Clawback Read Free Page B

maybe they could eat the sparrows. I’d have to write a letter to the editor.
    First thing, like every morning, the news. Still lying on the futon I pulled my laptop open:
    “MILLIONAIRE BANKER KILLED IN DAWN ATTACK!”
    Good job, Rupert. At least two errors were obvious in the single headline: Marlett was a fund manager, not a banker, and the attack had occurred hours before dawn.
    But he really was dead. The news aggregators all said the same thing: Marlett had died on his doorstep, shot between two and five times by an unknown assailant.
    Nothing to do with me, thankfully.
    I hadn’t been able to get Marlett’s cash out of the Caymans bank, six hours earlier, because it was gone by the time I logged in. Sadly, that kind of cash will always find a new home as fast as it needs one. But the day wasn’t lost. Once I got out of bed I found a new-business call on my voicemail.
    “Silas Cade? Are you there? Don’t you ever answer the phone? I’ve tried three times now. Call me back.”
    Well, in fact, no, I never
do
answer that phone. It’s a voicemail–only number at Verizon, which I signed up for years ago, back before customer-verification rules became stricter. They don’t know who I am, and I pay with a money order sent through the mail every six months, so they never will. I call in to collect my messages now and then—once every few days unless the wolf is at the door.
    Presumably, my new lead had gotten the number from a previous client or the grapevine or who knows? Like Walter, I have to rely on word of mouth, which means I need a permanent contact number. But I use it strictly for first impressions. After that I buy a prepaid cellphone, one for each job, and throw it in the East River afterward.
    You can’t be too careful.
    I still had the mobile I’d used with Marlett, but I couldn’t use it anymore—the job was over, he was dead, the phone had to go. I’d leave it in a dumpster somewhere later. Fortunately, I’d stocked up on throwaways from the 96th Street bodega recently, and found one in the kitchen drawer. I powered it up, verified the balance and called my possible new client. In as few words as necessary I set up an appointment that afternoon: “No, don’t tell me where you got myname. Yes, I’m glad for the reference, but…no, forget it. Let’s not talk about…yes, I’m happy to meet.”
    They always need to see me in person. Evaluate my trustworthiness, see if they can spot the handgun, who knows? Privacy can be hard to come by, since they’re usually C-level executives or millionaire business owners. But this guy—he called himself Ganderson—suggested the Willow Haven Country Club.
    “What?”
    “It’s in Bolingbroke, do you know it?”
    “Sure, but isn’t that kind of, I dunno…public?”
    “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you on the range. Ask the girl at the front desk.”
    I started to say something about not having golf clubs, but he’d already hung up. Well, I could stand around while he practiced his drives. Maybe onlookers would think I was the caddy.
    There were coffee beans somewhere in the cramped kitchen of my apartment, but a warm breeze was coming through the window, and it looked like a cloudless sky over the next building’s roofline. A takeout bagel from Amir’s seemed like a better plan, and I could walk down to Carl Schurz Park, find a bench and read the market blogs on my mobile.
    Self-employment does have its advantages.
    Going down the stairs I passed my neighbor Gabriel, shirtless, tattoos dark on his shaved head, hauling up a laundry basket. He nodded in a friendly way.
    “Hey, Silas. Nice day, huh?”
    “Global warming.”
    “Whatever.”
    In the tiny vestibule I checked the mailbox—nothing, which was good—and sighed. I’d had the place for less than a year, but it was getting time to move again. I don’t like people knowing who I am, even a little. Not where I live.
    And I’d gotten to like Yorkville. Students and people in their