Page 5

October 7

New Jersey

M iles Buchanan sat in the back of the limousine and scrolled through his phone as the car ventured deeper into New Jersey. He had taken this trip many times, always in the old-school stretch limo with the same silent, suited driver listening to the same sports talk radio. They drove through elite, Manhattan-adjacent suburbs and into the working-class neighborhoods—not that Miles noticed.

Miles was a fixer who operated under the alias Caleb Cain. He had made a lavish living, ensuring the reputations, incomes, and marriages of the rich and powerful remained intact. The people who hired him didn’t have skeletons in their closets—they had freshly rotting corpses, secrets which, if exposed, would end life as they knew it.

Miles used the time to check emails, responding to some, ignoring others. He had reached the pinnacle of his career and only chose assignments that piqued his interest—or, in this case, accepted jobs from repeat clients he felt obligated to assist. Miles’s twin brother was a former Navy SEAL, but Miles often thought the people he dealt with were far worse than any insurgent his brother had faced.

Case in point: Chester Ugentti, mobster-turned-politician. He started as a city councilman, promising to be tough on crime. Ugentti made a name for himself in central Jersey by cleaning up the Perth Amboy docks. In reality, he had simply taken over the corrupt operation. While the arrests of local mobsters captured headlines, Ugentti filled the void with his own people. He was smart; Miles would give him that. His kickbacks and bribes were secreted away, and Ugentti lived like a man with a successful contracting business and a fierce dedication to his community.

Last year, he had been elected to Congress.

Chester Ugentti was a snake. And never to be underestimated.

It was a dark evening; clouds obscured the moon and stars, and the streets were poorly lit. They may as well have been in a tunnel as the car’s headlights pierced the blackness. In the quiet streets of Perth Amboy, the car turned toward the water and pulled up to a cavernous boarded-up building. The driver got out and opened the passenger door for Miles.

From the outside, the dockside warehouse looked exactly like what it was—a place for dirty deeds.

With a nod of thanks, Miles opened the groaning fire door, crossed the cavernous main room, and took the metal stairs to the building’s second floor. He followed the wide hallway overlooking the main floor below. Something about this place—or perhaps its occupant—always made Miles shudder. He forced his unease aside. Today, he wasn’t Miles Buchanan. He was Caleb Cain, and Caleb Cain had no dark demons.

At the end of the long row of dock worker offices, Miles entered a kitchen. It was dated and barely functioning except for the restaurant-quality espresso maker that took up an entire wall. At the Formica counter, an overly made-up woman with dyed-blonde hair and a too-tight skirt arranged meats and cheeses on a charcuterie board. With a smile and a jerk of her head, she indicated that Miles should proceed.

At the entry to the shabby sitting area, a bodyguard with a slicked ponytail and facial piercings stopped Miles with a strange command. “Shoes.”

Miles slid off his loafers and set them on the low wooden platform just outside the door, then continued in his stocking feet into the one fixed-up room in the building and took a seat in a leather armchair. The blonde from the kitchen bent lower than necessary to set his scotch on the side table at his elbow. Miles took in the offered view of her cleavage—no need to insult a potential ally—and thanked her, ostensibly, for the drink.

“The boss man will be right in,” she cooed, then sauntered out of the room.

“Caleb Cain, you son of a bitch! It’s been too long, old friend.” Ugentti boomed from the opposite entry.

Speak of the devil, and he will appear.

At five foot eight and tipping the scales at two hundred and fifty pounds, Ugentti’s lifelong nickname “Chug” suited him. What remained of his graying hair was buzzed short. He wore a red tracksuit and habitually fisted his hands on his hips when he spoke; he reminded Miles of a fire hydrant—minus the usefulness.

“Apologies for the shoes. Theresa carpets this fucking room in white. Don’t get me wrong, it looks sensational, but now we all gotta take off our shoes whenever we’re in here. God forbid there’s a fire. Fat Tony would burn to a crisp trying to get his Nikes back on.”

Miles swallowed his annoyance with the whiskey.

“You got your scotch? Excellent.” Ugentti answered his own question. “Shawna! I’m ready for my drink, doll.”

The same woman returned, walking slowly and balancing a martini glass filled with a dark liquid on a small silver tray. Chug was clearly rising to his new station. In past meetings, his beverage of choice was a can of beer and a shot.

Shawna made it to Ugentti with only a slight slosh of the Manhattan. He accepted the drink and plucked the maraschino cherry out by the stem. Dangling it, Ugentti said, “You know, Shawna can tie the stem in a knot with her tongue. When it’s in my mouth. ”

“Oh, Chug, stop.” Shawna waved him off with a giggle and left.

Chester Ugentti heaved his massive girth onto the matching oxblood couch with a groan and downed half his drink. “How’s tricks, Caleb? Everything good with you, my friend?”

