Money to Burn

35

TONY GIRELLI WENT FOR A RIDE. HE WAS SEATED IN THE PASSENGER seat of a new Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder, and Jason Wald was driving 80 mph-cruising speed for 520 horsepower-across the Triborough Bridge. It seemed that every time Girelli saw Wald, the kid had a new set of extremely fast wheels. Business was obviously good at Ploutus Investments, and it never hurt to be Kyle McVee’s favorite nephew-even if you were a sorry replacement for his dead son.

“Where we going?” asked Girelli. He had to shout over the rumble of the engine.

“Queens,” said Wald.

No shit, thought Girelli, but he didn’t press for specifics. Self-esteem for punks like Wald came from holding all details close to the vest-even the details they were too stupid to recognize as meaningless. Girelli figured they were headed to a debriefing about what had gone down at the Rink Bar. If information was power, Girelli held it for now. Only he knew that the chaos had all started when he’d used the name “Vanessa.”

“Nice car,” said Girelli.

“You want to drive it?”

“Sure.”

“Blow me.”

It was a familiar banter from better days between the two men, back when they used to hang out in Miami Beach and party with the skinny models on Ocean Drive who would give it up to any guy with money after two Red Bulls and vodka. That was during the subprime heyday, when Girelli was pulling down $125,000 per month and Wald was raking in ten times that much on thousands of mortgages he purchased from guys like Girelli and sold to Kent Frost and others on Wall Street. When the infamous e-mail from Saxton Silvers-As per Michael Cantella-had ended all that, Wald and Girelli vowed to nail that son of a bitch.

They got off the bridge. Wald steered the Lamborghini around the sharp corner and into an alley, pulling up to the rear entrance of a body shop. It was well after business hours, and all of the paint and body shops on the block were closed. The garage doors were shut, iron burglar bars covered the remaining doors and windows, and coils of razor wire ran like a giant, deadly Slinky along the top of a ten-foot chain-link fence. It wasn’t exactly the ideal neighborhood in which to park a $250,000 Italian sports car at night.

Wald tapped the horn, the garage door opened, and they pulled inside. He killed the engine, and with the push of a button the doors on either side opened at an upward angle like the wings of a butterfly. The two men climbed out of the car as the garage door closed behind them.

Girelli’s radar was at full alert. He’d gone on rides like this before-to warehouses and body shops in Queens-but never as the guest of honor. But he wasn’t worried. Girelli was packing a fully loaded Beretta 9 mm pistol, and Jason Wald was a dolt. That was two strikes against the home team, and the game wasn’t even under way.

“Glad you could make it, Tony.”

Girelli turned, unable to see the man standing off to the side in the shadows, but the distinctive accent was enough to give him pause. Two against one was no problem, unless one of the two was who he thought it was.

The silhouette took a half step forward, and then, with the flick of his lighter, he removed himself from the dark. Girelli’s pulse raced, his fears confirmed by the instantly recognizable face-or more specifically, by that deformed right ear.

The last person Girelli wanted to see tonight was Ian Burn.