Money to Burn

42

JASON WALD WAS DIPPING INTO PLOUTUS INVESTMENTS’ PETTY CASH. The thick envelope atop the small, round cocktail table contained ten thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills.

Boy toys like Nathaniel didn’t take credit cards.

The two men were in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel, seated at a table near the plate-glass window overlooking Grand Army Plaza, away from the marble stairway that led to a noisy nightclub on the second floor. For Wald’s money, the Plaza just wasn’t the same since the condo conversion, and he had agreed to meet there only because Nathaniel had “other business” upstairs: cheering up a new resident who had a slightly less-than-perfect view of Central Park from the multimillion-dollar suite that her Russian husband had foolishly bought for her, sight unseen.

Such punks Wald had to deal with-important work, to be sure, all of it totally underappreciated by his uncle Kyle. No nephew could fill the void of a lost son, especially when the old man had elevated him to sainthood in death. His uncle seemed to forget that he’d never even set foot in Marcus’ lower schools when the boy lived at home, never visited him at Andover when he went away in ninth grade, never took his son on a family vacation that wasn’t for all practical purposes a summer office for Ploutus in the Hamptons or the south of France.

“Does this payday come with a Wall Street bonus?” asked Nathaniel.

Wald knew he wasn’t joking. Nathaniel was cockier than a porn star with a foot-long tool-his previous job description-and more trouble than he was worth. Wald could have hired any number of handsome men to fool a rich, lonely Wall Street wife into thinking that her pleasure was this young stud’s reason for living. But there was no denying that Nathaniel had delivered the goods. He filmed Mallory’s “happy birthday” video, and it was Nathaniel who-without Mallory’s knowledge-embedded the spyware in the video before Mallory e-mailed it to her husband. The spyware monitored Michael’s keystrokes and yielded the passwords to his investment accounts. There were other ways to plant spyware, of course, but the beauty of this plan was that it hid the identity of the true spy and made the whole thing look like just another symptom of a failing marriage.

“No bonus,” said Jason. “Especially for soldiers who hold out on me.”

“What do you mean? I haven’t held anything back.”

Jason glanced around the lobby to make sure no one was within earshot. He waited for two rich Kuwaitis with their six blond girlfriends to cruise upstairs to the nightclub, then continued.

“I just found out that Michael Cantella got a message two weeks ago telling him that his wife was cheating on him. And that he should beware the naked bears.”

“Right, the text message,” said Nathaniel.

“You knew about that?”

“Sure. Mallory intercepted it. She was paranoid about him finding out about me. She started checking Michael’s text messages, e-mails, and voice mail for about three weeks to see if anyone ratted her out.”

“Did she show the text to you?”

“No, but she told me about it. It was like you just said-a warning to Michael that his wife was cheating and that he should ‘beware naked bears.’”

“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“Didn’t think it was important. Mallory and I even laughed about it.”

“Laughed?”

Nathaniel smiled and said, “I’ve never been called a naked bear before.”

Wald smiled back. It was understandable that a guy like Nathaniel wouldn’t know that a “naked bear” was a special kind of short seller. What amazed him, however, was the number of women he knew like Mallory: a graduate of an elite school like Juilliard who was married to a high roller on Wall Street-and who knew absolutely nothing about industry terms. Neither she nor pretty boy had any idea that the warning was about a bear raid on Saxton Silvers-a short-selling scheme that was orchestrated in such a clever way that the world thought Michael Cantella was behind it.

Wald pushed the envelope toward Nathaniel, who peeked inside. He knew better than to count money in a public place, but he didn’t have to do any math to see that it wasn’t enough.

“How much is this?” said Nathaniel.

“Ten grand,” said Wald.

Nathaniel frowned. “You’re five thousand short.”

Wald wrote a name and a phone number on a cocktail napkin and passed it to Nathaniel. “Call him for the balance.”

“Ian Burn?” said Nathaniel, reading it. “Who’s he?”

“Someone I can count on to get the job done. He’ll take real good care of you.”

Nathaniel shrugged, then rose and tucked the envelope into his coat pocket. The men shook hands. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Likewise,” said Wald.

Wald sank back into his chair, watching Nathaniel walk to the exit. He smiled thinly, confident that Burn wouldn’t simply make Nathaniel forget about the five grand he was owed.

Soon enough, Nathaniel would beg Wald to take back the ten thousand he’d already been paid.