A Legitimate Businessman

by Dale Nelson

  The first step to reading someone was learning their tells.

  Megan’s was stalling before raising a difficult subject. She’d give him a stage pause, a dramatic look out the window, or fuss with an object for a breath or two. Jack let this play out a few seconds. He had to be careful about calling her on it. When she didn’t initiate her end of the conversation, Jack knew it must’ve been something serious.

  “What is it you really wanted to talk to me about, Meg?”

  She chewed on her lower lip a moment before saying, “I was just wondering if you’d heard from Hugh yet.”

  Jack knew why she didn’t want to ask because they both knew the news wouldn’t be good. If Jack avoided vocalizing it that seemed to make it less real. He closed his eyes, more pressing the lids together with as much force as he could muster until it actually caused a dull ache around his eyes as if to exorcise some unspoken pain by creating a different kind. The reason Meg was asking about Coughlin was that the lawyer had a meeting with the Sonoma County District Attorney’s Office today to discuss their case. Even though the actual investigation was handled by the State of California, Hugh thought that he might be able to get some traction by going to the DA’s office that he’d originally filed the complaint with.

  “I did,” Jack said finally and slowly.

  “I suppose if the news was good, you’d have led off with it,” Megan replied.

  Jack nodded and just grunted out a sour “mm-hm.” After another half-minute or so, he said, “It’s the same line that the state investigator gave me. The DA’s office and the CHP are looking into it, but they have a full caseload, so they expect this to take some time.” Jack rolled his hand in the “as-you-do” gesture. “Which was why I called the state’s Bureau of Investigation.”

  “How much time?”

  Jack shrugged. “Months. Hugh called our congressman, both senators, and the governor’s office this morning, for all the good that’ll do.”

  “That’s insane. Actually insane,” Megan half-shouted, throwing her hands wide. “How hard can it be to find a pudgy accountant with ten million dollars?”

  “This is California,” Jack replied evenly. “Everyone has ten million dollars.”

  Jack could tell that the joke didn’t land by Megan’s folding her arms across her chest. The, “Frank, I’m serious,” seemed an unnecessary punctuation mark.

  “They’ve issued a warrant, but embezzlement doesn’t exactly get them up for a manhunt. Even when they find him, the DA’s office said it’d probably be a year before we go to trial. If he’s convicted, it’s very likely we won’t get everything back. What we do get back, it’ll probably take years to collect.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Megan thundered, launching into a tirade of California’s criminal justice system that was as acidic as it was comprehensive.

  Jack held up a hand, which did nothing to calm her down. By the third, “Meg,” Jack had gotten her attention. “I said all of that, in pretty much the same tone, to Hugh, and he said that he said all of that to the DA.”

  “In pretty much the same tone,” Megan said, with a knowing but mirthless smile on her face. “I suppose it’s not getting us bumped to the top of the list, is it?”

  Jack answered by shaking his head slowly, sadly. “I’m hiring a private investigator to find Sharpe. If CHP can’t do their job, I’ll hand Paul to them on a fucking dinner plate. That son of a bitch stole from me.” He said this mostly to himself, but when Jack looked back up at Megan and caught her reaction, he realized that he’d broken character. This was not the kind of thing Frank Fischer would say. Jack attempted to cover for it, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m just angry. This is why I don’t trust the government. If the legal system isn’t there to protect average citizens, let alone a small business, what good is it?” That was the kind of thing Frank Fischer would say.

  Megan nodded in notional agreement.

  “Frank Fischer” justified the offshoring of his money as a libertarian protest against the federal government, which he believed was no longer accountable to the people it served. “Frank Fischer” believed the government didn’t use his tax money ethically, and so the only way he could protest that was to deny the government that taxation. The logic drove Coughlin positively insane every time they had the argument, which was often enough, but it worked and was a supremely effective backstop to the Frank Fischer legend.

  “Look, for now we have to sit tight and play it their way as much as it pains me to do it. Maybe if we can show CHP where Sharpe is, we can expedite the trial phase or at least get him arrested. How that stupid shit could just up and disappear is beyond me. For now, we need to focus on harvest and how we’re going to pay for the extra labor.”

  Jack watched the gears in Megan’s head begin to turn. They were a lot alike, particularly with the way they handled problems. They were people of action, neither one able to impotently stand on the sidelines and wait for the next action to play out. They needed to do something, even if that thing wouldn’t bring them any closer to their goal. So Jack focused her on the upcoming grape harvest, which, depending on the weather, was between a month and six weeks out.

  “Do we have enough money to pay for it?”

  Jack shrugged. He honestly didn’t know. Jack was never very good with numbers. In his trade, he dealt in absolutes. A job paid this much, the percentage to the fence was that much, the take some other amount. While very intelligent, Jack’s formal education ended when he was sixteen. He was naturally intuitive and a very quick study, and he spent much of his spare time or travel time learning, but finance eluded him. As a supposed former software engineer with a computer science degree, people rightly assumed that he was good with figures and were surprised to find out he wasn’t. He’d always respond with something like, “I hate adding. That’s why I programmed the computer to do it for me.”

