Storm Front

Fulcher always looked like a heart attack waiting to happen, with shirt collars that were just a little too tight — owing to his refusal to admit he was gaining weight — and a face that flushed easily. This occasion was no exception. Even his scalp, exposed by his receding hairline, appeared to be scarlet. He was quite a sight, charging across the court, still fully dressed, from his tasseled loafers right on up to his double Windsor–knotted tie.

“Jesus, Lee,” Richardson said, pointing with his racket.

“Your shoes. Todd just had these courts resurfaced. You’re going to get them all marked up.”

Fulcher ignored him as he steamed across the court toward Whitely.

“Seriously, man,” Richardson said. “I think there’s something in the bylaws about appropriate footwear. If there are scuff marks, you’re paying for it.”

The words didn’t even appear to be hitting Fulcher’s ears. He started fuming shortly after he crossed the net.

“Your goddamn secretary wouldn’t tell me where you were,” Fulcher shouted at Whitely.

Note to self, Whitely thought, give secretary a raise.

“But I called the tennis manager and he told me you were down on Court Three,” Fulcher said.

Note to self, Whitely thought, have tennis manager fired.

“Okay, you found me,” Whiteley said, keeping his tone amiable. “What can I do for you, Lee?”

When he reached the service line, Fulcher stopped and declared: “I’ve got a goddamn margin call on the Mulberry Street project.”

Whitely absorbed this news without visible reaction. He brought his wristband to his forehead and blotted perspiration.

Fulcher was still raging: “Can you believe those pricks at First National? It’s like we’ve never even worked together, like they don’t even know me. They’re treating me like I’m some goddamn first-time home owner who missed his first three months. I’m not some fly-by-night. Goddamnit, I’m Lee Fulcher! Don’t they remember 442 Broadway? Or… or… the West Side condos? They made a killing on that. I mean, goddamnit.”

“Relax, Lee. Margin calls happen,” Whitely said philosophically. “Can you cover it?”

“Yeah, but I need everything,” Fulcher said.

Whitley looked down at the strings on his racket, straightening one row that had gone just slightly askew. Lee Fulcher was by no means Prime Resource Investment Group’s largest investor. But he wasn’t the smallest, either. Whitely would have to look it up to be sure, but off the top of his head, he knew Fulcher’s account was in the forty-million-dollar range.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Fulcher prompted.

“No. No, of course not,” Whitely said. “When do you need it?”

“Tomorrow. They just sprung this thing on me. I tried to negotiate, but they said they were pulling the plug unless I could cover it. Can you effing believe that?”

Whitely mopped his forehead again. Teddy Sniff was going to have a conniption. This was going to be a scramble. Whitely wasn’t sure what kind of cash they had on hand, but he was certain they didn’t have forty million bucks just lying around. He’d have to sell a bunch of positions he had really needed to hang on to. Especially now. He’d be taking a hell of a bath. Another one.

“You’ll have it, right?” Fulcher asked.

“Yeah, Lee, of course,” Whiteley assured him. “Absolutely. No worries.”

Fulcher stared at him for a hard second, like he wasn’t sure he could trust what he was hearing.

“Okay,” Fulcher said. “Let’s say three o’clock. You can wire it to my main account. Your guy has the number.”

“Deal,” Whitely said.

Fulcher finally began retreating from the court.

“Hey, Fulcher, you might want to check the couches for loose change on your way out,” Richardson said, taunting him as he passed by. “Maybe see if someone left a quarter in one of the vending machines.”

“Screw you, Arnie.”

“And while you’re at it, buy some freakin’ tennis shoes for next time you come on the court, huh?”

“Hey, Arnie, be nice,” Whitely said. “But Lee?”

“Yeah?” the man said, pausing just as he was about to disappear behind the partition.

“Arnie is right about one thing,” he said. “Please don’t wear those shoes out here again.”

The SUV was parked halfway down Fulton Street, a block from the club. It had windows tinted so dark they were, technically, illegal. The people inside the vehicle were not concerned about the penny-ante fines that might result from such an infraction. Their greater worry was having someone realize that inside that boxy black truck was a trove of surveillance equipment.

“Did you get all that?” the man working the monitoring equipment asked the driver.

“Yeah,” the driver said.

Bugging the racket club had been a real pain. The place had twenty-four-hour security and had been able to afford the best. But they knew Cracker went there at least twice a week for roughly two hours a shot. Their stalking of Whitely Cracker was a round-the-clock venture. And that clock couldn’t have a four-hour hole in it each week.