Nickel Package

by David Chill

  I shrugged. "Not my decision. New coach, new regime. You know, I'm not there any longer, either."

  "Tough luck. You'll find something. We're all nomads in this business. Speak well of others and carry a warm resume, that's my philosophy."

  After a few more minutes of mindless chatter, he directed me to the weight room. It was largely empty, with most players in class during this time of the day. As a result, the sound of one man's deep and agonizing grunting reverberated throughout the room, as Jay Strong did ten bench presses, repeatedly jerking up a barbell loaded with free weights. By my estimate, it held over 300 pounds. A muscle-bound spotter stood close by in case Jay needed any help, but that proved unnecessary. Jay returned the bar carefully to its place, got up, and wiped some residual sweat off the padded bench he had been lying on.

  "Haven't lost your touch," I commented.

  "Hey, Burnside!" he exclaimed. "Twice in one week. I feel honored."

  I turned to the spotter, who had the same body type as Jay, wide and solid, although he was a good 15 years younger. He was brimming with an eager-to-please expression pasted on his face, and he looked like a graduate assistant who aspired to be a coach himself one day.

  "Say, pal," I turned to him. "Can you give us a few minutes?"

  The spotter looked hesitantly at Jay, who shrugged and pointed to the locker room. "I can take it from here, Sean."

  I waited until Sean had departed. Now it was just the two of us in the weight room. "I'm looking more into BMB and finding some funny things. Issues of sexual harassment. Lot of turnover at the top. And then their head of Security got killed yesterday."

  Jay looked away. "I heard. Like I told you the other day. It's a crazy place."

  "I know your wife works there," I said, watching him carefully. "I'm wondering if Kitty's said anything to you. Anything you can share."

  Jay mopped his face with the same towel he had used to wipe off the bench. He looked at the towel and then tossed it on the ground. He didn't reply, but it was clear he was thinking about something.

  "Sounds like you might have some inside knowledge," I prodded.

  "It's not a good situation," he finally muttered.

  "Jay. I don't want to pry here," I said, trying to be as delicate as possible. "Something's eating at you. Talking about it might help."

  "Yeah, sure," he said absently.

  I decided to take a shot. Revealing you have personal information about a person can sometimes unleash things, hopefully not a punch in the nose.

  "Look, I still have friends on the job. I know the police have been to your home a few times. Domestic disturbances. I'm not going to tell anyone. And I wouldn't blame you if you told me to go take a hike. But I was a police officer for 13 years. And I've seen these scenarios play out. Whenever the police get repeatedly called to a residence, something is likely to happen, and it's usually something bad."

  He looked at me. "You know about the police visits?"

  "Yes."

  Jay Strong took a deep breath and then exhaled loudly. "I swear, all of our problems started when we moved out here. We were married for 10 years back in Mississippi and never had an issue. We were happy together. Then we come out to L.A., Kitty takes this job, and everything changes."

  "How'd all this happen?"

  "I don't know," he sighed. "It's different out here. A lot of temptation. No morals. No limits. People thinking they can do anything. Get away with anything. And the money, man, the money. It's unreal."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's like, I make a good living, right? You know that. Well into six figures. Back home that made me one of the top dogs. Out here, that doesn't even put me in the game. Do you know we couldn't even afford to buy a house in our neighborhood? We got turned down for a mortgage."

  "Jay, you live in Brentwood," I pointed out. "It's very pricey real estate."

  "Kitty tells people at BMB that we rent an apartment. They look at her like she's on welfare. She drives a brand new Toyota, but everyone she works with wonder why she isn't driving something better. People out here get their self-esteem from what they own."

  "Okay," I said. Not a lot of this was new, but one thing was puzzling. "Didn't she grow up in Mississippi, like you? I assume she'd have the same values."

  Jay raised his palms in resignation. "I thought so, too. But her sister... " he said, his voice trailing off.

  "What about her sister?" I peered at him. "Nick Roche's wife?"

