The University of Texas at Austin

Law in Popular Culture collection

Deathplay



 

Death Play: A stock strategy that buys stock on the belief that a key executive will die, the company will be dissolved, and shares will command a higher price at their private market value.
http://www.marketvolume.com/glossary/d0029.asp


Ch. 1     Ch. 2     Ch. 3     Ch. 4     Ch. 5     Ch. 6     Ch. 7     Ch. 8     Ch. 9     Ch. 10     Ch. 11     Ch. 12




Chapter 1


     Anthony Trask couldn't stand carelessness. A lot of people on Wall Street always wanted to bullshit you about the "big picture," but they had no patience for details. Tony had only been in the business a few years, and yet he knew better than to make that kind of mistake. Details were everything.
     Emerging from the subway at Citicorp Center, he walked a few blocks to Grantley headquarters and flashed his business card at the guards. He wasn't awfully proud of the card. Fenster & Co. was still a pretty good name among the thinning ranks of mid-size investment firms, but it'was Tony's title that bothered him: account executive. He deserved a lot better after all he had been through to have the Cornell name imprinted on his diploma. Okay, his college transcript didn't place him in the top third, but that wasn't important the way Tony saw things. Each of his courses had been a problem in strategic efficiency: you sized up what the professor wanted, and that's what you gave him in as little time as was required. Meanwhile, Tony made the time-saving pay off by working off-hours at a real estate brokerage to supplement his scholarship. And it wasn't as if his work for the realtor had been easy street. The cheap bastards hardly paid him enough to cover living expenses, let alone tuition and books.
     A few of Tony's rich classmates looked down on him for having to put himself through college, but he was able to live with that. In his own view, social standing was purely a matter of how you divided your waking hours. If you took a day job and went to night-school, you were a second-class citizen. But Tony had been smart enough to arrange his schedule the other way around, and he was now, and for all time, a Cornell man.
     Tony's goal when he entered college was to make his first 10 million before he was 30. He had never given much thought to what he would do with all the money, but that was not the point. The 10 million dollar club was pretty exclusive, even these days, and people would be impressed when he came in the front door waving his checkbook. Also, as Tony liked to tell classmates with a lot vaguer career ambitions, cash in the bank was a pretty good measure of accomplishment. When the job interview questionnaires started circulating in his senior year, Tony consistently identified the 10 million dollar target as his professional purpose, knowing full well that many of the other applicants for the same positions would type in lofty sentiments about saving mankind.
     Since he had graduated Tony's optimism about his future had dimmed considerably. Here he was pushing 27 and he wasn't even a lousy assistant vice-president. Not much time to go, and Tony continued to spend his dinner hours making cold calls to prospects scared off the market by crashes, recession and war. It wasn't like the 80's, when the Wall Street money-tree was raining dollars on everyone, and it didn't matter whether you were from Cornell or CUNY. Nowadays you really had to use your brains if you were going to bust out of the rat race. Tony had thought about his problem long and hard, and came up with a solution that he regarded as just as creative, in its way, as the junk bond had once been.
     Very few people had taken their seats in the Grantley auditorium when Tony was admitted for the annual shareholders' meeting. He chose an aisle seat at the first table behind the area roped off for the officers, directors and other V.I.P.s. By repositioning the water pitcher and drinking glasses he claimed as much work space for himself as possible. It was probably an unnecessary step, because the Grantley meetings were lightly attended. What was the point in coming, when old Grantley Buchanan kept such tight control and never told the shareholders any more than he thought was good for them? And Grantley, though close to 90, was going to live forever or so people thought.
     Tony Trask unzipped his blue briefcase, gold-stamped with the Fenster logo, which showed a capital F over a wide casement window (Wall Street wags claimed the symbol showed the window through which the founder had jumped during the 1929 Crash, but the true explanation was quite straightforward: the firm's name meant "window" in German). As Tony fanned out the contents of his briefcase on the table before him, he located and withdrew a sheet of graph paper that showed a gradually rising trend measured at several dates advancing from left to right below the chart. By the side of this page Tony placed a chapter of a technical treatise that he had copied on the office's xerox machine. He took a pen and notepad from his breast pocket and waited for the proceedings to begin.
     The meeting was scheduled for 10:00 a.m., and a few minutes before the hour, a file of Grantley dignitaries began to move into the reserved rows from a side door. Tony couldn't help thinking that it was like a funeral service, with the family mourners arriving at the last moment from a side chapel where they had congregated. In short order it seemed that all the Grantley officials were seated, but that was misleading, an inevitable part of the ritual to which Trask had become accustomed from past meetings. There was a pause of perhaps half a minute, and then the side door was swung open again to admit the CEO. There was applause for the famous man, fervent from the reserved section but less enthusiastic around the rest of the hall.
     Tony Trask turned his head to monitor the audience response. Buchanan richly deserved the lukewarm reception he was getting from shareholders. The old man was a survivor of an early generation of conglomerate-builders, who had gobbled up companies to diversify their operations rather than for fast-buck liquidation. The trouble was that a lot of the Grantley Enterprises acquisitions had turned sour and Buchanan was too stubborn to get rid of them, so they continued to drag down the consistently profitable results of the company's core pharmaceuticals business. What made matters worse, Buchanan was so self-centered that he often put his own personal political causes ahead of business concerns; the major
investment he had ordered made in a Polish shipyard had proved to be the disaster everyone but Buchanan had predicted. What else could you expect of a CEO that treated a public company so much like his own child that 15 years ago he had given it his own first name, Grantley?
     Tony bent forward to observe Grantley Buchanan closely. The press used to describe Buchanan as "bird-like", but now it would be generous to call him malnourished. The skin of his face was markedly livid and his eyes bulged and pulsated. All was going even better than Tony had expected; he scribbled a few words on his notepad.
     When the hour of 10:00 struck, Buchanan signaled by a nod to his fellow directors. They marched up to the stage and he followed them. Tony looked at his watch as Buchanan neared the bottom of the stairs. There were four steps with rather high risers. On the third step Buchanan staggered and paused briefly. His breathing was labored and a deep flush appeared on his cheeks, but he regathered his forces and went on, refusing offers of assistance from his directors.
     When Buchanan reached the speaker's microphone, Tony Trask looked at his watch again: 15 seconds. It was a new record. He consulted the graph. At the security analysts' meeting in July, the time had been 9.8 seconds, up only slightly from the two previous gatherings Tony had attended in the Grantley auditorium.
      Everything else checked out, all the symptoms were right. Tony looked at the treatise pages he had brought along. The chapter was titled "Manifestations of Heart Failure."

*          *          *
      When Tony Trask came into the Fenster offices before noon, the packing boxes were cluttering the fourth floor again. They had become a familiar sight this year and Tony, taking the straightest route from the elevator to the retail "bullpen", pretended to ignore them.
      He strode briskly to his desk in a corner cubicle separated from the neighboring salesman by a chest-high wooden panel stained to look like walnut. Only the retail manager, Tom Murphy, had an office with a real door. The management had told the brokers that the architect had favored the "open look," but Murphy had a different explanation. "The SEC tells me to supervise, and dammit, I'm gonna supervise," Tom would say when he made his daily parade around the registered reps' desks.
      Bill Gagliano poked his damfool face over the panel before Trask had a chance to empty his brief case.
      "Welcome to the shipping department, Two-tone Tony."
      Bill knew that Trask hated the nickname. Superficially, it was supposed to have been inspired by the white-collared blue dress shirts that Tony favored. But just about everybody, Tony included, caught the punning allusion to the overweight Italian boxer who was one of Joe Louis' bums of the month. Although an overpowering tennis player and allstate in high school basketball, Trask was slightly built and Gagliano, a benchwarmer for his third-rate college football team, never let him forget it.
      "Who's being shipped out today?" Tony asked.
      Gagliano walked around the panel and sat, uninvited, on the edge of Tony's desk. The wood creaked but held.
      "It's investment banking's turn, 40% of them will be 'leaving to pursue other interests.' That's what the asshole said over the P.A. system at 11:00 sharp."
      The "asshole" was a man who absolutely needed no introduction. He was George Hunnewell, the head of investment banking and a member of the executive committee.
      "Did Donna make the cut?"
      Gagliano grinned maliciously. "I suppose so, she's probably fucking half of the fourth floor."
      Tony didn't rise to the bait. "I don't think so, Bill. At the moment, I think I'm the only lucky guy."
      "You're an optimist, Two-tone Tony, anyone can see that. It's a wonderful trait to have in today's nervous market." Bill hefted his large bottom from the desk and disappeared around the panel.
      Tony was furious with himself for not finding a prompt insult to return, but, better late than never, he stared at Gagliano over the divider and said: "If you weren't so damn ugly, I'd tell you to go screw yourself." A moment later, when Bill left his work station to meet a customer, Tony devised a better revenge. He stepped quickly to Gagliano's desk and emptied a wire basket where the salesman kept a pile of message slips to preserve the callers' telephone numbers. Once he had fed the slips to an office shredder, Tony felt the flush of anger begin to recede.
     Now Tony was ready to call Donna Marzo's extension; it was busy so he pressed the call-back button. He'd met Donna shortly after he came to Fenster, and it didn't take him long to draw up her personal balance sheet. Her face he'd rate so-so, but she would never be picked for Miss Elmira. Wiry and black, her hair stuck out in all directions as if it carried a heavy charge of energy, not electricity exactly but the same power source that made her talk too fast and blink her violet-pencilled eyes a lot. But the legs were a definite plus and she wore the shortest skirts in the office so you couldn't miss them. Her calves were athletic, just the kind he liked. Maybe their firmness came from dancing or tennis, but Tony wouldn't know because he had never bothered to ask.
     The fact was, it wasn't her looks that made him seek Donna out in the lunchroom a few days after he first arrived as a sales assistant after passing Fenster's entrance exam. He'd heard she was one of the rising young stars in investment banking. If he and his customers were going to know what was going on in mergers and acquisitions or new financing, he'd need a friend like Donna. The problem was that Fenster had imposed a tough "Chinese wall" separation between its brokers and investment bankers, to prevent retail trades from being made on the basis of confidential information regarding in-house deals. Although the investment banking department was also on the fourth floor, its entrance was locked and the brokers' access cards were not programmed to pass them through. And if a broker was caught in investment banking, even on invitation, there would be all hell to pay.

