The Futures(53)

Late on Friday afternoon, I tried one more time. Wanda sighed. “I’m sorry, Evan, but you’ll have to wait until Monday. Mr. Casey is about to leave for the weekend.”

“Who is that?” Michael strode into the hallway, pulling on his coat. “Oh, Evan. Wanda, you know you can always send Evan straight in.”

“That’s okay.” I stepped back. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

“I have an appointment, but we can talk along the way. That’ll be better, in fact. Get your coat and meet me at the elevator.”

Downstairs, Michael and I climbed into the back of a town car idling by the curb. It sped off, heading west. “Just give me another minute,” Michael said, his thumbs punching the keys of his BlackBerry. Then he glanced up, saw the look on my face, and grinned unnervingly. “Relax, Evan. This is going to be fun.”

The car came to a stop.

“My favorite place in the city,” Michael said, climbing out. We were out past the wasteland of 11th Avenue, in front of a nondescript building. The elegant silver lettering above the door was so discreet that you had to know what to look for.

“Mr. Casey,” a voice boomed as we walked inside. A man in a dark green suit shook Michael’s hand. He had slicked-back hair, a signet ring on his pinkie, a big barrel chest, and spindly legs. Like a toad with a very good personal shopper. “We’re so glad you could make it in this evening.”

“Bruno, this is one of my associates, Evan Peck.”

He extended a hand. Soft, pink, recently moisturized. “Bruno Bernacchi. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I glanced around the room. The cars gleamed under the bright lighting like sleeping animals. Maserati of Manhattan. It was empty except for the three of us. Bruno noticed me looking. He had a quick, darting gaze that didn’t miss a thing.

“We normally close at five o’clock,” Bruno said to me in a conspiratorial tone. “But we’re always open for Mr. Casey. One of our very best customers.”

“Your message said it was delivered today?”

“Just this afternoon. It’s the newest model, a beauty. They aren’t officially available until next year. There’s a waiting list already, but you’re at the top of the list, of course, Mr. Casey.”

“I’d like to take it for a test drive.”

“Of course. I have in mind a route through Westchester. Wait until you see how this one handles the curves.”

“Actually, I’d like to take Evan along. This is the only time I can give him all week. So the two of us need to talk during the drive—multitask, you know what I mean?”

Bruno’s smile wilted. His pink hands fluttered, his fingertips pressed together.

“I know you have your rules,” Michael said. “But Bruno. I’ve given you a lot of business over the years. Surely we can take it out for a spin.”

I could see the calculation ricocheting through Bruno’s eyes. Michael was smiling, but he was dead serious. A man whose wishes were dangerous to deny.

“You’ll be here when we get back?” Michael said through the open window on the driver’s side. It was a two-seater sports car, as precise and elegant in design as a piece of sculpture. I was in the passenger seat. For the first time, I understood why people liked to describe an engine as purring. The vibration felt like a warm heartbeat. “We’ll be a few hours.”

Bruno started to open his mouth, then swallowed. He looked severely pained, but he nodded. “Of course, Mr. Casey. I’ll be here.”

“Ready?” Michael said after he’d rolled the window up. “Don’t forget to buckle up.”

We drove in silence for a long while up the West Side Highway.

“I’m going to take us over the bridge,” Michael finally said. He glanced over his shoulder, pulling into the right lane and then onto the exit for the George Washington Bridge. “You can’t really get a feel for it in the city. What do you think so far?”

“It’s…uh, nice.” Nice? That was a stupid thing to say. But I was silently panicking, and it was making me dumb. We were headed to New Jersey. The Pine Barrens. Michael was taking me out there to kill me—or worse. It was insane, but it was all I could think.

“Wait until you see it on the open road.”

Friday evening, and the bridge was predictably jammed. Michael answered e-mails on his BlackBerry, glancing up whenever the traffic inched forward. I stared out the window, frantic but numb. Trapped. It was winter dark outside, and the caramel leather interior of the car was lit with a golden glow. What was I going to do, get out of the car and make a run for it? That seemed like the stupidest option of all.

Finally we made it off the bridge and into New Jersey. Michael turned onto the Palisades Parkway. There was a physical relief when we accelerated onto the highway, the engine finally flexing its muscles, opening up the way it was intended to.

“So Evan,” Michael said. “I have good news. We’re going live with the WestCorp deal.”

“That’s—that’s great.”

“I’ve reallocated the fund’s capital, and I’m doubling our position on WestCorp. This is going to be one for the books.”

He looked at me. The speedometer was steadily climbing. He was weaving from lane to lane without signaling, and I felt my pulse accelerating along with the car. “You should be proud, Evan,” Michael said. I wished he would look at the road. “It’s extremely rare to work on a deal like this. At any point in your career. You’ve done a stellar job. The fact that you’re so young only makes it more impressive.”