  "Yeah. Her sister puts on airs. Makes Kitty feel like she's missing out. Her sister went and married some guy making a fortune and spending it freely. She and Nick spent last Christmas skiing in the Swiss Alps. Kitty spent hers alone, I was prepping for the Rose Bowl."

  "I remember the hours we put in," I said. "So what does she want from you? More time or more money? If you become a head coach one day, you'd be doing amazingly well. And frankly, I think you're doing pretty well right now," I said, reminding myself that one person's ceiling is another person's floor.

  "Kitty's got stars in her eyes," he said. "And I think she's having an affair."

  I took a breath. Things were becoming a little clearer. "Has she admitted it?"

  "No, she won't do that. Deny, deny, deny, that's the tune she keeps playing. But Kitty has a lot of late nights. And business trips. I don't know with who yet, but I'm going to find out. It's been going on for a while. I'm tired of it. Sick and tired of it."

  I took this in but needed to remind him of something. "You know, Jay. You weren't exactly faithful yourself."

  He spun around and his eyes met mine. He glared at me in a challenging way. "How would you know that?"

  "Because I've been on recruiting trips with you," I reminded him. There had been a few instances where, late at night, I had seen Jay working a girl at the hotel bar. And a few times when a companion would come out of Jay's room in the morning.

  "And tell me something," he demanded. "You never dipped into the honey pot?"

  "Would it shock you if I said no?"

  I was married to a beautiful woman, and the same temptations also presented themselves to me. But I also knew I couldn't pursue them. It had taken me too long to meet the girl of my dreams. And now with Marcus, I owed both of them some self-restraint.

  Jay took a breath and looked down again. "We haven't had a perfect marriage. But I never talked about leaving Kitty. And I never did anything here in town that could get back to her. I'm not saying what I did was right. But I never rubbed her face in it."

  My mouth tightened. "I'm sorry, Jay. But these things can be patched up. If that's what you want."

  "Oh, yeah," he said. "Man, I don't want to lose her."

  I thought of telling him that forgiveness and being open were good first steps toward any reconciliation. But admitting infidelity complicates matters to an extraordinary degree. Some things can be just too hard to forgive.

  "You try a marriage counselor?" I asked.

  "Kitty was pushing for it awhile ago. Then she stopped. I don't know. Maybe she's given up. Maybe this is her way of starting to separate. But it's tearing me up inside."

  "You're not the first person to go through this," I said. "Ask her again about counseling. You never know. And even if she says no, maybe you should try to see someone on your own."

  "Me? By myself?"

  "Sure. Can't hurt."

  Jay let out a low whistle. "You L.A. guys. Into all that touchy-feely stuff."

  I laughed. "I'm hardly a poster boy for sensitive male behavior," I said, knowing we are all better at giving advice than taking it. But in this area, I did feel like I had some expertise. I had a good marriage and was committed to having it stay that way. Even living in a place like L.A.

  Chapter 7

  I checked my cell phone right after leaving Jay. I had felt the distracting buzz of an incoming call, but wasn't about to interrupt my conversation with him. The call turned out to be from a blocked number, but the woman leaving the voice mail was very specific. E
ric Starr wanted to see me this afternoon at 4:00 pm sharp. At his office.

  The Laputa Complex was on Olympic Boulevard. in West L.A., along a parkway near the Santa Monica border. Driving along, you would have no idea it was close to Santa Monica or whether you had actually moved into a different city. There were no markers, no welcome billboards; in fact, the only discernible difference were the street signs. In Santa Monica, they had a cute yellow sun shining over the street names.

  I arrived at Laputa at a little after 3:00 p.m. and parked in the subterranean garage. It was actually quite a nice garage, with rows wide enough for two cars to easily drive through. I knew this because an SUV barreling towards me from the other direction, barely slowed down to make room. The parking spaces were also large, and the special section for compact cars was well marked. Unlike some parking garages, seemingly constructed with the goal of cramming in as many vehicles as possible, the architect of this one actually gave consideration to the drivers before building it.