*          *          *
     On their first date Tony drove Donna up to Westchester for dinner at a fancy French restaurant, complete with champagne. Tony didn't have a car of his own, because he firmly believed in spending money where it showed, on his Paul Stuart suits and designer ties; for the time being he didn't see any great benefit in prestige wheels. But tonight was an exception, so he took pains to borrow a friend's red Alfa Romeo sport sedan. "I like the way your car rides," Donna had said admiringly, "what kind of mileage do you get?" Making a quick mental calculation from the odometer, Tony had answered, "About 24 on the highway, but I'm probably going to get rid of it. I'm planning to work pretty hard at Fenster nights and weekends and won't have much use for a car in the city."
     In very little time, Donna Marzo had become Tony Trask's friend, and more than that. It hadn't worked out badly at all. She kept him very well informed about Fenster's deals and after hours she showed him that the surplus energy he had detected in her hair was the real thing.
     The phone rang; Donna was on the line.
     "Tony?" she asked with her usual caution, though his name had appeared on her telephone grid.
     "Yes. Are you still at Fenster?"
     "Yeah, I guess that puts me in the top 60. If you're curious, I can tell you all about the morning's excitement. Where should we meet?"
     Tony had a bright idea. "How about the dining room?"
     Until last week the dining room would have been just the wrong place to meet. It was only for the top brass and Tony and Donna didn't exactly qualify. Suddenly, though, it had become the perfect place to talk without being overheard. In an economy move, the chef and his kitchen staff had been fired and the dining room was empty; there was nothing left there worth stealing so even the paranoid Fenster management saw no reason to lock the door.
     Donna was waiting for Tony Trask when he came in. She was sitting, legs attractively crossed, in the chairman's place at the head of the abandoned dining room table. Tony kissed her and asked: "Tell me how the asshole let you know you're still on the team."
     "He didn't really. At first he just sputtered a lot on the P.A. - you know how he sounds like static even when he condescends to talk to you face to face - but he finally managed to inform us that the department is being cut some 40%."
     Tony wasn't surprised the first word of the firings came over the P.A. It' was really getting a workout for the last eighteen months. The risk arbitrage department had been the first to go, right after Mike Milken's sentencing, and then municipal bonds.
     "Well, somehow you found out you're still among the lucky survivors."
     "Nothing simpler," Donna said, stroking the arms of Mr. Fenster's chair. "The asshole told us to look at the lists of dear departed that were being posted in the restrooms."
     "He told you to check out the walls of the john?" Trask asked in disbelief.
     Donna laughed. "'At Fenster you're canned in the can.' But it's just as well, don't you think, that the men had a private place to learn about their dismissals. You know how the poor creatures tend to cry when they get emotional."
     "What's the betting on the rest of you?"
     "I'm not starting early on my Christmas shopping, that's for sure. There's a departmental meeting scheduled for Friday. But to turn to a more pleasant subject, how fast is Grantley Buchanan sinking?"
     Tony Trask's eyes brightened. "He's on his last legs, I mean that literally. He just about made it up to the stage. And his shortness of breath, sick complexion, it's all in the book."
     Donna humored him, settling back even more comfortably in her CEO's chair. "That's just great, doc, but I don't think your business thinking's up to your cardiology. You're still trying to play the auction game. The old man dies and somebody, friend or foe, calls in the auctioneer. He sells off the company's divisions one by one and - abracadabra - they bring total prices way above the stock's market value. The trouble is that this kind of easy money vanished with junk bonds and the raiders."
     Tony Trask looked disgusted. She was supposed to be so smart but kept on missing what he was driving at. "That's not the point, don't you see? I'm not looking for breakup values; what we've got here is a 'pare-down.' There's a lot of shit in the company that's holding down the market valuation of the pharmaceuticals operation. You sell off the shit, you give it away, who cares what it brings."
     Donna wasn't persuaded. "I guess it's got some commodity value as fertilizer." He didn't react, and she was afraid she had gone too far. "Still it's your show. Is there anything I can do to help?"
     "As a matter of fact, there is. Can you work up some market values on comparable pharmaceutical stocks?"
     "Consider it done," Donna said, claiming another kiss - somewhat more lingering - as her downpayment. "Come to think of it," she added, "I'm not sure there are any comparables. I don't think too many drug companies share Grantley's passion for Polish shipyards."
     Tony snapped at her. "That's just what I've been trying to tell you."

*          *          *
     Tony Trask was back at his desk for only a few minutes when his day's quota of luck ran out. The sales assistant he shared with Bill Gagliano was away from her desk, so he had to answer his phone when Johnnie Fowler called.
     "Is that you, Anthony?" Fowler piped in his ear. There was no escape. John Fowler III, whom Tom Murphy had assigned to him as a kind of hazing prank when Tony joined Fenster, owned a substantial position in Consolidated Tools, an inheritance from his father, a retired executive of the company. Trask held the receiver away from his ear, knowing only too well what Fowler's next words would be.
     "I've been trying to reach you for several days, Anthony. I think it's time we had lunch again to discuss my investments."
     The lunches, which Tony tried to space out as best he could, ran true to an invariable pattern. Apart from small holdings of mutual funds and money market holdings, Fowler's investments were limited to the Consolidated Tool shares. No matter how the company's fortunes fared, and regardless of the number of martinis Trask served up at lunch, there was no way Fowler was ever going to part with the Consolidated. That still didn't prevent him from wanting to be treated like an important customer of Fenster and taken to periodic lunches, some of which he was actually willing to pay for.
     Tony's part of the Fowler phone conversations had also become a formula. "Yes, you're absolutely right, Johnnie," he vaguely heard himself saying, "we should get together for lunch again, but this month is terribly busy for me, you wouldn't believe it. I'm marking my calendar to call you after the first. Goodbye."
     Tony hung up before Fowler could protest.
     Methodically he reached for the silver dollar money clip he used to hold his pink telephone messages and removed the bottom half-dozen slips that noted previous unanswered calls from Fowler. He firmly crumpled the papers into a ball, and the short toss into his wastebasket was an easy two-pointer.
     It was now time for more serious business. He took a few moments to put in good order the notes and materials he had brought back from the Grantley Enterprises meeting. He flicked back the plastic lid of his telephone card index and began with the letter A. He dialled and waited.
     "Ronald Abrams," he told the secretary who answered. His customer came on the line. "Ronnie, this is Tony Trask, how's it going, fella?"
     "Not wonderful, I guess that's why I'm lucky in love."
     "Say, that's not bad either. We can't all be rich, right? But come to think of it, why not? I've got a great idea to make you some money the new-fangled way - without earning it." Tony was mocking a pretentious brokerage T.V. ad he knew Abrams hated.
     There was no laughter at the other end. Instead, a little chill crept into Abrams' voice. "I hope this time it's something you and I both understand."
     Abrams didn't have to quote Tony chapter and verse. A few months ago he'd talked Ron into buying a commodities option. How did Tony know that Fenster was about to kiss goodbye to its commodities department, and that Tony would be left twisting in the wind, without the slightest idea how to close out his customer's exposure? Only a lot of fast-talking to Ron had saved Tony a complaint letter to the NASD.
     It was best not to rake up ancient history, so Tony said: "This time it's simplicity itself. What do you think of picking up some call options on Grantley Enterprises? The premiums are quite reasonable."
     Ron was unenthusiastic. "No wonder. That stock's going nowhere while that old crackpot's around."
     Tony hung in there. "You're right, and that's just my strategy. I don't think the old crackpot's going to be with us much longer. His heart's giving way, and fast. That's why the options would be a smart move. For two bucks you can get a December option to buy at 20; I guarantee you Buchanan won't live to see the new year. When he dies, the market will jump, probably close to 30; we'll exercise your options and you'll have a sweet profit. You see, Ron, it's a cheap way to buy into a 'death play.'"
     "How do you see Grantley as a $30 stock?'"
     Tony went through his "pare-down" analysis and promised to send Ron market ranges on comparable drug stocks.
     Abrams said he'd consider the advice and get back to him. Tony was encouraged by the first customer reaction; he guessed there was a 50/50 chance Ron would buy some options. His fingers continued to probe the card index.
     There's a death play in Grantley options. Not a bad phrase, Tony thought as he used it over and over again in solicitation calls he placed that afternoon and into the dinner hour. Even some of the "livies" he called cold seemed intrigued. Sometimes you just had to dramatize investments if you wanted to make a sale.
 

 
 

