Montaro Caine A Novel - By Sidney Poitier Page 0,125

some minutes when he heard the sound of a car slowing as it approached him. He reached for his money clip so that he could pay the garage attendant when he realized that this wasn’t his car; it was a newer model Mercedes, navy blue, not black. Montaro was surprised when the Mercedes pulled up alongside him. The two passenger-side doors opened, and from the car emerged Carlos Wallace and Alan Rothman. The men wore ties and dark suits that almost seemed to match each other’s; if Montaro had not known these men, he might have mistaken them for federal agents.

“Good evening,” Montaro said warily as the men nodded at him, then shook his hand. Rothman stood close to Montaro, while Wallace stood in front of the rear door of the car, blocking Montaro’s view of what was inside. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We’re here to offer our congratulations,” said Rothman. “We’ve heard all about the foundation. It sounds like a worthy endeavor.” But from Rothman and Wallace’s stiff postures and pained smiles, Montaro knew that they had not sought him out in the spirit of cooperation.

“Thank you,” Montaro said, then waited for the men to reveal their purpose.

“We understand that everything has been settled,” said Rothman. “At least as far as the coins are concerned.” He took a breath. “Business at Fitzer is, of course, another matter.”

“I think you’re mistaken there,” said Montaro. “I’ve been meeting with your colleagues and your representatives. I’ve spoken with Davis, Hargrove, and everyone else. And at this point, I believe that everyone’s needs have been satisfied.”

“Perhaps. But we also have needs, and they have not been satisfied,” said Rothman. “I do wish you luck with your foundation. But if your plan is to remain at the helm of Fitzer, that might not happen quite so easily. There could be complications.”

Montaro’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly what sort of complications are you referring to?” he asked.

Rothman stared directly into Montaro’s eyes. “Put it this way,” he said. “Certain information has come to our attention that might make it difficult for you to maintain your position.”

“Really,” Montaro said. “And where does this information come from?”

At this point, Carlos Wallace moved aside to reveal a person sitting in the backseat of the Mercedes.

Rothman opened the car door. “Step out here a minute, Nick,” he said.

Nick Corcell was wearing a good suit and gleaming black shoes; apparently, he was being paid well. He looked cocky as he got out of the car.

Montaro felt his anxieties returning. Rothman did not need to say anything more for Montaro to understand what he and Wallace had in mind. This wasn’t the end of the Fitzer story, far from it; Montaro had already known that this would be true even before Matthew Perch had told him that great challenges lay ahead. How often had P. L. Caine taught his grandson that there would always be hard times, and that a man had to stand up to them no matter what? The way forward wouldn’t be any easier than the way here had been. Rothman and Wallace wouldn’t give up their quest for power, and surely, Cordiss Krinkle and Victor Lambert wouldn’t either. Most probably, Rothman and Wallace were planning to blackmail Montaro into resigning; they knew that he had used his influence so that the Stockbridge Police Department would stop pursuing charges against his daughter. And once again Montaro would be forced to weigh the importance of his career against the importance of his family, the public concerns he faced at his job against the private ones he faced at home.

As Montaro searched for the right words to speak, he felt a slight vibration inside the pocket of his sport jacket, and that vibration eased his doubts. He knew, without even needing to open the model of the Seventh Ship that Luther John Doe had carved, that the coins were once again inside it; they had arrived at their chosen destination. Many years ago, Perch had prophesised that someday the “son” would hold the coins. Not until this moment did Montaro understand that he was the son of whom Perch had been speaking, and that the coins would be in his care.

When Montaro’s Mercedes emerged from the garage and the attendant stepped out from the driver’s side of the car, Montaro stared Rothman and then Wallace straight in the eye. And then, remembering something, he smiled.

“You know,” Montaro said, “a man who is far more intelligent than you or I can