Fast and Loose Read online

  “Good idea,” Stone said. “We wouldn’t want them to rush into anything. Paul, I believe you know Arthur Steele, at Steele Insurance Group.”

  “Of course—we’ve met a number of times. Good man.”

  “Art would like to put together an offer from Steele Insurance Group for the association’s stock, and he, as well as people from our firm, would like to go to your head office in New York and be taken through the clinic’s operations and to collect the necessary supporting documentation.”

  “Certainly. My younger son, Nihls, is the chief financial officer of the company, and I’ll instruct him to give them whatever they need. When would they visit?”

  “Tomorrow morning. There may also be some people along from a security company called Strategic Services, who may be participating in the deal.”

  “I know of them. I’ll have our head of security meet with them, and my elder son, Sven, who is chief operating officer, will be available to meet with whomever you wish.”

  “What is your position at the clinic?” Stone asked.

  “I am chief executive officer and chief of medicine. Marisa is my deputy chief of medicine. Tell me, Stone, how is your health?”

  “Very good, thanks. I’m due for my biennial FAA medical exam next week.”

  “Well, Marisa is a designated medical examiner for the FAA, in addition to being a pilot. She could administer the exam, if you wish.”

  “What a good idea,” Stone said. “I’ll make an appointment.”

  “You know the drill about filling out the application online before your visit?” Marisa asked.

  “I do.”

  She handed him a card. “You may list me as your examiner on the form.”

  They talked for a few more minutes, then the Carlssons stood to go.

  “Your new yacht will be delivered this afternoon,” Carlsson said. “I’m informed that it was launched this morning and is being sailed over here.”

  “I’ll look for it.”

  “And I’ll look for you next week,” Marisa said.

  8

  Erik Macher spent his day going through every business file of Christian St. Clair’s business dealings, then his own files. In St. Clair’s he found the offer for the Carlsson Clinic buyout and its deadline. He read it carefully, then called Dr. Willie Keeling, the head of the stockholders’ association.

  “Good morning, Dr. Keeling.”

  “Good morning, and who might this be?”

  “I am Erik Macher.” He spelled the name slowly. “Does that ring a bell?”

  “I’m afraid not, and I don’t have time to talk right now.”

  “This is about the buyout offer from St. Clair Enterprises. I believe you have that in hand. And I am the successor of Christian St. Clair.”

  “Ah, yes, I heard of his death and thought that might be an end to this business.”

  “Certainly not. The offer is still a valid one, and you have three weeks to state your intentions.”

  “And what will happen if we do not accept the offer by that time?”

  “Then the offer will be withdrawn, and another made, but at a lower price.”

  “Mr. Maker—”

  “Macher.”

  “Mr. Macher, I must tell you that I expect another offer—a better one—by that time.”

  “From whom, may I ask?”

  “You may not. Good day, sir.” Keeling hung up.

  Of all the occasional irritants in Macher’s life, which he fought every day to remove, being hung up on by someone who didn’t know him was right at the top. He felt his gorge rising and fought to keep it down, taking deep breaths.

  —

  “I BELIEVE HE was getting angry,” Keeling said to his companion, Herbert Fisher, an attorney with Woodman & Weld.

  “You handled him perfectly,” Herbie said. “First, by not acknowledging him, then by continuing not to acknowledge him, then by disclosing that you could do better, and finally, by hanging up on him. Just perfect. Now he knows he has a fight on his hands.”

  “I don’t like having someone, even someone I don’t know, angry with me,” Keeling said, wiping his glasses with a tissue, then patting his forehead and under his eyes.

  “That is because you are a professional man and not a businessman. Businessmen are accustomed to dealing with people who are displeased with them and often use that to their advantage.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  “First, wait for his response.”

  “How do you know he will respond?”

  “Because he wants the Carlsson Clinic—perhaps even more than St. Clair himself wanted it, because it is probably the first business transaction he will carry out in his new position of authority.”

  “Will he want to hurt me?” Keeling asked.

  “No. Oh, he may be angry enough to do so, but he is businessman enough to know that violence would damage his position and thus cost him money and prestige with his board. He will be scrupulously polite, until he isn’t, and that will let you know that it is time to deal with him.”

  “When will he call again?”

  “Perhaps soon, perhaps later—it doesn’t matter. When he calls, ask your secretary to say that you are unavailable, and she doesn’t know when you will be.”

  “I don’t have a secretary.”

  “Dr. Keeling, do you have a telephone answering machine?”

  “No.”

  “I will send one over to you and have it set up. After that, never answer the phone, unless you recognize the calling number as being someone you wish to speak to.”

  Herbie used his cell to ask his secretary to send over a machine pronto. “It should be only a few minutes.”

  The phone rang again, and Herbie held up a hand when Keeling started to answer. On the sixth ring, he picked it up himself.

  “Hello,” he said, sounding bored.