Chapter 2


          Tony wasn't at all pleased with the market comparables Donna laid before him on the executive dining room table two days later. He pushed the papers aside and asked irritably: "What am I supposed to do with this crap?"
     "You could at least keep your voice down. There are other people using the hallway."
     "Yeah, I know, you don't have to tell me where the johns are. Your pals from M&A are probably checking in there every half hour to see if they've been fired. If we didn't know better, it'd look like the investment bankers had an epidemic of diarrhea. And speaking of your pals, whatever genius put together these figures for you deserves to get fired."
     "I did the work myself. And now that you've heard that, you can be a little more polite. I'm not your employee."
     Tony rewarded her mild protest by getting even angrier. "Donna, I don't need to be reminded that we've got something going. You're a great girl, but stop taking my temperature, because I don't like the place you're aiming the thermometer. O.K.? Now can we get back to work?"
     "Bastard," Donna said, more to herself than to him. "What's the matter with the figures?"
     Tony accepted her capitulation with good grace. "I've told my customers that Grantley is a sure thing to hit 30 if we toss out the results of its non-pharmaceutical businesses. Your comparisons with other drug stocks wouldn't put Grantley above 25."
     Donna defended her work with a cliche: "Figures don't lie, Tony."
     "Of course not, and I wouldn't want them to; I just want them to use a little more imagination. You've picked six comparable companies, O.K.? First, we get rid of the two with the lowest market ranges. Then we price Grantley on the basis of projected drug earnings. The last two years have been lousy with Buchanan and his management off on Polish junkets half the time. Have I solved your problem?"
     "Yes, I understand. The price for Grantley is supposed to come out at 30."
     "Hey, that's good thinking," Tony complimented her, "I couldn't put it better myself. But I'm really a little ashamed of myself. We've been sitting here talking about nothing but my little sales project. You know how interested I am in your work. Do you have any new deals shaping up in your department?"
     As Donna ticked off some merger possibilities that were in early stages of discussion, Tony listened to her with genuine, undiluted interest. More and more, he was coming to believe that, though stocks could rise and fall, he really knew how to pick women.
     The next day Tony mailed out Donna's revised comparables to every customer who had not rejected his Grantley option recommendation out of hand. He gave them a few days for reflection, because he was no high-powered salesman, that was not his style. There was plenty to do while he waited; he circumnavigated his telephone card index a few times to make sure he missed nobody - not even the Florida vacationers and the cowards who hid behind their answering machines. And of course the cold calls promised endless opportunities to good salesmen like Tony whose egos were not dented when the prospect hung up in mid-sentence.
     Tony's campaign was helped by the new high-tech phones that had just been installed in the sales department. Fenster had ordered them before the recent business downturn and had put up too large a downpayment to cancel the purchase. The phones could do everything but your socks. What Tony liked best was the confidential voice messaging capability. Callers could leave their messages on the phone, as on a customary answering device, but access to the recordings could only be obtained by hitting a personalized four-digit password. In a rare exercise in sentiment, Tony had programmed 0909, a number standing for September 9, the birthday of his dimly remembered father, who had died when Tony was only seven.
     After a few weeks, Tony had to admit that the Grantley sales push was a flop. He'd sold options to only a dozen customers and a total of about 2,000 Grantley shares to a few imbeciles who couldn't understand what a call option was, even though he used words of one syllable and showered them with Fenster's option strategy brochures. Tony was persuaded that, on the ladder of evolution, there was a rung reserved somewhere between homo sapiens and the chimpanzee for the securities customer. At least Ron Abrams hadn't disappointed him entirely but the order he placed was much more modest than Tony had hoped.
     Right after the Grantley annual meeting, Tony had bet some of his own money on the death play, buying some call options in the personal brokerage account he maintained at Fenster. Donna matched his investment in her account, but the firm had imposed strict elements on the positions their employees could take in any stocks that were being recommended to customers. So Tony and Donna were never going to get rich on their options.
     It seemed a shame. Tony's Grantley analysis was rock-solid but he just couldn't get the financial support he needed to turn a decent profit. Donna, however, had a new idea.
     It came to her when they were in bed one Sunday morning in her Chelsea apartment. "Your problem is you haven't gone where the money is."
     "For Chrissake, Donna," he growled, "you're getting worse than me. What a time to think of business." He rolled away from her and punched his pillow.
     Donna laughed and pulled him back. "Don't knock it if you haven't tried it. Talking dollars in bed is better than talking dirty; it's much more exciting and will make you last longer."
     Tony sat up, his feet dangling from his side of the bed. "I forgot that you're an expert." Involuntarily he thought of Bill Gagliano's sneering innuendo, but, unable to restrain his curiosity, he asked "O.K. I'll bite. What's the place where the money is?"
     "The trading department, of course. Why don't you talk to Hank Jacobs about taking a major position in Grantley for the firm?" Hank Jacobs was the head trader, and a member of Fenster's capital committee, which had authority to approve all large investments by the firm.
     "You've got a great little idea there, Donna. If I'm lucky enough to have Hank say yes, Fenster becomes rich. What's in it for me?"
     "A big fat check at Christmas bonus time, if you don't broadcast your idea all over the office. I know for a fact that your good neighbor Gagliano got a hefty bonus last year for bringing the Hollis deal to investment banking. These payoffs aren't in the firm manual, but that's how our bosses work if you know how to keep your mouth shut."
     "Okay, I'll see whether Hank goes for it, but if we're really talking oversized money bags, how about your Uncle Damon?"
     Damon Marzo, Donna's childless uncle, doted on her. She reciprocated his passion with the fervent hope of becoming the sole heir of his reputedly vast though mysterious fortune. One of the ways she showed her worthiness to inherit was to cook him regular Sunday breakfasts of bacon and eggs, served up in such enormous quantities that his early demise from excessive cholesterol would not have been a medical surprise.
     So far as Tony Trask knew, Uncle Damon was his greatest rival for Donna's attention. Many a Sunday morning, Donna kicked him out of bed to give him time to clear out before her uncle arrived. Damon, his morals as chilly as his snow-white hair, did not look with approval on his favorite niece's unwedded bliss and treated her lover with minimal politeness whenever their paths crossed. From Tony's point of view, it wasn't all bad that the old man kept his distance, because he was not anxious for Damon to treat him as a member of the family. Too much togetherness might give Donna the wrong ideas. On the other hand, Damon had a lot of dollars, some of them perhaps underemployed, and Tony had once read an article in the Times implicating him in a big municipal contracting scandal. Maybe the guy had possibilities as a backer.
     If Uncle Damon would wager some of his riches on Grantley stock, Tony was ready to be as warm as the mid-day sun. Donna didn't give him much encouragement, however: "I think Uncle Damon's gonna sit this one out. I've talked to him about Grantley, and he's very impressed with your thinking, I know he is. But I think it's kind of a test case for him. If you pull it off and your predictions prove out, I wouldn't be surprised to see Uncle Damon throwing a lot of cash at your 
next deal. That's why it's important to get the trading department behind you before it's too late. It won't do you any good to tell Uncle Damon that Grantley Buchanan died on schedule and the stock went through the roof. He's going to ask how much money you made for your investors.
     "Now can I ask you to get out of my bed? I feel some scrambled eggs coming on."
     On Monday, after the market closed, Tony went to see Hank Jacobs. Hank made a big deal of his democratic attitudes which he projected by sitting at a desk in the middle of the trading floor that couldn't be distinguished in any way from the work spaces of the other traders.
     Tony had decided it would be best to take Hank by surprise. It wasn't hard to do, because Hank wasn't the kind of guy you made appointments with. If you tried, he would have laughed at the formality.
     Tony also knew that Hank didn't like to beat around the bush and could not pretend to give a damn how the Jets had done in yesterday's home game. Therefore, Tony plunged right in, and he was gratified to see Hank's eyes fixed on him in evident interest. Maybe Donna's suggestion wasn't so bad. The year was drawing to a close, and Tony had heard rumors that the market-making operations that Hank Jacobs supervised had really taken a nose dive. Maybe the head trader wouldn't mind an opportunity for a quick year-end profit to make him look a little better when management met to make its annual business review.
     Hank asked Tony a few questions but was noncommittal. "Thanks for coming to see me," he said. "I like your style."
     But what did he think about the idea? Tony knew him well enough not to press for an answer.

*           *           *
     In early November, the director of public relations of Grantley Enterprises received a phone call from the New York Stock Exchange: "Hello, this is Jill Manthey at the Exchange. I'm sure you've noticed that over the last several days there's been a sharp increase in Grantley Enterprises' trading volume."
     "Yes, we have."
     "Well, daily trades have reached levels where we have to make our usual inquiry." She paused as if she were reading him a printed statement. "Is management aware of any unannounced developments that could account for the rise in trading volume?"
     The PR director answered quickly: "There's absolutely nothing that we're aware of. Maybe people are just beginning to realize what a great bargain Grantley stock is."
     Ms. Manthey seemed satisfied. "That's fine. Could you please send us a confirming fax?"
     "Of course, I'll get it off to you right away."

*           *           *
          From a technical point of view, Tony Trask's market strategy couldn't have done better. The news for which he had been waiting came across the Dow Jones tape on December 2:
ATLANTA - DJ - Grantley Buchanan, founder and CEO of Grantley Enterprises, Inc. died this morning at age 90. Company spokesmen attributed his death to congestive heart failure. The Board will meet this Thursday to appoint a successor and vote to consider strategic moves.
     The moves, when announced Friday morning, were right on target. The new CEO, with Board backing, declared a return to basics, with a focus on pharmaceuticals and an orderly divestiture of other operations. A boost in the dividend was also forecast.
     Grantley stock shot through the roof, and what was better, exceeded Tony Trask's projection, reaching $35 by mid-December. He took quick profits for his customers. Donna and he also closed out the Grantley options in their own accounts. He was not going to ride with the long-term performance of the new Grantley management. That wasn't how you worked a death play.
     For a while longer Hank Jacobs kept Tony guessing whether Fenster had benefited from the quick Grantley run-up. The suspense was dissipated one afternoon when Hank turned up in the bullpen, flashing one of the broadest grins Tony had ever seen on his shrewd, creased face, and offered him a cigar.
     "New father?" Tony asked.
     "It would come as quite a blow to my girl friend. You know why I'm here. It's to congratulate you and Fenster on the Grantley deal. You've really made our December."
     Liar, Tony thought, I made your year.
     "What's that all about?" Bill Gagliano asked, coming around the partition as soon as Jacobs had moved off.
     "It's none of your damn business," Tony snapped, exasperated by Gagliano's typical nosiness.
     As a matter of fact, Tony was wrong. Grantley Enterprises was very much Gagliano's business. He had been an attentive listener to Tony's sales calls and finally put a lot of his own dollars into the gamble, both in his securities account at Fenster and in a few others he maintained at other brokerage firms, in violation of the firm's house rules.
     At lunch in the staff cafeteria Tony told Donna about the presentation of the cigar. "Don't let Jacobs get you down," she advised. "He's got the trader personality to the nth degree; he lives and breathes secrecy. Anyway, he's not the guy who hands out the bonuses. When Christmas rolls around, you'll hear from Barney Fenster."
     Donna was right. In late December Tony was summoned to the office of the CEO for the first time since he'd been at the firm. Barney Fenster emerged from behind his enormous kidney-shaped desk and shot his hand out of a Giorgio Armani cuff to give Tony an affable greeting. Some of the staff made the mistake of writing off the 50-year-old president as a dilettante. His amused, good-natured face and trim figure were constantly featured in the party pages of Women's Wear Daily, and his celebrated townhouse evenings numbered among the guests more PYTs (pretty young things) and Civil War historians than investment bankers and businessmen. Tony Trask suspected that Barney's pleasure-seeking social style was misleading. For years he had been engaged in a devastating power struggle with his cousin Robert. After the two young Fensters were simultaneously appointed executive vice presidents, rumor had it that one evening Barney was found on his knees feeding out a measuring tape to satisfy himself that his cousin's new office was not even an inch wider than his own. The dimensions came out even, but Robert did not survive long.
     Barney Fenster was not a hands-on manager but he wanted to make sure that everybody would remember their boss's name. When his people won promotions or advanced financially, he wanted them to owe their gratitude to him and not to some committee whose membership he had the power to shift at a moment's notice. It was for this reason that from the first year of his accession he had insisted on presenting personally every bonus check to be awarded to Fenster professionals.
     After motioning Tony to be seated, Fenster got right to the point. "Tony, how long have you been with the firm now?"
     "It will be four years in March."
     "That's wonderful, you've become a real member of the Fenster family, and I hope you feel that way. When I got my start in this business, four years probably wouldn't have seemed like such a long time. But in those days brokers knew what loyalty meant. Now people sell themselves to the highest bidder and loyalty be damned.
     "Nevertheless, we're too smart at Fenster to take any chances about losing our talented folks. That's why I have a little surprise for you today." He handed a sealed envelope to Tony.
     For a fleeting moment Tony wondered whether protocol required him to thank Fenster for the check sight unseen and to beat a quick retreat. But he wasn't going to get anywhere with these sharks by worrying about protocol. He unsealed the envelope and took out the check.
     Barney Fenster was right. It was a very little surprise. The check was for $2,500.
     He thanked Fenster with as little warmth as he could get away with and rose to leave. Barney added a few words of encouragement: "Keep up the good work, Tony, and you'll be one of our first new officers of the 90's. Another Grantley Enterprises would be just the ticket."
     Tony was fuming as he returned to his desk. Barney Fenster's simpering platitudes had made his skin crawl. If Tony was a "real member of the Fenster family," then it looked like Barney had made up his mind to treat him as a poor relative. And meantime Hank Jacobs, who was close to a cretin as far as Tony could see, was making a fortune as one of Barney's ass-kissing cousins. That was one way to get ahead, but it was not Tony's. These guys were like the chintzy Ithaca realtors he'd worked for during college, only in spades.
     "Can you believe the cheap bastard?" Tony whispered into his phone to Donna, his wariness of Gagliano's big ears prevailing over his anger.
     Donna dismissed his news. "Forget it, Tony, I've got something more important to tell you. You've made a big hit with Uncle Damon. He wants to see you for lunch tomorrow."
     Donna had given Tony the address of a northern Italian restaurant newly opened off Second Avenue. The maitre d' ushered him into a private room, where Damon Marzo was waiting for him. Donna's uncle hardly acknowledged Tony's arrival and suggested: "Let's order. I don't like to talk business while I'm eating."
     The menu was the Italian version of nouvelle cuisine, but with a vengeance. Tony selected a specialty ravioli, and found that it was made only of spinach. While he chewed unenthusiastically, he observed his host, who ate in silence. Marzo's face was as white as his curly hair; it seemed that the sun had never shone upon him and that no blood coursed beneath his skin. He never smiled.
     When they had finished their main courses Damon did not ask Tony whether he wanted a dessert but ordered two espressos. He drained his cup in a swallow and addressed Tony for only the second time: "You're pretty good, you know. You really pulled off that Grantley business."
     "Thank you, Mr. Marzo, the stock performed very well, I think, but unfortunately I did a lot better on the deal for other people than I did for myself."
     Damon Marzo gave him a stern look. "But that's the way it should be, young man. Make money for others, and in time they'll make money for you. That's always been my golden
rule." Before Tony had time to ponder his wisdom, he added: "How'd you like to handle five million bucks? Are you up to it?"
     Tony produced his most confident smile before he replied: "I'm accustomed to dealing with very large accounts. Technically, Fenster discourages fully discretionary arrangements, but many of my big clients give me pretty broad latitude."
     Damon nodded. "Five million bucks for investment, no questions asked. It's the results my associates and I are interested in, and results like Grantley Enterprises will be completely satisfactory. What a wonderful idea you had there, young man. Tremendous stock values waiting to be realized and only one life standing in the way, the life of a stubborn CEO."
     Silence fell again between the two men, but it was not like the silence in which they had eaten their meal. Then Marzo had simply felt no need for conversation or perhaps he had found over the years that words could interfere with good digestion. The new silence was more calculated, a probe of the depths of Tony's ambition, a tacit offer of partnership without rules.
     Tony returned Marzo's unblinking gaze and tested the meaning of his words. "Grantley was, of course, what the investment business calls a 'special situation.' Buchanan had a chronic illness, but the trick was to time the progression of its final phase."
     Damon seemed intent on drawing Tony out. "Tony, almost every stock I've ever bought was supposed to be a special situation, but there was always another stock they told me I couldn't afford to pass up. How special was Grantley Enterprises?"
     "Maybe not all that special if I use my brains, Mr. Marzo. There are a lot of CEOs out there whose greatest gift to their shareholders would be to disappear. Not all of them, of course, have terminal illnesses like Grantley Buchanan, but a lot of them take risks, sometimes almost incredible risks. I see it as my business to identify those risks, and, if I may use some more investment jargon, 'capitalize' on them."
     Marzo took the hint without breaking the expressionless lines of his face. "People die in many ways, Tony; it's a question of fate or sometimes merely of ingenuity. To me and my investors, though, these matters are details with which we don't get involved. If we invest five million bucks, we're looking for answers, not questions."
     Tony readily agreed. "That's what you're entitled to expect if you've picked the right man. What's your usual compensation rate?"
     "I couldn't tell you, because we have no interest in the usual. If I'm not very much mistaken, you could be something out of the ordinary. I think we'd be prepared to give you a 25% interest in net profits, but I'd have to run the deal by a few of my key partners. Do you want to think it over?"
     Tony deferred his answer. "Who are your partners, Mr. Marzo?"
     Damon was not at all offended by the directness of the inquiry: "I always expect that my business will be handled very quietly. We live in a very noisy country, Tony, and that makes me look abroad for partners and bank accommodations. Geneva's pretty good, but I don't like what they've been doing lately to weaken their secrecy laws. Anyway, Switzerland's not the only place in the world. We have many players and we spread our accounts around; it's better that way when nosy people come prying into our business. And they do keep looking, there's no way to prevent it. But there's one thing we can promise them, Tony: if they're interested in our investments, they better have a big travel budget and be ready to fly anywhere - even Liechstenstein or the Caymans. We try to keep one step ahead of them; there's always a smaller country with a shorter runway."
     "How do you place your stock market orders?" Tony asked, well aware that Marzo was playing it safe with generalities.
     Damon folded and refolded his napkin. "I think we're getting a little ahead of ourselves there, Tony. You haven't said yes and neither have my partners. You're a nice guy, but I only talk business with people I'm doing business with. That makes sense, doesn't it?"
     Tony nodded but did not stir from his chair. He had the feeling that Damon would tell him when the lunch was over.
     Marzo took out his wallet and spun a business card across the table. It showed an address in Long Island City.
     "Think my proposition over, Tony, and come to my office Thursday, after the market closes, of course. I wouldn't want you to lose business on my account." He rose to leave and Tony followed. When they parted at the restaurant door, Marzo had the last word. "I'd just as soon that Donna doesn't know our business. That makes sense too, doesn't it?"
 

