‘The stock’s worth nothing,’ he said quietly.
Hobie nodded his terrible head, like he was pleased with the reply.
‘Right now it isn’t,’ he said. ‘But it will be worth something soon, right?’
‘Only after your exposure is terminated,’ Stone said. ‘Catch-22, right? The stock only goes back up after I repay you. When I’m out of the woods.’
‘So I’ll benefit then,’ Hobie said. ‘I’m not talking about a temporary transfer. I’m going to take an equity position, and I’m going to keep it.’
‘Keep it?’ Stone said. He couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. Fifty-two per cent interest and a gift of stock?
‘I always do,’ Hobie said. ‘It’s a sentimental thing. I like to have a little part of all the businesses I help. Most people are glad to make the arrangement.’
Stone swallowed. Looked away. Examined his options. Shrugged.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I guess that’s OK.’
Hobie reached to his left and rolled open a drawer. Pulled out a printed form. Slid it across to the front of the desk.
‘I prepared this,’ he said.
Stone crouched forward off the sofa and picked it up. It was a loan agreement, one-point-one million, six weeks, 6 per cent, and a standard stock-transfer protocol. For a chunk that was worth a million dollars not long ago, and might be again, very soon. He blinked.
‘Can’t do it any other way,’ Hobie said. ‘Like I told you, I specialize. I know this corner of the market. You won’t get better anyplace else. Fact is, you won’t get a damn thing anyplace else.’
Hobie was six feet away behind the desk, but Stone felt he was right next to him on the sofa with his awful face jammed in his and the glittering hook ripping through his guts. He nodded, just a faint silent movement of his head, and went into his coat for his fat Mont Blanc fountain pen. Stretched forward and signed in both places against the cold hard glass of the coffee table. Hobie watched him, and nodded in turn.
‘I assume you want the money in your operating account?’ he asked. ‘Where the other banks won’t see it?’
Stone nodded again, in a daze.
‘That would be good,’ he said.
Hobie made a note. ‘It’ll be there in an hour.’
‘Thank you,’ Stone said. It seemed appropriate.
‘So now I’m the one who’s exposed,’ Hobie said. ‘Six weeks, no real security. Not a nice feeling at all.’
“There won’t be a problem,’ Stone said, looking down.
Hobie nodded.
‘I’m sure there won’t,’ he said. He leaned forward and pressed the intercom in front of him. Stone heard a buzzer sounding faintly outside in the anteroom.
‘The Stone dossier, please,’ Hobie said into the microphone.
There was silence for a moment, and then the door opened. The male receptionist walked over to the desk. He was carrying a thin green file. He bent and placed it in front of Hobie. Walked back out and closed the door quietly. Hobie used his hook to push the file over to the front edge of the desk.
‘Take a look,’ he said.
Stone crouched forward and took the file. Opened it up. There were photographs in it. Several big eight-by-tens, in glossy black and white. The first photograph was of his house. Clearly taken from inside a car stopped at the end of his driveway. The second was of his wife. Marilyn. Shot with a long lens as she walked in the flower garden. The third was of Marilyn coming out of her beauty parlour in town. A grainy, long-lens image. Covert, like a surveillance photograph. The fourth picture was a close-up of the licence plate of her BMW.
The fifth photograph was also of Marilyn. Taken at night through their bedroom window. She was dressed in a bathrobe. Her hair was down, and it looked damp. Stone stared at it. To get that picture, the photographer had been standing on their back lawn. His vision blurred and his ears hummed with silence. Then he shuffled the pictures together and closed the file. Put it back on the desk, slowly. Hobie leaned forward and pressed the tip of his hook into the thick green paper. He used it to pull the file back towards him. The hook rasped across the wood, loudly in the silence.