THIRTY-ONE
“What the hell is it with you two?”
Straight Up
Vic Bonacelli is not happy. I’ve burst into his private office waving my transfer form like it’s a winning lottery ticket. Rags right behind me, screaming, face crimson, wings flapping like a chicken.
“I’m trying to do what my client wants, this asshole won’t let me,” I say to
Vic.
“He refused my direct order,” Rags says.
Vic
throws his hands in the air, waving like he’s trying to stop the horses pulling a runaway stagecoach. “Stop it, both of you. Not another fucking word.”
Rags and I take simultaneous deep breaths, competing now to numb down in front of the boss. We sneak glances at each other. Jesus. We’re like nine
year olds.
“Okay, one story at a time,”
Vic says. “But I gotta say first, I am fucking livid. This personal thing you two have is costing me money. And I will not…stand for it one…more…fucking…day!”
Rags and I are both reluctant to answer the charges. We both nod our heads like pimply school kids before the hard-ass men’s vice principle-slash-football coach. In high school, I was in that office a lot. I have the pimply school kid look down pat.
Vic picks up his pro-balanced titanium putter, carefully examines the sleek mallet-style head and the graphite shaft. He wraps his fingers one at a time around the padded Argentine-leather grip. There’s an electric tension coming off him, like his putter’s some kind of lightning rod.
Suddenly Mr.
Vic’s shoulders snap-twist, cocking the putter behind him like a baseball slugger. Then zoom, he swings. The club head misses our noses by six or eight inches, then disappears into the fiberboard wall behind Mr. Vic’s desk.
A loud crack means the club hit a two-by-four stud behind the plaster.
Ten minutes later Rags and I have both explained, depicted, and reported our individual versions. My story started out with exaggeration, then slipped into fabrication and total invention. Result being my whole chronicle was pretty much bullshit. On the other hand, Rags’ tale showed he’s pretty much figured out exactly what Kelly and I are up to: thievery. The sneaky bastard.
Vic
coughs before he speaks. “Okay. First thing I gotta say. Rags, I don’t see we have much risk with this transfer. The client was in here last week, healthy and fit. This is his money, and this is what he wants us to do with it. If his children have a problem with this transfer after he dies, let them sue Kelly Rockland. Seems to me we’re covered.”
Rags shakes
his head. “We’re not covered if our salesman is sleeping with Kelly Rockland. Two million is a lot to move just before a man dies. The relationship between Carr and this woman, the transfer, together they’re suggestive of a scheme. The children’s lawyers will have us by the balls. We could end up having to reimburse his children the two million dollars.”
That’s punching below the belt, Rags. Threatening Mr.
Vic’s wallet.
Rags saying, “Who knows what shape this Gerry Burns character is in now? Or if he even knew what the hell he was signing?”
I shake my head. Rags has it all wrong. I signed that transfer form, not Gerry.
Rags reads my
mind. “We don’t even know this signature’s ligit,” he says. “It could be forged.”
I let my gaze find
Vic’s. Man to man, Mr. Vic, my eyes are saying Rags’ suggestions are utter and pure bullshit.
Mr.
Vic breaks off our eye contact, leans back in his red leather chair. His gaze slides to Rags, then the mahogany-trimmed ceiling, and finally to a gold-framed snapshot of his wife and children, including Carmela, Rags’ new fiancée.
Ten seconds go by and his hands slip beneath his solid black tie. Slowly, the fingers begin to scratch his belly. I’ve seen him do this a lot on the golf course, deciding which club to hit. Tough choices make
Vic itchy.
The boss finally rests his forearms on the desk and stares at my nose. I give it right back because I know what’s coming, what I’ve got to say. My little speech has been carefully written and rewritten.
Vic asking me, “You sleeping with her?”
I stare at his nose. Like he taught us. Don’t blink. “No freaking way,
Vic. This is my biggest account. Would I risk it over pussy? Especially the way my business is now, my situation?”
“You were in the room when Gerry Burns signed this form? You witnessed his signing?”
“The form doesn’t require or ask for a witness, but yes, I was there. I saw Gerry sign. He asked me to prepare the form last week. Also, for our files, I have a document coming in the mail that acclaims to Gerry’s soundness of mind. Signed by doctors and a judge. Gerry wants to protect Ms. Rockland from questions later. I thought a copy might protect us, too.”
