She stood and flounced away. The men sat there a moment, collectively stunned.
Martz broke the silence. "Gentlemen, that was my wife, and after you reel your tongues back in, we may resume."
Sims nodded obediently, his blink rate suggesting a rapid mental rewinding until the point of interruption was found. "As it turns out, computers can recognize shredder patterns and perform best-fit sorting by shape not just by—"
"Stop talking," Martz commanded. He turned to Phelps. "Thus far all you guys have done is waste my time and ogle my wife. The first thing I can't stand, and the second I forgive you for, since you had no choice. Now, get back to Good Pharma's stock price. Can you get any kind of phone logs here?"
"This would require lawsuits and subpoenas, in my opinion," said Phelps. "Even with my connections in the Justice Department and the Southern District's offices, it would take weeks, minimum."
That was too long. Martz wondered about Tom Reilly. Did he know about this Chen? Or did he know there might be a security problem?
No wonder he wouldn't talk. And, more to the point, what did Chen know about Good Pharma that Bill Martz did not?
Phelps waited, his eyes bright with secret knowledge.
"Go on, tell me the rest," said Martz.
"The younger sister of Chen is listed on CorpServe's website as the contact person for Manhattan sales."
"Chen's sister works for the shredding company?" Martz asked, voice rising in furious amazement. "Why didn't you say so? It's her!"
Phelps nodded. "It would appear so, yes."
"Can you find this Chen person?"
"We anticipated that question, and using our contacts in the Department of Homeland Security we have traced his movements."
"Where is he? Some casino in Macao raising a toast to all the American investors he's burned?"
"No, sir," said Sims. "Actually, he's here in New York."
"What?"
Martz stood up and his robe hung open, revealing the hairy landslide of flesh that was his chest and stomach.
"He received an expedited clearance to travel here, and when one of these requests comes from a Chinese national, we automatically—"
"I don't care about the paperwork, tell me where he is!"
"Short answer, we don't know."
"Why not?"
"It wasn't clear that you might want us to find out, sir."
He flung his open hands at them in exasperation. "I want you to find out! Christ on a cracker, man, I want that information!"
"Yes. We can use our contacts in the U.S. Immigration Service to—"
"Now, today! As soon as possible!"
"We will do everything that—"
He pointed at the door. "Go! Get out! I want the answer as fast as possible! End of day!"
They packed up their equipment and left, though not without, Martz noticed, a furtive pivot of the head by Sims in the hope that he might catch one more eyeful of the bewitching Mrs. Martz.
He stood at the window, thinking of this treacherous Chen and his sister planted in New York. He recognized their type. They were the hungry generation. Every family that ever made a fortune had started with a hungry generation, the one that worked harder, hustled, cut corners, jumped earliest. The Martz family wealth had begun in this way, too. His own grandfather had started the family fortune in 1922 when he and his younger brother went out for a picnic in Central Park, enjoying some hard cider and sandwiches from a basket and watching their wives and children play in the grass. The younger brother, a twenty-three-year-old electrical engineering draftsman, had fallen asleep in the grass because, his wife said, he had been working too hard. What was all the work? Martz's grandfather had famously asked his sister-in-law. His brother, he learned, had been assigned the design of a power station in a copper mine in Chile. The Manhattan engineering firm had ten men working on the drawings around the clock. Enormous power requirements, no one quite understood why. Rush-rush, hush-hush.
Inside information, not yet public.
Martz's grandfather had woken up his brother, asked him the name of the copper mine. His brother had boozily muttered a word that sounded like "Chuckee-Moma" and fallen asleep again. Martz's grandfather had written the funny word with a fountain pen on his pretzel napkin, excused himself, and walked straight south from Central Park to the New York Public Library. "Chuckee-Moma," he learned, was the closest his brother could get to "Chuquicamata"—the name of the largest copper mine in the world. Two months later it was acquired by the Anaconda Copper Company. But not before Martz's grandfather had purchased or borrowed every last share of Anaconda stock that he could get his hands on. Thus was a fortune created and a family legend born—just as this Chen was doing now.