 
 

Chapter 3


     "How did lunch go with Uncle Damon?" Donna asked Tony over dinner at her apartment. She had burned the steaks again, but this was not the moment for complaints.
     "He's got a little business to throw my way, I guess. I'm supposed to see him at his office Wednesday evening."
     Donna was impressed. "You must have made a much bigger hit with him than you're admitting. He's never invited me to his place. In fact, I don't think he's ever given me his office phone number."
     By the time she had expressed surprise at his progress with her uncle, Tony had already tuned her out, as he watched for the first excuse to call it a night. He had only a few days to get ready for the Thursday meeting that was shaping up as the first half-decent business prospect he had ever had. He wasn't going to blow it.
     On the way to Fenster's on Tuesday morning he stopped at the post office to pick up a passport application. To Tony a passport was like a car: there was no point in acquiring one without any pressing need. During college there had been no place in the budget for Europe and so far Barney Fenster hadn't shown any inclination to send Tony winging to high-level financial meetings in the world's capitals. Now the situation was different. Suppose Marzo wanted him to meet some of the foreign partners; he couldn't very well tell his new client that he had no documents to take him farther than Canada.
     There was another reason for the hurried application: something could go wrong somewhere along the line, and from the very beginning it made sense to prepare the way for a quick exit. It was not that he was expecting any calamity, because he had every confidence in his own ability to plan ahead. Still, he would not be acting alone and there was always the risk that somebody on whom he would have to rely would lose his nerve. Damon looked pretty steady but Tony could only hope that the unnamed partners had been picked for their cool heads as well as their bank balances.
     Tony had his passport photo taken at a little shop that handled the service as a sideline to video rentals, and dropped his completed application in a mailbox at the corner.
     A row of phone booths stood nearby and one of them was unoccupied. Tony stepped inside and dialled Sam Belden, an expert in international law at NYU whom he knew from college. When his friend came on the line Tony had a request to make.
     "My firm has asked me to take part in an educational panel on crossborder law enforcement. I wonder whether you can help me out with some background material."
     "Sure. What do you need?"
     "I'd like some data on the extent to which the major foreign countries cooperate with the U.S. in criminal law enforcement, by extraditing fugitives, for example."
     Belden wanted a little more precision. "You mean, in the event of violations of the U.S. securities laws?"
     "Yes, that's the main subject of the seminar, of course, but the panelists are interested in more serious crimes as well."
     "I've got an index my students have prepared that should give you the data you're looking for. As I understand it, you want details on the countries that will ship our criminals back."
     "Right," Tony said, "and also the countries that cooperate the least. We're not going to focus so much on what the foreign regulations and treaties may say, but on the real world, in other words, which are the governments that will actually help us hunt people down and which will send us polite memos but do nothing."
     "I've got you," Professor Belden said, "your answers will be in the mail by the end of the week."
     Tony's mind was now free to concentrate on the Wednesday meeting with Marzo. His morning was slow; the market was going nowhere and the clients that he called were not happy to hear from him. Many of them had pulled back into mutual funds and seemed likely to stay there despite his best persuasions. At 11:30 he checked out for a long lunch.
     There was a possibility that one of Damon's purposes on Thursday would be to grill him about alternatives for following up on Grantley Enterprises. Even during more routine sales pitches, Tony tried not to sound like the guest stock market experts on TV who talked vaguely about the existence of "excellent profit-making opportunities in selected issues." But Marzo was not talking about chicken-feed investments, but about betting $5 million on Tony Trask's ingenuity. He therefore had better have more than generalities to pitch at Damon, even if it was too early to know which way to jump.
     Tony had given some thought to procedure for researching the next death play. Fenster had a large financial library on the fifth floor, but Tony had not used it much in his four years at the firm. Instead, he generally relied on the canned recommendations that the Fenster security analysts turned out or, more often, bought from larger firms. Original study of possible investments had never been Tony Trask's strong suit - at least before he had hit upon the Grantley idea and hung on to it for dear life - or maybe it would have been more accurate to say "dear death". Even the Grantley project, though, hadn't entailed a lot of work on the business side, because it was the medical aspects that had made that situation so promising. Therefore, the fact remained that, given Tony's infrequent appearances in the Fenster library, it would be better not to break that pattern now and give the librarian (a terrible gossip anyway) something unusual to observe and comment about. Determined to err, if at all, on the side of caution, Tony decided to do his reading, beginning with today's extended lunch hours, at the Business Section of the New York Public Library.