  With an hour to kill, I walked down a sunny street for an iced coffee at the local Starbucks. Unlike those in a typical strip mall, this Starbucks was housed on the first floor of a five-story office building. Next to it was the usual sandwich chain, dry cleaners, and the ubiquitous 7-Eleven. Structures like this had been sprouting up all over the Westside for the past few years, catering to Internet startups in what was now being referred to as Silicon Beach. I'm sure these companies added a windfall to the local economy. I knew for a fact they also added a lot of vehicles to the snarled local traffic. Come 4:00 pm, the eastbound streets heading out of West L.A. were gridlocked with teeth-gnashing motorists. Growth often comes with an unforeseen price tag, usually paid for by people other than the ones who profit from it.

  I sat at a small table next to two young women, both of whom had Laputa badges clipped to their jeans. I listened to their conversation, hoping for a juicy morsel about work, but they were only chatting about their unreliable boyfriends. I added two packets of sugar to my icy drink, stirred hard, and took a long, pleasurable sip. I liked the flavor, both bitter and sweet at the same time. I began to feel good again. The miracle drug, caffeine, was kicking in, relaxing and energizing me at the same time. I looked at the young women and tried to conjure up an opening line that a middle-aged man in his 40s could utter to a pair of 20-somethings without sounding creepy. None came to mind, so when their conversation hit a lull, I jumped in with two left feet.

  "So ... you both work for Laputa?" I asked stupidly.

  "Uh, yeah," one of them replied, tying her brown hair back into a small ponytail.

  "Must be a cool place to work."

  "I guess. The pay's not great, but we get free snacks," said the other one, a pretty strawberry blonde, as she started to giggle.

  "Well, that's something. What do you do there?"

  "We both work in UX," said the blonde.

  "UX?" I asked.

  "User Experience. We test out upgrades and new releases of the app before they go live. We bring in people and ask them to try and complete tasks. We measure how long it takes them, and if they appear confused."

  "Sounds like important work."

  The girl with the brown ponytail rolled her eyes. The name on her badge was Olivia. "It ought to be. But our insights never quite make it to the top. Even if they do, they get watered down. Or the higher-ups put in temporary fixes that just make things worse."

  "Must be frustrating," I said. "On the outside, people think Laputa is well run. I guess you never know."

  "Yeah. I thought so, too. Before I started working there. Now I wonder if the Company will even be around in five years."

  The blonde gave her a gimlet-eyed look, as if to tell her she was talking too much. Olivia stopped for a moment before shrugging at her friend. "Who cares. Feels like everyone in the world knows what's going on."

  I watched them for a moment and decided to push forward with something else. "So do you ever see Eric Starr?"

  They both started to squirm at the same time. "Once or twice," the blonde said. "Mostly glad we don't."

  "Oh?' I said, trying to sound interested without sounding too interested.

  "Eric has been known for, uh, dating within the office," Olivia said, sneaking a glance around the room to see if anyone else might be in earshot. "But they're all that way. Executives. It's like that for guys at the top."

  I nodded. "Did that include Eric's old partner?

  "Jack?" she clarified.

  "Yeah."

  "Sure. In fact, a woman I worked with once dated Jack Beale. Before the accident, obviously."

  My ears perked up. "Is this woman still at Laputa?"

  "No," she replied. "I guess Wanda was pretty broken up over what happened. She moved back to Australia."

  "That's too bad," I said. "Say, wasn't Jack married?"

  "Sure. But that never stops guys at that level. It's better to not be on their radar. Especially Eric's."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, girls who go out with him don't last long with the company. He gets bored and next thing you know, they're gone." Olivia said, snapping her fingers. "Why are you interested in all this?"

  I shrugged. "Just making conversation. Eric's a celebrity. I guess you know that."

  They agreed, albeit cautiously, and then hastily excused themselves. I gave them a few minutes so they could reach Laputa and not see me as I started walking back there myself. It was 3:50 p.m. when I entered the lobby, which had, in large green letters, the LAPUTA logo plastered high up on one wall. I approached a pretty, doe-eyed receptionist who looked like she was in her early 20s.