Martz returned his attention to Good Pharma. It seemed apparent now that Tom Reilly suspected there had been an information breach. He might have had his own analysis of the stock-trading patterns performed. That Reilly had not reported this publicly was grounds for his removal and perhaps prosecution under federal securities law, but Martz was quite happy that Reilly had wisely not upheld any of his
legal responsibilities; it meant there might still be a quiet way out of this mess.
The Chen kid had robbed him—millions, right out of his wrinkled hand. Martz was old and tired and it hurt every time he sat down, but he wasn't too far gone not to defend himself. Chen had stolen a mountain of gold from him, and now, with Tom Reilly's help, he was most certainly going to steal it back.
The Crown Royale Hotel
on Park Avenue above Sixty-ninth Street requires many fresh sheets for its customers. And fresh pillowcases, towels, face towels, and tablecloths, to say nothing of table napkins starched to near rigidity. The hotel's laundry facility, a room nearly forty yards long two floors below street level, consumes tens of thousands of gallons of water a day, pallets of bleach and detergent. No working laundry, no happy hotel. The man who ran the Crown Royale laundry, Carlos Montoya, had, for a Mexican, lived in New York City a very long time. Long enough that his shiny black hair had become gray, that his face had sagged into a mask of tragic sensibility, and that he was a grandfather many times over. He appeared to all who might wonder to be a tired, industrious, law-abiding member of society who perhaps should lose forty or fifty pounds and consider having his shoes shined more often. A naturalized United States citizen, he paid his taxes, had a nice new car in his driveway in Queens, voted for both Republicans and Democrats, and was, by far, the most powerful Mexican crime boss in the city. Which is to say, not very powerful, if compared to the Italians, Chinese, Albanians, Vietnamese, or Russians, but not so bad compared to the Pakistanis, the Haitians, what was left of the Irish, and whatever the Muslims in Brooklyn were up to these days with their shops selling Islamic books, oils, clothing, foodstuffs, and everything else the FBI's informants kept buying from them. Nonetheless, Carlos's distribution network crossed all five boroughs, and with his connec
tions in the hotel and restaurant business, he controlled most of the retail Mexican marijuana business in New York. He had dealers everywhere. And two of them were in trouble, being hassled by the police for the murders of two Mexican girls, murders they did not commit. Two very beautiful daughters of Mexico who were killed in a most disrespectful way. A murder a Mexican could not have committed. Not in Brooklyn, anyway.
Carlos's office, if it could be called that, was a cubicle at one end of the massive laundry room. It was here that he pondered his predicament, smoking a cigarette in violation of hotel policy. (He had no fear; he could not be fired, he knew.) The two boys, muscular and carrying faces of insolence, had been taken in for questioning by a Detective Blake of Brooklyn. Blake had developed their names within
one day
of the murders, which suggested that the Mexicans in that part of Brooklyn were having trouble keeping their mouths shut, or that Carlos's boys had a lot of enemies on the street, or, most unlikely, that Detective Blake was unusually effective. Carlos liked the idea that this detective might be working hard to solve the murders but not if it meant getting the false conviction of Carlos's boys. The two of them were guilty of
muchas cosas,
yes, but not of killing the two girls, both good hardworking girls from central Mexico who had fled north to the States to find jobs. He'd driven out to Marine Park and been told their story in the back of a pizza parlor that he partly owned—how they'd been smuggled through a Texas safe house, how they lived out in Brooklyn on Avenida U, drove a bad car, smoked a little of his
producto,
supplied for free by the boyfriends, kept a clean apartment. Carlos felt a kind of paternal responsibility for all the boys and girls coming to New York. They needed older Mexicans around to see how they could make it in America. He considered Mexico a lost and dying nation, but he knew Mexicans to be a beautiful people who were not understood by the rest of the world. He had read about Mexico's history and had actually purchased in an expensive Manhattan antiques shop a vintage map that showed Old Mexico, which stretched well into California, Arizona, and Texas.