*           *           *
     Damon Marzo was obviously not plowing back his profits into his headquarters. He had a few rooms on the top floor of a converted loft building not far from Northern Boulevard. The frosted glass office door didn't tell visitors a hell of a lot about the business; they had to make do with "Damon Marzo and Associates" in peeling letters that were the remains of dark-red decals.
     The door was locked, and Marzo himself admitted Tony when he pressed the buzzer. "You're prompt, Tony, I like that. Early and late both waste time, yours or mine. Why don't we go into my office?" If secrecy was his aim, it was a useless precaution, since none of the Marzo "associates" that the door lettering advertised was in sight. The suite consisted of a empty lobby that was really no more than a continuation of the hallway leading from the elevator; there were no chairs and no other sign that any visitors would ever have occasion to wait there. Along one side of the lobby were three closed doors, the first of which Marzo opened to lead Tony Trask into his office.
     "Have you made up your mind?" he asked without ceremony as soon as they were both seated. Marzo's desk was clear and had no drawers; he was not much for paper work. The walls were bare except for a recent photograph of Donna.
     "I feel comfortable with the assignment, Mr. Marzo, and of course I'm flattered by your personal show of confidence. But I'm not quite sure who makes the next move. You indicated that you might have to sell some of your partners on the arrangement."
     "That's right. They listen to me because I've got a pretty good record, but I don't run the whole show. Since we had our first meeting I've touched a couple of bases and everything so far looks O.K. There are still a few people to reach and it could take about a week. So far I see no reason to be discouraged. Just to be sure, though, could you give me a few ideas about what you could do with our money, say, along the lines of Grantley Enterprises? We have only a few investment guidelines. First, we like to make money and with very little risk. The second is that we like to take our profits quickly."
     "Quite understandable," Tony said, and proceeded to run through some of the promising death plays he had looked into at the public library over the past two days. "I haven't reached any hard and fast conclusions," he said as he wound up his presentation. "These are just initial ideas; I may come up with something completely different."
     "Don't spin your wheels too much." Marzo counseled him. "I think you've got some interesting thoughts there and I hope you will pursue them. My partners will be very impressed with your originality, and it may just swing the deal with the gentlemen who haven't yet been heard from."
     For the first time, Tony received a signal that the unanimity of the partners was not a foregone conclusion. He decided to make things easier for Marzo: "Well, then, you'll let me know when your group has made up their minds?"
     "Right, it'll take about a week as I've said, but what you've told me today will help immensely and in the right direction. In the meantime, let's think positively about working together. If you have a few more minutes, I think we can just catch Benny."
     Marzo left his office and. returned with a middle-aged man who had already put on his overcoat and fedora. The man shook hands but did not remove his hat when they were introduced. "This is Benny Vitale, my accountant. Benny, Tony Trask. Tony may be helping us with some stock investments." Vitale did not make any conversation, as if he was anxious to leave. Through the partially open door at the accountant's back, Tony caught sight of a woman in a fake fur, apparently waiting.
     After Vitale left, Tony shifted in his chair, giving Marzo a cue to dismiss him. "Just one thing more," Marzo said, craning towards the photograph on the wall to his right but without removing his eyes from his guest's face. "What do you think of my pretty niece Donna?"
     Tony looked at the picture and immediately felt foolish, as if he had felt the need to consult the photograph to remind himself what she looked like. Despite the momentary flare of embarrassment, his self-command kept his eyes locked on Donna's features as he replied: "She's very attractive, and that's a good likeness." Then a thought struck him. "Have you had it hanging there long?"
     Trapped, Marzo laughed in good-humored confession. "As a matter of fact I brought it from home this week."
     Tony let the old man off the hook by praising his niece again. "I think a lot of Donna. She's becoming a great investment banker."
     Damon nodded and pursed his lips.
     "That's good for her but maybe not so wonderful for our investment program. She'll be curious about what you're planning to do for us and somehow she'll find out - if you haven't told her already."
     "I'm not a fool."
     "Of course not, but my group can't afford to take chances. You really have two choices, you must see that: stop seeing Donna or marry her. The first is really no choice at all: I'd hate to see you make her unhappy and anyway you'll just pick up some other girl and she could be worse. So I advise you to get married as soon as possible after we finish our setup. It's not necessary for me to tell you why, is it? I don't wish you any troubles but if things get tight, your wife won't be able to testify against you."
     Marzo seemed to admire frankness, so Tony was blunt. "Mr. Marzo, let's put all our cards on the table. Is Donna part of our deal?
     Damon shrugged off the question. "We're just looking for good judgment on your part, not only in your investment choices but across the board."
     "Well, let me put it this way. If you were me and were being called on to make personal decisions, wouldn't it be reasonable to find out first that our investment arrangement isn't going to crater?"
     "That's perfectly reasonable and I think the schedule we've been talking about is just about right for all purposes. What do you say to taking Donna on a vacation next week, any place of your choice, and all expenses charged to me. While you're away, I should hear from the rest of my partners and can get the word to you. If the result is as I expect, and everything else I've said makes sense as well, you'll have a wonderful opportunity to talk to Donna without mergers on her mind."
     Tony got up to go. "I'm not making any commitments yet, and I understand that your group hasn't either. But Donna and I could both use a vacation. I don't think she's ever been to Atlantic City."
     Tony figured that he would have had to make a trip there anyway. One of the deals he had in mind, perhaps the leading candidate for the next death play, involved a piece of Atlantic City real estate. It was important for Tony to make his own judgment on its marketability, and his work for the Ithaca realtor during college had persuaded him that the only way to make this kind of decision was to eyeball the property.
     As Marzo opened his office door to escort him back into the lobby, Tony saw three young men conversing quietly near the entrance from the public corridor. Sizing them up quickly, he doubted that they were additional "associates" to whom Damon planned to introduce him. They had arrived just in time to take a good look at Tony just in case they might ever need to recognize him again. Damon Marzo, like Tony, was a long-term planner.
     Before he emerged from Damon's office, Tony whipped on his sunglasses and slanted his hat low across his brow.
     "I feel a sty coming on," he whispered to Marzo whom he kept well between him and the three observers.
     "Sty, that's a good one," Marzo said appreciatively.

*           *           *
     "Some of the women here actually wear skirts, have you noticed?" Tony Trask stood near the head of the line at the reception desk of their Atlantic City hotel, eyeing Donna's outfit with a distaste that had grown steadily since he had picked her up in his rental car at her apartment this morning. She was wearing a catsuit at least a size too small under the hooded mink anorak. Her electric hair seemed about to shoot sparks across the lobby.
     "Thanks," Donna said, pursing her lips. "Do you have any more complaints you'd like to share with the desk staff?"
     In fact, they were lucky to attract the attention of any of the clerks, who were much more interested in answering incessant telephone calls than attending to their incoming guests. At last Tony succeeded in flagging down an assistant manager, who, after a confirming glance at his reservation index, slid two registration cards across the counter.
     "Rooms 307 and 309," the assistant manager told them, "beautiful views of the marina."
     "Two rooms?" Donna queried Tony.
     "Adjoining," Tony assured her.
     "That's a thrill. You don't mind if I keep the door locked on my side, I hope. We haven't been properly introduced."
     "I thought your uncle Damon would prefer it this way, and he's paying the tab." Tony was glad when the bellman came along.
     The idea to take two rooms was, of course, Tony's. Probably one of his reasons was personal. Donna was O.K. as far as he was concerned and her uncle was even better, but Damon wasn't going to push him into an entanglement he wasn't ready for, at least not before he confirmed the availability of the five million bucks.
     But there was more in it than that. He expected a call from Damon, and if the deal came through, he expected to make other contacts to get the ball rolling. It wasn't wise for Donna to learn a lot of names and addresses that were of no use to her. She was damn inquisitive anyway; that was one of the drawbacks of screwing an investment banker. It would be doubly hard to keep her out of his business because he had pried so much confidential deal information from her at Fenster. Well, if the worst that happened was that she discontinued her tips out of annoyance at his secretiveness, he would live with that. To avoid the attention of the SEC he had only made trades of very modest size on the basis of her tips.
     Now he had bigger fish to fry.
     She'd already given him one scare last night at her apartment, and he had learned his lesson. He had rented a videocassette. After the movie Donna seemed to have fallen asleep on the couch. Tony turned on a reading lamp across the room to its lowest intensity and located the dispatch case he had brought from the office. After spinning the combination locks into place, he withdrew his investment file. He read the most recent security analysts' reports he had gathered earlier in the week.
     In a few minutes Tony was startled to hear Donna's voice coming out of the semi-darkness behind his chair: "What's so great about Rose Hotels?"
     Tony closed the file and snapped the dispatch case shut. "It's nothing, really. Forget it." But Donna didn't forget.

*           *           *
     A few days later Damon Marzo reached Tony at his hotel room.
     "You're approved, congratulations. Five million dollars are at your disposal."
     Tony picked up the thread of their conversation at the restaurant. "How do I place stock market orders?"
     "You call Geneva. Our present contact for your account is Monsieur Philippe." He gave Tony his telephone number. "That's subject to change, of course, but only if the new number comes from me or my bookkeeper, Benny Vitale. You remember him, of course; you talked to him just before you met his three young nephews."
     Damon had a sense of humor; Tony hadn't noticed that before.
     "What if I can't reach Philippe? It's necessary to move quickly to keep ahead of market changes."
     "You can always contact Benny Vitale. He'll know what to do." Damon supplied Benny's home telephone number and added a warning. "But don't call me, Tony; I don't like a lot of detail. When I need a report, I'll call you. Oh, one last thing, Tony, I need a report right now. Is the first deal going to be Rose?"
     "It looks that way."
     "Good; I was hoping that's the one you would pick to start us off. Of course, it's your call, as long as you get results."
     "That's what you're paying me for, Mr. Marzo."
     "Then give my love to Donna," Marzo said, hanging up. The deal was complete.

*           *           *
     That night Tony said to Donna while helping her to remove her nightgown:
     "How'd you like to be doing this even more regularly and with the Church's blessing?"
     He had first turned off all the lights in her bedroom so that he wouldn't be distracted by the unbearable red to which she had had her hair transformed in the hotel beauty parlor.
     "Is that a proposal of marriage?" Donna asked.
     "I think it is, if I'm in my right mind."
     Without a moment's hesitation, she responded: "Then, subject to the same condition, I accept."
     Later she heard him muttering in his sleep as he often did. She placed her ear close to his pillow and heard him say: "Marry Donna by February. Right?"
     How romantic, she thought. It must be something in Atlantic City's air.

*           *           *
     The first Tuesday evening after her return from Atlantic City, Donna Marzo resumed her weekly sessions with her psychiatrist, Dr. Alex Cardon. He always waited for her to begin.
     "Dr. Cardon, I'm getting married."
     She had told him previously about her plans to go to Atlantic City with Tony, but the psychiatrist had learned not to make any assumptions, however obvious. "Congratulations," he responded, waiting for more particulars.
     "Tony proposed in Atlantic City. He wants us to set a date in early February."
     "An impetuous young man, that's very flattering." Dr. Cardon was not quite 40 and a little flirtatious; he persuaded himself that it aided the process of "transference."
     "Do you have any reservations about your decision?"
     "None at all, and it's surprising because I always seem to have second thoughts about everything. But I do have a question."
     Dr. Cardon was silent, waiting for her to continue.
     "Do I have to tell him that I'm seeing you?"
     The doctor tried not to smile at her choice of words; he saw amorous allusions almost everywhere. "What is your feeling about it?"
     Donna actually had a strong view that she wanted him to confirm. "I'd rather not tell him. I don't know how he feels about psychiatry; we've never talked about it. I wouldn't want him to feel threatened."
     "You think he might feel insecure," Dr. Cardon said, slightly rephrasing her thought.
     "Yes, that's it exactly."
     Dr. Cardon gave her his benediction. "If you'd rather not tell him for the moment, then there's no reason you should." Donna was greatly relieved.

*           *           *
     Tony and Donna did not celebrate the first February nuptials in the extended "family" of Fenster & Co.
     Bill Gagliano, a little tipsy and feeling a headache coming on from the full bottle of cheap champagne he had drained at his sister's wedding banquet, braced himself against the table with both fists before leading off the final round of toasts:
     "Sally has played a lotta dirty tricks on me since she was a brat. I could never leave my wallet around the house without having it emptied. The folks always blamed the cleaning woman but I knew it was Sal. One nice thing, though, about having a thief in the family: she always left me all my credit cards.
     "And do you think I could ever get in any quality time with the girl friend of the month in the living room or on the front porch? Forget it. Sally was always there with questions about her stupid homework. Homework, can you believe it? I don't think she ever had to turn it in anyway. She's always been so gorgeous all she had to do was smile and she'd skip a couple of grades. It helped when her teachers were male.
     "She's still gorgeous, don't you think, sitting over there, all in white. White! that's a joke, isn't it Sal? In fact, she looks so pretty I can almost forgive her for the worst trick she's ever come up with. Here I am, a poor struggling stockbroker, working my ass off - pardon my French - to make a dishonest living.
     "And what does Sal decide to do about it? She goes and marries Mark Braun, an investigator from the SEC."
     Tony Trask and Donna Marzo, sitting near the foot of the table, didn't even pretend to be amused. Gagliano was such a bore.
 

