Free The Doll Brokers by Hal Ross Page B

still prayed for the result. “You found a bank willing to cooperate?”
    â€œIt depends somewhat on how much you really want the loan.”
    â€œWhat’s the figure?”
    â€œFifty thousand.”
    Patrick’s stomach heaved. “Fifty thousand? What does it buy me?”
    â€œA new bank, just as I explained on the phone.”
    It had been a cryptic conversation, but Patrick had gotten the gist of it. “Just like that? No questions about our inventory, or what we’re planning to do with the money?”
    â€œNot a one.”
    â€œHow much of the fifty is yours?”
    The man’s congenial smile melted like ice cream in August. “Look, you produce fifty thousand dollars and I’ll give you a bank. That’s how I fit in.”
    Patrick felt more nauseous than he had at dawn, when he had upchucked the last of the cognac. He wanted the deal spelled out. “You’re saying you know of an account manager who would take a bribe?”
    â€œI’m saying no such thing, Patrick. And none of this should concern you.”
    But it did. It concerned him very much. Not the ethics actually, but the fact that he could get caught. “I haven’t gone this way before. I’d like some idea of how it works.”
    â€œIt’s strictly a matter of setting up guarantees. The account manager doesn’t want to get burned. I’ll be the one to insure his neck.”
    â€œRight.” Patrick suddenly saw his mother’s face, her judgmental frown looming in his mind’s eye.
    Salsberg stood preemptively. “Apparently you’re not ready to make a decision.”
    â€œNo, I have to.” Patrick heard himself speak the words aloud.
Damn Ann Lesage.
“You want cash?”
    â€œThat would be best. I’m authorized to offer you terms but … you get what you pay for, if you catch my drift.”
    â€œCash or questions?”
    Salsberg didn’t reply.
    â€œWhich bank is it?”
    The lawyer made a show of looking at the papers on his desk. “Atlantic S and L.”
    â€œI’ll have the money to you by the end of the day, at the latest first thing tomorrow.”
    â€œGood, Patrick. I’m always willing to lend a hand.”
    Patrick left the office wondering how in hell he was going to siphon fifty grand out of the company.
    By the time he got to his office, his bowels were churning. Ann was standing outside his door, looking rabid.
    â€œWell?” she demanded. “Irene told your mother that you were looking into another bank this morning. What happened?”
    â€œI got the money from Atlantic Savings and Loan.”
    She seemed to explode with relief. He wished he could have made her suffer more.
    â€œI’d like to hear the details,” she said, pushing off his door.
    â€œGive me ten minutes.” He needed a shot of something first, to calm himself. He had pulled off a near-miracle. By nefarious means, of course, but a miracle nonetheless.

CHAPTER 13
    W hen the cab dumped her off at West 85 th and Broadway, Ann simply wanted to collapse in front of The Savannah.
Home.
    She had never learned the art of letting tension roll off her. By the end of the day she was exhausted from waging war against it, as it burrowed into her, dug into her muscles, and went deep into all the visceral parts of her.
    She stepped inside the lobby, moving past the concierge, her back slumped, her heels slowly clicking on the floor. By the time she made it upstairs and into her apartment, her only thought was of a Glenlivet and water.
    She uncurled her fingers and let her briefcase drop. She slid her shoes off and stepped over them, padding barefoot. On the way to the kitchen, she dropped pieces of clothing and various accessories on the furniture: her suit jacket falling on the back of the bulky, bronze Telegraph Hill sofa, her earrings landing on a knobby-legged, glass-topped table with brass rim.
    In the kitchen, a jarring