Adrenaline (5 page)

Eyes back on the man’s torso. None of this bullshit about watching his opponent’s eyes, the key was to watch the man’s body, see where he was going with it. Geoff had taken years of martial arts lessons: kung fu, jujitsu, boxing. Mainly for conditioning, he had told himself all those years, but now that he was into it, he
knew
it was to be ready for this.

He laughed out loud, thinking of Jansten seeing him here, Jansten seeing one of the top contenders for his executive vice president position kicking ass in the Boston Common.

His laughter surprised the pimp, making him hesitate for a split second before swinging the stick in a whistling arc at Geoff’s face.

Geoff drew his head back, and the tip missed his nose by inches. He stepped into the pimp and landed a right-left-right combination to the kidneys, turning his fist just so. Nice, short punches. Feet firmly anchored to the ground. From what seemed a great distance away, Geoff heard the hooker screaming.

His concentration was wonderful. He saw the pimp’s face crumple in pain, saw the glare of assessment and hatred. Then the pimp jabbed his elbow at Geoff’s face. Geoff moved back quickly, but still the man caught him with a glancing blow on the chin, jarring his vision.

Fair enough.

Geoff kneed the pimp in the groin, then cracked him on the back of the neck with his forearm.

The pimp went down to his knees.

Geoff drew a deep breath. It had been easier than he thought.

The man was crouching low, head just coming up, a murderous look on his face, but it took more than ugly looks …

The girl was screaming at him, yelling something Geoff couldn’t quite understand, saying,
Jammer
s
got a board, Jammer’s going to cut you, watch out, Jammer’s …

Jammer shoved glittering steel at Geoff.
It’s a sword cane,
he realized, and he slipped aside like a dancer as the metal slid into the left breast of his suit coat. He wound his arm around the light blade and clasped it near the base. Jammer tugged, but Geoff held firm, then pivoted on the ball of his right foot and kicked Jammer in the face.

He split the pimp’s lip. Jammer cried out and covered his face. Geoff picked up the walking stick just as a police siren began to howl in the distance.

The girl was up now. She looked scared and even younger than he had first imagined, a little over twenty. She said, “You better get out of here, mister. And I can’t stay with Jammer. He’ll kill me after this.”

Geoff admired her fight. And now that her wig was knocked off, he noticed she had beautiful auburn hair, far richer than that ridiculous wig. “You want me to go with you?” she asked.

He was tempted. But he couldn’t exactly see her fitting into his lifestyle. “Sorry.”

“What am I going to do?” she cried.

He shrugged. “Make an adventure of it.”

“But he’ll kill me!”

Indeed, the pimp lowered his hands and glared at the sword in Geoff’s hands and then at the hooker. Her spine straightened when she saw him looking, and Geoff liked that about her.

So he slashed Jammer across the forehead. Blood gushed into the pimp’s eyes. “There,” Geoff said to the girl. “That’ll give you a start.” He slid the sword back into the cane and walked away.

She took off her heels and started to run. She spun once, looking back at Geoff, and yelled, “Hey, mister! Thanks.”

He found the right kind of woman an hour later at Daisy Buchanan’s. He pursued her with his characteristic drive and skill. Regaining his lost millions was now firmly compartmentalized in his head, regulated to an important task to be accomplished no more. Not a serious obstacle for a man who could hold his own on the street as well as the boardroom.

The woman was a beauty, about twenty-five, with long black hair. Graduate degree in French studies. It took him most of the night to bed her, but he enjoyed himself, reveling in his strength, reveling in every element of the summer night in the city, from the scent of her perfume to the Chateaubriand they had for dinner at a Newbury Street café.

But he was amused to find, even as he moved inside her that night, the walking cane propped up against the wall beside him, that he was thinking of the hooker with green eyes and hoping that she had run, but not too far.

Chapter 5

I think I can hear snare drums playing,” Lisa said. “Big exec, waiting for the limo.”

“If I were such a big exec, I wouldn’t be waiting up here with a travel mug of coffee and my wife kissing me off.” They were sitting on the rail overlooking the marina, the morning sun low on the horizon.

“Sending you off, not kissing you off,” she said.

He watched her as she stretched and yawned. She was wearing faded jeans and another one of his old shirts. “Don’t I make enough for you to buy your own shirts?” he said.

“I’ll be oiling the teak today,” she said. “Paying you back for the style in which you keep me.”

“Has the glamour worn off?” Until their move north from Charleston, Lisa had managed a successful real estate office and was accustomed to bringing in her own income. Steve had promised himself to make sure their new arrangement continued to work for her. Their plan was that she was to see them through both the refitting of the boat and the building of their new home. All preparation for their master plan in the suburbs, including at least two children.

“You know me, I love sawdust in my hair,” she said. “Besides, I ran the numbers again yesterday. We can’t afford to pay for any jobs I can do myself.”

The limo turned into the marina lot.

“Here goes,” he said.

She leaned over and adjusted his tie, which he knew it didn’t need. “You be careful. Jansten’s a tricky old bastard.”

“I know that.” He drew her close. “All he’s got on me is thirty or so years and a hundred or so million.”

“But he doesn’t have me,” she said.

“True,” Steve said. “I win.” …

You brought your own coffee, sir.” The driver held the door open and said to Lisa, “You’re going to put me out of business.”

She laughed.

“I’ll hide it before we reach Jansten’s,” Steve said as he climbed into the back of the limo. Indeed, there was a carafe of coffee and a bowl of pastries and fruit on the small table in front of him. “Kurt, you must want something.”

The driver looked back into the mirror. “I’m waiting until your career really takes off before I spring it on you.”

Steve grinned. “What’s it going to take for me to have a big job in your book?”

