work I didn’t imagine he took a lot of board meetings or did many media interviews, so presumably the designer labels were all about image, and pretending to be a legitimate businessman when he was anything but. “Dean, get me a coffee, would you?” Elvis sniffed and left the room. So his name was Dean? Maybe he modelled himself on that old movie star James Dean—though they had nothing in common beyond the pout and the quiff and the mumble.
Sherwood had got my name wrong and pointedly not offered me a drink—silly slights intended to needle me. When I was eight I had tried to snatch the forceps from the dentist and do it myself, and now I felt the same impulse.
“I don’t have the money, Mr. Sherwood. And I won’t be able to get hold of it by tomorrow.”
“Ah,” said Sherwood. He sounded disappointed that I’d cut short the foreplay.
“My lawyer’s disappeared, and she had access to my accounts.”
“That’s one I hadn’t heard before,” said Sherwood. “But how exactly is it my problem?”
I took my wallet out of my pocket, tugged my credit card from its pocket and offered it to Sherwood. He looked at it as if his new kitten had brought him half a rotten rat from the garden.
“There’s nearly nine thousand pounds in that account,” I said.
“
Nearly
nine thousand?”
“Eight and a half,” I admitted. Nicky had set it up for me so I would always have access to some cash, and I’d rarely taken out more than forty quid a week—I hated having more than that in my wallet. I did wonder why Nicky hadn’t cleaned out that account too, but then she had been in a hurry. “The PIN is six-seven-four-three.”
“And you expect me to go to some machine outside a supermarket and stand in line to collect the money you owe me. Is that it?”
“I’d give you all of it now, but my lawyer has to countersign the cheques.”
“And what’s to stop you phoning your bank and getting that card stopped?”
“I’m not going to do that. I’m not stupid,” I said.
“Really? Because that’s not the impression I’m getting.” Elvis—Dean, rather—giggled. He had reentered silently behind me, and now he placed a china cup of coffee of Sherwood’s desk, slopping some into the saucer. He wasn’t good waiter material. I stuffed the card back in my wallet. So much for that idea.
“You came to my office, Flynn,” said Sherwood. “You made me a business proposition, which I accepted, and now—just one day later—you’re offering me a fraction of what I’m entitled to?”
“It’s the best I can do.”
“I don’t think so. Try harder.”
I was about to tell him about the compensation fund and how I could pay him back in a few weeks, when I realized it would be futile to make excuses and start bleating for terms, and when you were weak it was never good to let it show.
“Why don’t you tell me what you want?” I said.
“I want the money you owe me.”
“Then you’ll have to wait.”
“Maybe I’m getting old and crabby,” said Sherwood, “but I don’t like lippy bloody teenagers telling me what I have to do.” He was genuinely angry, I realized, and on one level I felt glad to have finally got under his skin. “You must take me for a right moron, coming in here and boasting about your pal the Guvnor and how he was looking out for you.”
“I never mentioned McGovern,” I said. “You did.”
That might have been true, but Sherwood didn’t like me pointing it out.
“Who gives a crap?” he shouted. He expected me to flinch, but I’d been shouted at before, by guys a lot scarier than Sherwood. He realized losing his cool wasn’t having the desired effect, and he pulled himself together, and smirked instead. “Your pal McGovern’s over,” he said. “He’s history. His bent cops got caught, and the Feds were so far up his ass they could read his mind.”
He had his facts wrong. The Guvnor’s bentcop had turned on him and got shot. I knew, because I’d been there,
Sherwood had got my name wrong and pointedly not offered me a drink—silly slights intended to needle me. When I was eight I had tried to snatch the forceps from the dentist and do it myself, and now I felt the same impulse.
“I don’t have the money, Mr. Sherwood. And I won’t be able to get hold of it by tomorrow.”
“Ah,” said Sherwood. He sounded disappointed that I’d cut short the foreplay.
“My lawyer’s disappeared, and she had access to my accounts.”
“That’s one I hadn’t heard before,” said Sherwood. “But how exactly is it my problem?”
I took my wallet out of my pocket, tugged my credit card from its pocket and offered it to Sherwood. He looked at it as if his new kitten had brought him half a rotten rat from the garden.
“There’s nearly nine thousand pounds in that account,” I said.
“
Nearly
nine thousand?”
“Eight and a half,” I admitted. Nicky had set it up for me so I would always have access to some cash, and I’d rarely taken out more than forty quid a week—I hated having more than that in my wallet. I did wonder why Nicky hadn’t cleaned out that account too, but then she had been in a hurry. “The PIN is six-seven-four-three.”
“And you expect me to go to some machine outside a supermarket and stand in line to collect the money you owe me. Is that it?”
“I’d give you all of it now, but my lawyer has to countersign the cheques.”
“And what’s to stop you phoning your bank and getting that card stopped?”
“I’m not going to do that. I’m not stupid,” I said.
“Really? Because that’s not the impression I’m getting.” Elvis—Dean, rather—giggled. He had reentered silently behind me, and now he placed a china cup of coffee of Sherwood’s desk, slopping some into the saucer. He wasn’t good waiter material. I stuffed the card back in my wallet. So much for that idea.
“You came to my office, Flynn,” said Sherwood. “You made me a business proposition, which I accepted, and now—just one day later—you’re offering me a fraction of what I’m entitled to?”
“It’s the best I can do.”
“I don’t think so. Try harder.”
I was about to tell him about the compensation fund and how I could pay him back in a few weeks, when I realized it would be futile to make excuses and start bleating for terms, and when you were weak it was never good to let it show.
“Why don’t you tell me what you want?” I said.
“I want the money you owe me.”
“Then you’ll have to wait.”
“Maybe I’m getting old and crabby,” said Sherwood, “but I don’t like lippy bloody teenagers telling me what I have to do.” He was genuinely angry, I realized, and on one level I felt glad to have finally got under his skin. “You must take me for a right moron, coming in here and boasting about your pal the Guvnor and how he was looking out for you.”
“I never mentioned McGovern,” I said. “You did.”
That might have been true, but Sherwood didn’t like me pointing it out.
“Who gives a crap?” he shouted. He expected me to flinch, but I’d been shouted at before, by guys a lot scarier than Sherwood. He realized losing his cool wasn’t having the desired effect, and he pulled himself together, and smirked instead. “Your pal McGovern’s over,” he said. “He’s history. His bent cops got caught, and the Feds were so far up his ass they could read his mind.”
He had his facts wrong. The Guvnor’s bentcop had turned on him and got shot. I knew, because I’d been there,
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