The Futures(43)

“He’s different. And we have an insurance policy on him.”

“How?”

“He’s Canadian. Which the WestCorp guys loved, by the way. But his visa is contingent on his remaining in our employ. If he puts this deal in jeopardy, we’ll be talking layoffs. Visas don’t come cheap. He’d be the first to go. So it would behoove him to keep his mouth shut.”

I could make out a green pinprick of light from the smoke detector on the ceiling above me. The rage had turned into panic. A stinging rash spread across my chest, down my arms, and under my shirt. Breathe, I reminded myself. Breathe.

“Fucking hell, Michael. This is your mess. Okay? I don’t want anything to do with it. And I’d like you to leave now, if you don’t mind.”

“You’re the one who brought this up,” Michael said, standing from the couch, tugging his cuffs straight. “I didn’t ask you to get involved. And Kleinman didn’t ask you to be his watchdog. I’m going to bed.” The door opened, there was a pause, and Michael said: “And I hope you don’t have trouble sleeping, because I certainly won’t.”

“All right, Peck?”

Chuck cuffed me hard on the back. We were at the breakfast buffet outside the conference room, where the day’s first panel was about to begin. Chuck popped an enormous strawberry into his mouth and winked.

When I finally returned to my room, I’d lain in bed for the next three hours, jittery and unable to sleep, while Roger snored loudly on the other bed. I’d taken a long shower, had already drunk several cups of coffee, but it didn’t help. My mind was like a helium balloon. I tried to concentrate on the men on stage who were holding forth on the euro. A glossy pamphlet promised several more panels like this one before the day was out. The bland normalcy of it contradicted everything that had happened the previous night.

The conference broke for lunch around noon. On my way out, I felt a hand grab my elbow.

“I need you to do something for me,” Michael said.

Did he know? But how would he know? I followed him out of the conference center, back to the hotel elevators. Up in Michael’s suite, I had to shield my eyes from the sun, blasting in full strength through the wide windows.

Michael disappeared around the corner. This room was even bigger than Chuck and Brad’s. Plush cream carpeting, a dazzling glass chandelier, an urn on the hall table overflowing with tropical vines and flowers. Michael returned holding a slim leather briefcase. Black, brand new, with a small combination lock built into the top. He handed it to me. It was surprisingly light.

“I want you to walk this over to the Venetian,” he said. “Bring this to a Mr. Wenjian Chan. He’s a guest there. Walk, don’t take a cab. It’s important that you hand it to Chan directly. Not to the concierge. Tell him you’re there on my behalf. Okay?”

What had I been thinking, trusting Michael all this time? Of course he didn’t care about me. He didn’t give a shit.

“It’s a short walk,” Michael said. “You’ll be back in time for the next panel.”

He turned and disappeared around the corner. I stood there, unsure what to do. I wanted to shout after him, tell him that I knew. Drop the briefcase and walk away forever. But I’d never do that. It must have been why Michael picked me. He saw it from the start—from the very first time I walked into his office. I wasn’t brave. I never was. Obeying orders was just about the only thing I knew how to do.

At the Venetian, a young Asian girl opened the door. She inclined her head and gestured me inside. She spoke in Mandarin but stopped when she saw the look on my face.

“Michael Casey?”

“No. No, I’m Evan Peck. I work with Michael.”

“Ah. Mr. Peck. My mistake. Please, come this way.” Her English was smooth and flawless, with no more of an accent than mine. She had a round and dewy face, and couldn’t be more than a teenager.

I followed her down a hallway to a large sitting room. An older man with silver hair gazed steadily at the view of the desert through the window, indifferent to the luxury of the suite, to the Champagne chilling on ice, to the mirrored walls. He turned toward me.

“Michael Casey?” He had a thick accent.

I shook my head. My shirt, soaked with sweat from the walk under the scorching noonday sun, started to chill in the air-conditioning. The girl cut in, in rapid Mandarin. The man kept his eyes on me while they spoke, then he smiled. The girl turned back to me with a respectful tilt of her head. “This is my father, Wenjian Chan. He was expecting to speak to Mr. Casey. He has asked me to stay and translate.” She paused, waiting for me to nod. I did.

“Thank you,” she continued. “Forgive our urgency, but he asks whether he may please have the briefcase you are delivering on behalf of Mr. Casey now.”

She took it from me and laid it gently on the coffee table. Her father put on reading glasses and spun the combination lock. It opened with a pop. Chan removed a slim manila folder and scanned each page in the folder carefully. Several minutes later, Chan looked up and spoke to his daughter. It was clear from his tone that he was satisfied.

The girl smiled at me. “Thank you. My father is very pleased with this. Please convey our gratitude to Mr. Casey.” She held out her arm and started to lead me to the door when Chan interrupted, barking at her.

She stiffened and turned red, then shook her head at her father. Chan was pointing at me, his voice almost at a shout. She started speaking, but he cut her off, insistent. My heart started thudding like a muscle gone loose. The daughter drew a deep breath, glancing sideways at her father.