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passed on to the client in the form of higher trading fees.

      The blonde was seated at one of the tables taking a call from a switchboard. She motioned Decker onto a folding chair as she spoke into a headphone mike in a soft, modulated voice. She put the caller on hold.

      “Harry?” she shouted. “Oh Haaaarry!”

      She turned to Decker and said, “Must be in the little boy’s room.” Punching back the button, she took the caller’s name and number, then hung up the receiver. Another light started blinking. She debated answering the call, but instead turned to Decker.

      “You want to see Harry?” she asked.

      “Actually, I’m interested in seeing Dustin Pode.”

      “Dustin isn’t in and I’m not sure when—Ah, here’s Harry.”

      Harry was Harrison Smithson. He was in his fifties, with a full head of thick white hair and pale blue eyes rimmed in red. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a pair of navy gabardine slacks that had seen better days. He sat down at the other table.

      “Have a seat,” he said to Decker.

      His phone rang. Smithson picked it up, greeted the person on the other end, and began rummaging through the piles of papers in front of him.

      “I’ve got the confirmation order right here, Mr. Amati. Yes, I have the check also, but I’m holding it because the settlement date hasn’t been established yet … Yes, it should be by next week … week the issue is cancelled, you’ll be the first to know. Yes, yes, thank you.”

      He looked back at Decker.

      “What can I do for you?”

      “I’m looking for investments that are speculative in nature but have a higher rate of return on the upside. A friend of mine tuned me into Dustin Pode. I thought I’d come down here and check him out personally.”

      “Which of Mr. Pode’s investments interest you?” Smithson asked matter-of-factly.

      “Well, what kind of prospectuses do you have to offer me?” Decker hedged. His year with Jack doing wills and estate trusts had been good for something. You learn the lingo.

      “Well, I don’t know if Mr. Pode ever got around to any formal prospectuses.”

      “What did he file with the SEC?”

      Smithson hesitated. “They’re not exactly public offerings.”

      The phone rang again. The receptionist answered it.

      “It’s Grunz, Harry.”

      “Take a message,” Smithson said wearily. He turned his attention back to Decker. “It would be best to have Mr. Pode call you directly, Mr …”

      “Cohen,” Decker said. “Jack Cohen.” He handed Smithson one of his father-in-law’s business cards.

      Smithson inspected it briefly.

      “All right, Mr. Cohen. I’ll have Mr. Pode call you.”

      Decker was about to stand up, but paused.

      “My friend told me that Mr. Pode had done very well in movie production limited partnerships. Does he still do that?”

      “Yes,” Smithson answered. “Occasionally. But he and my son, Cameron, are also involved in a real estate syndication which, to my mind, is going to really take off. It’s speculative, of course, and I wouldn’t recommend putting your life savings into it. But as far as potential for an upside profit—you’re talking sky’s the limit.”

      “Sounds like my type of deal,” Decker said, smiling. “A little cash and a lot of stomach acid.”

      The outer door burst open and a young man flew in. He stomped up to Smithson’s desk, completely unaware, it seemed, of Decker’s presence.

      “Where are Cumberlaine’s certificates?” he demanded of Smithson.

      The older man turned pink and lowered his voice.

      “The securities are still being registered, Cameron. The order was only placed a couple of weeks ago.”

      “The guy wants his certificates,” Cameron said, loudly. “I told him I’d have them for him.” He started pacing. “This isn’t some penny-ante bimbo, Harry, we’re talking big stakes. Somebody who can inject a little class, not to mention a lot of money, into this firm. The man’s connected!”

      Smithson cleared his throat and turned to Decker. “This is the senior vice-president of Executive First,” he said, “Cameron Smithson. This is Mr. Cohen, an interested investor.”

      “Hello,” Cameron said, shaking Decker’s hand. “I’ll leave you two alone in a minute.”

      Decker regarded Smithson’s son. He wasn’t particularly small, but his overall appearance suggested delicacy. His complexion was baby-smooth, almost translucent, with a hint of peach fuzz above a narrow pink upper lip. His hair was blonde and fine and combed to cover a patch of denuded scalp. His eyes were watery blue, his nose thin with surprisingly wide nostrils. His blue cashmere blazer was perfectly tailored, his charcoal slacks, razor pressed. A red silk tie hung against a backdrop of white sea island cotton, the collar of the shirt secured by a gold pin. His hands were slender with un-callused palms, fingernails filed and shaped and coated with clear polish.

      Not a man used to getting his hands dirty.

      Cameron glared at his father. “I need those certificates, Harry.”

      “I can’t get them now,” Smithson said, embarrassed. “Can’t get blood from a turnip, Cam.”

      “Then what the hell do I tell Cumberlaine?” His expression suddenly shifted. “Never mind! I’ll think of something. Blame it on the SEC or, better yet, blame it on the post office.”

      He stormed out of the office. The room was eerily quiet—the stifling calm after the cessation of a freak tornado. Smithson cleared his throat.

      “You’ll have to forgive Cameron,” he said sheepishly. “He gets a bit overexcited when he can’t make good on his word. He takes his work very seriously.”

      Decker nodded. He was making excuses for his son. It sounded like something he was used to doing.

      “I’ll have Mr. Pode call you,” Smithson said, trying not to appear nonplussed.

      “That would be fine.”

      “I hope I’ve been of service to you, Mr. Cohen.”

      “You have,” answered Decker. “I’m glad I made it over here.”

      The men rose. Smithson held out his hand and Decker took it.

      There was more action outside the Golden Dreams Motel than inside. The proprietor, a middle-aged Armenian, complained animatedly to Decker that the prostitutes and pimps had driven away all his legit business. Decker listened with half an ear, and when the man paused for air, stuck in his question. Who, of the half dozen pimps outside, was Wilmington Johnson? The owner pointed out a tall, emaciated black with a full Afro, wearing purple stretch pants, a gold lamé V-neck shirt, and a black velvet jacket. Around his neck were plaits of gold chains and on his arms were two babes of fifteen or sixteen—both white.

      The man had arrived.

      He went up to Johnson and told the girls to beat it.

      “Say what, white boy?” Johnson asked, staring out into the street.

      “You Johnson?” Decker asked.

      The black turned around and gave him a quick once-over.

      “Well, that all depends on what you want, man.”

      “Oh,” Decker said meekly. Then he spun around and gave the pimp a short, hard punch to the solar plexus. Johnson folded over like a

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