Authors: Carey Green
Both were quiet. Ray drove through the night focused on the road ahead of him. Dylan attempted small talk to break the silence.
“So how were the Cayman Islands?”
“The same as usual. Boring. Nothing much happens there, just rich men counting their money at night; that and the tourists.”
“You’ve spent a lot of time there?”
Ray Corbin laughed. “You might say that. I used to live there.”
“How long ago?”
“So long ago I almost forgot. It was over twenty years ago. Jonathan was, and still is, a privacy nut. ”
“Like a lot of people in this business.”
“Even then he was as secretive as ever, running from things only he saw in his head. So he moved his operations down to Cayman, and I went with him.”
“What was it like being an American down there?”
“I didn’t see anything. I wasn’t allowed to leave the estate.”
“What?”
“That’s how secret our operation was. It seems far-fetched, even now. But that’s the way it was. Jonathan was on the cutting edge of trading. He felt that any security breach might compromise the business.”
“But you were trading stocks and bonds, not cocaine. You couldn’t leave?”
“I don’t know if Jonathan could have made it in the military, but that’s kind of how he trained us. On the rare occasions that we had time off, we left the island,. first-class, all expenses paid. That was the way that it was.”
“So he’s here now? Trading?”
“You might say he’s trading. Depends on how you look at it.”
“Meaning?”
“What’s in Antigua now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it.”
“Gambling?”
“Of course. Jonathan Kay is running one of the biggest online sports books in the world.”
“How big?”
“Rumor has it it’s a two billion dollar operation.”
“And this is the man who’s going to save your fund?”
Ray took his eyes off the wheel to give him a look. “You got a better idea?”
“No,” Dylan said. “But have you heard of the Internet Gambling Act? Anti-Money laundering? RICO?”
Though the Justice Department had ruled Internet gambling illegal, many federal court rulings had since disagreed. The debate came down to an old law called the Wire Act, originally designed to prevent electronic betting across state lines. As most Internet gaming took place offshore, the United States had very little jurisdiction to enforce the law. Instead, they had gone after the banks and credit card companies that made the money transfers to the sites possible.
“Even if it were legal, by taking money from this man you will bring about the type of scrutiny that I don’t think you want. Is it worth it to take money from this man?”
“Well, it’s too late for that.”
“He’s already invested?”
“Jonathan K. is already in for over fifty hundred million.”
“Does he know the situation with the funds?”
“Of course he does. Jonathan is like a brother.”
“Well, beg my pardon, but considering you’ve lost most of that investment, why in God’s name would he want to invest more?”
“He’s a gambler, Dylan. Do you know what the first law of gambling is?”
“No.”
“Always double down.”
Both men were silent as Ray navigated the hairpin curves along the road. After a few minutes, he brought the car to a halt.
“We’re here.”
Dylan looked through the windshield in front of him. The car was parked in front of a large, imposing wrought iron gate. Two men in black suits and black T-shirts were standing directly in front of Ray’s car. Both men had shotguns in their hands. One appeared to be in his late fifties, balding with thinning grey hair. At 6’10”, he towered over the other guard. The other was a muscle head in his twenties, short and stocky. An apprentice. They began to walk towards the car with their weapons aimed.
“What the hell is this, Ray?” Dylan asked.
“It ain’t Kansas, Dorothy. I recommend that you put your hands up where they can see them. When they open the door, get out very slowly.”
Each guard opened a car door. Dylan and Ray both exited the car slowly and moved towards the gate.
“Place your hands on the gate please,” the tall guard said, as he directed each man on how to stand. The other guard then frisked each one of them, while his partner stood by with the shotgun aimed. After he frisked them, he went over and checked their car. After he deemed the car to be safe, he reached for a walkie-talkie from a holder on his belt. He spoke loudly into the microphone after he made the call. “They’re both clean.” Soon after, a voice came through over the walkie-talkie with a gravelly replay.
“Roger. Let them through.” The tall guard turned towards Ray and Dylan, now both standing near the gate with their hands still raised. The tall guard came over to them.
“Okay, you two.” After a moment, the gate opened before them, and they proceeded to drive the car through.
“So. Nice place, huh?”
“Yeah, nice.”