The repeated use of the word friend had Miles on edge. He and Chug were not friends. The extent of their relationship to date was Miles paying off the strippers and sex workers Chug had carelessly allowed to video their less-than-conventional interactions.

“Everything is fine, Mr. Ugentti.”

“Is my fucking father here? What’s with the Mr. Ugentti crap? My friends call me Chug. I’d say you’ve earned that right.”

Miles merely nodded.

Ugentti picked up an auction house listing book from the cheap coffee table, fanned the pages, and tossed it aside. “My wife’s got me bidding on some Italian marble statue. A fat Venus in some fucking clam shell. She wants to turn it into a fountain. I don’t pay any attention, but Theresa, she’s got a real eye for the art.”

Miles was well-versed at containing his eye roll.

“Me? I’m not big on auctions. I’m more of a take-it-or-leave-it guy.”

“Nor am I,” Miles agreed.

“Nor am I,” Ugentti echoed. “I’m gonna use that. I should hire you as a fucking etiquette coach. Some of these lock-jaw numbnuts on The Hill,” Ugentti blew a raspberry. “They’re sitting at lunch eating shrimp cocktail and complaining about their golf swing, and I’m counting the tines on the forks like Julia Roberts in fucking Pretty Woman .”

Miles laughed as was expected. He was certain Ugentti had no concern whatsoever about table manners and had probably picked the shrimp up with his fingers and tossed the tails on the floor. So once again, his skin prickled at Chug’s uncharacteristic commentary. Nevertheless, Miles was a patient man. So he sipped his scotch and waited.

“Goddammit.” Ugentti crossed one ankle over his knee and touched his bare big toe through the hole in his sock. “Shawna! Tell Theresa I need new socks!”

She called back from the kitchen, “You got it, Chug!”

Ugentti shot out his wrist and checked the time on the Rolex. It was a decent watch—Miles owned two—worth about half the value of the Vacheron Constantin he was currently wearing.

“You got a wife, Cal? Kids?”

Miles was growing weary of this preamble. What’s more, he was not in the habit of divulging details about himself, even his fictional self, to clients.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Ugentti?”

Chug absorbed the insult of being redirected, slapped his thighs, and said, “Straight down to it, then.”

“If you don’t mind.”

Ugentti called for Shawna again, and a moment later, she wheeled in a brass serving cart laden with antipasti and Italian desserts. Sausages, pungent cheeses, and olives were artfully arranged on a rustic cutting board, with a loaf of sliced bread in a basket.

Ugentti rubbed his palms together. “My father never conducted business without food. Even if he was going to terminate someone.” He winked. “He always gave them a nice meal. Salsitza?”

“Thank you, no,” Miles replied. “I have a late dinner in The City.”

“Suit yourself.” Ugentti waddled over to the spread, heaped food onto a plate, then nodded to Shawna, who left the cart where it was and exited. Two beefy bodyguards lurking at the entryway followed in her wake.

Miles waited while Ugentti devoured a handful of olives and spat the pits into his palm before depositing them in an ashtray. He picked up a framed photo on his desk and turned it to his guest.

“Me and Joe Pesci at a golf pro-am this summer. Nice guy.”

“You could be brothers,” Miles said mildly.

It was always the same: show your power, show your money, then explain how you shat the bed. Chug thought he was special; he wasn’t. He was just another in a long line of influential people who got caught. Miles had to admit he was curious to know what exactly Chester Ugentti had gotten himself into this time; his behavior indicated this was not one of his typical transgressions.

The list of forbidden deeds had grown dramatically shorter over the years. These days, public figures could get away with almost anything. However, some acts remained unacceptable—in both the court of law and the court of public opinion.

I have a proposition for you. No, scratch that. Not a proposition, a retirement plan .”

Miles could guess what was coming. “Mr. Ugentti—”

“Chug.”

“Chug, let me stop you before you continue.”

“Hear me out. You see, Caleb Cain, I can do a lot of good in Congress. The people I represent are the hardest-working people in the country. Good people, salt of the earth.”

“I don’t need your campaign speech, Chug.”

“Fine.” Chug sat on the coffee table directly in front of Miles. “I can get a lot more done if I have some leverage on these fucks. You, Caleb Cain, know the dark and dirty on half of Washington. I want that information.”

Miles set his drink on the coaster. “Out of the question.”

“I’ll pay you five million dollars.”

“Chug, I’ve been offered far more than that. Many times. And my answer is always the same.”

“It was an opening bid.” Ugentti leaned onto his forearms with a hungry look in his eyes. “Let’s negotiate.”

Miles held back the sigh that desperately wanted to escape and stood. “I’m afraid it’s nonnegotiable.”

“Everything’s negotiable.” He stood and retrieved the bottle of Macallan from the bar, then refilled Miles’s glass. Returning to the couch and his plate of food, Chug scooped the cherry topping from a mini cheesecake with a fat index finger and ate it. Then he smiled, the red gelatinous filling covering his stubby teeth.

