Chapter 8: The Napkin Calculation

The napkin was a thin square thing, printed with the logo in the bottom right-hand corner. He smoothed it out on the table and uncapped his pen.

He worked in columns. He always worked in columns.

Left column: what Collins needed.

Based on the call, the debt amount was between ten and fifteen thousand. The debt amount had not been stated out loud on the call, but there had been a weight to the conversation that indicated it was a significant debt for the borrower and a small debt for the lender. Too small for a bank to bother with, too large for a waiter in Brooklyn to come up with in thirty-six hours. He wrote ~12K and put a box around it. He'd have Marcus verify it before writing out the cheque, but for purposes of planning, the debt amount was close enough.

Right column: what Alexander needed.

Three months. Six or more appearances: the Reed Capital annual investor dinner, the Metropolitan Museum gala, the Hargrove acquisition closing dinner, and at minimum three board-adjacent social events where the subtext of the evening would be Alexander Reed is not what that article implied. He needed someone who could have a conversation with a board member's wife about something other than finance. He needed someone who looked as though they were at home in a room where looking at home didn't come cheap. He needed someone who would under no circumstances develop feelings for the situation.

He wrote: 3 months. 6+ appearances. NDA. Clear terms. Debt cleared on completion.

He looked at the two columns.

The math was almost insultingly simple. Twelve thousand dollars was the kind of money he authorized without even looking at it. His driver cost more than that per month. His private chef cost more than that per week. He had spent more than twelve thousand dollars the last quarter on just this piece of art he had purchased because Marcus had said the artist was worth watching and he had believed him and then put the piece in the guest room where no one, including him, ever looked at it.

Twelve thousand dollars for three months of very specific strategic cover was not a business expense. It was barely even a rounding error.

He wrote the number in both columns and then drew a line under it.

The variable he had been sitting with since the alley door had even opened was the one he couldn't put in the columns. He was not—and he was clear-eyed about this—not a man who was good at other people. He was good at reading them. He was good at using what he read. He was good at maintaining the very specific social performances necessary to keep his world running smoothly. But this was not the same thing. He knew this wasn't the same thing. He had known this wasn't the same thing sometime in his late twenties when pretending had begun to cost him more in terms of energy than honesty.

Collins was good at other people. By every available evidence, he was very good at them. Which was why he was useful. Which was why he was a variable he couldn't even begin to put in the columns.

People who were good at other people had a way of noticing things.

Alexander Reed capped his pen.

This would have been manageable. The contract would have been crystal clear. Collins would have needed the money so badly that it would have held, and it would have held for so long that it would not have mattered if Collins noticed things, because noticing things and doing something about it were two different things, and Alexander had lived thirty-four years by keeping those two things separate.

He folded the napkin in half. Then in half again, this time along the crease. He tucked it into his breast pocket, where it sat against his jacket with the stiffness of paper used for writing.

The bar was quiet. Last orders would soon be called. He looked across the room.

Collins was at the service station, restocking bread, his back to the room. There was something controlled about his movements, something he hadn't had before the alley, something like the slightly more efficient movement of someone managing something they would not put down. He was managing it well. You would have to know what to look for.

Alexander would have known what to look for.

He took his phone out.

He composed a new message to a number he had stored in his memory. Not Marcus. Not his lawyer. But the direct number to the private lender, the guy he had used twice before to finance acquisitions where speed was more important than process. He typed a quick message. I need a name and a figure. Private lender. Brooklyn. Inherited debt. Recently. His name is Collins. He paused for a moment. Then added. Don't contact him. Information only.

He sent the message.

Then composed a second one to Marcus. Prepare an NDA. Standard form. Modified for a personal deal. I'll fill you in in the morning.

Almost immediately, Marcus's response came in. Understood. Should I ask?

Alexander typed. No.

He put the phone face down on the table. His eyes fell on the cocktail napkin stack on the edge of the table. The unused ones. Blank. With the small Caruso's logo in the corner. He put one on top of the stack for the next customer.

Across the room, Collins turned away from the service station and looked down at his phone. His expression changed. Slightly. Controllably. He stuffed the phone back in his apron pocket and looked up.

He looked directly at Alexander's booth.

Alexander met his gaze. He had the figures. He had the terms. He had the NDA half-written and the cheque practically drawn. The only unknown was whether Collins would sit down.

He was about to find out.

He folded his hands on the table and waited.