The Prince of Risk A Novel(49)
“So what’s up?” he asked.
“There’s a lot of scared Injuns out there,” said Shank.
“Anyone pulling out?”
“Too soon for that, but don’t be surprised when it starts.”
“It was a momentary blip. The entire episode lasted five minutes. How does anyone even know about it?”
“Because everyone knows everything.”
Astor knew this to be true. The Street ran on gossip, rumor, and innuendo. Traders spent their days on the phone to clients and colleagues passing along the latest news, be it true, false, or unverified. The reasoning was twofold. They needed to prove they were in the loop and thus “connected,” and if on occasion they were correct, they could claim to have brought “value added.” Anything to get a leg up on the competition.
“And you? Scared, too?”
“Nah,” said Shank. “When have you ever been wrong on something this big?”
“Exactly.” Astor brought up his appointments on the monitor. He was penciled in for a cocktail party at the New York Public Library, an opening at Gagosian’s gallery uptown, and a speech on the growing government debt at the Peterson Institute. It was Monday night. The week only got busier. There was only one entry for 8:30: “HH—Brooklyn.”
Astor stood.
“Where you going?” asked Shank. “The news conference in China starts in fifteen minutes.”
“Getting changed. I’ve got a thing at Helping Hands in Brooklyn. New vocational building. Why don’t you come along? We can watch the press conference in the Sprinter.”
“I live in Westchester. Why the hell would I want to go to Brooklyn?”
Astor shrugged. “Peter Luger after?”
“You think I give two shits about a steak right now?”
“Porterhouse? Onion strings?” The porterhouse at the Peter Luger Steak House in Brooklyn was acknowledged to be one of the biggest, juiciest, tenderest cuts of red meat on the planet and was always impeccably prepared. Astor looked at him askance. “Come on, Marv. It’s you. You can’t say no.”
Shank studied what remained of his hamburger. “Split it?”
“You on a diet?”
“Very funny,” said Shank, loosening up, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Deal. But you’re buying.”
“It’ll be a pleasure for the fearless man with twenty big bills in my fund. Give me a minute.”
Astor walked down the hall and entered a suite of rooms housing a private apartment. Finding the remote, he turned on the TV. He was interested not in Bloomberg but in local news coverage. Impatiently he flipped from channel to channel, seeing if he could spot any mention of Penelope Evans’s murder. As yet there was nothing.
He showered and traded in his suit for jeans, chukka boots, and a chambray shirt. Dressing, he noted that his eyes were tired, his face drawn. He tried to smile, but for once he could not. He told himself to buck up, that everything would be all right. It was no good. Things were spinning out of control. He feared his best efforts might do little to affect them.
“The market doesn’t care about before.”
He put his head against the mirror. His breathing was fast and shallow. One thing at a time. One evolution, then the next. He knew better than to think too far ahead, but the events of the day overwhelmed him. He saw Penelope Evans’s corpse in his mind and bit a finger to keep from crying out. Shank was dead on. He should have called the FBI, or at least contacted his ex-wife.
And now they were talking about steaks at Peter Luger?
Astor opened his eyes and stared deep into himself.
One thing at a time.
One evolution, then the next.
His breathing calmed.
He managed a smile.
He stood tall.
The eyes were still tired, the face just as drawn, but the veneer was back in place. There was no problem that the mature, confident man in the mirror could not overcome. He had to fool himself before he could fool everyone else.
As Astor left, he noted that his jeans were loose. He tightened his belt to the fourth notch. He made a note to order the porterhouse for himself and to eat every bite.
33
The Sprinter was a Mercedes-Benz passenger van on steroids. Painted a sleek jet black with no windows apart from the windscreen, the vehicle measured 24 feet in length and 7 in width and was tall enough for Astor to stand to his full height inside. The standard diesel V-6 had been replaced with a turbocharged V-12. Heavy-duty shocks cushioned the ride. The vehicle had been armored from top to bottom in case of armed insurrection. Boasting a fully fueled street weight of three and a half tons, the Sprinter required just six seconds to reach 60 miles per hour.