  “May I speak to Dr. Keeling, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Erik Macher.”

  “Can you spell that?”

  Macher spelled it slowly and carefully.

  “Is that Eric with a cee?”

  “No, with a kay.”

  “And Maker with a kay, too?”

  “It’s Macher with a cee aitch.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am the chief executive officer of St. Clair Enterprises,” Macher said through gritted teeth.

  “What is that?”

  “It is a very large business conglomerate.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Financial.”

  “Does Dr. Keeling know you?”

  “I spoke to him five minutes ago.”

  “What is this about?”

  “It’s a business matter.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “Extremely important business.”

  “Just a minute, I’ll get him.” Herbie pressed the hold button.

  “If it were me calling,” Keeling said, “I would want to kill you by now.”

  “Oh, good,” Herbie said. He waited for about a count of ten, then pressed the line button. “Hello?”

  “Hello.”

  “Is that Mr. Maker?”

  “This is Mr. Macher. May I speak to Dr. Keeling, please?”

  “He just left.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he just went out.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Just a second.”

  “Did you tell him I was calling?”

  “I called after him, but I think that, what with the sound of the car starting, he may not have heard me.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “I don’t know—sometimes he’s gone for hours, even days.”

  “Who is this speaking?”

  “This is his nephew, Herbert.”

  “May I leave a message for Dr. Keeling?”

  “Just a second, I’ll have to find a pencil.” Herbie pressed the hold button.

 
Keeling burst out laughing. “You should take all my calls.”

  Herbie pressed the button again. “I’m sorry, I can’t find a pencil, you’ll have to call back later.” He hung up.

  —

  MACHER THREW THE telephone across the room.

  9

  Stone landed at Teterboro, and he was halfway back to the city when his cell phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Stone, it’s Herb Fisher. Are you back yet?”

  “Almost. I’ll be home in half an hour.”

  “Good. I’ve got a team ransacking the books and files at the Carlsson Clinic, and they should have everything we need by the end of the day.”

  “Good.”

  “Oh, and Dr. Keeling heard from Erik Macher.”

  “And how did that go?”

  Herbie gave him an account of the conversations. “I’ve got an answering machine installed at his place now, so he won’t have to talk to Macher.”

  “Good. Let’s keep the guy guessing.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he makes another offer before the deadline.”

  “You think we’re driving him that crazy?” Stone asked.

  “Yes, I think we are.”

  “There’s something I’d like for you to do as soon as your people are finished at the clinic. I’d like to know how much cash the Carlssons have on hand or can borrow on short notice.”

  “Ah, I think I see your point—you want them to make an offer to buy the non-family shareholders’ stock.”

  “Right. If I’m guessing correctly, some will tender their shares, others won’t,” Stone said, “and it may be possible for the Carlssons to regain a majority of the shares without using Steele to effect a buyout. I want you to figure out how much the family can afford to offer the shareholders.”

  “And you want them to make an offer big enough to be off-putting to Macher.”

  “Absolutely right.”

  “And how will Bill Eggers feel about all the billable hours the firm will lose by not going the Steele route?”

  “He can console himself knowing that he’s done the right thing for his clients.”

  “I’ll be sure to mention that to him when he blows his stack.”

  “Don’t worry, your position will be unassailable. Call me when you have the numbers in order.” They hung up.

  Fred dropped Stone at home, then continued uptown to the Bacchettis’ apartment house.

  Stone entered the house through the office door and found Joan looking bored. “Obviously I’m not keeping you busy enough,” he said.

  “Yes, I just love being overworked when you’re here. Your mail and messages are on your desk. Welcome home!”

  Stone ran through the messages and found one from Marisa Carlsson, confirming his appointment for his flight physical, and he asked Joan to cancel his earlier appointment with his old FAA doctor.

  “So, who’s this Dr. Carlsson?” Joan asked.

  “It’s a name you will hear often for the next few days or weeks. New client.”

  “The Carlsson Clinic?”

  “Correct.”

  “Very tony.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  —

  STONE SHOWED UP on time at the Carlsson Clinic for his medical exam. The clinic was housed in a large, limestone-faced building—not as large as other New York hospitals, but imposing. He checked in at the front desk and was immediately sent to the fourteenth floor.

  Marisa Carlsson’s office was a combination of an examination room, with the required table, scale, and drawers and cupboards for supplies, and a modern and very personal office, with bookcases, comfortable furniture, and a door that led somewhere.

  He had been there for about a minute when she walked in and closed the reception-area door behind her. “Good morning, Stone,” she said.

  “Good morning, Marisa.”

  “I’ve got your application on my computer,” she said, “and we sent the blood sample you left to our lab, and we have the results. So why don’t we get started by reviewing your listed medications?”

  “All right.”

  “That won’t take long because you’re taking only a statin and a daily aspirin.”

  “Correct.”

