The Bronx, New York City
At almost the same time that Billy was in the coffee shop in Mclean huddled with Shane, Robby Mock is waiting impatiently in a Bronx bar to meet with the man who earlier contacted him about providing information on Belle’s concert dates. Robby has put it all together on his lap-top and printed a typed full page on each concert venue. He did not know what the information would be used for, and he felt really shitty about what he was doing; but he was desperate, he needed the money, so he really did not care.
In another short and abrasive phone call he has been instructed to be at the bar at 5:00 PM—and not to be late. He would—he was told—be given the two-hundred thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills in an attaché case, providing the information is detailed and complete. It is now past 5:30 and Mock is nervous. He hails the waiter, orders another drink, and looks again at his watch.
Just then a tall man stops next to the table. He is holding a brown leather attaché case. Robby glances up. The man’s dark suit—he happens to notice—is expensive and well-cut.
Robby starts to stand. “Hi. I’m Robby—” he says, holding out his hand.
“Sit down, chump. I know who you are,” the man brusquely interrupts. He pulls out a chair and sits down. “Let’s see what you got,” he says in a commanding voice.
Robby gets a bad feeling, but he opens the spiral note pad in front of him, takes out the six typed sheets and hands them across the table to the man. The man takes his time and carefully reads each one. Robby glances down at the brown leather brief case on the floor next to the man’s chair. He feels a nervous twinge in his stomach. The idea of two-hundred thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills is comforting for him to contemplate. He is planning to go down to Miami for some fun and sun. The man stops reading and puts the sheets down on the table in front of him.
Robby takes a deep breath. “Well?”
The man looks back at him with a cold, fish-eyed stare. “This will do,” he says after a short pause.
Robby breathes a sigh of relief, and glances again down at the brown leather attaché case setting on the floor. “Is that the money?” he asks in a tentative voice.
The man grins and does not reply. Without taking his eyes of Robby, he picks up the case, sets it down in front of him, and slides it slowly across the table until it stops in front of Robby. “Don’t spend it all in place, chump,” the man says with a little laugh.
Mock grew up a tough, streetwise kid; but this guy really scares him. He is, Robby decides, not your usual New York wise guy. He does not seem to have an accent, but Robbie wonders if he is Russian mafia from Brighton Beach.
Robby indicates the narrow hall that leads to the restrooms, “If it’s okay, I’ll just do a little check?”
The man barely smiles. “Suit yourself, chump. But the money’s all there. Two hundred large—just like agreed.”
Robby smiles, stands up from his chair and looks down at the man who is taking a cell phone out of the jacket pocket of his suit.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, picking the case up from the table.
The man nods. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m at the bar,” Robby hears the man say into the phone as he is walking away toward the restrooms.
On the Upper Eastside, billionaire hedge fund manager Thomas Merced is staring out the window of his 50th floor penthouse apartment, enjoying a view overlooking Central Park. He has a vodka martini in one hand and his phone in the other. “Did you get the information?” he asks.
“Yeah. It’s all here,” the man in the bar says. “There’s a typed, printed page on each of the coming venues. And it looks like there is plenty of detail regarding the security arrangements. Everything you want.”
“Good,” Merced says. “Have you made arrangements to recover the money?”
“Yeah, I got a couple of Russian guys from Brighton Beach for ten-grand apiece. They’re reliable—we’ve used them before. Mock will never get back to his apartment. I’ll meet the Russians later tonight back at the bar to recover the money and settle with them.”
Merced takes a slow sip of his martini and swallows. “Good. We can’t leave any loose ends.”
“Don’t worry,” the man in the bar says. “I’ve got it covered. I’ll come by the office tomorrow with the money.”
In the men’s room in the bar, Robby Mock is in one of the stalls. The door is locked. There is sweat beading up on his forehead. The attaché case is open on top of the toilet and Robby is counting the money. There are forty paper-wrapped stacks of hundred-dollar bills with fifty bills in each stack. Satisfied the money is all there, Mock returns to the table in the bar.
With the brief case firmly in hand, Robby looks down at the man who is still seated at the table. Robby notices that he has ordered a beer. “Are we good then?” Robby asks.
“We’re good, chump.” The man makes a thin-lipped, dangerous-looking smile. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” he says with a sinister little laugh.