The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) by Stephen Leather Read Free Book Online Page B

were about the same age, but Lehman had been in the boiler room business for a hell of a lot longer than Cilento. Cilento was only in charge because his brother carried weight in the mob. Lehman had signed up three months earlier after investigators from the Orange County District Attorney’s office had closed down his last workplace. Lehman hadn’t been in the office at the time so he’d been able to find another base pretty quickly. A week or so after he’d joined Cilento’s operation he’d discovered that it was connected to the mob but he’d figured that so long as the cash kept coming through he’d grin and bear it. The only drawback had been Cilento himself, who seemed to think that slammers needed constant goading if they were to perform. The white board had been his idea, as had been the idea of taking away the chair of the worst-performing salesman so that he or she had to work standing up. Cilento could be brutal, verbally and physically, but Lehman was certain that it was the brutality of a bully who wasn’t sure of himself. He’d seen him reduce a young woman to tears because he reckoned she wasn’t producing enough, and he’d slapped around a former accountant who’d answered back when Cilento had cursed him out for not following the sales pitch to the letter. Cilento usually left Lehman alone because he was consistently one of the operation’s top three producers.
    “Yeah, whatever you say, Max,” said Lehman, with no warmth in his voice.
    “Maybe you should develop a stammer, like Dillman,” said Cilento, the grip tightening. Lehman looked at the hand on his shoulder. It was big and wide, the nails neatly clipped, the flesh soft and white. Each finger wore a large, gold ring and the four rings had the collective appearance of a knuckle-duster. Cilento wouldn’t have to hit hard to do a lot of damage.
    “Diff’rent strokes,” said Lehman. “I always find that my boyish charm pays off.”
    Cilento nodded and released his grip. “Just keep it up, Danny boy,” he said, slipping the sales orders off Lehman’s spike and taking them back to his table. Cilento had a glass-panelled office in the far corner of the room but he rarely used it, preferring instead to be with the salesmen.
    The young man in an LA Lakers sweatshirt who’d been standing up for the last three days and who’d probably be out of a job by the end of the week, put his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone and called out, “Conrad Morgan?”
    “That’s me,” shouted Dillman. In the boiler room, no one used their real name with the punters. Lehman finished his Diet Coke and he lobbed the can through the air towards a wastepaper-basket. It smacked into the rim and then slipped in with a clatter. One of the young slammers clapped his hands and yelled “Two points!” and Lehman stood up to take a bow. He needed a caffeine boost, he decided, and went over to the small kitchenette where the coffee machine was and poured himself a styrofoam cup of black coffee. Dillman finished his call and came up to put a croissant in the microwave. As he waited for it to heat up he asked Lehman how he was getting on.
    “Doing okay,” said Lehman. “I think Cilento is trying to work up a grudge match between the two of us.”
    “He’s a charmer, isn’t he?” said Dillman. “If it wasn’t for his brother I doubt that they’d let him within a mile of an operation like this.” Dillman folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the storage cupboard where the men kept their tea and coffee supplies. With his tweed suit and wool tie Dillman looked more like a small-town schoolteacher than the first-rate slammer that he was.
    “Yeah. He wants me to copy your stammer.”
    Dillman laughed and ran his hand across his balding head. “Well, Dan, it’s never f-f-f-failed m-m-m-me.”
    The microwave dinged and Dillman took out his croissant. “Well, back to the grind,” he said.
    Lehman sipped his hot coffee and surveyed the