“Not this.” Miles stood and turned to the door where the two bodyguards now blocked his path.

“Ten million.”

With his back to Ugentti, Miles remained silent.

“Fifteen.”

Miles had to walk a fine line here. He had systems in place to ensure problems like this didn’t pop up, the most obvious threat he held over his clients being exposure. The issue here was that Ugentti was an outlier from Caleb Cain’s typical clientele. He paid to have some scandals swept under the rug, but Miles thought it was more for the sake of his marriage than his reputation. Ugentti was a wise guy, and everyone knew it. People voted for him in spite of the fact that he was a criminal, or maybe even because of that fact. The threat of opening Ugentti’s closet to reveal his skeletons didn’t have nearly the power it would on a squeaky-clean governor or a high-ranking clergy member. Still, Miles held his ground.

“No deal.”

“There’s not much information out there about you, Caleb Cain.” Ugentti drummed his thumb on the arm of the sofa. “But I have your number. You’ve got that silver spoon look about you. All prep school smooth and country club polish. Did daddy donate a building to get you into some bullshit Ivy League college?”

Miles remained stoic. Ugentti was wrong on every point, but Miles had carefully cultivated Caleb Cain’s image. “Mr. Ugentti—”

“My friends call me Chug. Are we friends?”

“No.”

Ugentti considered his reply. “No, I don’t think we are. I don’t make friends with my employees.” He sat back and entwined his fingers on his belly. “Well, not the men, anyway. I’ve befriended a few women over the years.”

Miles turned back, picked up his scotch, and, after taking a steadying swallow, pointed to Ugentti with the glass. “A fact that should deter you from continuing this conversation. I know your secrets too, don’t forget.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Chug wagged a stubby finger at Miles. “Never play the ace in your sleeve when you have a winning hand.”

Miles froze. The glass of scotch slid through his fingers and fell.

Ugentti shot up. “Ah shit, Theresa’s gonna have kittens. Shawna, bring a towel yesterday!”

The assistant hurried into the room and knelt by the stain on the carpet.

Miles said, “May I use your washroom?”

“Through there.” Chug pointed without looking up from where he was helping Shawna dab the scotch.

In the cramped half bath, Miles turned on the tap. Leaning heavily on the sink, he touched his forehead against the mirror.

Never play the ace up your sleeve when you have a winning hand.

He turned off the water as his mind assembled the scattered pieces of an old puzzle. There was nothing to be done right now, but Chug Ugentti was right.

Miles did have an ace up his sleeve.

M iles found Ugentti sitting behind an overly large desk in the adjoining room. Chug had taken a position of power.

Miles stood before him. “As I said, I have another appointment.”

“Twenty million dollars.”

Miles paused. Not because of the amount. Chug Ugentti had no idea what information Caleb Cain possessed. It was worth billions to the right people. But Caleb Cain had built his business and reputation on his discretion—not to mention the gratitude he received; he could go anywhere, do anything. Despite the exorbitant price tag for his services, Caleb Cain had earned the favor of many, many powerful people.

No, Miles hesitated because he sensed the desperation of a ruthless man. He needed this conversation to end.

Ugentti misconstrued his reaction and smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Miles met Chug’s gleeful gaze. “I’ll think about it.”

Ugentti slapped his hand flat on the desk with a bang, causing the plate with the remaining food to bounce. “This meeting isn’t over until we have an agreement.”

Miles wasn’t blind to what was happening. Ugentti may be a congressman, but he was a mobster through and through. Miles may not possess his twin brother’s brute force, but what he lacked in combat skill, he made up for with charm.

“As you said, Chug, let’s keep the conversation open-ended. Maybe we can come up with something that suits both our needs.”

The congressman broke eye contact and spoke to his muscle. “Show Mr. Cain out. Let’s get that ‘maybe’ to a ‘yes’.”

The two guards grabbed Miles and dragged him out of the office. They stopped briefly in the kitchen for Miles to retrieve his shoes. Strangely, the loafers weren’t where he had left them but were positioned about three feet over on the low shelf. Once he slipped them on, the men hauled him out.

Miles didn’t regain his footing until they were down the stairs and halfway through the warehouse’s main room. At the back of the building, one of the goons elbowed open the door to an area for cleaning machinery. Industrial parts littered the floor, and fire hoses hung on the wall. Heavy hooks were hanging from chains, and the space smelled of solvent and rotting fish. None of that captured his attention. Miles was only looking at the round covered drain in the middle of the floor. Above it sat a heavy wooden chair with restraints dangling from the arms.

One of the men chuckled. He was bald with pitted acne scars. They continued walking, heading for a door at the back to the right of a loading bay. Miles couldn’t contain his sagging relief. Ugentti assumed that showing him this room would be enough.

He was ten steps from freedom when one of his escorts grabbed Miles’s elbows and pinned them behind his back.