“Just remember one thing, Dylan. If Jonathan starts talking about gambling, just nod your head and smile.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
They drove along the paved road for about two hundred more yards. At first, there were no lights along the road; the car’s high beams were the only marker of space. Soon, they found themselves in front of a small mansion with a circular driveway. Stadium lighting seemed to illuminate the house from a distance. There were no other cars. Ray parked the car, and they got out.
The house was new. It was also typical of the type of modern architecture perpetuated by the
nouveau riche
, Frank Lloyd Wright at one-twelfth the scale. The term “McMansion” came to mind. Dylan had visited many of these homes as they often belonged to hedge fund managers, men who were long on bankroll and short on taste and modesty. The sterility of these houses often reminded him of a T.V. set, “A Perry Como Christmas” complete with flat panels displays and sub-zero refrigerators.
Ray Corbin led the way towards the front door, then rang the doorbell. From the outside, they could not tell if the bell was ringing.
“No welcoming committee?” Dylan asked.
“Maybe he gave them the night off.”
After a few more rings, Ray began to pound on the door.
“Hey,” Dylan said. “Take it easy. The guard was speaking to them on the phone. So someone must be here.”
“You’re right,” Ray said, trying to regain his composure. “I’m just wondering why no one answered.”
“Because we’re here,” a female voice said from behind them. “We’re dining under the stars tonight:
al fresco
. We were hoping you would join is.”
Both men turned to view the body that was attached to the voice. And what a body it was. She was standing at the side of the house, to the left of Ray and behind Dylan, wearing a black, sleeveless full-length sequined dress. More accurately, the dress was wearing her, as every ounce of her ample body seemed dying to escape. Her hair was thick, brown that radiated from the center of her scalp, over her olive skin and tan complexion. Her sultry voice seemed to add to her allure.
“Hello,” Ray said. “And you are?”
“My name is Marbella.”
“Like the city?”
“No, like the cookie.” Dylan laughed loudly while Ray put his head down and tried to conjure a smile. The only wise ass that he admired was himself.
“Of course, like the city,” Marbella said. Dylan was trying to place her accent. It was distinctly European but gave off no regional flair.
Ray put on his toothy smile and strolled over towards her. “Well, Miss Marbella, the sub-tropical climate has me a bit confused.”
“I’m sure we have something for that.”
“I’m Ray Corbin.” He took her hand and kissed it.
“I know who you are. And who is this?” Marbella was suddenly staring at Dylan with the intensity of Medusa. Dylan’s voice suddenly became gravelly.
“I’m sorry. Something in my throat. Dylan.”
“Something-in-my-throat-Dylan. Charming. You two make quite a pair.” She strode several steps towards Dylan and stuck out her hand.
“Aren’t you going to shake my hand?”
When Marbella laughed, every part of her body seemed to shake, from her smile, down to her breasts, down to her shapely ankles and calves. She turned to lead them, and they followed her down the path.
“You didn’t tell me they had this in Antigua.”
“They don’t. She’s not from here. Cause what they have down here don’t look like that.”
When they had reached the patio area, Marbella turned to face both men. Behind her, a butler was wheeling out a tray of drinks.
“Gentlemen, make yourselves at home. Raul will serve you drinks. Jonathan and I will join you momentarily.” Marbella turned and walked off towards the rear of the house. She entered through a pair of sliding glass doors. Then she was gone.
“Why do I feel like I’m on ‘Fantasy Island’?”
“Because you are.”
“Then I guess that explains it.”
On the stone patio, a table had been set up, complete with white linen and candles. The table was set for four. Down a quick flight of stairs sat the pool, and behind it, the tennis courts. In the distance, roughly a hundred meters back, the sea butted up against the rear of the property. A little putting green sat directly in front of it. The grounds were majestic. They strolled down the balcony towards the pool. Huge lanterns off to the side marked their way.
“You look like you like this place,” Ray said.
“Not my style, but I must admit Kay has nice taste in women.” They walked for a few more steps. Neither man said a word. “Do you know the girl?”
“Nope. She’s beautiful. Isn’t she?”
“I take it she’s not one of his traders.”
