illegal. If we don’t do it, it’ll be way harder to win.”
Hardy took the cue from Freeman and swirled his own glass for a minute. “So it’s my decision, too?”
“Got to be,” Freeman admitted.
“Give me a minute,” Hardy said. “How much do I clear?”
“Well, Kroll never gave me a specific number. But if I’m even close to what he’s thinking at three and half million, say, and I bet I am, you personally bring in close to a half million before taxes.”
Silence gathered in the room. “Couple of years work,” Hardy said.
“At least.”
Hardy’s mouth twitched. He blew out heavily. “For the record, I’m officially tempted.” He put his glass down, walked to the window, pulled the blinds apart and stared a minute outside at the street. When he turned again, his face was set. “Okay,” he said, “now that that’s out of the way, fuck these guys.”
5
F or a wealthy man, Wade Panos kept a relatively low profile.
He didn’t need flashy clothes, since he wore a Patrol Special uniform every day at work. The Toyota 4Runner got him wherever he needed to go. The three-bedroom house on Rivera that he shared with Claire blended with the others in the lower Richmond District. He mowed his own lawn every Saturday, took out the garbage, talked over the fence with his neighbors. To all outward appearances, Wade was a regular guy.
He’d started working as an assistant patrol special in Thirty-two when he was just out of high school. It was his father’s beat. George ran a tight ship in those days, providing basic security for his two hundred clients, patrolling the beat on foot.
It didn’t take Wade long to realize that his father was missing a substantial opportunity—big money could be made in this field. People wanted protection, especially once they came to understand that without it, bad things could happen. More importantly, Wade was adept at identifying enterprises—prostitution, the drug trade, gambling dens—that operated outside the protection of the law. These businesses couldn’t survive in his beats without his protection, and rather than roust them out or turn them over to the regular police, he found most of them willing to enter into partnership with him.
By the time Wade was twenty-five, he’d made enough on his own to buy his first beat from the city. Ten years later, when he inherited Thirty-two after his father’s death, he had six of them and a payroll of nearly ninety assistants. He was fortunate that his timing was so good. About five years ago, the city had limited the number of beats to three for any one individual, but his holdings were grandfathered and allowed to stand. His books showed that he was pulling down close to a million dollars a year.
Until relatively recently, the actual figure was about twice that. And in the last three years, the profits had become nearly obscene. Not that he was complaining.
Since so much of his income was in cash, Wade had had to become skilled at laundering it, and to this end he formed a holding company that owned four bars in various parts of the city, each of which pulled down a tidy legitimate profit and substantially more in dirty money. Being a good businessman, Wade always kept his eyes open for rundown watering holes that he could scoop up at bargain prices, then renovate to a veneer of respectability. He’d also found that, once a property appealed to him, his connections, associates and business practices could often help a struggling bar along on its journey to bankruptcy.
He’d wanted the Ark now for a couple of years, and since he’d learned of John Holiday’s interference with his business in the past four months, he was more motivated than ever to take control of the place. Put the son of a bitch back on the street where he belonged. Because of its central downtown location, with any kind of attractive atmosphere it would draw heavily from the police, legal and financial communities, so it was a natural fit
Hardy took the cue from Freeman and swirled his own glass for a minute. “So it’s my decision, too?”
“Got to be,” Freeman admitted.
“Give me a minute,” Hardy said. “How much do I clear?”
“Well, Kroll never gave me a specific number. But if I’m even close to what he’s thinking at three and half million, say, and I bet I am, you personally bring in close to a half million before taxes.”
Silence gathered in the room. “Couple of years work,” Hardy said.
“At least.”
Hardy’s mouth twitched. He blew out heavily. “For the record, I’m officially tempted.” He put his glass down, walked to the window, pulled the blinds apart and stared a minute outside at the street. When he turned again, his face was set. “Okay,” he said, “now that that’s out of the way, fuck these guys.”
5
F or a wealthy man, Wade Panos kept a relatively low profile.
He didn’t need flashy clothes, since he wore a Patrol Special uniform every day at work. The Toyota 4Runner got him wherever he needed to go. The three-bedroom house on Rivera that he shared with Claire blended with the others in the lower Richmond District. He mowed his own lawn every Saturday, took out the garbage, talked over the fence with his neighbors. To all outward appearances, Wade was a regular guy.
He’d started working as an assistant patrol special in Thirty-two when he was just out of high school. It was his father’s beat. George ran a tight ship in those days, providing basic security for his two hundred clients, patrolling the beat on foot.
It didn’t take Wade long to realize that his father was missing a substantial opportunity—big money could be made in this field. People wanted protection, especially once they came to understand that without it, bad things could happen. More importantly, Wade was adept at identifying enterprises—prostitution, the drug trade, gambling dens—that operated outside the protection of the law. These businesses couldn’t survive in his beats without his protection, and rather than roust them out or turn them over to the regular police, he found most of them willing to enter into partnership with him.
By the time Wade was twenty-five, he’d made enough on his own to buy his first beat from the city. Ten years later, when he inherited Thirty-two after his father’s death, he had six of them and a payroll of nearly ninety assistants. He was fortunate that his timing was so good. About five years ago, the city had limited the number of beats to three for any one individual, but his holdings were grandfathered and allowed to stand. His books showed that he was pulling down close to a million dollars a year.
Until relatively recently, the actual figure was about twice that. And in the last three years, the profits had become nearly obscene. Not that he was complaining.
Since so much of his income was in cash, Wade had had to become skilled at laundering it, and to this end he formed a holding company that owned four bars in various parts of the city, each of which pulled down a tidy legitimate profit and substantially more in dirty money. Being a good businessman, Wade always kept his eyes open for rundown watering holes that he could scoop up at bargain prices, then renovate to a veneer of respectability. He’d also found that, once a property appealed to him, his connections, associates and business practices could often help a struggling bar along on its journey to bankruptcy.
He’d wanted the Ark now for a couple of years, and since he’d learned of John Holiday’s interference with his business in the past four months, he was more motivated than ever to take control of the place. Put the son of a bitch back on the street where he belonged. Because of its central downtown location, with any kind of attractive atmosphere it would draw heavily from the police, legal and financial communities, so it was a natural fit
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