 
 

Chapter 4


     Damon Marzo frequently dabbed at his eyes when he gave his favorite niece away as Tony's bride, but at the small wedding reception that followed the ceremony, Damon was all business. After exchanging a few perfunctory words with his sister-in-law and Mrs. Trask, the young couple's only surviving parents, Damon cornered Tony and led him to a darkened lounge outside the party room. On his way Tony waved vaguely to one of his guests who smiled at him from a distance. It was Johnnie Fowler, whom he had just had to ask to the wedding as a peacemaking gesture; one of Tony's first instructions to his sales assistant after returning from Atlantic City was to reschedule his long-pending lunch meeting with Fowler. Johnnie had been flattered by the wedding invitation and was, as Tony figured, too polite to discuss Consolidated Tools with a bridegroom.
     In the lounge Damon put his arm around Tony's shoulder to acknowledge him as a new relative and asked: "How's your deal shaping up?"
     Tony offered Marzo one of the expensive cigars he smoked only on public occasions; at home he favored Tiparillos. "I'm just about ready to move. There's a new report I want to check out this weekend."
     "You shouldn't forget you're a married man now," Damon advised him without much conviction in his voice.
     "Don't I know it," Tony replied. Donna and he had agreed to postpone their honeymoon after he told her he was working on something important with Uncle Damon. Anyway, they had just come back from Atlantic City; she'd done enough shopping and fancy eating to hold her for a while.
     "Anything I can do to help, you just let me know." Damon offered broadly, but Tony knew the old man was only talking about money; everything else, as he had made clear from the beginning, was going to be Tony's problem.
     "Well, there is something I was going to ask you about. I need some more expense money, say about $20,000 for now."
     "You've got it, no questions asked; I'll send cash over to your apartment on Monday. And when you need more money, Tony, don't be bashful. When I invest 5 million dollars in somebody I don't cut corners on deal costs."
     On the next afternoon, Sunday, Tony spent a while helping Donna straighten up her flat, where he had moved in a few days before the wedding. He left around 3 o'clock, telling her he had some business to do and would be back in time to take her out to dinner.
     Donna probably knew where he was going, and he didn't much care. He headed for his bachelor apartment on Bleecker Street, which he decided to hang onto, at least for a while. The knowledge that he still had his own residence and telephone line gave him some comfort as he made his transition into a marriage he had not given any serious consideration before Damon had made his pointed recommendation in Long Island City. There were also operational reasons to keep his old place, shabby as it was compared with Donna's. The Bleecker Street apartment would be a convenient death-play headquarters where he could keep his research materials, receive Damon's money, and talk freely, without worrying about having Donna on his neck.
     Today Tony had come to his apartment for a final review of the latest analyst's report on Rose Properties. The new write-up was consistent with all the others he had pored over for weeks. The basic business of Rose Properties, listed on the New York Stock Exchange, was the operation of a highly profitable international chain of luxury hotels and resorts. For years, the Street regarded it as a perennial blue chip, a "cash cow."
     But that was before the accession five years ago of its present CEO, Martin Farrell. The trouble with Farrell, otherwise well regarded as a manager and investor, was his compulsive gambling habit. It didn't matter so much when his fascination with cardplaying and roulette remained a personal quirk, impelling him to take charter flights to Las Vegas almost as often as his more strait-laced colleagues toured their country-club golf courses. After he took command at Rose, however, Farrell started mixing business with pleasure.
     The company's financial miseries began when Farrell pushed through the acquisition of a manufacturer of slot 
machines. That controversial move was followed in more recent years by Rose's construction and purchase of gambling casinos in both Las Vegas and Atlantic City. The earnings of the new operations were spotty, but that was not the main reason for the slide in the company's stock price. The fact was that many influential analysts and money managers were avoiding Rose Properties' securities like the plague, fearing that Farrell's gambling acquisitions had brought with them serious risks of mob infiltration. In fact, the new report that Tony Trask studied at his apartment revealed that fear of Rose Property's underworld connections had spread beyond Wall Street. The insurance company that had issued key-man insurance on the life of Martin Farrell had recently declined Rose Properties' application for an increase in coverage, citing concerns about possible criminal associates. The insurer was starting to worry about Farrell's life expectancy.
     Tony was extremely pleased with the final paragraph of the new report, which concluded that "Rose Properties can be recommended as affording a short or mid-term profit opportunity if but only if its Board has the courage to seek new top management favorable to jettisoning all the gambling subsidiaries and properties." In other words, for investors to make money on Rose Properties, Farrell had to go, and the sooner the better.
     Tony picked up the telephone and placed two calls in quick succession. The first was a call to his Swiss contact, "Monsieur Philippe", who had told him previously he could be reached around the clock. Tony requested Philippe to begin the syndicate's accumulation of Rose Properties shares. The second phone call was to Damon Marzo, confirming that the Rose Properties purchases were underway. Damon was supportive: "I'm glad to hear it, Tony, I was beginning to worry that you were getting cold feet on this one. It's a very sound idea. Remember, if you need more petty cash, let me know. Expect my messenger with the first $20,000 at 6 p.m. tomorrow."
     "Can you trust the guy?" Tony asked.
     "Don't worry, Tony, it'll be my bookkeeper, Benny Vitale. He knows as much about my business as I do, and a hell of a lot more than the IRS."
     When Damon hung up, Tony Trask turned to reading of another sort, a magazine he had picked up during the week at a kiosk on Lexington Avenue. It was called Crack Shot and was, according to the masthead, dedicated to "men of action and defenders of our rights to bear arms under the Second Amendment."
     Tony skipped the monthly round-up of terrorist activities and a description of high-tech weapons likely to be used in World War Three. What interested him was a short listing of personal ads, tucked between the announcement of a forthcoming "encyclopedia of retaliation" and an offer of memorabilia of President Kennedy's assassination. Only one of the ads seemed to guarantee the kind of professionalism Tony needed.
Vietnam veteran, expert marksman and tracker. Dangerous assignments performed quickly and discreetly. All jobs considered. Privacy guaranteed. Write to Box T-259, Miami, Florida.
     Tony put a sheet of foolscap into his typewriter and composed a guarded response:
Dear Sir,

Regarding your ad in this month's Crack Shot, I may have an assignment in your line, if you would be available for service in the New York area within the next two to three weeks. Price and terms are negotiable.

Please write to me at my residence,  _____ Bleecker Street, or if you prefer, you may call me here (212 _____ ) next Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday night at any time between 8 and 10 P.M.
     Tony was tempted to add a post-script instructing the marksman to destroy his letter, but he quickly decided that would only make him look foolish. If this was the man for the job he already knew a hell of a lot more about security than Tony did.
     The three time-brackets specified in the letter fell within the "night-work" schedule he had established since his return to New York without giving Donna much of an explanation. She didn't seem to begrudge his evenings alone; maybe her acquiescence wasn't exactly flattering but it was certainly convenient.
     At 8 o'clock sharp on Wednesday evening the phone rang at the Bleecker Street apartment. A soft male voice with a trace of a Southern accent spoke:
     "Is this Mr. Anthony Trask?"
     "Yes. Who am I speaking to?"
     "You wrote to my Miami box number."
     Tony had not signed his name to the letter, but the man had been able to trace it from the address and phone number. He probably had access to a reverse directory, hardly a surprise since he had described himself as a "tracker" as well as a marksman. Well, so what; he'd have to find out sooner or later.
     "Yes, I'm Trask. What's your name?"
     The caller was polite but firm. "That's not the way I work, but you can call me Fred."
     "That's fine, Fred."
     "Your inquiry is very interesting, and you come with mighty fine credentials. Fenster is a most impressive firm."
     Before he could check himself, Tony blurted out angrily: "This has nothing to do with Fenster."
     "I hear you," Fred said, "but I'm pretty particular about my clients, and your connections are impressive, as I've said. Who's the lucky man?"
     "Lucky man?"
     "Yes, the man you want me to take an interest in. I have to know that up front. You see, I have many clients and before I go any further, I want to be sure that your assignment won't involve me in any conflicts."
     Tony was startled for a moment as he recalled the rumors about mob ties with Rose Properties. What if he'd 
stumbled by chance on one of Farrell's acquaintances? If so, his own life wouldn't be worth a nickel once he mentioned the executive's name. So Tony's answer was a little roundabout:
     "He's the head of a company in this area listed on the New York Stock Exchange."
     There was a suggestion of humor in the mellow voice when it responded:
     "That's not the type of fella that gives me a lot of business. I don't think I'll have any trouble handling him for you. But you'll want to know my terms. My standard fee is $10,000 cash, small bills: $5,000 down when we meet and the balance after performance. Sometimes I go higher if the assignment's complicated. And of course, I want all expenses paid, travel and things like that. If there are any unusual costs I try to clear them in advance."
     Tony was well within budget, so he said: "No problem. When can we meet to talk about details?"
     "At the present time, my business is a little slow," Fred said candidly. "It must be the recession; it affects everybody. I think I could be up there by next Tuesday night; is that soon enough?"
     "Perfect. Do you want to meet here?"
     Fred reverted to his formula: "That's not the way I do things. I suggest the Jubilee movie theatre near Times Square at 8 p.m. Do you know it?"
     Tony was a little surprised by Fred's choice. "By name; it's one of the porno houses, isn't it?"
     "One of my favorites," Fred said, "but what's more important, it's got a balcony. Very quiet there and very dark. I'll be in the back row near the left wall. Please bring the downpayment, and nothing bigger than $50 bills."
     Tony was beginning to be intrigued by the man's operating procedures, almost for their own sake. "How do you know you can trust me for the balance?"
     Fred seemed to think the question was perfectly in order. "Well, Fenster checks out fine, I've already told you that. And I take my own precautions, and you wouldn't want to hire me if I didn't. For starters, this conversation is being recorded at this end. It will be a pleasure to work with you, Mr. Trask."
     The conversation was over. Fred sounded like Tony's kind of guy.

*           *           *
     Sunrise was due Friday morning at 6:39, and it was still quite dark. The cold penetrated Tony's Reeboks so that he had to keep rubbing his feet together under the park bench to work out the numbness.
     His eyes were fixed on the entrance of the apartment house about halfway down the block on Fifth Avenue. For three days in a row Farrell had been like clockwork, emerging from the doorway under the awning at 6 o'clock sharp and back just as the morning broke. Tony figured he must be like a bat, hating to have the light in his eyes. Except that Martin Farrell didn't fly: he was a runner.
     Tony had dressed differently every morning, fearing to test the acuteness of Farrell's peripheral vision. This morning he slumped on the bench to seem shorter, and even the blue and white Reeboks were an innovation, one that he regretted in the morning's wind chill.
     But Farrell was always the same, down to the last detail of his dress and schedule. At 6:00 precisely Farrell came out of the building. In the zone of light under the canopy Tony could see that, as usual, he was wearing a heavy brown sweater, jogging pants with luminous orange stripes, and a knit cap with a huge tassel that had probably been handed out at his college reunion.
     Tony watched Farrell as he loped across the avenue in defiance of the horns of oncoming traffic and entered Central Park. Tony rose from the bench, and, after testing his frozen soles, followed at a safe distance. After about ten minutes, Tony felt winded from lack of regular exercise and the cold winter air. He turned back long before Farrell had reached the midpoint of his run.
     Before giving up the pursuit Tony was satisfied that Farrell was taking his usual route along the fringes of the park, a course so regular that Tony had been able to chart it precisely after the first two morning runs he had observed. Tony was proud of the chart; it had been sketched with every bit as much professional care as he had employed in the plotting the last stages of Grantley Buchanan's illness.
     Tony planned to present the jogging map to Fred when they met at the Jubilee Theatre. The marksman should be pleased that Tony was making his work so easy. Really, he ought to give a discount from the $10,000 price.
     Cost, of course, was not a consideration; Damon was obviously not expecting Tony to work on a shoestring. It was the timing that was everything. If the Rose Properties death play was going to work, Farrell had to be taken out quickly and there was no room for any unnecessary delays or surprises. If Fred wasn't used to having his "clients" help him, well, there was always a first time.
     Anyway, Tony was never happy leaving things to others. That was the perfect way to screw things up royally, because most people were so stupid.