“No,” Ray said with a laugh. “Jonathan likes to collect two things: beautiful women and Ferraris.”
“Rich men’s toys. And what do you like to collect?”
“Accolades. That and millions.”
“Well said.”
As they strolled towards the tennis courts, a bell began to ring. From a distance, they could see that Marbella and a man had strolled onto the patio. Both men turned and began to walk towards the house.
“I think I should warn you,” Ray said. “Jonathan, well, let’s just say, he’s different. But you’ll see that soon enough.”
They began to walk towards the stairs that led up to the patio.
Dylan’s first impression of Jonathan Kay was probably that of a dandy. He was a tall man, broad of shouldered, standing at least 6’5”. He was wearing a white linen suit with a pink lapel shirt. A walking cane was by his side. Perhaps he was only in his fifties, but a life in the sun had left his face lined and wrinkled. His sun-drenched blonde hair was a bit longer than usual, too short to be hippy, too long to be corporate. He grabbed Ray by the back of the headand pulled him into a bear hug.
“You son of a bitch! You haven’t visited me in almost five years. Did your private jet’s computer forget how to find Antigua?”
“Had to sell the jet. It was a casualty of the credit crisis.”
“No private jet, my ass.” He gave Ray a long look over. “He sure does look good, doesn’t he Marcy?” He accentuated this novel way of saying her name; Marbella smiled broadly as she looked up at him. She was giving him a wry smile, her lip turned down.
“I wouldn’t know. He’s your friend, not mine.”
“And you brought a friend, I see. Times are changing. Normally, your friends wear pretty little skirts.”
“I might put one on later,” Dylan said. “If you have my size.”
“This is Dylan Cash,” Ray said. “He’s my new head trader. He took over after Luke died.”
“Oh, Oh, I see.” Jonathan extended a hearty handshake, his gleaming white teeth on full display. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Dylan. Any friend of Ray’s is a friend of mine.”
“Thank you.”
“Gentlemen, why don’t we all sit down and eat?”
Raul appeared and escorted each guest to his seat. Conveniently, a name card appeared for each of the guests. Jonathan set across from Marbella, with Ray to his left and Dylan to his right. Before long, several other servants, all in latticed uniforms, were placing plates of food on the table: steak, caviar, and chicken. Soon, a full banquet was before them,and dinner was then served.
After the evening feast, Jonathan gave them a tour of his mansion. It was much like Dylan expected. The rooms were either too big or too small, bereft of furniture or clutter. It was a doll’s house, elaborately constructed and absent of comfort. Afterwards, Jonathan insisted on showing them his yacht.
They exited through the rear of the house and made their way towards Jonathan’s garage. It held roughly twelve cars. Jonathan had a taste for both the extravagant and the sporty, and his cars ran the gamut from Dylantleys to Ferraris. Jonathan had a story to tell for each car and each woman who had gone with it. His stories were mildly amusing. When the tour was finally over, they jumped into Jonathan’s Range Rover and took a service road down the back perimeter of his property. After several hundred yards, they came to his private dock and exited the car. A gleaming white sailboat waited in the distance.
“Gentleman,” Jonathan said, “This is Calypso.”
Calypso was a sixty-foot sloop, pristine and white as it shimmered in the distance. Jonathan pulled up the gangway and climbed on board. Both men followed him into the boat’s cockpit.”
“Nice boat,” Ray said.
“Thank you. It just arrived the other day. I had a five-year wait for the best shipbuilding that money can buy, and that the Swedes can engineer. Let me show you around.”
Jonathan showed them the interior of the boat: the staterooms, the galley, and the communications equipment. Everything was state of the art. There were enough computers present to power a small country.
“This is beautiful, Jonathan,” Ray said. “But it’s a bit much for the day. Sailing, isn’t it? Where are you planning on going? Tahiti?”
“Nah, Ray. I’m going to circumnavigate the world.”
“What?”
“I’m going to do it. Me, myself, and I.”
“What about Marbella?” Dylan asked. Both men looked at him.
Kay turned and looked at Dylan slyly. “Someone has to hold down the fort,” Kay said. He then continued the tour. “After all, where else is there to go but the open seas. Free of international jurisdiction. I’ll be a pirate for the 21st century.”