  “We don’t have much,” he told her. Jack rubbed his temples with his left hand. “I’ve been pouring over our books for weeks, and I can’t really make heads or tails of what we’ve got. I know from our weekly meetings that we’re bringing in about twenty-five thousand a month, but monthly expenses are about sixty or seven thousand. At least it was all my money and we don’t have any creditors to answer to.” Jack closed his eyes. “Sharpe basically cleaned us out. Hugh is going to bring in a forensic accountant, but it looks like it wasn’t just the contract money he took. He’s been skimming for years.” Not only that, they needed to hire someone to figure out what their books should actually read. Sharpe did such an effective job redirecting money and covering his own tracks, it was exceedingly difficult for an average person to figure out what money was where.

  “That son of a bitch.“

  “For what it’s worth, that actually helps us in court because we can show that the ten million wasn’t just a spur of the moment thing. Hugh says by establishing a pattern, we’ll be able to show that this was premeditated.” It was a nice sentiment, Jack knew, but hollow words. Because Sharpe’s embezzlement had gone on likely since he started, it was no wonder that Kingfisher was operating at a loss. Coughlin figured that Sharpe was skimming systematically to prove that he could while waiting for an opportunity to take a much larger amount.

  Jack knew that he was to blame for this. He agreed to bring Sharpe in and hadn’t insisted on tighter controls. Jack knew that he’d bought into the conviviality of the industry and thought everyone in the wine business was basically good at heart. Ironically, Coughlin used the statistic about embezzlement to convince Jack they needed to bring in someone to guard against just such a thing. But sentiment didn’t make payroll or keep the lights on. The immediate problem was that they had very little operating capital. “I’m going to have to move more money over—just to keep us floating, but I don’t know how much more of that I can stand to do. The only alternative is to try and get us a bridge loan, but even Hugh doesn’t know if that’s possible given how deep we’re in.”

  They’d had this conver
sation so many times over the last five weeks that Jack knew exactly what Megan was going to say next, so he asked instead, “What choice do I have?” Jack had a few assets left here and there, but the ten million he’d staked for the Sine Metu buy represented the bulk of his remaining wealth.

  “We could sell a stake of the business to an investor,” Megan offered.

  Jack’s blood froze just hearing the words. He tried to deflect saying, “I doubt we’re profitable enough to even make that attractive. Besides, with the embezzlement hanging over us, I think most people would see it as being more trouble than its worth.” Not to mention, the last thing he needed was more scrutiny.

  Megan was silent for a time, and Jack went through a mental list of his accounts.

  Not only was the winery broke, but Jack was dangerously close to it as well. Jack had a couple of emergency stashes, but those were supposed to be for him to make an escape—in case of emergency, break glass. He wouldn’t touch any of those, and anyway, none of that money was readily accessible by design. There wasn’t enough in any of his accounts that he could float the winery for long, though he might be able to make it through the harvest. Jack’s house was worth about two million. He could sell that and use that money to float them.

  Each of those options left him with basically nothing.

  Jack’s mind had arrived at the answer some time ago, though he’d been trying to deny it.

  He needed to work.

  He hadn’t spoken to Reginald in a little over three months, since he passed on the Carlton job. Reginald hadn’t called him either, and that actually hurt. Reginald was his oldest friend, and Jack knew he deserved better than a pier-side shouting match on the Embarcadero. Jack had rarely turned a job down, and the few times he had, Reginald quickly saw the reasons why and agreed. This was different, and Jack couldn’t understand why. Sure, it wasn’t just a lot of money, it was a goddamned fortune, but even Reginald should have been able to see past those numbers to understand the risks Jack would’ve had to take.

  LeGrande had called him one time after Jack left him standing on the pier. It was the next day, after what Reginald assumed would be time for cooler heads. But he just reissued the same arguments more logically and less passionately, which struck Jack as a bit odd. The conversation ended roughly the same way.

  They hadn’t spoken since.

  Jack rolled that number around in his head for a while.

  It was still bad for all the reasons that he told Reginald originally, but Jack’s position on risk versus reward was a thousand miles from where it was when Reginald first pitched him. He’d almost wished they’d found out Sharpe ripped them off sooner so that he could’ve skipped the bullshit and just gotten started.

  Reginald told him originally that the exhibition was set for the end of July. That was a little over a week away. Gaston, Enzo, and Gabrielle tended only to work with him, so they should be available. They were good and Jack trusted them. If anyone could pull this job together in a week, they could. He wouldn’t try to bring a driver in on such short notice. Jack had come up a wheel and could handle that part, plus he had a guy in Europe who worked fast and could get them clean vehicles. The question was if Reginald would set his pride aside? For five million dollars, Jack sure as hell hoped he would. Not even Reginald was that stubborn.

  Jack sighed and corrected himself. Actually, Reginald was.

  Jack flicked his eyes up to Megan. “I’ve got an idea,” he said hesitantly.

