I threw myself into my work again. When I
was younger, I had thought that I could make Tappets one of the
most thriving companies in the world. I’d now realized a much
smaller goal. To be a modern industrial giant, you needed to take
on a sort of credit expansion which gambled your future away. It
would have destroyed the founding principle that Una, Mary, and
Stan, lived by.
By September, 2000, Mary and Stan had
decided to purchase an expansive home in Jamaica and live part of
the year there with Una. I was none too happy about this decision,
but they didn’t ask my opinion. I think they had both come to
realize that Tim Daniels was going to kill every soul close to me
and that their best tactic was to get away. They must have sensed
the inevitable First Law of Life for those born unlucky, especially
orphans, and had conceded. I feared they were right to do so.
Security at the mansion was tight. Josh practically lived there,
but Mary and Stan wanted out. I’d to decide to buy it from them or
sell it. More than once Mary had brought up the topic, Stan was
more patient, but I just couldn’t bring myself to a decision. Isaac
became my number two man as Mary, Una, and Stan slowly bowed out of
Tappets, and two months later, their new mansion in Jamaica was
ready. They now worked very seldom from the New Jersey offices, and
though they were on call for me, I seldom needed their advice on
the day to day operations, and long term planning we did in
person.
Isaac was enthusiastic about
‘continentalizing,’ as he called it, and selling off our European
and Asian assets, settling out with Una, Mary and Stan, and in
general, making the whole Tappets’ structure completely America,
that is, in either South or North American. With the North American
Free Trade Agreement in place, I saw the wisdom in this and we
began to plan ahead for it, but like a lot of events in my life, it
immediately took on a design and time-frame of its own. It came to
fruition within months, at least on paper; it of course would need
more time to get it all behind us.
One night when Una, Mary and Stan were in
town, they dropped over and made supper for me. I think they had
chosen that night to muscle me on the house. It was a Thursday in
November and the table was set exceptionally topnotch and the meal
was one of my favorites; Una was a dynamo.
After we sat and said grace, Mary swallowed
a glass of wine in one shot and I knew I was going to have to
decide on the spot. “If you don’t take it,” she said, pouring
herself another glass, “I’ll sell it immediately.”
I looked at Stan, and he shrugged. This
meant he wanted nothing to do with the conversation. I could see
that she was all business. Several candles shone and reflected off
the silver chalice of white roses in the center of the table as we
ate. Una had brought them. “Take it,” Una said teasingly.
“You don’t have to take it, Love,” Mary
said, “Good memories come with the house, but bad as well. Since
Sally died, the only place that appeals to me is in Jamaica with
Una. You’re the President of Tappets, I think you can live where
you want. But Una wants you to keep the house. Dad doesn’t care one
way or the other. I say, if you don’t buy it from us, it goes. You
see there’s no compromise position for you to take.”
“Whatever will you do?” Una asked, teasing
me further.
“Tag-teaming me,” I said, “Do you have no
shame?”
“You control a huge industrial
organization,” Mary said, “yet you seem incapable of this one small
decision. Stan always says that wealth is a form of slavery, and
the Lord knows that I wouldn’t want you to work any harder, but
we’ve been talking about this for two years. Decide. You can see I
want to move on.”
“I’ll stay here for the time being and pay
the figure of two million.”
“We all know it’s worth three or four,” Stan
said.
“Fine then,” I said, “two and a half?”
“Done,” Mary said authoritatively and Una
rose to go to the kitchen. She walked with a hard limp because of a
recent fall. For a moment, I watched her as she cleared the table.
“I’m glad you’re keeping it, dear,” she said as she returned. “It’s
part of the family and everybody needs roots.”
I knew it was true, but it seemed to me, I’d
ruined any chance for the Tappets to put down roots. After dinner,
I arranged a limousine for the three of them to the airport, and
once they were off, I climbed the stairs to what use to be Mary’s
office. I caught my reflection in a full-length mirror. Compared to
the youthful orphan who first came here stealing flowers, I seemed
unrecognizable, once more, a complete stranger onto myself, and now
with a touch of grey – life flew by! I thought I looked a little
like a banker; an unfriendly loans officer. I hated the idea of my
lost youth, and in truth, I fantasized about revenging myself on
The Family of Truth now, but of course, what was the point? They
were all gone except for Tim Daniels: Dead, imprisoned, or lost in
the shuffle, a pathetic waste of life.