“You never told me that,” Rags says. “You would have told me that.”
“Shut up,” Vic says.
I feel confident, not because I’m such a great liar
—there’s no document coming—but because Mr. Vic knows better than anyone how we all make our money. By pleasing clients. At the beginning of the twentieth century, stockbrokers were called “customer’s men” with very good reason. The point being, I’m betting Vic understands that if Shore Securities refuses to carry out Gerry’s requested transfer, Vic can pretty much count on Gerry moving his money to a firm that will.
“All right,”
Vic says. “Here’s my decision.”
Rags and I inch forward. I hear the tick-tick-tick of Mr.
Vic’s little desk clock. My stomach’s growling for Cruz and a plate chili Colorado.
“First off, the transfer goes through. You’re suspicious, Rags, but where’s the proof? I’ve known Austin seven years. With no evidence, how can the firm refuse a client’s legitimate request?”
I sigh. Rags glares at his Florsheims.
Mr.
Vic turns to me. “But Austin, you asshole, you are officially on one-month probation. Rags is your boss. You can’t talk to him, defy him like you have been. I’m not making you clean out your desk today, but if you disregard Rags’ direct orders in the next thirty days, I will physically throw you out of this office myself, got it?”
Guess I can follow orders for a month. “Can I tell him to go screw himself after thirty days?”
Vic growls. “Don’t get smart. I could change my mind about your ass having a seat here today.” He yanks on the putter but it’s still stuck in the wall. “Both of you get the hell out of my office. Make me some money.”
THIRTY-TWO
A full September moon and fast-moving clouds cast Shore Securities’ parking lot alternately in shade and heatless gray light. Night birds twitter nervously. A steady wind rakes my face with the claw of winter.
I’m dressed in black slacks and a black T-shirt, black sneakers. It’s three o’clock in the morning. Think I might be up to no good? Ha. That’s right spy fans, meet Stockbroker Special Ops, Austin Carr.
Now that some of Gerry’s money is on its way to Kelly, I need to destroy the evidence—that forged transfer form.
The security code and a key
to my place of business, Shore Securities, are in my possession. But to unlock the back door, walk in, and punch the code means a permanent record of someone being here. For all I know, there’s a camera working.
No, my plan involves the little bathroom window that opens on the alley. The bathroom window has those slatted louvered windows our security guy told Mr.
Vic are impossible to protect. Doesn’t take an expert to slide the panes out one at a time without tripping the alarm. I know for a fact Mr. Vic was supposed to replace that window, call the security guy back in.
I cross Shore’s never-empty parking area. Some of the guys go out drinking after work and inevitably a couple of them can’t drive later, take cabs or bum a ride. I recognize Bobby G’s green Lexus, and on the other side of that, Mr.
Vic’s Beamer wagon. Odd. The boss doesn’t drink with the salesmen much, except maybe Christmas.
A stranger thing hooks my interest. Shore’s back entrance is cracked open. My heart
-rate climbs a notch. Dim blue light shines from inside through a narrow, seven-foot-tall drop line of unclosed door.
When I step closer, a telephone begins to ring.
The night birds halt their squawking. Maybe that phone is Shore’s security company checking in, what with the back door being open like this. Alarms should be blazing.
If Mr.
Vic is in there, why doesn’t he answer the phone?
The steel surface of Shore’s back door cools my fingertips as I pull it toward me. Inside, I make my eyes
unfocused to scan for movement. The light inside comes from Shore’s big sales room down the hallway.
Should I answer the phone? Or do what I came to do?
Shore’s kitchen is darker than the back entry way. Takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I tip-toe across the eight-by-twelve-foot room and open a drawer, second one from the left.
The phone stops ringing.
A popping noise freezes my hands and my breathing. Sounded like somebody dropped something. Or maybe a light bulb snapped. The noise wasn’t loud, but it was definitely human. Something man-made.
I try to finish my
mission—find Shore’s packet of documents being sent to storage tomorrow. In the packet, I can locate Gerry’s transfer package, which should be close to the top of the stack, then pick out the Third Party Authorization to Transfer Assets form I signed Gerry’s name to. I need to stick that piece of nasty evidence into the shredder.