“Well, I should be picking you up in front of a house, to start.”

“We’re working on it. So what’s up today?”

“We’re to pick up Mr. Mann. Did you know?”

Steve cocked his head. “I didn’t. When did he get to town?”

“Yesterday.”

“You pick him up yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t know Geoff, other than by his reputation.”

Kurt smiled. “Yes, sir.”

Steve pulled out the newspaper Kurt had left for him, knowing that to ask any more would constitute pumping.

They drove in comfortable silence until they reached Geoff’s brownstone. The driver left the car idling and went into the foyer to call up for him. Steve enjoyed the silence, looking at the long hood stretching out in front of him. He couldn’t help but feel a little foolish, as if he were playing a role: big executive, sitting in the back of the limousine.

It still surprised him, his rapid ascension. Even though he knew, objectively, that he had fought each step of the way to earn his position—starting with going back to school after Ray’s death and earning an MBA from Northeastern. He had bounced around the country after that in several different manufacturing and design management positions until he saw the potential of the Blue Water line, the floundering marine division of Jansten’s huge conglomerate. Alone in his kitchen, Steve had penciled out a new line of boats that combined performance, utility, and a classic grace that he felt had been lost in the market in general—and certainly lost on Blue Water’s existing line of poorly built “feature-rich” boats. The harder challenge had been turning himself into the combination salesman, manufacturer, financial analyst, and troop leader that it took to rally support from the company and dealers.

Luckily, the customers had been easier. They had recognized what a sweet line of boats the Blue Waters were. Steve was able to convince the dealers to offer a “no-haggle” pricing strategy. While the rest of the boating industry muddled through cutbacks and layoffs, Blue Water gained dramatic market share—and Steve found himself on the cover of
BusinessWeek.

That article and the others that followed were hardly luck. Once Jansten saw the success of the Blue Water line, he had the corporate public relations agency swing into action. But what was even more important was that Jansten allowed Steve to keep his division autonomous from the rest of the company and supplied enough marketing dollars to keep the momentum up. Jansten publicly praised Steve and had remained a solid supporter, if not a friend, ever since.

Steve turned away from his reverie to see Geoff Mann striding toward the limo, the driver two steps behind. Geoff’s expression was unreadable, and Steve realized that perhaps the driver hadn’t told him to expect Steve in the same limo. But when Geoff climbed in, he gave a dazzling grin and put out his hand. “Mr. Blue Water, I presume?”

“The Wild Man of the West?” Geoff’s grip telegraphed hidden steel. Steve was immediately struck by Geoff’s energy. It radiated off the man and made Steve feel tired, goddamn it.

Steve asked Geoff if he enjoyed his first night in Boston.

“Absolutely,” Geoff said. “I got the driver here to drop me off at a dive where I met some of the locals. I think I’m going to like it here.”

They settled into a few minutes of the outwardly friendly, but cautious conversation of two people who realize they may soon be adversaries. “I’ve been admiring your line of boats,” said Geoff. “Chartered one in Tortola for some diving. That’s your field, right? Ex-navy diver?”

Steve was flattered, as he knew he should be. It also made him feel flatfooted, as he knew it was intended. Mann had done his homework, and he had not.

“You’ve got the advantage on me,” Steve said. “All I know about you is that you’re a terror in the real estate world, plus I hear that you’re quite an athlete.”

Geoff waved that away. “They don’t call them rumors for nothing, believe me …” He paused and then looked Steve in the eye. “So what do you think Jansten has up for us this morning?”

Steve returned the frank, sincere bit, although he wanted to laugh. “I’d say anything from a casual welcome to Boston to full marching orders.”

“Oh, it’ll be marching orders,” Geoff said, opening his newspaper. “I expect you’ve heard the rumors about Rudden and Lerner.”

Steve nodded. Phil Rudden announced an unexpected vacation. Lerner had been sulking quietly for days, making no decisions, attending no meetings.

“Jansten doesn’t waste time on being nice to the help,” Geoff said. “The way I see it, one of us is going the distance. The other is hitting the sidelines sometime this morning.”

Kurt looked in the mirror.

Steve said, “And here I am trying to build a house.”

Kurt looked away, suppressing a smile. The three rode along in silence the rest of the way, although it was no longer companionable.

Jansten met them at the door himself.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said. “Sorry to drag you out here so early, but I assumed you two are early risers.” Jansten waved to the limo driver and called, “Why don’t you try out that new diner, Kurt. Great hash and eggs. Give us an hour and a half.” Jansten was dressed casually, in chinos and a blue oxford shirt. His face was ruddied by the sun, and his hair was a shock of white. To Steve, it looked as if he were striving for the image of a kindly old grandfather.

Not that Steve believed it for a minute. Jansten had a long line of hostile takeovers under his belt. He was a modern-day robber baron by anyone’s definition, and Steve had seen him in action too many times to confuse him with a nice old guy.

Still, the house surprised Steve. He knew Jansten had bought it recently. But instead of the palace he expected, it was a relatively small colonial home, quite old. There had been a plaque outside the door with the date 1776. But the house wasn’t a Revolutionary War showpiece. It had been updated here and there, with new windows, French doors leading out to a deck that overlooked a spectacular cove. A blue sailboat bobbed alongside a pier that had room for a far larger boat. The sailboat piqued Steve’s attention immediately, not only because it was the same make as his own, but it was surprisingly small given Jansten’s wealth. “A Hinckley thirty-five is it?”

“It is,” said Jansten approvingly.

“I thought you had a Swan,” Steve said. “Even down in Charleston we heard stories about you winning race after race.”

“Things change,” Jansten said, dryly. “Did I hear that you and Lisa are living on a Hinckley forty-two right now?”