The Shadow Box (21 page)

“Why not here?”

“This sounds more slippery than it is,” he explained
with a yawn, “but any company wishing to trade on the American exchanges must abide by what are known as the
Generally Accepted Accounting Principles.”

“And AdChem, I take it, does not.”

“
Not just AdChem. German accounting permits compa
nies to have silent reserves. Those are cash accounts with undisclosed balances. So, except for big banks with clout,
German investors can't find out the earnings, net worths,
assets or liabilities of the companies in which they have
invested. This is unequal access to information and that's
a no-no with the SEC.”

“Fertile ground, I would think, for insider trading.”

“Exactly. Germany has no rules against it. That's not
a market for the small investor.”

“And ours is?”

“No. But we pretend it is. The Germans don't bother.”

Doyle grunted. “What do you know about counterfeit Pharmaceuticals?’'

“German products or anyone's?”

“Anyone's.”

“It happens. I remember Searle had a problem a few
years back with some counterfeit birth control pills. What
brings that up?”

“Just something I heard. Made me curious. How wide
spread is the problem?”

“Drop in the bucket, probably.”

“Why do you say so?”

“That industry is big bucks but it's very well policed.”

“Okay
...
if someone told you that fully half of all
prescription medications sold in this country are counter
feit, what would you say?”

Aaronson snorted. “That's total bullshit, Brendan.”

“Do me a favor? Ask around a little.”

“Brendan
...
it's a waste of time.”

“Bill me.”

The investment counselor stifled another yawn. “You
in a hurry? I could see what the FDA has on the subject.”

“Sure, but ask around the industry in the meantime. Arnie?”

“Yeah?”

“Ask around about AdChem, too.”

Doyle had that conversation on Sunday evening. On
Thursday morning of the week that followed, three
things happened.

First, Fat Julie Giordano made a decision. The promised
“few days” had passed. He would talk this over with
Johnny G. first, but he thought it was time he asked Moon
a few questions. In trade for the answers, he would now
tell Moon what he had chosen not to tell Doyle.

All Fat Julie knew was what the camel man had told
Yahya.

The soon-to-be-late Mohammed Mizda said the man in
the subway, the one who pushed Michael, was a Mexican
named Hector who also runs pills from Tampico to
Brownsville in speedboats. He swore, however, that he
knew nothing about Jake. Or about who killed him or
why. But, scared and hurting, he said maybe it was Walter.

Walter was another Pakistani. His real name was Ayub
but his father was a Belgian mercenary, killed in the war
against India. Ayub could pass for a European so he took
his father's name. Mohammed Mizda said that back in
November, the time they were talking about, Walter had
suddenly been sent away. But before he went, he could
not resist a little bragging. Walter flashed a big roll of
bills that he said was a special bonus. He said that while
the rest of them freeze their tushes in New York all winter
he will be in Palm Beach with the rich people.

But someone else, a Punjabi Hindu who had no use for
Walter, said don't listen to all the big talk. He said that
all this pig will be doing is guarding the house of Mr. Hobbs and living in a little apartment that is over the
garage and keeping to himself. Getting drunk or high,
even
having a woman, all these are forbidden to him.

Walter became indignant. After smashing the Punjabi's
face against a locker, he said that shows how little a stupid
Hindu knows. He said that he is free to use the pool and
the white BMW that Mr. Hobbs keeps there and he can
bring a woman to his room as often as he wishes as long
as he can get rid of her quickly if there is work to be
done. No drinking and no drugs is only for a little while
because Mr. Parker said that he might have another job for him soon and it would be in Florida.

None of this, not even the phrase “another job,” proved that it was Walter who had taken the baseball bat to Jake.
But, thought Fat Julie at the time, if it
was
this guy who
killed Jake, the other job must have been to get Moon.

Johnny G. thought otherwise.

He reminded his brother that Moon was still in Mount
Sinai when this Walter was sent to Florida and that it was
a few weeks after that before anyone but Doyle knew
where Moon had gone.

However, Johnny G. also remembered that back after
Jake's memorial service, Bart Hobbs had told Michael and
the English girl to go stay at his house in Palm Beach.
Maybe the other job was Michael. Maybe it was both of them. Maybe, because Michael wouldn't go, they decided
to hit them in New York and make it look like a stickup that went bad.

“And I'll tell you something else,” Johnny G. told his
brother. “The cab that Jake took home that night? Yellow
Cab? Hennessy told Doyle that no Yellow Cab logged a
fare that night from West 82nd in Manhattan to Pierrepont
Street in Brooklyn. But he said such a cab had been stolen
the day before and it was found a few days later at JFK.
Same cab? Who knows? All Hennessy could say for sure
was that it was probably used in a crime because the cab
was washed clean of prints. A cab should have hundreds
of different prints all over it but this one had none.”

“The cab was out waiting for Jake? With this Walter
driving?”

Johnny G. shrugged. “Why don't we go ask Walter?”

“Where is he? He's still down at Hobbs's place?”

“Camel guy says he thinks so.”

”I want Moon to go ask him.”

Johnny G. frowned. “You think he's up to it?”

“It might get his juices flowing. But let's still don't say
anything to Doyle.”

“How come?”

“Because he's a fucking lawyer, that's how come. You
think he'd go for this? Lawyers are for talking to
after.
Talk to them
before
and you never get anything done.”

Johnny G. had looked at him doubtfully.

“Come on, Julie. How come?”

His brother grunted. “It's five months since Jake got
killed. I think he knew, all that time, who might have done it and he hasn't done shit.”

“Give him a break. It's only three weeks since he had a
name and it's only three days since we picked up Mizda.”

“It was you who got hit, you think I'd sit on my ass
five months?”

“Doyle isn't you.”

Julie took out the phone number Doyle had given him.

He had recognized it immediately. Jake's condo down
in Naples. That was another thing that bothered him. If Doyle was stashing Moon there to protect him, it seemed
a very obvious place for someone to look.

The smart one might have been Michael. He stashed
himself and he took his sweet time telling Doyle where.
You don't do that with family unless you have a real good
reason. Maybe he's got the same bad feeling about Doyle.
But now that he did tell Doyle, nothing better all of a
sudden happen to him or it'll be Doyle who gets, hung up
by his balls.

Julie punched out the number.

On that same Thursday morning, in the Taylor House
on Martha's Vineyard, Fallon fought to clear his head of a lingering dream and of the pills he'd taken to help him
sleep. The bleat of a ship's horn jarred him awake. He sat
upright. His eyes darted, stared stupidly, then darted again.

He began to realize, slowly, that it had been no dream.
She
had
been there last night. He could smell her on
the sheets.

The anger washed back over him. He bolted to his feet,
nearly losing his balance from the lingering effect of the
drugs. He staggered to the bathroom and there, on the
floor, was the towel he had used to wipe himself. He
snatched it up, held it for a moment, then hurled it in the
direction of his bedroom fireplace.

He thought of the sheets. He crossed to his bed and
tore them free. He would boil them. Boil her out of them.
Or burn them in that fireplace. But he did neither. He
knew that he was being hysterical. He indulged himself
all the same.

He stood, for several long moments, with the bedding
gathered against his chest. What he wanted to do was
strangle her. Or paddle her tight little ass so raw that she'll
never come within a time zone of this island again.

What he did
not
want to do was what he knew he was
doing. Standing here with her. Still feeling her.

Missing her.