I checked the mail on line from my
management team and for several hours dealt with the issues that
they faced, then, I poured myself a rye and mineral water. I put on
Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major.
I had been instrumental at Columbia Records
for getting the vintage vinyl by the London Philharmonic Orchestra,
a quarter century old, to disk. This was among Stan’s favorite. I
thought of calling a young Jamaican woman I’d met through Josh and
Ashe, but by car it would be at least an hour and put me out of
sorts for my meetings in the morning, none of which I could afford
to put off. Just recently I’d envisioned relinquishing control of
Tappets, provoked in part by Una, Mary, and Stan’s departure to
Jamaica. Though the nineties had been rewarding for us
economically, many major headaches arose currently which I simply
wasn’t looking forward to handling alone. While I worked, I heard a
noise downstairs and looked at my watch.
“Josh,” I called out, thinking it might be
him. No answer came and I unlocked a drawer in my desk, taking out
a small Ruger 38 and dropping it into my pocket. Tim Daniels, and
where he would strike next, never strayed far away from my mind.
“Josh,” I called again.
Another reason to sell the mansion was that
it was too large for a single person no matter how secure it had
been built. After a quick search, turning off the lights behind me,
I passed through a long wide hallway acting as both the
laundry-storage room and an unfrequented corridor to the
garage.
When I came to the entrance to the garage, I
gasped and swore to myself a harsh, “Jesus Christ!”
Between the two 2001 Mercedes which faced
me, one white, one black, Josh sat tied to a plain wooden chair
with duct tape over his mouth and blood trickling from his nose.
His eyes were open and I rushed to his side, only to catch sight
out of the corner of my eye as though a forgotten ghost: Lloyd
Mills.
“Goddamn!” I cursed, stumbling back.
He had a revolver in his hand and wore his
hair slicked back now, giving his face an outright ruthless look.
It might not have been just this single effect distorting his face.
He seemed to have lost more weight, if that was even possible, and
his narrow cheeks and resentful eyes completely took away whatever
former attractiveness he had.
“Christian,” he said in a low calm voice,
“it’s been a long time.”
The words themselves came out eerily. I
caught Josh’s eyes signaling something. I felt someone behind me
and a shudder shot through me as I spun and saw the pale haunting
face of Tim Daniels, a man morphed into a wizened semblance of his
former self. He cracked me over the head with something in his
hand, a pistol I think, and when I woke, I too had been tied to a
chair and gagged, not far from Josh, whose face I could see. I
realized I couldn’t have been out for more than a few minutes. I
tested the bonds and looked around. I had been tied expertly, my
hands behind my back and my legs taped firmly to the legs of the
chair. Both cars were parked on either side of Josh and me, so that
we were sandwiched, and partially hidden, by them.
What was Tim up to? Was it true, as I had so
often heard from the police after the murder of Sally, that he’d
gone completely psycho? Would we be tortured or just murdered? If I
was to be killed, why hadn’t they already done it? Then, there was
Lloyd. How did he fit in? Who’d found who? The faint scent of
petrol couldn’t hide my body odor; I knew it from my days in court:
The smell of my own fear, a fear one feels when death is close by,
when the reaper is within reach, like that morning at the Grand
Hyatt all those years ago when I’d tried to commit suicide. I
thought of Stan. What would he do now in this time of need? For
some unknown reason, this made me feel anger, I’d Sally’s killer
within my grasps but I was on the wrong end of the barrel, but this
remained secondary to fear. However, even in the garish light of
the garage, my fear lessened as the minutes ticked by. I closed my
eyes and slept.
When I awoke, I saw that Josh had taken my
lead and was sleeping too. I heard something behind me and then saw
Tim hop up to sit on the hood of the black Mercedes only two feet
away from Josh. He was eating something—a power bar—and had placed
his gun in his lap. What had once been a sincere contemplative
young religious man in Thought Jacob had grown through the decades
into a masquerade misshaped by obvious facial ticks which dark
pleasures bring, the pockmarks of a nervous disorder, and unfeeling
appalling eyes. Josh awoke and Lloyd came into my sights, dawning a
smile which distorted his face, and there we were, all four of
us.
