Montaro Caine A Novel - By Sidney Poitier Page 0,70
they were going to get. Wallace tried to wait her out through a long silence.
“Bullshit,” Victor finally blurted out. “You guys are not here about the integrity of no fucking firm. Now spell it out. Specifics on the table. What the fuck is it you want?”
“We want to know everything you know about those coins,” Rothman said. “What are they? What can they do? Where did they come from? Who had them? For how long? When and how did you get them? How much did you sell them for, and to whom?”
Cordiss burst into laughter. Rothman watched her warily, not understanding why she was laughing. Victor, too, wondered what the hell was going on in her mind. Soon, Cordiss’s laughter subsided.
“These guys are big business, Victor. The circle is widening, new players are coming in. Soon, we’ll be expendable; but for now, we’re not. So, Mr. Rothman, you’ve told us what you want. How about what Victor and I want?”
“Which is what?”
“First, to be left alone.”
“You can have that. It’s up to you.”
“Can you guarantee it?” she asked.
“Pretty much,” Rothman answered.
Cordiss didn’t believe him for an instant; nevertheless, she continued. “Next, that bullshit, as Victor puts it, about your firm’s integrity is just that, bullshit.” She paused, glanced at Victor, inhaled deeply, then deliberately examined her fingernails. “I know what you really want. And we want the same thing—a piece of the action down the line.”
Rothman looked surprised—Cordiss was apparently far smarter than he had guessed she would be. He looked at her for a long time before answering. “Something could be worked out,” he said.
“In writing—before we talk,” said Cordiss.
“I’m sure we can arrive at something reasonable,” Rothman said.
“Good, now let me see your passports.”
“Why?” Rothman asked.
“Why not?” asked Cordiss.
Rothman briefly weighed the request, then produced his passport. Carlos Wallace followed suit. Cordiss examined the documents thoroughly before handing them back.
Rothman reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a card from his Gucci card case. He was liking Cordiss less but respecting her more. Wallace handed Cordiss a business card, too.
Cordiss read from a card, “Alan Rothman, Manager of Operations, Fitzer Corporation.” She looked up. “So, chemicals are what you’re into.” She burst into laughter once again. Then, after looking at Rothman and Wallace as if for the first time, she said, “You may find, to your surprise, that we are not such small potatoes as you may think. And, speaking of potatoes, have you gentlemen had lunch?”
“No we haven’t,” replied Rothman.
“Good, I’ll rustle up something while we talk. Victor, open some wine.”
Rothman and Wallace glanced at each other, somewhat uneasily. Meanwhile, Cordiss headed for the kitchen and Victor crossed to the dry bar in the far corner of the living room. Victor wondered if these men were underestimating Cordiss every bit as much as he once had.
25
WHEN MONTARO CAINE ARRIVED UNINVITED AT THE HOME OF Roland Gabler accompanied by Howard Mozelle, he knew there was a good chance he might seem either too eager or too desperate. Yet with both coins currently out of his control, and with Alan Rothman and Carlos Wallace out of the country for reasons he did not yet know, he understood that time was of the essence. Nancy MacDonald had tried without success to arrange a meeting with Gabler, leading Caine to understand that the collector was probably stalling. So now, Caine had taken matters into his own hands, showing up first thing in the morning. He was gambling that the collector’s curiosity would overcome his sense of protocol and that Montaro’s bold act would pique Gabler’s interest. Apparently, he had gambled correctly, for no sooner had Gabler’s assistant Jerome Voekle informed Caine and Mozelle that his employer was not inclined to see guests without an appointment, Gabler himself appeared, introduced himself, nodded at Caine, dismissed Voekle, and led the two visitors to his study.
Caine shook the man’s hand. “Please forgive the intrusion,” he said, and introduced himself and the doctor.
“Thanks for receiving us,” Mozelle broke in, somewhat startled by the strength of Gabler’s grip. The collector’s rough, calloused hand reminded him of what he had read in one of the books Caine’s investigators had gotten from Cordiss’s apartment—that Gabler was an amateur weight lifter.
“Not at all, Doctor. It so happens I have a bit of time at the moment. Mr. Caine, of course I’m well aware of who you are. Sorry to hear about the state of affairs at Fitzer.” Adopting the demeanor of a gracious