Nuri told his father that he wasn’t afraid. But he was. He was very frightened of the cold. As a child, he thought it would freeze him in place, that it would make his blood a solid block of ice the way it did with water, and that he’d be unable to move. He told his father he didn’t need a blanket and he never asked for one again, but he was always afraid that one day the cold would come and take him. It’s why he kept moving. Why he was always running. He wanted to stay one step ahead of the cold.
It would be warm in heaven, he knew. Warm like a rented Buick, driving along strong, sturdy roads with beautiful surround sound music everywhere.
He slouched down behind the steering wheel now, lowering his chin to his neck, his shoulders hunching up tensely, his eyes peering over the top of the dashboard.
They were coming out of the house.
Moving to their car. All of them.
Holding hands and looking happy.
Yes, yes, they were leaving. They were finally leaving, all together.
Life was very good. The heat was blasting and the music was sweet and they were finally emerging from their home.
Nuri started the engine of his Buick, waited until the other car pulled out of the driveway, then he gently put his foot down on the gas pedal and drove carefully after them along the uncrowded street. He shifted into drive, pressed down harder on the accelerator, and stayed with them, always twenty feet or so behind. Always there but never seen.
As he made his way past the manicured lawns and the young boys playing basketball in their driveways and the occasional bundled-up jogger, Nuri Al-Bazaad was very pleased. He knew he’d be in heaven soon. He knew he’d be far away from the squalor and the misery that lurked behind these suburban doors. That lurked behind all doors everywhere. And as he adjusted the thick seat belt that went around his waist and swung over his chest and back, he knew, too, that soon everything would be warm. The explosion he was going to set off would blow warm breath all over him, blow hard enough to make sure his blood could never freeze, hard enough to make him rise into the air and carry him along the beautiful, straight, glimmering road.
All the way to heaven.
20
“So why don’t you start to tell me about EGenco.”
Justin was anxious to get down to business. The first thirty minutes that his father had been inside his house made him feel as if he were sixteen years old again. Jonathan Westwood didn’t say anything about Justin’s East End house. Nothing complimentary, nothing derogatory. He looked around, took it all in, raised an eyebrow and said, “How far away is the ocean?” When Justin told him it was a ten- or fifteen-minute drive over toward East Hampton and that the bay was just a five-minute walk in the other direction, his father went, “Ahh.” Justin didn’t offer to show the upstairs of the house and his father never asked to see it.
They spent half an hour in small talk. Justin said that he’d take him to the police station later in the day, if he wanted, and Jonathan nodded stiffly. Justin said he’d show off the town, they could go for a short drive, and Jonathan smiled noncommittally. Justin studied his father’s clothes while they sat and had coffee. And his demeanor. Jonathan was dressed casually, beige pants and a light green sweater, and yet somehow gave the impression that he was wearing a three-piece suit. His posture was relaxed and confident and yet he never slouched, never looked awkward in any way. In comparison, Justin felt grubby. He knew he gave off the faint whiff of scotch. And he probably should have shaved. His jeans weren’t pressed, his sweatshirt was expensive but still a sweatshirt.
Yup. Sixteen years old.
Justin realized that a lot of things were making him feel sixteen again these days. The combination of Reggie Bokkenheuser and alcohol, for one. He quickly shoved that thought away. And he shoved hard. There was too much at stake to allow any distractions. Not parental, not sexual, not romantic.
A bit more self-insight, Justin thought. He definitely believed in alternatives. He just didn’t believe in distractions. So he decided to get a big distraction out of the way as quickly and easily as he could.
“Look,” he said to his father. “I know this is hard for you. It’s different seeing me here than when I’m up in Providence. But this is the way I’ve chosen to live and this is what I do. I know it’s not what you’d choose for me but the choice has been made. And it was made a long time ago.”
“I understand,” Jonathan Westwood said.
“I know you do. I just thought it needed saying. And I also want you to know I appreciate your coming here. I think it’s going to turn out to be very important.”
“There’s nothing to appreciate,” his father said. “You asked and I came.”
It was as intimate an exchange as the two had had in years. And it was followed by an awkward silence that lasted until Justin turned to the third man in the room, a man who was blushing furiously and looking in every possible direction but at the two Westwood men, and said, “Sorry, Roger. Family shit. But now it’s out of the way. So why don’t you start to tell me about EGenco.”
His father had flown in with Roger Mallone, at Justin’s request. Mallone was one of the elder Westwood’s key financial advisers and had been extremely helpful to Justin in the past. Roger wasn’t a redhead but he looked as if he should be, with his ruddy complexion and tousled hair. He had the aura of someone who’d once been a terrific high school athlete but hadn’t done much in the thirteen or fourteen years since other than pick up a tennis racket for an easy game of doubles. Softer than he should be, with a self-mocking demeanor that recognized his own lack of strength, Roger was no hero, he was a numbers man with superb connections in the business world, great insight into that world, and tremendous access to information. Right now, all of that was more important to Justin than heroism.
“The last time you were asking me for information,” Roger Mallone said, “you were pointing a gun at me.”
“Slightly different circumstances,” Justin said.
“No one’s trying to arrest you now, I assume.”
“That’s right.”
“Or kill you either.” Mallone smiled. But the smile faded quickly when Justin didn’t answer.
“Jay?” Roger said, looking to prompt an answer with a raised eyebrow. And when Justin just gave a little shrug, Mallone said, “Shit,” and then, quietly and grimly, “You lead a very interesting life.”
“Yes, interesting,” Jonathan said.
“I just hope I don’t have to be around it too much longer,” Mallone muttered.
“EGenco,” Justin prompted. “What can you give me?”
“I can give you days and days. You see the suitcase I brought? That ain’t clothes, pal. It’s filled with financial reports, corporate histories, Wall Street analyses, depositions, reports on various lawsuits. It’ll help if you can narrow things down. The company’s all over the globe and has twenty different divisions that are larger than most companies you’ve ever heard of.”
“Start simple. How about a general overview if you can? And remember, I’ve been out of the financial world a few years.”
Justin could see his father nod firmly at his last statement, as if to add some sort of emphasis.
“All right,” Roger said. “Let’s start with a little history. I’ll work my way forward, and, at some point, if I go off track you lead me back so I can try to focus on the areas you need to understand.”
“Perfect.”
“EGenco was founded in 1922. The founder was a Texan named James Merriwell. .”
The story Roger Mallone proceeded to tell was one of picture-
perfect American capitalism. As he listened, Justin tried to relate the story to anything in his own experience, realized that was an impossibility. EGenco’s past was one that paralleled and exemplified the country’s history: it was a tale of dedication to constant and obsessive expansion. Justin’s life was, he realized, the longer it went on, becoming one of gradual retraction. The boundaries of his existence had, for quite a few years, narrowed and gotten smaller. Something that could never be said of the business that started as an entrepreneurial Oklahoma-based company with the overly grand and self-important name of the Merriwell 20th Century Ultimate Oil Well Cementing Company. As the firm’s reputation grew, it was referred to simply as Merriwell.