“Some may not want to stay. I’ll offer three months’ severance to anybody who wants out.”

“So just voluntary departures?” Mat asked, spewing distrust all over the tablecloth.

“There may be a few others. I’ll try to keep as many as possible,” Jack said, and you could cut the vagueness with a knife.

Perry had returned to his eating. He was working his way through a large baked potato, slathered with butter, cutting and slicing with a vengeance. “And if I still say no?” he asked, concentrating on his potato.

“Then,” Jack said very solemnly, “you face two possible scenarios.”

“Please enlighten me,” Perry asked, shoveling a large bite of potato through his lips.

“One, a miracle happens, an avalanche of sales fall from the sky, you satisfy the banks, and I go away.” Jack conveyed this in the incredulous tone it deserved. Somehow he avoided a wicked smile, but it must’ve been killing him.

“What’s two?”

“The banks move in. They’ve been preparing this eventuality for weeks, Mr. Arvan. Their lawyers are ready to launch the necessary motions. Within hours, they’ll slap a lien on all your properties. You cosigned some of your corporate loans, so it’s not just your company, also your home and cars.”

Mat nearly fell out of his chair. Foreclosure! In all his dealings with the banks, they had given him no warning. No hints, no threats, nothing. He grabbed the edge of his seat and growled, “That’s hogwash, Wiley. As you said, they don’t want to own our company. They wouldn’t have a clue how to run it.”

“Glad you were paying attention, Mat. They don’t.”

“So what’s different now?”

“Now they have a buyer with deep pockets in the wings. That would be me, Mat. They’ll unload the company at a fire-sale price, and I’ll assume the debt.” Jack lifted his hands in the air and mentioned, rather casually, “Of course, it’ll take a little longer, I suppose. On the other hand, it’ll probably cost less.”

Perry put down his fork, his plate empty but for a few fatty scraps from the steak. “You think you got it all figured out, don’t you, boy?”

“I definitely do,” Jack said, pushing his plate away. His face suddenly turned cold, his tone almost scornful. “Now you figure it out, Mr. Arvan. I’m offering you the chance to make some money, a little nest egg you can pass on to your children. Or you can have your life’s work pulled out from beneath your feet and leave without a penny.”

“You’re a ruthless son of a bitch,” Mat spat.

Jack coolly withdrew two business cards from his pocket and flipped them on the table. He stood and, ignoring Mat Belton, looked Perry squarely in the eye. “Call me before the banks call you,” he said ominously.

Without another word, Jack walked out. He hadn’t touched his meal.

Perry pulled over his plate and dug in.

10

The three men inched forward in their chairs, straining to catch every word. Walters and Bellweather, as well as Samuel Parner, the cutthroat head of CG’s LBO section, were crowded in the small room in the basement to hear Jack’s pitch.

The moment they heard the door close, they relaxed and exchanged smiles. As Jack had entered the Princeton Inn, one of the TFAC boys, dressed in loud orange slacks and a black turtleneck sweater, had bumped against him and pinned a state-of-the-art miniature listening device to the back of his suit coat.

The conversation in the private dining room was easily picked up by a van parked in a nearby lot, then relayed in real time to the security room in CG’s basement.

Not that they had trust issues with Jack.

No issues at all. They didn’t trust him, not one bit.

“Well?” Bellweather turned and asked Parner.

“He’s great. Every bit as good as you claimed.” Parner could barely keep the broad grin off his face. He’d heard stories about how this guy had creamed two of his best boys but never actually witnessed him in action.

“Yes, brutal, wasn’t he?” Bellweather asked, proud of their new catch.

“It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.” Walters grinned like a proud Little League dad who had just seen his son belt one over the bleachers. “I particularly liked the nice-guy act before the wolf came out.”

“Wouldn’t you have loved to see their faces?” Bellweather observed, pushing back from the console. “Stupid yokels, never knew what hit them.”

“Did he actually contact their banks?” Parner asked. “Or was that a bluff?”

“If he says so, probably yeah. He knew all the numbers. He’s thought through every detail. Our boy is full of surprises.”

“I’ve never thought of doing that,” Parner admitted, shaking his head; the envy was loud and clear.

“But they didn’t say yes,” Bellweather noted.

“Just a matter of time,” Walters opined. “It’s a squeeze play, a perfect one. Take our money or watch the banks take it all away, and you’ll walk away with nothing. Really, it’s not a choice.” He turned and faced Parner. “How long do you guess?”

“Let’s see.” He paused and did the math. Unfriendly takeovers were his specialty, and, all humility aside, he considered himself among the best at gauging the pressure points. He could smell corporate collapses from a mile away. “We’re three days from the end of the month. Arvan’s got payroll and a bank payment due. Probably owes some money to his suppliers, too. Plus he’s got electricity, water, the usual overhead.”

“Then maybe tomorrow?”

Parner nodded and grinned, the doctor about to give his verdict. “Tomorrow’s a good guess. Two, maybe three days after, at the latest.”

Bellweather thought about it a moment. “Should we let Wiley finish it?” he asked.

“Sure, why not?” Parner suggested, actually quite pleased at that prospect. If the deal somehow went south, it was Wiley’s fault, and by extension, Bellweather and Walters would be blamed for relying on him to handle the heavy lifting. If it worked, he would stoke rumors about how he taught Wiley the art of the deal. He couldn’t lose, really.

Walters toyed with his glasses. “He’s done a fine job so far. I’ll tell TFAC to keep a close eye on him.”

At seven o’clock, Eva Green arrived at Jack’s door, wearing tight, faded jeans and a baggy white sweater that bunched and hung gloriously in all the right places and all the right ways. She arrived unannounced in a late-model red Toyota Camry with a bright smile and a lame excuse. “Hi, I’m on my way for a weekend in New York,” she said, pumping a few megawatts into the smile. “I hope it’s not inconvenient, but I decided to break up the trip.”

They looked at each other awkwardly for a moment. Rumson was a forty-minute diversion off 95. As excuses go, it was so flimsy that she made little effort to sound convincing.

“Have you had dinner?” Jack eventually asked.

“No, and I’m famished. Let me take you out.”

“You like Italian?”

“Sure.”

“I’m in the middle of making spaghetti and I’d hate to waste it. Would you care to join me?”

“I’m impressed. A man who can cook.”

“Don’t be hasty.” Jack smiled, taking her elbow and escorting her inside.

Her hair was up in a ponytail, which bounced cutely when she walked. No makeup, and she really didn’t need any. She looked somehow, remarkably, even more alluring in bulky fall clothes than done up for the White House gala. She would be stunning in rags.

“Care for a drink?” Jack asked as they entered the kitchen.

“About a hundred miles ago. White wine if you have it.”

Jack retrieved a bottle and a glass, and while he pried off the cork and poured her a drink, Eva leaned against the counter and eyed the kitchen. It was large, spacious, and amazingly well-equipped for a bachelor, or for that matter, even a master chef, with all the latest gadgetry and culinary accoutrements. “I’ve been in kitchen display stores that have less hardware.”