled out. Three other men walked out after the car, and the door closed automatically again.

Burn watched the fire at Girelli’s feet, which had grown hotter with the shot of fresh air.

“I can do this right,” said Girelli. “No bullshit this time.”

“I’m thinking about it,” said Burn.

“Just let me live, and I will get the job done. I swear I will. She’ll wish I had done her four years ago.”

“Unfortunately, the decision is not up to me. But I can get an answer pretty quickly.”

Burn pulled a sealed envelope from inside his coat pocket. It was a delivery package that opened with a zip tab-just like the one he’d sent to Michael Cantella.

“Open your mouth,” said Burn.

Girelli hesitated, then complied.

“Bite down,” said Burn as he placed the envelope between Girelli’s teeth.

His mouth closed with obvious reluctance, but he had no choice. The envelope was firmly in place. The thick gel continued to run down Girelli’s face and gathered on the flat side of the envelope.

“Now,” said Burn as he reached for the tab, “let’s see what the boss man thinks of your smart idea.”

38

“IT’S OVER,” SAID ERIC.

It was after nine P.M., just the two of us in the first-floor study of his Tudor-style mansion in Rye, New York. I say Rye, but the Haute Living feature story said that the ten-acre estate actually spa

Eric was standing at the credenza between a pair of Tiffany lamps, pouring himself a scotch on the rocks. I was seated on the camelback couch.

“Over?” I said.

I’d driven there thinking I had some explaining to do about my arrest at Rockefeller Center, never thinking that it would be “over” before I even started talking. I almost didn’t care; it seemed almost certain that Ivy was alive-and nothing mattered more. “It was all a misunderstanding,” I said. “You can’t fire me for that.”

He turned and shook his head. “I meant us-the whole firm.”

His voice shook, and as he laid his hand atop his favorite Remington bronze, I caught a glimpse of his face in the unflattering light of a halogen spot that was intended to illuminate the sculpture. In the past three days, he had aged ten years. He took a long drink, then went to the framed memento on the cherry-paneled wall: his very first paycheck from his days as a broker with Saxton Silvers, which he pointed out every time I came over. It was flanked on one side by the first bottle of wine produced by the vineyard he owned in Napa Valley and on the other side by a Forbes article about WhiteSands, the investment management firm he’d founded and taken public to the tune of a nine-figure personal profit.