Saving Jason by Michael Sears Page B

So I definitely owe you one. Ask me something again. Only, not about Nealis. I can’t talk about him.” The Mouse actually looked over his shoulder, as though Nealis might be there listening in on our conversation.
    “There’s a rumor that the firm’s in play. What can you tell me? Who’s the buyer?”
    There was a flash in his eyes that looked like fear. “Don’t fuck around, Jason. I said I’m not talking about that.”
    “I’m talking about a hostile takeover of Becker Financial, Mouse. Not the latest hire. Stay with me.”
    He waved his hand as though erasing a blackboard. “Really, I can’t say much. These people are very hush-hush.”
    “So you’re letting me down twice in a row? That’s not like you, Mouse. It would be rough if word of that got around.”
    He gritted his teeth and smiled, as though something somewhere was hurting really bad but he wasn’t going to admit it. “I’ll tell you one thing, then we stop talking. Okay? It’s a family thing. That’s all I’m gonna say. Look at the family.”
    “
Here
you are,” Skeli said, taking my arm in hers and giving me a slight squeeze. “I now know more about the price of blown glass on the art market than I would have thought possible. But I am a certified Friend of Doc Pettis and will be on his referral list. I’m done. When can we go?”
    “Let me introduce you to someone,” I said, but when I turned around the Mouse was gone. “Sorry, he was just here.”
    “Who?”
    “Just a guy,” I said, looking for him in the crowd. But the Mouse had run.
    We ditched our empty glasses and I took one last look around for the waitress with the crab cakes. No luck. We wound our way back to the entrance and I slipped one of the Japanese ballet dancers a five for the return of Skeli’s raincoat.
    I held the coat up for her to put it on—a bit of harmless chivalric sexism that my ex-wife had taught me early in our relationship—and found myself looking through the double doors at the party just as a shift in the crowd revealed two men deep in conversation at the far end of the room. It was much too far to make out what they were discussing, but there was an intensity to the conversation that combined anger and fear. The Mouse was shaking a finger in the face of the hawk-nosed young man I had seen with Jim Nealis outside his office just a few days ago. Despite the admonishing finger, it was the Mouse who looked frightened and the other man who was angry. He did not like whatever he was hearing. If I’d been Mouse, my first concern would be that this guy might get mad enough to just lean over and bite that finger right off.

16
    T he last time I had been to Chilton, the grand estate across the bay from Newport where Virgil had grown up, I had arrived with revelations that did almost as much damage to the emotional fiber of the family as the collapse of the old man’s bogus empire. It had been necessary, but I wasn’t sure that I would be welcomed back. Virgil’s mother, Livy, had been distant when I called, but she had agreed to see me. That didn’t mean she wasn’t going to be waiting for me with a twelve-gauge pheasant shooter.
    I took I-95 all the way, despite the traffic and the rain. The ferry from Orient Point to New London would have avoided all the worst tie-ups, but would have cost me hours that I didn’t have. And the rain would have prevented me from enjoying the view on the ferry ride anyway. I traded stress for time. That rarely pays off, but being home early for the Kid was the greater goal.
    The road to the house was unassuming, not much more than a break in the trees with a discreet sign announcing the name of the estate, and another that heralded the security company who watched over the place. I noticed that Livy had changed providers since I was last there—the previous company had been less than reliable.
    The gardens needed work. The flower beds around the circular drive were brown and barren. The boxwood needed a haircut.