  "Hello there," I started.

  "Hello," she beamed. "How can I help you?"

  "I have a 4:00 p.m. with Eric Starr. My name's Burnside. I'm a few minutes early."

  She looked over at a computer monitor. Her eager smile disappeared, and a frown emerged on her face. "Oh," she said. "Let me call upstairs."

  The receptionist punched a few buttons on her phone and talked briefly into it before hanging up. "Why don't you have a seat for a minute. Someone's checking on this."

  I sat down. About ten minutes later, the elevator dinged and another woman in her 20s emerged and approached me. She was also young and pretty. Everyone at Laputa was young and pretty.

  "Hi, I understand you're here to see Eric."

  "I am."

  "I don't have you down on my calendar. Did Eric set this up with you on his own? He does that sometimes."

  "No. In fact, I just got a call this afternoon, asking that I come over to meet with him."

  "Do you know what this was regarding?"

  I began to think that sharing any more information would not be helpful. "Sorry, no. Any idea of who might have set this up?"

  "Not really. I'm his assistant and I keep his calendar. He's been in meetings all day. I can find out more if you'd like and call you."

  "Sure," I said and handed her a business card. I thought of something. "Do you by any chance use a blocked number when you call someone?"

  "I personally don't. But some of the executives do. Eric does sometimes. Depends on whether he wants the call to be a surprise."

  I thanked her and walked slowly back to the elevator. This waste of time resembled a practical joke without the punch line, the sort of sophomoric locker-room prank that football players might pull on someone. But it just didn't add up. That is, until I got off the elevator and started toward my Pathfinder. The garage was warm and oddly quiet. Then suddenly, everything began to crystallize.

  A pair of men came out of nowhere and stepped in front of me. One was burly, wearing jeans and a tight black t-shirt that showed off his large biceps. The other was gangly, wearing khakis, a cheap golf shirt and a gray hoodie. I stopped and looked at them.

  "Burnside. We need to talk," the gangly one declared, motioning to a maroon van parked nearby.

  "We don't need to do anything," I countered, wondering how he knew my name. "Except for you to get out of my w
ay."

  "Come on. I'm not asking. I'm telling you."

  I looked around the empty garage. The air felt stark and motionless. I looked back at the two of them. "It's a little early for April Fools'," I said.

  "You calling us fools?" said the gangly one in a challenging voice. "You should watch your mouth."

  I looked at them. "With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

  "Get in the van and we'll talk," he said, motioning again to the maroon vehicle a few yards away.

  "We'll talk here," I said.

  The two glanced at each other and the gangly one gave a knowing nod. He reached back and pulled a black snub-nose handgun out of the pocket of his hoodie. Pointing it at my abdomen, he gestured silently to the van with his gun.

  Once you step into a vehicle at gunpoint, there is a very good chance you will not come out alive. And if you do, it might only be to dig your own grave. The odds of emerging unscathed from this type of situation are slim. The odds are actually better to make a run for it, zig-zagging to prevent a clear shot, and hope that the gunman has poor aim. But the garage was unfamiliar. And without knowing where the stairway was, a clean getaway would be difficult. The other option was to engage them directly. This offered me the best chance for survival. It also offered me the best chance of getting killed on the spot.

  "Let's move," the gangly man said.

  "Which way?" I asked.

  The burly man pointed to the van. I raised my hands high over my head and began walking very slowly.

  "Put your damn hands down!" the gunman ordered.

  I stopped and turned to him, keeping my hands in the air. This was one way to get attention in case anyone else entered the garage. It was also a lot easier to attack with a downward motion. But it seemed as if my new friends might be aware of this trick. They kept their distance, a few yards away.

  "Sorry," I said. "I thought this was supposed to be a stickup."

  "It's not a stickup, you idiot. Just walk to the van."

  "Well, if it's not a stickup, then what is it?" I demanded. "I'm just trying to follow the rules here."