The Downside Page 3

  “Federal?”

  “State.”

  “Just get out?” After getting a nod: “What you doing here?”

  “Came to the Big Apple to make my fortune.”

  Kayo decided. He turned to Millz and said, “Ain’t worth it.”

  Millz didn’t move. “Fuck him.”

  “How much you think he’s carrying? Five dollars, I bet.”

  “Six,” the man said. He seemed amused. “And change. Twenty-three for a hoodie? That’s highway robbery.”

  “He threw in the cap, though.”

  For the first time, the man seemed impressed. “You were watching.”

  Millz looked at Kayo. “Motherfucker knows.”

  “Don’t matter.” He backed a couple steps. “We leaving you in peace.”

  “Thanks.” Still calm and relaxed. “I thought they cleaned up this city. Broken windows, all that? No offense, but you guys are, like, 1978.”

  “Getting by. Just getting by.” Kayo grinned again. “Like everyone else.”

  But before they were out the door the man called after them. “Hey.”

  Kayo looked back. “Yeah?”

  “Maybe you can point me the right way. Being Welcome Wagon and all.”

  Millz growled, but Kayo didn’t take offense. You had to like someone that confident. “What, you need some show tickets? Dinner reservations? Carriage ride at the park?”

  “Six bucks, like I said. That’s not going to get me a room at the Plaza.” He pocketed the toothbrush. “Got any recommendations?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The vehicle was a vintage Land Rover—one of the old ones, painted in surplus military drab. Round headlights between oversize wheel wells. Like something out of a 1960s National Geographic documentary, jouncing across the Sahel, oryx and gazelles scattering.

  But here it was on East Forty-First, pulling to the curb in front of Finn. Nine a.m. Saturday morning. Up close, he could see it had been immaculately maintained: the finish smooth and unblemished, window glass tinted dark as obsidian. The spare tire, mounted on the hood, was factory new, washed clean of any possible speck even between the treads.

  The Rover was authentic in the same way as a ten-grand distressed leather bomber jacket.

  Emily leaned over, one hand on the steering wheel, and pushed open the passenger door.

  “Good morning.”

  “Thanks.” Finn climbed in. The seats looked original, stiff and upright, but were upholstered in soft leather. “Nice ride.”

  She laughed. “It’s his.”

  “Doesn’t look like he actually goes on safari, though.”

  “Two hundred forty thousand dollars and a custom rebuild? I should think not.”

  “Nice that he gives you the keys.”

  “I’m a careful driver.”

  She looked as good as Finn remembered. A warm, pale-blue sweater, black pants fitted like tights, dark scarf wrapped just so.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Long Island.” She glanced at him, then lowered a pair of sunglasses back into place and turned her attention to the road. “He prefers to be inconspicuous.”

  “In this?”

  The Land Rover accelerated into traffic, engine loud and not very smooth. Totally overhauled maybe, but still original. “You’ll see.”

  Whatever Wes wanted, it would be on the wrong side of the law. On the other hand, Finn needed the money. Anyway, perhaps Wes felt he owed Finn something. Maybe he was going to offer a briefcase full of cash to make up for the seven years of Finn’s life lost.

  Sure.

  Emily turned right onto Second Avenue. Light traffic, but it was the weekend. Cold November sunshine glittered.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  “With friends.”

  “That’s good.”

  In fact, he’d checked into the Bellevue Shelter just before they closed for the night. Kayo—that was the would-be mugger’s name—gave him directions. It sounded like he knew the place better than he admitted. The facility was huge and filthy, the intake processing slow, the mass of men noticeably unwashed. His bed was clean and surprisingly comfortable, but twenty cots had been pushed into a room sized for half that, and the guy next to him had coughed endlessly.

  “What exactly do you do for Wes?” he asked. “Besides driving his cars?”

  “Hmm.” Like it was a hard question.

  “Manage investments? Keep the books?”

  She thought. “Let’s say, ah … chief compliance officer.”

  “What? Compliance with law and regulation?” Wes certainly didn’t care—maybe he had to hire someone who did.

  “Not exactly.” They entered a line of cars, all slowing for the Midtown Tunnel portal. “More like making sure that reality complies with Wes’s desires. If you see what I mean.”

  Once inside the tunnel, their speed increased again. The Land Rover was noisy, its suspension stiff. Finn leaned back in the hard seat, trying to get comfortable. When they emerged a few minutes later, back into bright daylight, he closed his eyes.

  They drove for fifty minutes, out 495 and then south on a series of smaller but well-paved and fast-moving roads. Finn dozed, lulled by the Rover’s rattle and road noise. Emily seemed to feel no need for conversation.

  When she slowed, turned right, and braked to a stop, Finn came back alert, straightening in the seat. A stoplight, red. The area was suburban, with large houses and lawns concealed by stands of trees. At the next corner, a gas station and a chain coffee shop. Emily drove the speed limit, glancing at her phone once or twice.

  “There,” she said. They topped a rise and she slowed, reading the signs.