*           *           *
     In the balcony of the Jubilee Theatre Tony squinted towards the left wall, adjusting slowly to the darkness. Fred was sitting in the back row as he had prearranged, a briefcase at his feet. Nobody else was in the balcony.
     Tony shoved Fred's briefcase aside to make room for a large paper-wrapped parcel of his own. "Office work piling up on you, or have you just brought along the recorder? I'm not sure you'll hear me on playback between all the grunts and groans."
     Fred barely acknowledged Tony's presence, keeping his eyes glued on the screen. Without hiding his purpose Tony inspected as best he could his closely-cropped gray hair, long jaw, aviator's glasses. Fred's first words could hardly be called a greeting. "Mighty fine programs here; this one's unbelievable, it's gonna be a classic." After a moment he asked: "What have you brought me?"
     Tony was brisk as if he were laying out an agenda for a business meeting. "There's the money, of course; also the man's name, address, photos, and a map showing where he takes morning runs in Central Park."
     Fred continued to look straight ahead. "Now, young fella, you wouldn't by any chance want to be teaching me my trade, would you?"
     Tony ignored the sarcasm. "I'd prefer you to shoot him in the Park if you can do that safely. Make it look like an ambush, an execution."
     Fred smiled. "My my, what strong language. You sure are doing a pretty good job of fouling up my cassette, Mr. Trask. I just might have to throw it away. Do you have any date in mind?"
     "I'm working with March 10, but it could change. Where can I reach you?"
     Fred handed him a card; Tony was putting together quite a collection. "I've written you two numbers, Miami and a place in New York. I would probably come up a day or two ahead. Anyway you can always leave a message with my friends."
     "Friends?" Tony had banked on working with a loner.
     "Yeah," Fred said casually, "I sometimes need help." Pretending to miss the point of Tony's question, he added: "Don't worry; the price I've quoted is all-inclusive."
     "That's not what bothers me. How do I know I can trust your friends?"
     Fred nodded to register understanding. "You can trust them because in my line of work you have to choose your friends very carefully. Take Janey down in Miami, for example. Do you know how I met her?"
     Tony admitted that he didn't.
     "She answered one of my ads in Crack Shot and now she's one of my satisfied customers. I guess you'd have to say she's real satisfied."
     There was still time for Tony to pull back the parcel and get the hell out of there. Fred wasn't giving him much to go on, a few words in a porno theatre and an indistinct view of his face. But Tony was impressed with his nonchalance and his steady, confident voice. Anyway, you couldn't exactly ask a killer for references.
     As Tony saw the situation, he really didn't have any good alternatives. He suspected that Damon Marzo could recommend other professionals without difficulty, but that was clearly not what Damon had in mind or his friends in Geneva either. This was supposed to be Tony's show, and if he screwed it up, Marzo and his associates had too much else going to want the trail to lead in their direction.
     But couldn't I just dispose of Farrell myself without all these complications? Tony had asked himself this question many times since he had cleared the Rose Properties death play with Marzo and the trading ring. He didn't doubt his own nerve for a minute, and at the Bleecker Street apartment he still kept the gun he had originally bought for use in a marksman's club. A couple of years ago he'd given up target practice but he would never try any serious shooting from a distance. They only did that in Westerns.
     Tony could do the killing, he didn't question that for a minute. But this was not a death play for an amateur assassin. The beauty of Tony's idea was that the murder was to be perfectly performed, just like the kind of underworld violence the experts feared when they downgraded Rose Properties stock because of its gambling operations.
     "Good luck, Fred," Tony said as he left the theatre, leaving his parcel behind.

*          *          * 
     Donna's session with Dr. Cardon was close to finished before she told him what was troubling her.
     "Do we have time today for something else?"
     Alex Cardon carefully consulted his watch before responding: "Of course."
     "It's my marriage. I don't think it's done a whole lot to bring Tony and me closer together."
     "You shouldn't expect too much too soon. You've only been married a couple of weeks. What concerns you?"
     "It isn't the sex," Donna hastened to assure him, "that's O.K. and it always has been. But he's just not willing to share everything with me."
     "In what ways?"
     "Well, in the first place he's dragging his feet on getting rid of his apartment in the Village. He blames the real estate slump in New York, but I think that's only an excuse. He stays there some evenings; I know that for a fact because I've reached him there on the phone. And lately, though I'm a pretty early riser, I wake up to find him already gone. I don't think there's another woman, and frankly I couldn't care less if there was. I'm not the possessive type and I hope he's not either. I had my fingers crossed during some of our marriage vows."
     "What do you think he's doing in the apartment?"
     "Working. And that's what bothers me. I don't think he wants me to know what he's working on, and that kind of pisses me off because he wasn't like that when we were going together. You remember how I helped him with his Grantley Enterprises sales pitch. And I've always told him a lot about the deals in my department, maybe more than I should have."
     "Why do you suppose Tony would want to keep his business to himself?"
     "I have no idea, but that's exactly what he's been doing ever since we went to Atlantic City." Donna told Dr. Cardon about the incident on the eve of their trip when Tony refused to answer her question about the Rose Properties reports he was reading. "Maybe his problem's got something to do with Rose Properties. It's become almost an obsession."
     "How do you mean?" Alex Cardon was becoming more interested; usually he regarded Donna as one of his duller patients.
     "Well, you know, Tony talks in his sleep. I've mentioned that to you before but never to Tony; he thinks he's got everything under control, and wouldn't like to know his dreams have a life of their own. At least three time since we've come back from Atlantic City, I've heard him mumbling in his sleep about Rose Properties."
     Dr. Cardon rarely took notes during his treatments, because he had a remarkable memory; he exercised it now.
     "What's Tony's mother's name? I think you told me once that it's Rosalind or something like that."
     Donna was impressed because she was sure she had not mentioned Tony's mother for quite a while. Mrs. Trask was fat and unsightly and would be a social embarrassment Donna firmly intended to find ways to minimize. "It is Rosalind; you've got it exactly."
     Dr. Cardon gave her one of his infuriating smiles of self-congratulation. "I thought so as I was listening to you. I have a little idea, no more than a hunch at this point but it's worth our considering further. Perhaps Tony's obsession with Rose Properties, as you call it, is a screen for his feelings about his mother." Before Donna could respond, Cardon added. "But our time's up for today. We can explore this subject further next week."
     When Donna had left his office, the doctor made good use of the ten-minute interval before the arrival of his next patient. He called his broker and placed a substantial order for the purchase of shares of Rose Properties. If the investment turned out to be as profitable for him as Grantley Enterprises had been, Dr. Cardon would be more than satisfied.

 

 
 

Chapter 5


     On March 8 Damon Marzo called Tony at Bleecker Street. "How's it going, Tony?" he asked pointedly, making it clear that he wasn't inquiring to be polite.
     "We're all set for later this week, but the temperature could be a factor." Tony had never given Damon any particulars about the operation and in fact, on more than one occasion, had been pretty obviously warned not to. It was therefore Damon's own fault if their conversations were beginning to sound like cautious military briefings.
     "Don't give me weather reports," Damon admonished him, "that's your problem, not ours. I'm told that the cash is all invested and ready to start producing lots of little baby dollars. As I've already told you, my friends are not used to sitting on their positions very long. It makes them very nervous and you can believe me, when they get nervous, they're awfully hard to live with. Do you get my point?"
     "I think so," Tony said grudgingly, his temper rising. He was taking all the risks and his partners were going to cream off 75% of the profit. On top of that, they weren't acting like "silent" partners; here was Damon needling him before he even had a chance to get the Rose Properties death play underway. Still there was no point alienating the first major-league investor he had ever had. Why not try a couple of cliches instead?
     "Don't worry, Mr. Marzo, it's a done deal. We're on target."
     "That's good, because the next time I call you it had better be to give you our congratulations." Damon hung up without a goodbye.
     Tony waited for the dial tone and called Fred's New York number; they had spoken the previous evening after the sharpshooter had arrived in the city. This time the news was bad.
     "He didn't go jogging this morning," Fred reported.
     "What! I can't believe it. In all the time I watched the apartment, he never let a day go by." There was silence at the other end while Tony wondered what had gone wrong. Fred must have let Farrell slip by unnoticed, or maybe he had even mixed up the address. The trouble with conspiracy was that it was no stronger than its weakest link.
     "I'm not even sure he's in town," Fred said at last, maddeningly calm.
     "Why do you say that?"
     "I called his office. His secretary was acting kind of cute - I don't think she's supposed to let on too much about his whereabouts, but I got the picture. Anyway, just to make sure, I spent the day outside their headquarters. I didn't see Farrell go in or out. And I almost wore out my eyes watching for him. It wasn't an easy job, because all the fellas who are trying to get ahead at Rose Properties part their hair in the middle exactly like the boss and have the same kind of little beards."
     Tony had studied very carefully the photos he had furnished Fred from Rose Properties' shareholder reports. "You can't miss Farrell. He has a deep crease running diagonally from his right brow to the hairline."
     "Right you are, young fella. I may just be offering you a job one of these days. But until the guy with the crease turns up, what do you want me to do, stick around New York? After 48 hours a per diem clicks in."
     "Never mind about that; just stay put and keep in touch. There's no problem with a short delay." Brave words; Tony hoped Damon and his partners agreed.
     The next morning Donna couldn't get any civil conversation from Tony over breakfast. He had stopped talking altogether after opening his Wall Street Journal and turning to an inner page. She didn't bother trying to read upside down or to query him, because her own copy was waiting for her at Fenster. It was probably some news break on Rose Properties.
     She was right. The front-page business news summary had led Tony to a disturbing article on page 8:
Rose Properties announced yesterday that it is exploring the possibility of acquiring a major interest in a casino in Monte Carlo. Consummation of the transaction, according to a company spokesman, will require successful resolution of a number of remaining business issues as well as approval by Monaco government authorities. Martin Farrell, Rose's chairman, flew to Nice yesterday and will assume personal responsibility for the negotiations, which are expected to be of long duration.
     The phone rang, and Donna got to the portable before Tony stirred. "Hello, Uncle Damon. Are we on for Sunday breakfast? That's great." She passed the phone to Tony. "He wants to talk to you."
     It was the first time that Marzo had ever called him at Donna's place and he knew that it wouldn't be pleasant. "I suppose you've read the news," was Damon's curt beginning.
     "Oh yes," Tony said. "It makes my work a little more difficult, but I have some contingency plans." Tony wished he knew what they were.
     Damon took him at his word. "I'm glad to hear it, because if there's anything my friends and I hate, it's surprises. Call me when you've got news."
     Tony waited for Donna to leave for work before calling Fred. A woman answered but put Fred on quickly.
     "Is that Janey I was talking to?" Tony asked.
     Fred's private life, however, turned out to be more complicated than Tony had hoped. "No, that's Millie. You don't have to worry about her either; I went to high school with her in Florida. I guess you're calling about Farrell's trip."
     Tony was impressed. He had not expected that his marksman would read the financial press.
     "Yes, that's right. Have you got your passport with you?"
     Fred chuckled. "What would I want that for? Florida's back in the Union now."
     Tony didn't pretend to find him amusing. "Why don't we just save the humor until the job's done. You've read the news report; God knows when he'll get back from Monaco. You'll just have to 'meet' him there."
     "That's out of the question," Fred said as if he were dealing with laws of nature. "I only do domestic jobs." "That's not what your ad said," Tony retorted.
     "I guess you're right about that, young fella. I sure hope you're not gonna turn me in to the Better Business Bureau." "If it's the money you're worrying about, that's no problem."
     "I'm sure of that, but I never expected to get rich in this business. If I wanted to be a millionaire, I'd be a stockbroker like you. But it isn't the money, I just happen to believe that overseas assignments are too risky at any price you could pay me; I'm not familiar with the territory and in my work I don't favor on-the-job training. Also I've got another problem if you're working on a tight schedule."
     "What's that?" Tony asked. It was best to hear all the negatives at once so he could plan his way out of the maze that was forming around him.
     "I'm afraid of flying," Fred explained. 
     "You're what?"
     "Afraid of flying," Fred repeated. "I haven't done it since I got back from Vietnam."
     "How'd you get up to New York from Florida?" "By bus."
     "Does Millie have a car?"
     "Nope," Fred said, "and her husband doesn't either."
     The group of Fred's pals was continuing to grow but that was the least of Tony's problems. What he needed was some time to think. "Don't go away. I'll get back to you."
     After he had shoved aside the breakfast dishes, Tony placed a single sheet of foolscap on the table and drew a triangle. The apex he marked X to represent the purpose for which he had hired Fred; this goal remained constant. Close to the other two angles he scrawled the letters T and P for time and place. These dimensions of the plan had also become inflexible because of Damon's pressure and Fred's limited operating range. Reluctantly Tony pencilled in the code: "Time is March 14 (at the latest) and place is New York." The revised program, whatever it was going to be, would have to meet these exacting restrictions. Keeping the triangle before him to remind him of the challenge, Tony considered and rejected a number of alternatives as if he were addressing an unyielding problem in geometry. Finally satisfied, he called Fred to discuss the new arrangements. The marksman was complimentary.
     "Truly awesome, and you came up with that one right out of the chute. There'll be an extra charge, of course, say another $5,000, and I'll need some help from Millie, but as I said, you can trust her just the same as me."
     That's encouraging, Tony thought. He wondered what kinds of phobias she might have.
     Still Fred had one reservation.
     "But it may not be so easy. You can't find one at every shopping mall."
     Jesus, do I have to do all the thinking for both of us? Tony took an instant to calm down before replying: "That isn't where you ought to be looking." And he explained.