It’s too late to change my mind about helping Kelly, agreeing to accept that fifty-eight
thousand dollar commission. I’ve done the deed. And since I’m past the point of no return, why not add burglary to grand theft, fraud, and forgery? I’ll feel a whole lot safer when that fake signature no longer exists.
Could be a copy or two around, sure, but legally copies are a different story.
I have the forged signature in my hand when a floor-shaking crash thunders in the hallway. No light bulb, this explosion. Could have come from Vic’s office.
Slipping the transfer form into the shredder, I press the red button. It wh
irs two seconds. Gonzo forgery.
I resume tip-toes, this time to the kitchen door and peak around the corner, down the hall toward the front entrance. My heart’s already out-thumping
most rock n’ roll tunes, but what I see on the hall floor turns the beat to double-time.
The carved oak door to
Vic’s suite has been knocked off its hinges, the replica of a Florentine masterpiece now lying flat across the hallway. Dragging Mr. Vic’s motionless form across the fallen door is Psycho Sam Attica.
I fight the urge to vomit. Mr.
Vic’s broken-looking body sinks me like a lead fishing weight, holding me down. Think. I’m going to be Psycho’s next victim unless I run and keep running, but Mr. Vic’s always been square with me. He just saved me from Psycho. Mr. Vic could need help badly.
I step back from the doorway and pick up the telephone. The numbers glow. I press 9-1-1.
When the operator asks who’s calling, I give her Vic Bonacelli’s name and address. In case I decide later I don’t want to be here.
Describing
Vic’s twisted face and torso, the crash of breaking glass and pounding footsteps interrupts my conversation. What the hell’s going on now?
The operator saying, “Sir?”
“Hang on a minute.”
THIRTY-THREE
I peek around Shore’s door jam. The pounding feet belong to Psycho Sam. He’s barreling down Shore Securities’ long center hallway, dragging Mr. Vic’s limp body behind him like a super-sized trash bag. Beyond Sam, Mr. Vic, and the lighted sales floor, I make out two uniformed Branchtown policemen knocking down the front entrance.
Thank you, ringing telephone. My 9-1-1 call hasn’t had time to register. Shore’s security company must have phoned the cops when no one answered.
My heart doesn’t stop hammering the inside of my ribcage, but the associated chest pain eases. My lungs suck a gasping breath.
Sam’s huge feet springboard him down the
hall. A police cruiser parked out front somewhere flashes red and blue lights behind Sam’s super-size head and shoulders, fantasizing his appearance into a creature out of Marvel Comics.
Jesus, he’s scary big and athletic. Psycho Sam, the Captain of Crazy. At first my gut told me to run. Now it says hide, fall back and let the cops try to prevent Psycho from fleeing with his captive. But damn. If there’s a chance Mr.
Vic’s in urgent need of care, I have to stop this disappointed investor right here.
What I need is on the kitchen sideboard, and I trade the telephone in my hand for a jar of Hazelnut-flavored coffee creamer. The glass container feels full, heavy as a two-pound hammer.
Sam’s too close to glance around the corner again. But judging his approach by the sound of his footsteps, the tremble of wood beneath Shore’s waterproof kitchen carpet, I mentally picture whacking a falling oak tree with coffee additive, then prepare to repeat the suicidal move for real. Mr. Vic and I desperately need this glass jar inserted hard into Sam’s path. Preferably about chin high.
I gasp for air like a
vacuum cleaner. My heart rate’s already at maximum, but now the associated chest pain returns. My timing better be optimal, my aim perfect. For additional incentive, I quickly list the numerous injuries suffered under Psycho’s hands: Compacted spinal disks, flayed skin on hands and knees, a newly acquired psychological fear of wet sand.
I swing the jar of coffee additive around the kitchen corner. The collision shatters the glass, rips at my shoulder, throws up a cloud of white powder, and slams me against the opposite side of the door jam. Did I hit Psycho Sam? Or a twelve-car commuter train?
I sink to my haunches, stunned, seeing double through a snowy mist of Hazelnut dust.