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“What about offering to waive the penalty if they let you return only a fraction of the investments? Mason might decide to wait.”

“Not really possible.”

“Why? Is there a problem?” Grosse said.

“The funds are illiquid.”

“Illiquid? Why?”

Austin didn’t answer.

“What is Camilla Rose’s exposure?” Grosse said. “Twenty million?”

“Just over fifty mil of Camilla Rose’s charities in the Trust III fund.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“And another seventy mil, give or take, of the Morgan International’s charity, the philanthropy’s, in the Trust II fund.”

“A hundred and twenty million? ‘Give or take’?”

“I used some of the money to pay off the early investors their premiums, then put other money into projects, such as the Miami high-rise and Ming House here.” He paused, then added, “And bought options on the Standard and Poor’s index.”

“Index options?” he said, shaking his head. “Are you serious? Betting on the market swing? For how much?”

Austin, crossing his arms, visibly started to shake. His eyes glistened.

“Twenty mil,” he said, his voice strained. “The first time.”

“And you lost your ass . . .”

Austin stared at him.

“All but two mil,” he said. “But I got it back.”

“And you bet again? Bigger?”

He nodded.

“How much?”

“I was on a roll—”

“How much?”

Austin began to weep.

“A hundred,” he said, almost in a whisper.

Grosse felt the hairs on his neck stand up.

“A hundred million? My God . . .”

Austin tried to sound upbeat. “But I’m going to get that money back and more. I will.”

“How?”

“I was planning on using proceeds from the sale of the Future Modular Manufacturing company and the stock in NextGenRx to cover the loss. NextGen, by itself, would more than cover it when the patents are approved and the stock soars. But the goddamn government keeps delaying that. So last month I started setting up another fund.”