  She consulted a sheet of paper. “And your cholesterol is at one-fifty. What was it before the statin?”

  “Two-forty.”

  “So it’s working.”

  “Yep.”

  “All your blood work is in the normal range, so strip down to your shorts and have a seat on the table.”

  She began running through her checklist, chatting as she did so. “What do you fly?”

  “A Citation CJ3 Plus. You?”

  “A Citation—2. It’s our family airplane—my father and my brothers also fly it.”

  “I flew an M-2, before the CJ3.”

  “Why did you move up?”

  “Someone accelerated the decision process by placing a bomb in the M-2. I ordered the CJ3 the same day.”

  “Does that sort of thing often happen to you?”

  “Not all that often, but more often than I’d like.”

  “Where do you fly it?”

  “Among my several houses, here and there. I have a place in England, so I can fly the CJ3 nonstop from Newfoundland to Shannon, with a decent tailwind, although I have to return via the Azores. You?”

  “We fly to the yacht, wherever it is, and on vacations and business trips, and among our five branches.”

  She continued moving down the checklist, then stopped and pulled on a latex glove and grabbed a tube of lubricant. “Okay, shorts down, please, and on your knees on the step.”

  “Well,” he said, complying, “you’ve already seen me naked.” He flinched a little as the exam continued, then she handed him a tissue.

  “Let’s do the eye exam,” she said, pointing at the chart. “Read me the lowest line you can manage.” He did so, then she checked his peripheral vision. “That’s it, you pass. You can get dressed.”

  He did so. “Marisa, now that we’re on intimate terms, do you think we could have dinner one night soon?”

  She laughed, then signed his certificate and handed it to him. “What a nice idea.”

  “Tomorrow evening?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “One floor up,” she said. “You’ll need to take the elevator to this floor, then ring the bell on the elevator with the mahogany door, then it will open. I’m in apartment three.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Why don’t we have a drink at my place, then continue. Say, seven o’clock?”

  “You’re on.”

  10

  Stone had a message waiting from Herbie Fisher when he returned to his office.

  “What’s up, Herb?”

  “The Carlssons have the wherewithal and the borrowing power to buy out the non-family stockholders. Once they’ve got a line of credit with their bankers, all we need do is to draft a letter and some forms, telling the stockholders that they’re offering fifty percent more than St. Clair, and if they want to sell, to sign the documents, have them notarized, and a check will be on the way.”

  “Fifty percent more?”

  “That’s my recommendation. It’s enough to impress the stockholders and to simultaneously warn Macher that he’s in a bidding war. If we can get this done in a hurry, they can make it a fait accompli before the St. Clair time limit is up.”

  “Then set up a meeting with the Carlssons as soon as possible, and let’s outline it for them.”

  “I can do it late tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That’s good for me.”

  “I’ll make the call.”

  Five minutes later, Herbie called back. “Five-thirty tomorrow in the elder Dr. Carlsson’s office.”

  “You’re on.” They hung up. A convenient time, Stone thought.

  Joan buzzed him. “Dino on one.”

  Stone pressed the button. “Dino?”

  �
��None other. I ran Erik Macher through the computer. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “He’s forty-nine years old, born in Queens, educated in the public schools, four years at Fordham, where he was introduced by a priest to a CIA recruiter. He vanished into the Agency, did his twenty years, took his government pension, and fled the premises. I don’t know what he did while he was there.”

  “I know—he was in covert ops and had a reputation as an assassin.”

  “Training he put to use, if what we already know about him is true.”

  “Right.”

  “He had a couple of brushes with the law along the way—a barroom fight that he won all too handily, charges dismissed when his victim refused to testify against him. The other was more serious—a woman accused him of rape, and the DA had a good case, but the victim left town before they could haul Macher into court. The case just sat there, until the statute of limitations ran out.”

  “Anybody ever hear from the woman again?”

  “Nope.”

  “You think he used his Agency-acquired skills to make sure she didn’t show up?”

  “Would you be surprised?” Dino asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither. He would have done serious time if it had gone to trial.”

  “So he’s clean.”

  “Yep. I’m sure St. Clair would have checked before he hired him.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Stone replied, “and I’ll bet St. Clair was attracted by both charges. He wouldn’t have wanted a squeaky-clean character for the job he had in mind.”

  “Have you talked to Mike Freeman at Strategic Services about him?”

  “No, but that’s a good idea.”

  “Dinner tomorrow?”

  “I’m booked, how about the evening after?”

  “Done.” They hung up.

  Stone called Mike Freeman and was connected immediately.

  “How are you, Stone?”

  “Pretty good. I want to pick your brain.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What do you know about somebody called Erik Macher?”

  “St. Clair’s muscle?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “You know he was Agency.”

  “That, I know.”

  “He applied for a job here when he left the Agency, so we did a pretty good work-up on him.”

  “And what did you find?”