*          *          *
     The first phase of the new operation was favored by a moonless night. While Fred tinkered with the gate to the parking lot, Millie mounted guard on the sidewalk around the corner. She stood away from the weak cone of light at the bus stop, but close enough to the edge of the shelter for any motorists passing along the quiet suburban street to take her for a late commuter rather than a hooker. She usually felt more than able to take care of herself, with or without Mace, but this was not the night for unwanted attentions.
     Fred and she had taken a bus to the neighborhood but exited a few blocks away, escaping the driver's attention by pushing open the back door while he was carrying on an animated conversation with a young blonde who occupied a seat reserved for the disabled. The destination Fred had selected, a clapboard house set far back from the street in a slender tract of artificial turf, was dark when they arrived, except for the peeling front porch, but the illumination there was nothing to worry about; it was only for advertising. Even so, Millie kept turning her head back to the house to be sure that there was no sign of occupants.
     At the gate around the corner Fred had a clear view of the back windows but they were all curtained and eyeless. He threw a stone over the fence; it rang crisply on the pavement but there was no watchdog in the yard to bark in protest. Quickly Fred got busy on the padlock of the gate. Five and dime, he thought contemptuously. The retracting metal saw he had carried in a tennis bag wasn't even needed; a few twists of his wrench and the lock sprung free. Fred slipped inside the yard and looked over the fleet. At least two of the stretch limos were in parking spaces that had a straight shot for the gate. Fred tried the driver's door of one of them and found that it was unlocked. It was wonderful how casual folks could be when they had insurance.
     But after he slid behind behind the wheel, Fred momentarily froze, reacting out of automatic caution. A light had gone on behind the curtains of an upstairs window. That's when you had to play the odds. It was possible someone had spotted him and that he would soon hear police sirens or a panic button sounding in his ears. On the other hand, Fred had been very careful and people didn't usually stay up all night to spy on their own back yards; the sound of the test stone he had tossed could have alerted a guard dog but wouldn't have carried to the top of the house. It was most likely just somebody going to the bathroom. Fred waited a while and, sure enough, the light went out. He went right back to work and it didn't take long for his experienced hands to expose and cross the ignition wires.
     He roared out of the gate, cut the corner dangerously and threw the front passenger door open for Millie. When they passed the front stoop of the house, the sign swung a little in the rising wind: Gilligan's Funeral Home.
     "Good work," said Millie, "but do you think that, when we get out of the neighborhood, we could stop to remove the little purple flags?"

*          *          *
     In his office on Capitol Square in Washington, Don Jebb, the long-time assistant director of the SEC's Division of Enforcement rubbed the elephantine folds around his weary eyes and admitted his perplexity to the two men who sat across his desk. One, a nervous young investigative attorney in the division, was Mark Braun, Bill Gagliano's new brother-in-law. At his side sat Arthur Drenik, a mild-mannered man in his early thirties who looked more like a banker than what he actually was, an experienced FBI agent specializing in racketeer infiltration of businesses. Art had contributed to many government victories in criminal prosecutions under the RICO Act.
     "I don't get it," Jebb said. "All of a sudden there's a lot of action in the stock of Rose Properties. All the bells were set off at the New York Stock Exchange; it must have sounded like New Year's Eve. The question is why. Even before the Exchange called, the company was notified by its stock watch service that something strange was going on. The Exchange tells me the company's PR guy went way beyond 'no comment.' He swore up and down there's nothing new at Rose, and pointed out that the last two quarters were disappointing with no immediate relief in sight. It can't be takeover interest either, because Farrell and the board have so many shares tied up that there wouldn't be any point in making a run for the company or trying to put it in play. What do you make of it, Mark?"
     The unexpected question jarred Braun back to full attention. He had been vaguely inspecting the framed photograph of a Federal penitentiary that hung behind Jebb's desk as a reminder to the targets of the assistant director's investigations that it would be best for them to negotiate with a sense of realism.
     Mark Braun had joined the division out of law school only the year before and still liked to test the waters before venturing an opinion. "Has anybody talked to Farrell?," he asked his boss.
     Jebb gave him an avuncular smile. "We may do that, but for the time being he's off in Monte Carlo to buy another casino. Just what the shareholders need." The assistant director was very conservative; in his heart of hearts he regarded the entire equities market as a huge gambling device.
     Art Drenik overlooked Mark Braun's tepid response and took direct aim at the assistant director's factual assumption.
     "Don, I'll let you into a little secret about mob takeovers. The Mafia doesn't need 51% of a company's stock to acquire control. You know that the Bureau's been keeping an eye on this show ever since Farrell bought the slot machine operation. Some of the purchase price had to go into the mob's pockets and it's my guess they're starting to plow it back into Rose stock. They want to get just enough ownership to remind Farrell not to ignore them."
     "I don't suppose you expect the Mafia's going to ask for seats on the board," Jebb replied with good humor. He admired Drenik's record but thought that the agent was inclined to see racketeering schemes wherever he looked. Nevertheless, Jebb himself had a tendency to pessimism about human behavior. Who knows, maybe Art was right. "Anything unusual in the buys, Mark?"
     In his short time with the Commission, Braun, who was something of a computer whiz, had developed a remarkable talent for piecing together patterns of market activity by trading rings.
     "There seems to be a lot of overseas interest. In fact, I see a lot of the same brokers we've come across in Operation Haven." Braun cited the code name for a long-standing SEC campaign, so far unsuccessful, to unravel an extensive insider trading conspiracy that was tied to shadowy market players in Switzerland and Liechtenstein.
     "That's odd," Jebb said, turning back to Art Drenik, "do you suppose U.S. racketeers are hooking up with international insider trading?"
     "Why not?" Art replied blandly, "the mob's always looking for something new. They're the only real innovators left in America."

*          *          *
     At the end of the summer, Martin Farrell had opened a third casino-hotel in Atlantic City. The two older properties fronted on the Boardwalk, but the much heralded Rose of the Morning, whose flowing architectural lines, according to Farrell, faithfully conformed to a rare botanical print in his private collection, stood on an inlet near the Intracoastal Waterway.
     Blazing like deserts under monstrous chandeliers designed to resemble frozen waterfalls, the large game rooms of the Rose of the Morning never closed, and if a patron wanted to know the time of day or night it was best to wear a reliable wristwatch. The rooms had no windows or clocks, and the conservatively clad pit bosses who moved unobtrusively through the rooms did not smile if a player asked them the hour. In theory the management hoped and schemed that nobody would ever escape from the blackjack and roulette; even the exits were discreetly hidden.
     Although the hotel had successfully effaced the difference between night and day, the body clocks of its least addicted guests continued to tick away. Around 5 o'clock in the morning, the ranks of the casino gamblers began to thin. Even so, it was not hard to put off bedtime for a little longer. First, under the watchful eyes of the pit bosses, there were chips to be cashed unless the players had been particularly unlucky, and that was not what the management wished; it was not good for repeat business to send visitors home penniless. At the worst, therefore, the hotel patrons leaving the casino in the morning would not only have their wallets respectably filled but a lot of change rattling in their pockets.
     The coins could be easily disposed of in the slot machines that lined the hotel walls between the casino door - if the departing patron was fortunate enough to rediscover it - and the hotel entrance.
     Ordinarily, a peaceful half hour in front of the one-armed bandits was assured. Sometimes, there was a short wait for a vacant machine, because some women tended to camp there, whiling away the night as their husbands and companions tempted fortune more bravely in the casino. Still, even with the wait, the slots were a pleasant way of putting off the return to the hotel room and the agony of gambling withdrawal symptoms.
     But it didn't turn out that way on the morning of March 10. Many of the guests who were working the slot machines claimed afterwards to have heard the uproar at the hotel entrance and even some of the gamblers in the nearest casino room made similar statements, but they were probably lying or exercising a little imagination in the hope of being quoted.
     The only people who could reconstruct the events with any credibility were those who had been outside the hotel: the doormen, the bellboys and a few guests returning from other nightspots. A little after 5 a.m. a black stretch limousine had appeared at the head of the hotel driveway and paused at the curve although there were no parked cars to bar its closer approach. One of the doormen motioned the driver to pull up near to the portico but his gesture was disregarded. He noticed that the right front window was rolled down and walked towards the car to see whether he could be of any assistance.
     Before the doorman had taken more than a few steps along the driveway, the limo started up again. A volley of semiautomatic rifle fire burst from the car window as the driver swept past the hotel portico, relying more on surprise than his accelerator pedal. Most of the bullets spent harmlessly against the hotel walls but one of the bellboys, diving to safety behind the dispatcher's desk, was nicked slightly in a shoulder.
     One of the arriving hotel guests, who had ducked behind a panel of the revolving door into the lobby, had the presence of mind to watch the limo depart, gathering speed, in the direction of Route 30. She noticed that it had no rear license plate.
     Before dawn local reporters descended on the hotel and the first news stories were more flamboyant than the facts gathered from the limited eyewitness accounts could justify. The version in the Clarion was typical.
     Gangland Attack on Ro