Don’t Blink

“How recent?”

“A year ago. He got six months’ probation.”

“Anything about his having ties to the mob?” I asked. Hoodie cocked his head in my direction. “You mean other than his being a bookie?”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m looking for actual names. Maybe somebody I have heard of.”

“Give me another minute on that,” said Hoodie.

He went back to the keyboard, his fingers tapping away almost as fast as my mind was racing.

Think, Nick. What does all this mean? What could it mean?

Dwayne Robinson had owed a bookie a big chunk of change and couldn’t pay it off. He hadn’t bounced just one check to this guy, Sam Tagaletto, he’d bounced two.

Maybe that’s why Dwayne had killed himself. Or had gotten thrown out of a window by somebody. Because he’d owed money to a bookie and had showed disrespect.

But there had to be more to it than that. It was now officially impossible to believe that my being at the table next to Vincent Marcozza had been a coincidence.

But if it indeed had been a setup like Pinero told me, then who had set it up?

Dwayne Robinson? I doubted it. Dwayne had been a former major league pitcher, not a former brain surgeon.

Or had it been someone else and that’s what Dwayne had wanted to tell me?

All I knew was that it was time to get to know a certain Sam Tagaletto a little better. Presuming I could find him.

“Do you have a current address for this guy?” I finally asked Hoodie. “Tagaletto?”

He was already two steps ahead of me. I’d no sooner finished the question than the purr of a printer filled the room. Hoodie handed me not only Tagaletto’s last known address but also his latest mug shots.

“Anything else I can do for you?” he asked.

Yeah, you can tell me what the hell you’re doing working for a hedge fund firm. On second thought, never mind. I probably don’t want to know that, either.

“No, that’s more than enough,” I answered. “Thanks a lot, man.”

I shook Hoodie’s hand, thanked him again, and was about to show myself out the door.

“Oh, one more thing,” he said. “It goes without saying but I’ll say it anyway. This meeting never took place.”

I nodded. “What meeting?”

Chapter 53

I WAS NEVER one to keep secrets from Courtney, personally or professionally. Nonetheless, I felt I owed it to Hoodie Brown – not to mention Derrick Phalen – to keep mum on the meeting that had supposedly never happened.

What I did plan to tell Courtney was that Phalen had promised to try to help me out, albeit on the down low. That wasn’t a lie; it just wasn’t the entire truth. A sin of omission, as they say. Or, as one of my journalism professors at North-western used to put it, “The truth may set you free, but it’s the little white lie that will save your ass.”

Now if Courtney would only return my call.

There was no answer on her cell, and when I rang her secretary, M.J. told me Courtney had left the office without saying where she was going.

Of course, the last time Courtney did that, Thomas Ferramore had stopped by the office with news of a certain supermodel’s YouTube video.

Why was I suddenly getting a weird feeling again?

The answer came soon enough as I stepped off the train back from Greenwich. Walking through Grand Central Station I passed a newsstand just as a guy was stacking the late edition of the New York Post.

Voilà! There she was again, the French supermodel Marbella, on the cover with yet another glass of champagne in her hand and a mischievous smile.

“JUST KIDDING!” read the headline.

Fifty cents later I was standing off to the side, my head buried among the pages.

Apparently Marbella had given an interview to a French television station claiming – au contraire – that she’d never actually slept with Thomas Ferramore. It had all been a bad joke, she insisted, and she deeply regretted any problems it may have caused the billionaire or his “lovely fiancée” in America.

Yeah, right. Color me sold, sweetheart.

But there was more.

And on the believability scale, it was actually a bit more convincing, or at least creative.

The CEO of ParisJet, the company in France that Ferramore was negotiating to buy, had told the French business magazine Les Echos that Ferramore had been in talks with him day and night for his entire trip.

“Trust me, Mr. Ferramore had no time for any fu

I closed the Post and tucked it beneath my arm, walking toward the Lexington Avenue exit to hail a taxi. I could feel the whoosh of commuters rushing by me for their trains and the vibration of their footsteps against the wide marble floor.

But what I really felt was numb, confused, and more than a little lost.

For sure, Courtney hadn’t been scooped by the Post. She had to be up to speed on this latest twist and turn in her marital saga. Ferramore probably even made sure of it. Why wouldn’t he? It was alibi city.

But was she buying it?

The verdict rang in my pocket no more than a minute later. Courtney was finally calling me back.

“I saw the story. Do you know what you’re going to do now?” I asked her.

“I do,” she answered.

Chapter 54

IT WASN’T THE words themselves but the way Courtney said them. As if she were already standing at the altar with Thomas Ferramore.

“I do.”

I immediately fell silent on the phone. There was no need for Courtney to officially break the news. It was broken. Just like my heart.

“I need you to understand, Nick,” she said. “I’m marrying Tom, but I need you to be there for me.”

“I was there for you,” I said.

“I know you were. Promise me you won’t stop now. Do you promise?”

What could I say? As much as I loved her, she had always been my friend first, before anything else.

“Please,” she said, pressing me. “Do you promise? I need to hear the actual words, Nick.”

I took a deep breath and swallowed it along with my pride.

“I do,” I said.

Of course, little did I know how fast I’d have to make good on that promise.

A few hours later, with the sun setting over Manhattan, I arrived downtown at the North Cove Marina to climb aboard Sweet Revenge, Thomas Ferramore’s 180-foot Trinity megayacht. I’ve seen much smaller houses. Actually, I grew up in one.

In a word? Wow.

At the bow stood the bar, and at the stern was the live jazz band, a really good combo. In between was a veritable who’s who of publishing, fashion, and what remained of the decimated ranks of the banking and Wall Street elite.

You get one guess as to where I headed first, and it wasn’t to shake Thomas Ferramore’s hand.

“I’ll have a Laphroaig Fifteen Year Old,” I said to the rent-a-bartender, who barely looked old enough to drive, let alone serve drinks.

The young man looked at me as if I’d just spoken Swahili to him. “A what?” he asked.

“A Laphroaig Fifteen Year Old,” came a voice over my shoulder.

It was Courtney, and in her hand was an entire bottle of my favorite Scotch whisky.

“Here,” she said, handing the bottle to the bartender. “Please keep this behind the bar for Mr. Daniels, and Mr. Daniels only.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, quickly pouring me a double. “Laphroaig Fifteen Year Old.”

Courtney took my arm as we moved away from the bar. “Thanks so much for coming,” she said. “It means the world to me. You’re the best.”

Apparently not, but I took a big swig of excellent whisky and winked at her. “What are friends for?” I said.

She gave me a huge smile and leaned in to tell me something, when the music suddenly stopped. It was replaced by the sound of a knife tapping on crystal. Oh boy, Thomas Ferramore wanted to make a toast.

Once again he had come between Courtney and me. I guessed I’d better get used to it.