Read Online The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) by Stephen Leather - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Leather
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If you had it would’ve put a different complexion on my advice to you, investment-wise.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The investment advice I gave you was based on the assumption that you were working, that you didn’t have any health problems, that medical bills wouldn’t be on the cards. I’ll be honest, if I’d known that you were disabled, I wouldn’t have suggested that you go into oil, I really wouldn’t. Your wife is right, a man in your position would be better paying off his mortgage and leaving the rest in the bank.”
“Yeah? Hell, where does that leave me, then?”
“Well, like I said, we haven’t got your cheque yet. Why don’t you just call your bank right now and get them to cancel your cheque?”
“But what about the 15,000 dollar profit we made?”
“Let me be honest, Rob, the dealing costs will just about swallow up all of that, and there’ll be a delay in getting the money to you. Far better we simply call it off right now. Just cancel the cheque, okay?”
“Okay, Michael, I’ll do that.”
“If you need any more advice about investing, go along to your local VA office. They’ll be able to steer you in the right direction. And Rob, take care of your wife, you hear? She’s got a good head on her shoulders. She knows what she’s doing.”
“You’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know,” said Komer. “Thanks, Michael, I really appreciate it.”
When Lehman cut the line he looked up and saw Cilento watching him, the receiver of his own phone pressed against his ear. Cilento was glaring at him under bushy eyebrows, his other hand clenching and unclenching on the table. He slammed down the receiver and stood up so violently that his chair fell over.
“Lehman! My office,” he yelled and stormed into his glass cubicle where he paced up and down, powerful arms swinging at his side. Most of the slammers were too engrossed in their own sales pitches to notice what was going on, but Dillman watched Lehman with concern in his eyes.
“Shut the fucking door, you two-faced son-of-a-bitch,” cursed Cilento as Lehman arrived.
Lehman did as he was told, but he kept facing Cilento as he closed the door. The man wasn’t the type you’d turn your back on at the best of times.
“I can’t fucking well believe what I just heard,” ranted Cilento, pacing up and down in front of his desk. His face was red and a vein was pulsing in his temple and his eyes were filled with hatred. “How much was that sucker in for?”
Lehman shrugged. “One two five K, I guess.”
Cilento clenched his fists and slammed them against his sides. “Is he one of your own clients, or was he one of my leads?”
Lehman knew that there was no point in lying because Cilento kept records of all the leads he supplied to the slammers. They got a smaller commission for in-house leads than if they used their own initiative to find someone to dance with. “He was one of yours, Max.”
Cilento stopped pacing and walked up to Lehman, thrusting his head forward on his bull neck so that he was only inches away from Lehman’s face. His breath smelt of stale onions and tobacco. “So let me get this fucking straight, Mr Good Fucking Samaritan. I give you a lead which is good for 125,000 dollars, and you go and tell him to cancel his cheque because his investment is a touch risky. That’d be about it, would it? Or did I miss something? Well, Mr Wonderful, did I fucking well miss something, or what?”
Lehman could see flecks of spittle on Cilento’s moustache as he glared up at him. Cilento was a good three inches shorter than Lehman and he appeared even shorter because of the way he was pushing his head forward, but his lack of height made him no less intimidating. Cilento was well used to using his anger as a weapon and defeating bigger opponents by the sheer force of his personality, but he was also capable of brutal violence so Lehman looked him straight in the eye, waiting for any sign that he was
“I don’t follow.”
“The investment advice I gave you was based on the assumption that you were working, that you didn’t have any health problems, that medical bills wouldn’t be on the cards. I’ll be honest, if I’d known that you were disabled, I wouldn’t have suggested that you go into oil, I really wouldn’t. Your wife is right, a man in your position would be better paying off his mortgage and leaving the rest in the bank.”
“Yeah? Hell, where does that leave me, then?”
“Well, like I said, we haven’t got your cheque yet. Why don’t you just call your bank right now and get them to cancel your cheque?”
“But what about the 15,000 dollar profit we made?”
“Let me be honest, Rob, the dealing costs will just about swallow up all of that, and there’ll be a delay in getting the money to you. Far better we simply call it off right now. Just cancel the cheque, okay?”
“Okay, Michael, I’ll do that.”
“If you need any more advice about investing, go along to your local VA office. They’ll be able to steer you in the right direction. And Rob, take care of your wife, you hear? She’s got a good head on her shoulders. She knows what she’s doing.”
“You’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know,” said Komer. “Thanks, Michael, I really appreciate it.”
When Lehman cut the line he looked up and saw Cilento watching him, the receiver of his own phone pressed against his ear. Cilento was glaring at him under bushy eyebrows, his other hand clenching and unclenching on the table. He slammed down the receiver and stood up so violently that his chair fell over.
“Lehman! My office,” he yelled and stormed into his glass cubicle where he paced up and down, powerful arms swinging at his side. Most of the slammers were too engrossed in their own sales pitches to notice what was going on, but Dillman watched Lehman with concern in his eyes.
“Shut the fucking door, you two-faced son-of-a-bitch,” cursed Cilento as Lehman arrived.
Lehman did as he was told, but he kept facing Cilento as he closed the door. The man wasn’t the type you’d turn your back on at the best of times.
“I can’t fucking well believe what I just heard,” ranted Cilento, pacing up and down in front of his desk. His face was red and a vein was pulsing in his temple and his eyes were filled with hatred. “How much was that sucker in for?”
Lehman shrugged. “One two five K, I guess.”
Cilento clenched his fists and slammed them against his sides. “Is he one of your own clients, or was he one of my leads?”
Lehman knew that there was no point in lying because Cilento kept records of all the leads he supplied to the slammers. They got a smaller commission for in-house leads than if they used their own initiative to find someone to dance with. “He was one of yours, Max.”
Cilento stopped pacing and walked up to Lehman, thrusting his head forward on his bull neck so that he was only inches away from Lehman’s face. His breath smelt of stale onions and tobacco. “So let me get this fucking straight, Mr Good Fucking Samaritan. I give you a lead which is good for 125,000 dollars, and you go and tell him to cancel his cheque because his investment is a touch risky. That’d be about it, would it? Or did I miss something? Well, Mr Wonderful, did I fucking well miss something, or what?”
Lehman could see flecks of spittle on Cilento’s moustache as he glared up at him. Cilento was a good three inches shorter than Lehman and he appeared even shorter because of the way he was pushing his head forward, but his lack of height made him no less intimidating. Cilento was well used to using his anger as a weapon and defeating bigger opponents by the sheer force of his personality, but he was also capable of brutal violence so Lehman looked him straight in the eye, waiting for any sign that he was
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