Part 13 (1/2)

”You gotta be forty-two,” Jeffrey said.

”Why?”

”Because you gotta be a year older than me 'cause your vision is worse than mine.”

Pokross sipped his vodka and asked Cary what he was up to.

Cary said, ”Disappearing to L.A. for six months, then I'm going to move off to London, then I'll disappear into an Eastern European country like Prague or Hungary for a year or two, let it all blow over. I'm not fleeing the law because I'm not under indictment,” he said. ”There's no warrant for my arrest, so if I'm in a different country, I'm not on the lam.”

”What do you expect a problem from?” Jeffrey asked.

Cary replied, ”Anything we've done in the past. It's going to come up and bite us in the a.s.s.”

Pokross had heard the concerns before. They had come up quite often with Cary, who could not seem to understand that fearing imminent arrest was just part of the game when you're a full-time criminal. He knew, more or less, where this was going.

The two men ordered and joked and argued about moneys owed and waited for the waiter to leave before continuing their talk. The restaurant was full and loud, and it would be very difficult to hear the substance of what Cary and Jeffrey were discussing, but any observer could tell this was not a conversation filled with laughter and good feeling. Pokross mentioned a CEO named Manas in one of their schemes who'd pleaded guilty and was testifying against others they knew.

”The U.S. attorney, f.u.c.k them,” Pokross said.

”USDA,” Cary joked. ”Department of Agriculture.”

”Fish and Wildlife,” Pokross said, laughing. ”In your case, it's Fish and Wildlife, the filthy animal that you are.”

Pokross said he'd heard their names had come up in the other case. They discussed getting the court transcripts and splitting the cost. ”This is hot off the presses,” he said. ”Jeffrey and Cary were the promoters. Or Cary and Jeffrey. You and I are joined like brothers.”

”I like that,” Cary said, scribbling something on some paper.

”You're writing down quotes now?”

”My biography,” Cary said. ”My life story.”

Pokross asked Cary if he'd approached any of his friends to see if they'd been questioned.

”What do you mean?” Cary asked.

”Well Warrington has vanished,” Jeffrey said. ”Where's Warrington? Down at his folks' farm?”

”Yeah. Why don't you call him?”

”Why don't you call him?”

”I don't speak with him anymore,” Cary said. ”We had a huge fight.”

Jeffrey knew all about Cary and Warrington. He'd heard the original tape, which he'd turned over to the FBI, and he also suspected (but did not know for sure) that Warrington was, like him, cooperating. He'd heard all kinds of things. Warrington had fled New York after his arrest, even while his case was still pending. He'd moved back to his mother's horse farm in Maryland, and despite his rich upbringing, he was actually desperate for money. Pokross pointed to his gla.s.s and ordered another Absolut, this time with tonic. Cary ordered a Diet c.o.ke.

”Do you think it's better to let sleeping dogs lie with him or what do you wanna do?” Jeffrey asked.

”Why don't you call him?”

”And ask him what?”

”Has he been approached by the Feds? He got arrested. It was sealed.”

Pokross: ”What happens when something gets sealed?”

Cimino leaned forward and answered, ” 'Cause he's cooperating.”

”Then why would you want to call him?”

”Right.”

Pokross handed Cary two recent news releases from the Dow Jones newswire, about two stock promoters who'd been convicted of securities fraud in the s.p.a.ceplex deal. They discussed what Pokross called ”our mutual exposure points.” This was another name for anybody involved in their schemes who might now be talking to the FBI. Warrington was a ”mutual exposure point.”

”Let's go over Warrington for a minute.”

”There's nothing to go over,” Cary said. ”He's about to turn state's evidence. He's untouchable. Unless you want to whack him.”

”I think you broached that issue at one point before,” Jeffrey said, recalling Cary's reference to a ”dirt lunch” some months before. ”I really don't think that's the way to do it.”

”Why?” Cary persisted. ”If you whack him, you, um, his testimony is no good in court. Because you can't cross-examine the witness.”

Jeffrey couldn't resist: ”As they say, dead men tell no tales.”

”Right. So the bottom line is . . .”

”What do you suppose I do with him?” Jeffrey asked. This appeared to be a carefully worded question. He was not suggesting that he himself should do anything regarding Warrington. He was just exploring what Cary might think to do with the guy.

”Have Jimmy take care of him,” Cary said, obligingly. ”I don't care how it's done, just take care of him. He's not married anymore,” he added, as if this might seal the case. ”His wife left him.”

”She did?”

”She lives in New York now.”

”Who lives in New York?”

”She does,” Cary said. ”He can't even feed his family. He's been living in the same cottage without electricity. Go down there, have them put a gun in his mouth.”

”No,” Jeffrey said. ”You never pull a gun unless you're willing to use it.”

”No, no, no,” Cary said. ”You miss the point.”