  “No,” said Finn. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  It was a hospital. Large, busy. The main building was seven stories, with newer additions on both sides and more office-park glass visible behind. The emergency entrance to the left, sheltered under a broad colonnade, two ambulances parked nearby. The main doors were opposite, before a broad expanse of parking lot.

  “Okay,” Finn said. “How sick is he?”

  Emily laughed. “Not at all.”

  She didn’t enter the main parking area but went the other way to an overflow lot across the street. It was up a small hill, cleared from a stand of forest that no doubt shielded views from neighboring manors. Emily nosed into a parking space at the far corner shaded by evergreens and looking directly down at the hospital.

  “It’s a charity road rally,” she said. “Rich people driving fancy cars on a three-hour course. They end here.”

  “And what, they’re expecting casualties?” But when Finn studied the lot, he saw that half the spaces had been set off with cones and fluorescent tape. A temporary awning sheltered a long table and a dozen chairs. From two hundred yards away, the details were hard to make out, but a number of people stood, talking with one another or staring at their phones.

  “It’s a fund-raiser for the hospital, duh.”

  “Ah. And Wes is driving?”

  “He should be here soon. They left Jones Beach at ten o’clock.”

  Finn considered. “I thought you said a three-hour route. It’s not a race, is it?”

  “No.” Emily checked her phone. “Still, Wes hates to lose.”

  “But if they’re not racing—”

  “And he’s not the only one.”

  Far away, flashing lights caught his eye. An ambulance, topping a rise a half mile away, barely more than a blue-and-orange strobe at the distance.

  “A fund-raiser,” Finn said. “How much is Wes donating?”

  “Nothing, I expect.”

  No surprise. “How does that work?”

  “A thousand dollars per car. But Wes sits on the board.” Emily glanced his way. “Charity is ki
nd of theoretical to Wes, you know?”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  As the ambulance approached, a car appeared behind it—a shiny silver blur, low to the ground. The car eased right, looking to pass, but the blacktop was narrow, solid yellow lines down the middle.

  “Huh.” Emily sounded surprised. “That’s not Wes.”

  The silver car abruptly pulled out, accelerating past the ambulance. Finn tried to estimate speeds—sixty, seventy miles an hour? Slow for the Indy 500, but way too fast for—

  “There.”

  A red car shot into view, passing the ambulance on its right. There wasn’t even a breakdown lane—not on this suburban, half-residential road—just a wider bit behind a white line.

  The ambulance jinked left, its driver caught by surprise, then immediately back when the silver car’s horn blared. For an instant, all three vehicles were abreast, tearing toward the hospital at three times the speed limit.

  The silver car pulled ahead and started to return to its lane. The red car blew its own horn and cut in. The ambulance braked hard, starting to fishtail, wheels squealing, falling back as the two cars converged in front of it.

  “Jesus,” muttered Finn.

  A two-second game of chicken. The silver car ran a length ahead, but the red car was moving faster.

  A cross street ahead of them, stop signs and a white SUV approaching. The ambulance hit its full range of sound effects: siren, whoops, blares. The two sports cars accelerated, inches apart, flashing through the intersection as the SUV slammed to a stop.

  The silver car gave up, fading back and falling in behind.

  Five seconds later, the red car entered the final curve, still far over the speed limit. Finn heard Emily’s breath catch. At the last instant, brake lights glowed and the car screamed sideways, sliding into a long skidding turn that somehow put it through the hospital’s lot entrance with about an inch to spare. Two hundred yards of smoking rubber.

  And then it stopped, right at the first orange cone. A few seconds later, the silver car entered, still too fast but far more carefully, and pulled up alongside. Everyone in the lot turned to stare, all conversations halted.

  Behind them, the ambulance turned into the emergency entrance loop, sirens off.

  “Wes, right?” said Finn. “In the red car.”

  “It’s a Lamborghini.”

  “Of course.”

  Emily laughed and pulled out her phone. “I’ll let him know we’re here.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Finn had to get into the rear seat, cramped and even less comfortable than the front. Emily stayed behind the wheel. Wes pulled the door shut and sat sideways.

  He looked the same to Finn, even after seven years: broad shoulders and iron-gray hair in an old-fashioned flattop, a discreet gray jacket over a white button-down. He still wore his driving gloves.

  “Finn.” They shook hands awkwardly over the seats. “You look good. Real good.”

  “Clean living and exercise.”

  “How was it in there? You see stuff on television. The internet.”

  Finn shrugged slightly, said nothing.

  “Anyway, sorry to bring you all the way here,” Wes said, not appearing sorry. “Always better to talk in private.”

  “That was some entrance.”

  “Wasn’t it?” He grinned. “Frank was driving like an asshole. Couldn’t let that go.”

  Emily sighed. “Might want to get to the point, boss. They’re all probably wondering what you’re doing up here.”

  “Fuck ’em.” But Wes reached into his jacket and passed Finn a small, dull silver bar. “Take a look at this.”

  It was surprisingly heavy, though lighter than gold would have been, cast with smoothed edges and corners. No markings. “Platinum?” Finn guessed.

  “Rhodium.”

  Finn waited. “Okay.”

  “Know what it’s worth?”

  “No idea.”

