29

Along Atlantic Avenue in Delray Beach, traffic slowed to a crawl. Jett Gavallan braked, trying to see ahead and determine what might have caused a traffic jam at eleven-fifteen in the morning. He caught a slew of flashing lights, bright metal, and the rush of uniformed men and women to and fro. A pair of police cruisers, strobes spinning, barred the street a block ahead. An auto accident, he surmised. And a bad one at that.

"Tony, Bruce, I want you both to listen to me," Gavallan was saying into his cell phone. "No more calls to farm out the bridge loan. It's time we show some confidence in the client. If Lehman wants out, fine. Ditto for Merrill. We'll keep all fifty on our books. End of story. I don't want the market to see us sweat."

"It's not a question of seeing us sweat," replied Llewellyn-Davies. "Just simple financial prudence. If I can unload twenty million of our exposure to Kirov, I'm damned well going to."

"No, you're damn well not," barked Gavallan right back.

"He's right, Jett," chimed in Tustin. "Deal goes south, you'll be thanking us, kid."

"And when it goes through you going to fund me the eight hundred grand we passed up?"

"Youfugginkidddinme?" bawled Tustin. "I'm just an employee, bwana."

"Reconsider, Jett," said Llewellyn-Davies. "That's a right decent chunk of risk you're willing to shoulder for eight hundred thousand dollars."

Gavallan shook his head at their tenacity. Not now, fellas; this is not the time. It was imperative everything continue as before, that he not give the slightest hint he was going to scupper the deal before it hit the street, or that he had an inkling that Grafton Byrnes was in a world of trouble.

"The decision has been made," he declared. "No more calls."

He hung up.

It was a picture-postcard day, lacy clouds scudding across a pale blue sky, trade winds blowing up from the Caribbean, tangy with sea salt and suntan oil. Close your eyes and you might hear some marimbas and steel drums, catch a scent of jerk pork roasting on the spit. A day to relax, he decided. Play a little golf, take the boat out for a sail, drink a six-pack on the back stoop. A cynical voice laughed at his middle-class musings. In nine years, he'd never taken a day off except when sick. His longest vacation had lasted all of four days, cut short by the minicrash of '98 and the demise of Long Term Capital.

"When you work, work. When you play, play," Graf Byrnes was fond of saying. "But goddamn it, don't think the world is going to stop if you don't show up for work one day. The graveyard is filled with indispensable managers."

Gavallan took the words to heart, deciding that when this thing was over, when he had Graf Byrnes safe and sound back in his office in San Francisco, he'd do some serious playing. A month in Maui. The safari in Kenya he'd promised himself. Maybe he'd charter a yacht, do a little island-hopping near the Bahamas.

"Alone?" a cynical voice asked, and the glow of his dream vacation lost its luster.

"Come on, come on. I'm in a hurry here."

Rapping his palm against the steering wheel, Gavallan urged the column of cars to advance. Yard by yard, the cars edged forward, past the color-coordinated strip malls painted the same gay shade of coral, the casual cafes, the brokerage offices, and the cruise ships offering two-day jaunts to the Bahamas for $99. Delray Beach had the look of a theme park for seniors, with cappuccino and conch fritters replacing cotton candy and corn dogs.

The car in front of him turned onto a side street, offering Gavallan full view of the street ahead. Four patrol cars sat behind the cruisers blocking the road. Parked at odd angles to one another, they looked as if they'd hit a patch of ice and spun to a stop. Two had their noses half to the curb, a third his rear tires on the sidewalk. The last was frozen in the center of his lane, a track of spent rubber thirty feet long attesting to the urgency of his arrival. He sniffed the air. Burnt rubber mixed uneasily with the bloom of summer gardenias and the scent of freshly cut grass.

In the blink of an eye, his curiosity turned to apprehension.

Sliding a knee onto the seat, he lifted himself up and peered over the convertible's windshield. Emergency vehicles jammed the street: three ambulances, rear doors flung open, gurneys absent; a fire truck; a trio of identical navy Crown Vics that screamed federal law enforcement; and bringing up the rear, a TV van, horn blaring, advancing foot by foot. For all the activity, Gavallan had no way of figuring out what exactly had happened. He knew only one thing: This was no auto accident.

A swarm of uniformed men and women buzzed back and forth across the street, running into and out of a building in the center of the block. Two cops carrying spools of yellow and black tape began to walk toward the building, and the words "crime scene" flashed through his head. A gurney emerged from the building and rattled along the sidewalk, shepherded toward an ambulance by three determined paramedics. Their sober pace didn't give Gavallan much hope for the patient. Neither did the woman following them, a middle-aged peroxide blond, hands to her face, sobbing. Another gurney rolled out, this one in a hurry. Above the din, he heard a voice. Strident. Losing its calm. "Move it. We got one alive. I need four units of…"

The words were drowned out by a chopper flying in low overhead, a Bell Ranger hovering a hundred feet in the air. Police? No. More TV.

It was then he recognized the building: the mint green plantation shutters, the barrel tile roof, the Mediterranean arches. Cornerstone Trading.

"All right, sir, let's get a move on," said a tan young traffic cop, patting a hand on the hood of Gavallan's rental car. "Nothing here for you to see. Detour to your right and be on your way."

"Any idea what happened, officer?" Beneath the tourist's smile, Gavallan was aware of his breath coming fast and shallow. He had to fight not to wipe the sweat from his lip.

"Nothing to concern you," answered the policeman. "Just move along. I'm sure you'll be able to read about it tomorrow."

"Looks bad," Gavallan persisted. "Anyone hurt?"

"Move along, buddy. Now!"

Giving a curt wave, Gavallan activated his turn signal and drove the Mustang rental up the block. After finding a place to park two blocks up, Gavallan ran back to the crime scene. By now a sizable crowd had gathered. He threaded his way through the onlookers, stopping on the sidewalk opposite the entry to Cornerstone Trading. He'd hardly had time to gather his breath before a young man standing next to him began to fill him in.

"Guy just lost it, man. Went in and capped his crew, then did himself. Got every one of them. Ten dudes, all dead." He was a handsome Hispanic kid, maybe fifteen, with spiked hair dyed henna, a golden nose stud, and cargo pants cut to the knee. "I heard it, man," he went on. "I work at the Orange Julius next store. It was like this, check it out: bang, bang, bang, bang. Shit was loud, and quick, like maybe two seconds between shots."

"You think you ought to tell that to the police?" asked Gavallan.

"The police? Heck, no. I don't need that hassle." Suddenly, the kid jumped back a step, his brown eyes skittish. "You ain't the man, are you?"

"No," said Gavallan. "I ain't the man." He beckoned the boy closer. "You said, 'The guy just lost it.' You know who did it?"

"Nah, man, no one knows. But I know one of the dudes was in there. My man, Ray. 'Fact I made him a burger this morning- his favorite, a double chili cheese with jalapeños. Calls it his 'victory burger.' Dude came in real happy, see, smiling even, and that's something. My man Ray is one serious dude."

A victory burger, Gavallan said to himself, remembering Luca's cocky grin, the mention of having some dirt on Kirov.