stubble three hours after he’d shaved. He had the brooding, patient gaze of a hunter, and a hundred years ago he might have been found wandering the rugged landscape of southern Sicily clad in chamois pants and a sheepskin vest, a
lupara
slung over one shoulder, tracking the wolves that regularly ravaged his family’s flock. Today, DiGenovese might still be called a hunter, but his prey was decidedly human, and his arsenal more subtle than his ancestor’s twelve-gauge shotgun.
Armed with a Juris Doctor and an MBA from New York University, a CPA’s credential emblazoned upon his breastplate, Roy DiGenovese was the newest member of the FBI’s Joint Russo-American Task Force on Organized Crime. Prior to his studies, he’d spent time in the U.S. Army, earning his Ranger’s tab and serving with the 75 th Ranger Regiment at Fort Benning, Georgia. Three years into what he hoped to be a lifelong career with the FBI, he was trim and muscular, and possessed of the same killer instinct as the wild-ass teenager who used to rappel out of helicopters in the dead of night, an M16 on his back and a K-bar strapped to his calf.
Setting the cigarette in the ashtray, DiGenovese picked up a scuffed Nikon from the seat beside him and brought it to his eye. The speed-wind whirred nicely as he fired off a dozen stills of Gavallan hauling himself out of the crazy old car with the gullwing doors. Even through the shutter, the man looked tired and in need of a break. It was easy to understand why. Seven days of following Gavallan had convinced DiGenovese he’d made the right decision not to take a job on Wall Street. Twelve hours a day cooped up inside a skyscraper was no way to go through life. The guy’s desk might be made of mahogany, but the chain that tied him to it was pig iron, all the same.
As soon as Gavallan disappeared inside the sleek office tower, DiGenovese exchanged the Nikon for a two-way radio. “Zebra two, this is Zebra base, come in.”
“Zebra two, roger.”
“Maid gone?”
“Two minutes back. On her way to pew number seven at St. Mary’s as we speak.”
“Good. Tell her to light a candle for us, we who are about to sin.”
Gavallan’s maid, a middle-aged Guatemalan illegal named Hortensia Estrada, hadn’t missed morning mass a single day that week. The service lasted between fifty and sixty minutes, leaving DiGenovese’s men plenty of time to do their work.
“You’re good to go, Zebra two,” said DiGenovese. “Time at target is thirty minutes. I repeat: three-zero minutes. Are we clear?”
“Roger, Zebra base. Three-zero minutes. Walk in the park.”
Are you sure you want to do this?” Sten Norgren asked, clutching a sheaf of manila folders, legal envelopes, and stray papers to his chest.
“Just give me the documents, Sten. It’s not that big a deal.”
Hesitantly, Norgren laid the stack of papers on his desk. “It’s only for your protection,” he pleaded in an injured tone. He was short and barrel-chested, with a florid, cherubic face and curly blond hair. “Isn’t it just a wee bit crazy to stuff all your money in one investment?”
“Not if it’s your own company,” said Gavallan. “Besides, can I tell you a secret?” He motioned the attorney closer. “That stuff about diversification? It’s bullshit. Just a ruse to bump up commissions. We can’t have our customers buying and holding the same stock for twenty years at a time. We’d be bankrupt by Christmas. Sector rotation, averaging in, market timing—that’s the ticket. Churn and burn, Sten, that’s the name of the game.”
For a moment, Norgren didn’t answer, and Gavallan could practically see the lawyer’s analytical mind parsing over his statement, deciding whether what he said might actually be true. Then Norgren burst out, “Shut up, you bullshit artist. Sit your butt down in that chair, right now. I’ve got just the pen to sign your life away—a Mont Blanc that Sherry gave me for Christmas. Lousy thing
lupara
slung over one shoulder, tracking the wolves that regularly ravaged his family’s flock. Today, DiGenovese might still be called a hunter, but his prey was decidedly human, and his arsenal more subtle than his ancestor’s twelve-gauge shotgun.
Armed with a Juris Doctor and an MBA from New York University, a CPA’s credential emblazoned upon his breastplate, Roy DiGenovese was the newest member of the FBI’s Joint Russo-American Task Force on Organized Crime. Prior to his studies, he’d spent time in the U.S. Army, earning his Ranger’s tab and serving with the 75 th Ranger Regiment at Fort Benning, Georgia. Three years into what he hoped to be a lifelong career with the FBI, he was trim and muscular, and possessed of the same killer instinct as the wild-ass teenager who used to rappel out of helicopters in the dead of night, an M16 on his back and a K-bar strapped to his calf.
Setting the cigarette in the ashtray, DiGenovese picked up a scuffed Nikon from the seat beside him and brought it to his eye. The speed-wind whirred nicely as he fired off a dozen stills of Gavallan hauling himself out of the crazy old car with the gullwing doors. Even through the shutter, the man looked tired and in need of a break. It was easy to understand why. Seven days of following Gavallan had convinced DiGenovese he’d made the right decision not to take a job on Wall Street. Twelve hours a day cooped up inside a skyscraper was no way to go through life. The guy’s desk might be made of mahogany, but the chain that tied him to it was pig iron, all the same.
As soon as Gavallan disappeared inside the sleek office tower, DiGenovese exchanged the Nikon for a two-way radio. “Zebra two, this is Zebra base, come in.”
“Zebra two, roger.”
“Maid gone?”
“Two minutes back. On her way to pew number seven at St. Mary’s as we speak.”
“Good. Tell her to light a candle for us, we who are about to sin.”
Gavallan’s maid, a middle-aged Guatemalan illegal named Hortensia Estrada, hadn’t missed morning mass a single day that week. The service lasted between fifty and sixty minutes, leaving DiGenovese’s men plenty of time to do their work.
“You’re good to go, Zebra two,” said DiGenovese. “Time at target is thirty minutes. I repeat: three-zero minutes. Are we clear?”
“Roger, Zebra base. Three-zero minutes. Walk in the park.”
Are you sure you want to do this?” Sten Norgren asked, clutching a sheaf of manila folders, legal envelopes, and stray papers to his chest.
“Just give me the documents, Sten. It’s not that big a deal.”
Hesitantly, Norgren laid the stack of papers on his desk. “It’s only for your protection,” he pleaded in an injured tone. He was short and barrel-chested, with a florid, cherubic face and curly blond hair. “Isn’t it just a wee bit crazy to stuff all your money in one investment?”
“Not if it’s your own company,” said Gavallan. “Besides, can I tell you a secret?” He motioned the attorney closer. “That stuff about diversification? It’s bullshit. Just a ruse to bump up commissions. We can’t have our customers buying and holding the same stock for twenty years at a time. We’d be bankrupt by Christmas. Sector rotation, averaging in, market timing—that’s the ticket. Churn and burn, Sten, that’s the name of the game.”
For a moment, Norgren didn’t answer, and Gavallan could practically see the lawyer’s analytical mind parsing over his statement, deciding whether what he said might actually be true. Then Norgren burst out, “Shut up, you bullshit artist. Sit your butt down in that chair, right now. I’ve got just the pen to sign your life away—a Mont Blanc that Sherry gave me for Christmas. Lousy thing
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