  “About nineteen hundred an ounce today in the spot market. Better than gold. Gram for gram, rhodium is the most expensive metal on the planet.”

  Finn looked at the ingot in his palm. “This feels like a couple of pounds—”

  “A shade under one kilogram.”

  “Which means it’s worth, um …”

  “Sixty thousand dollars.” Emily did the math in her head in less than a second.

  “Holy mother.”

  “Nice, huh?” Wes held out his hand and Finn passed it back, reluctantly.

  “You’re in the market?”

  “Yes. My guys, they think the price overcorrected. When China comes out of its slump, the sky’s the limit again. So we went in and bought.” His smile disappeared. “A lot.”

  “Too much?”

  “No.” No hesitation. “We’re absolutely going to make money. We just have to wait a year or two.”

  Finn considered. “Where is it? Stacked in your garage?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” Wes said. “We keep our inventory in a third-party vault. Fifty million dollars’ worth.”

  “Ah.” The first indication of where Finn might enter the conversation. “That dollar value, if rhodium weighs about the same as gold, works out to be, um …”

  “Seven hundred and fifty kilograms.” Emily had the answer first again.

  “Right.”

  Wes turned the ingot over in his left hand, his right withdrawing a heavy awl from another jacket pocket. “Here’s the issue,” he said. “Watch.”

  He held the awl firmly and scratched a rough gash in the metal. Finn leaned over the seatback to peer more closely.

  Under a surface layer of matte silver, the interior seemed to be different: dull black and perhaps softer.

  A pause. “Counterfeit,” Wes said finally. “Not the only one, either.”

  Finn raised an eyebrow. “So it’s not worth sixty grand after all.”

  That earned an unamused snort. “No.”

  “Why did you buy them?”

  “By mistake, of course!” Wes ran a hand through his buzz cut. “One of my guys was in the vault, checking counts before the auditors went through. Somehow he dropped one, and it scratched off a corner.”

  “How do you counterfeit an ingot?”

  “Cast a block of lead and dip it in melted rhodium sponge.” Wes shook his head. “Hard to believe it’s that easy, but lead’s density is close enough for the control scales they use in the vault.”

  Finn didn’t see the problem. “So call up the seller and complain,” he said. “Send it back.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not so easy. We were buying all over the place—mostly South Africa, but Russia, too. Zimbabwe. You know how it goes.”

  “Uh-huh.” Shady sellers, illegal deals, tax evasion, maybe violation of foreign ex-im controls. In those countries, bribery and subornation were simply how business got done. Of course, US prosecutors didn’t always see it that way. “No recourse, huh?”

  “Even if it were possible, the very last thing I’m going to do is announce to the world that we got screwed.” Wes glared. “Every vulture out there would start circling.”

  “Well … then just sell off the bad ones yourself. Buyer beware and all that.”

  “Reputational risk.” Wes shook his head. “A black-market operator in Harare doesn’t give a shit, but if I sell bad metal, then either I’m a dupe or a fraud or both. The fucking hyenas would pick us clean.”

  They fell silent. Outside the Rover, sunlight reflected painfully from the parade of expensive, exotic, low-slung cars filling the lot below them.

  “Not to mention,” said Emily, “what do you think happens if news breaks that some rhodium stock is counterfeit? What’s the market going to do? Not knowing how much is affected, or where?”

  “Ahhh.” Finn nodded.
“Everyone but everyone is going to sell. Right? Immediately. Because they might be sitting on a pile of lead, too. Dump it as fast as possible. And then—”

  “Prices will freefall.”

  “Exactly.” Wes looked deeply unhappy. “Right after we’ve built up a … very substantial position. That cannot be allowed to happen.”

  Finn looked at him and started to figure out how why he was here. “You can’t sell it,” he said slowly. “You don’t want to sit on it.”

  “The fakes are the problem.”

  “You need to make them go away.”

  “Yes.”

  “You want me to make them go away.”

  Wes nodded. “You’re the best in the business.”

  The Rover’s interior had become cold. Emily stirred herself and switched on the ignition, blowers starting up again.

  “Aren’t you insured?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Wes’s grin came back, though at lower wattage. “You’re only going to move the counterfeits.”

  Finn thought about that. “Move?” he said. “Not steal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” He remembered now how much Wes liked a tricky plot. “Where?”

  “To the neighbor’s.”

  The way Wes explained it, the vault provided different options, depending on how much material you intended to store. Small amounts could stay in oversize safe-deposit boxes—double-keyed, heavy minisafes—but larger volumes required more space, so you could also rent your own five-by-five square of real estate. The cages were separated by floor-to-ceiling bars—“so the cameras can see everything,” Wes said—and locked.

  “We have one of the larger units, sixty square feet. Thing is, right alongside, someone is storing exactly the same material—racks of rhodium ingots.”

  “That’s some coincidence.”

  Wes shrugged. “It’s another commodities firm, and I know the guys there—when I started building up stock and needed to find a place, they recommended it. There aren’t that many storage facilities specializing in long-term metal. Once, I happened to be inside at the same time they were, and we joked about it. Right through the cage.”

  Finn started to get the picture. “So what you want—”