We were here before they were,
he always said,
and we will be here when they are gone.
The disrespectful way the girls had been
killed, asphyxiation by human excrement, made him burn with hatred.
But his immediate problem was his two
caballos,
who, he worried, would start cracking under the pressure of the detective's inquiries, perhaps choke out a few names they should not, especially his. And there was another thing: one of the busboys in the hotel's restaurant had a younger brother who worked in a sewage-service yard on the eastern edge of Brooklyn. Word had gotten around about the murders. The brother remembered seeing the two girls at a picnic in Marine Park. He had noticed that one of the trucks had discharged its contents into the yard's emergency overflow tank, which was large enough to hold two loads, then been hooked up to another truck and received its load directly. The second, now empty truck had then been refilled with the contents of the overflow tank. A most strange activity, the perceptive young man had noted. Why switch loads of shit from one truck to another, especially when it all went to the same place, the sewage treatment plant? It wasn't like the stuff was valuable. The first truck then went to the county sewerage facility and discharged its load. Very strange, said the kid, like they were playing three-card monte with loads of
caca.
That night, the same night the girls died, the second truck had left the yard late and been driven out to the east end of Long Island, to a dumpy little town called Riverhead, driven not on the Long Island Expressway, which was always monitored by Suffolk and Nassau county patrol cars, but along the rambling country roads stretching east-west on Long Island. A hundred-mile drive,
comprende?
The truck had discharged at a Suffolk County facility out there the next morning and then been driven to Queens, or maybe New Jersey, and had never returned to the yard in Marine Park. Vanished. The first truck was power washed inside and out, then returned to regular service.
Had the yard's owner been aware of all of this activity? Carlos wanted to know.
Sí, sí.
He told us to do it. Carlos had asked the young man to come to him, found him believable, even wrote down a few notes. "You must now forget all this," he said, "forget you told me." But then he grabbed the boy's hand. "If you see something more, you call me, yes?"
Detective Blake had asked a lot of questions but had not yet ar
rested Carlos's dealers. Maybe he had other suspects. But to be safe, perhaps Carlos should send his boys on a little trip to California in the back of a laundry truck, tell them to stay away for a few months over the summer, go north, work the apple harvest in Washington. Don't tell me where you are, he'd say to them, don't call me, don't call anybody you know in Brooklyn. The boys wouldn't want to go, but they would. Of course their disappearance would appear to confirm their guilt. Which he didn't terribly mind, since they were hotheads who might eventually cause him trouble, anyway.
But if now he had a problem, he also had an opportunity. He took the service elevator to the nineteenth floor, had a quick word with the Mexican housekeeper counting out fancy little bottles of shampoo and bars of perfumed soap that the hotel guests threw by the handfuls into their suitcases, and then, using his hotel custodian's passkey, entered the room of a British Airways executive in the city on business at JFK International Airport. Carlos touched nothing, not the minibar, the nice clothes on the hangers, the fat wad of pounds and dollars on the dresser.
You touch nothing, nothing touches you.
Instead he picked up the phone to make a call, the cost of which would be buried in the airline executive's charges and perhaps look like a call to the airport. The hotel had almost three thousand phones, which were routed through four hundred lines by a computer on a next-free-line basis. Then the call was tagged with a dummy phone number so that people receiving the call who had caller ID could not get a number inside the hotel that they could call directly. If you called the dummy number you got a not-in-service message. (Very smart, these Indian phone guys, Mexicans should learn from them.) Carlos had thought this out long ago. The log matching the room phone to the trunk line was maintained in Bangalore by the hotel information services vendor. It would require a subpoena and weeks of digging to produce the actual room where any given call had been made from. Meanwhile, the guest who had used the room was long gone and would have to be located in order to be asked about the call that he didn't make. Meanwhile, too, the room would have been vacuumed and cleaned thoroughly fifty times. No fingerprints,
mami!
The room maids were instructed to wipe each
phone once a day to control for germs that might cause an outbreak of sickness in the hotel—one of hotel management's nightmares.