80: Chapter 80 The Shark's Sense of Smell

The rain had stopped, but the sewers of New York were still tirelessly swallowing the city's filth.

Chen Mo sat in that Porsche, which was only about seventy percent new.

"Boss, are you sure about this?" Jack Martin's voice came through the car's Bluetooth, sounding a bit shaky, as if he had been standing in a cold wind for half an hour.

"That old bastard Lawrence Astor is waiting for that Russian at the Metropolitan Club. If we cut off his funding chain now..."

"Who said anything about cutting it off?" Chen Mo snapped his lighter shut. "Let him borrow."

"Huh?"

"That Russian guy named Ivanov, I know his background. He has three chop shops in Brooklyn that specialize in disposing of hostages that can't make it to market."

Chen Mo lowered his seat, looking at the light on the top floor of the Astor Bank building that burned all night.

"Lawrence is a drowning man now, and Ivanov is a barbed lifebuoy. Let him put it on, but that's not enough."

Chen Mo paused, fished a box of mints out of the glove compartment, and popped two into his mouth.

"Jack, put on your most expensive suit and go to the Metropolitan Club. Remember, don't look like a beggar; you need to look like an upstart who just robbed a bank and hasn't had time to wash his hands yet."

"Go... do what?"

"Deliver money to him." Chen Mo crunched the mint.

"In the name of the Legacy fund, tell Lawrence that we are willing to provide a fifty-million-dollar bridge loan. No real estate collateral needed, no credit check required, just one thing—the shares of Astor Bank he holds as collateral."

There was silence on the other end of the line for two seconds, followed by the sound of keyboard typing.

"Boss, these terms are too harsh. That old stubborn fool Lawrence values his family shares more than his life; he'll kick me out."

"That's exactly why I want him to kick you out." Chen Mo smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes.

"Right now, he still has choices and will keep up his act for the sake of his ridiculous aristocratic dignity. Go on, be a proper vulture and let him get a whiff of the scent."

Half an hour later, Manhattan Upper East Side, Metropolitan Private Club.

The air here was filled with the scent of aged whiskey and expensive cigars, and every inch of the mahogany wainscoting seemed to say, "Keep out."

Jack Martin tugged at his slightly tight tie and pushed open the heavy oak door under the scornful gaze of the waiter.

Lawrence Astor was sitting on a leather sofa in the corner, swirling half a glass of brandy in his hand.

Sitting opposite him was a man with the build of a grizzly bear, with a piece of blue tattoo visible on his neck. That was Ivanov.

The two clearly hadn't reached an agreement. Ivanov cracked his thick finger joints, and Lawrence's expression was colder than the ice in his glass.

Jack took a deep breath and strode over.

"Excuse me, Mr. Astor."

Lawrence lifted his eyelids; those cloudy gray eyes looked as if they were watching a cockroach crawl onto the dining table.

"Who are you? Didn't the waiter tell you this place is membership-only?"

"Jack Martin, partner at the Legacy fund." Jack pulled a business card from his pocket—the one Chen Mo had just had him print half an hour ago, still smelling of ink.

He didn't hand it over, but instead placed it gently on the table, pinning down the IOU that Ivanov had just pushed across.

"I heard that Astor Bank has recently encountered a bit of... liquidity difficulty. As it happens, we are looking for a place to spend money."

Ivanov narrowed his eyes, like a beast interrupted while feeding, and let out a low growl.

Lawrence didn't look at the business card, but stared instead at the slightly ostentatious diamond cufflink on Jack's sleeve.

"The Legacy fund?" Lawrence scoffed, a sound expelled through his nostrils.

"Never heard of it. Can any Tom, Dick, or Harry on Wall Street call themselves a fund these days?"

"We are indeed new faces." Jack followed Chen Mo's script, deliberately making his posture aggressive.

"But our dollars are old, and they work just as well as the ones in your vault. Fifty million, available by tomorrow. The condition is that you pledge 15% of your Class B preferred shares as collateral."

"Get out."

Lawrence didn't even put down his glass.

"Mr. Astor, you should consider it. The interest on our Russian friend's money might be your fingers, whereas our money..."

"I said get out." Lawrence grabbed the business card, didn't even glance at it, and threw it directly into the ashtray beside him, watching as it was scorched with a charred hole by the unextinguished cigar butt.

"Take your stinking money and get out. Don't think I don't understand the minds of you Wall Street upstarts; you want to eat the meat of the Astor family? Your teeth aren't hard enough."

He turned to look at Ivanov, his face instantly changing to a reserved expression: "Mr. Ivanov, regarding that 30% monthly interest, I think we can discuss it further."

The muscles on Jack's face twitched.

The anger of being humiliated and some secret excitement mixed together, making his palms feel hot.

He straightened the hem of his suit, which wasn't even messy, and smiled as he took a step back.

"As you wish, Mr. Astor. But don't blame me for not warning you; this might be the last time you'll have the chance to stand and talk business with anyone."

Jack turned and walked out the door; as soon as he reached the porch, he took out his phone and sent a message.

Recipient: Boss.

Content: He refused; this old geezer is still dreaming.

Replied in seconds.

Sender: Boss.

Content: Then wake him up. Initiate Plan B and make him kneel.