“I remember being tied to a chair,” Lloyd
said softly as though to himself, “and you being on the other side
of the gun. How does it feel? Not so great, I’d wager. I loved
Sally but her fate befell her in the light of an unhealthy desire
for revenge, a desire to which you two fuckers have grown devoted,
but Mr. Daniels and I aren’t here for these base motives, nor to
even go over the past, nor to justify our past behavior. What has
happened is done. The four of us are here for the same reason. To
stay alive, and if everything goes well, no one gets hurt and no
one will be the wiser. Mr. Daniels needs me to facilitate the
exchange of funds from Tappet’s accounts to ours. We want five
million American dollars each. We’d like more – you’re capable of
much more, Christian, as we all well know – but for you, ten
million is a doable proposition without the need for anyone.
Burgess is here, just in case you were wondering, to do our leg
work, plus we would like to keep our eyes on him while we are doing
business with you. It seems that he’s always on the hunt for Mr.
Daniels. Has he ever been off the Tappets’ payroll since your
trial? My new business partner, here, is damn fed up with it, sir,
and tired of running. Right, Mr. Daniels?” Tim nodded. “This is
what we will guarantee if you agree to pay,” Lloyd continued, “and
of course, permanently call off Mr. Burgess.”
Lloyd reached into his jacket-pocket and
showed me several recent photographs of Una, Mary and Stan in their
new home in Jamaica, clear photos, very close up. “When Mr. Daniels
and I met,” he said, “he was making plans to do more than visit
them.”
He looked over at Tim who jumped down and in
one jerk, ripped off my gag. “How did you get in here?” I shouted,
my lips throbbing in pain. Tim punched me in the face and I saw
stars for a minute and tasted blood.
“Do you agree to meet all our demands?”
Lloyd asked. I nodded. “How soon can you move the money into our
accounts?”
I looked over at Josh. Would they take the
money and kill us anyway? Probably. Should I stall for time?
Probably, but I could feel the gun in my pocket. They hadn’t
searched me and if I agreed to everything quickly, they’d untie my
hands to let me carry out the exchange. Should I take the chance?
“Immediately,” I whispered.
Lloyd’s eyes opened wide in surprise and he
traded a glance with Tim who nodded. “Do you mean by the morning?”
he asked.
“I can transfer it over the web right now if
your accounts have complete electronic access and then you can
check the transfer independently by cell.”
Lloyd and Tim left the garage to confer and
I breathed in deep breaths trying to calm myself. “Josh,” I
whispered, “are you armed?” He shook his head. “I am,” I said
softly, “if they untie my hands, I’ll shoot them both.”
Josh vigorously shook his head. Tim and
Lloyd returned, and then, Tim slapped my face with lacerating
force. I almost passed out. “One single miscue,” he whispered.
“I’ll kill you with pleasure.”
I could taste the blood in my mouth again.
Tim untied my legs and pushed me along with Lloyd trailing us, and
sat me before my computer, then, Tim untied my hands and I at once
jumped to my feet seizing the Ruger. I aimed point-blank at Tim’s
head and pulled the trigger. It clicked several times and Tim
punched me in the face with a short guttural chuckle. I’d forgotten
to load it. Stars exploded before my eyes and the gun fell to the
floor. This time, I passed out. When I awoke my nose was still
bleeding. I think it was broken.
“Please, Christian,” Lloyd pleaded,
“transfer the money now, before he kills you.” With my nose
bleeding and head pounding, I sat in my chair, and within minutes,
moved five million dollars into each account. Lloyd phoned Zürich
to double-check. “Let’s be off,” he said cheerfully when he’d hung
up. Tim raised his pistol to my head, looking into my eyes with a
smile, but Lloyd grabbed his arm as he shot, and the bullet only
grazed me. I fell back.
“You said no killing if I got you the
money,” Lloyd said. “Now, keep your word!”
Tim taped up my hands and legs to the chair,
and they left together, but Tim had taped sloppily, and by this
alone, I knew he intended to come back to finish me off as soon as
he could get rid of Lloyd. I rocked the chair back and forth until
it fell over. I kicked off my shoes and squirmed out of my pants,
scrambling to my feet in my briefs and bending down at the desk so
I could pull out the third drawer. With my hands behind my back, I
felt for a box of bullets, then rushed around looking for the
Ruger. I heard footsteps on the stairs. “Hurry!” I urged
myself.