  He studied her face for a long moment before continuing. There was a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, which were both pink and freckle-dotted from being in the sun all day. Megan had told him once that this winery was her second chance too. She’d never told him exactly what she meant, though he knew that she’d been married once and that it ended very badly. He also knew that she’d been part owner in a winery that had gone under several years ago and that she’d lost nearly everything. Jack needed to save this as much for himself as he did for her.

  “I’m part owner in a Swiss technology consulting company,” he said with a long breath. “I can sell off my stake. That and some other investments I can divest should be able to raise the money we need.”

  Her entire upper body tensed. “Jack, no.”

  Jack put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Despite everything, he felt the same electric surge whenever he touched her. Megan’s face softened slightly, but she was clearly wearing her concerns.

  “Really, it’s okay. I’ve been thinking about it anyway. I’m not that involved in the business anymore, but because of how much I own, I have to attend board meetings and shit like that.” He faked a laugh, and a flash of guilt shot through his stomach. Jack hated lying to her. Somehow, he bifurcated “Frank Fischer” in his mind so that when he said he’d need to go over and manage the sale of his pretend company, it eased the sting of the lie. “I’ll need to go over there to manage the sale in person. Shouldn’t be more than a week or two at the most. Can you handle things here?”

  Megan nodded and softly said she could. Then, she added, “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Megan gently placed a hand on his forearm. There was a softness in her voice that he hadn’t heard in a while. “Look, I know its not the best time. But, we’re obviously not getting anywhere with the police so…” her voice trailed off.

  For a hot moment, Jack actually considered how he’d make that work. What he wanted right now was for them to have forty-eight uninterrupted hours in a place without phone calls, cops, lawyers, and reporters. He wanted a glass of wine, a sunset, and Megan McKinney.

  “Meg, I need you here. Someone has to keep a lid on things. The team needs you. Besides, how would it look if we were both off with everything that’s going on?”

  A look of hurt and confusion flashed across her face.

  Jack’s heart sank into his stomach as soon as her saw it. “Meg, I…that’s not what I wanted to say. I’m sorry. I want nothing more than for you to go with me. If it was any other time I’d take you to the Riviera on the way back, but not now. You have to be here to lead the team. They need to see that everything is going to be okay.”

  “Frank,” she said as he was walking toward the door. “We can’t keep asking you to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Every time the winery gets in trouble, you pump more of your own money into it. At some point…” her voice trailed off.

  But he knew what she really meant. At some point, their employees were going to start thinking that the reason he kept the winery afloat with his own money was because he didn’t know how to run it. Jack knew their team loved working there, loved Kingfisher, but how much longer were people going to put up with it if they didn’t believe in their owner?

  Jack walked over to her and paused. Then, he placed both arms on her shoulders. “Meg, you’re right. Someday I might overextend myself to save this place. But not today. Paul stole from us, and I will not allow this place to just go away because of him. What the hell good is my money to me or anyone if I can’t use it to protect something we love?”

  Twenty minutes later, Jack was standing on his deck with the phone Reginald gave him. Minutes rolled away as he stood and stared across the undulating gold and green valley spilling out beneath his home. In his mind, Jack tried to convince himself that he was simply steeling himself for the difficult conversation he was about to have, but his heart knew it was nothing so noble as that. Jack hadn’t spoken to Reginald since he’d turned the Carlton job down, shooting myriad holes in the logic and plausibility of the affair. Now, it seemed, it was his one good option to save his winery—a crime for the ages to save a floundering business that no one would ever care or read about.

  This would cost him in more ways than money.

  Jack opened the encryption app and dialed.

  “Well,” the old thief said when he answered, “the prodigal son returns a phone call.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch, Reg. I’ve been dealing
with some things, and,” he paused, “it’s been a little complicated on my end.”

  “I can imagine,” Reginald said in an odd way that had Jack cock his head and raise an eyebrow on his side.

  “I wasn’t trying to keep you at arm’s length or anything, and I don’t want you to think it was about that job it’s just that,” Jack paused. He felt like he was reading from a script and the speechwriter simply stopped writing in the middle of a sentence.

  “Jack, its fine,” Reginald told him in a flat, tumbleweed-dry voice. “You don’t need to apologize for anything. You have a separate life outside our work,” and then Reginald punctuated it with a quick, forced laugh, as equally dry as his voice and totally out of place in the conversation. It was like an exclamation point in the middle of a word. “Look, bygones, right?”

  “Thanks, Reg,” Jack said hesitantly. “I appreciate that.”

  “So, what’s on your mind?”

  Jack walked to the edge of the deck, resting his free hand on the sun-hot wood. “Well, I wanted to talk about that job.”

  “The Carlton? Forget about it. Slate’s clean. I appreciate your reasons for turning it down, and maybe I was a little pushy. Jesus, we sound like a therapy session,” he said and chortled again. It was the throaty sound of a big-block idle.

  “That’s not what I mean. I’m not calling to apologize. Well, not entirely. I want to do the job.”