Late-K Lunacy

by Ted Bernard

  Astrid and Nick cracked up. Nick said, “What more could you want?”

  “Couldn’t handle more,” admitted José. Em could do nothing but giggle, her hands covering her mouth as she shook her stunning head.

  Nick’s smile faded quickly. He said, “Look gang, Em and I need to head back for a seminar tonight. We’re planning to meet Lara at Meroni’s at ten. Can you guys make it?”

  Astrid replied, “Absolutely. In the meantime, I’ll get on the Internet. Try to follow some leads. Spook around a bit. Need to identify Guido and search for more on Morse Valley Energy, Morse himself.”

  José offered: “I’ll be there, for sure. Maybe I’ve got some of this worked out. Tulkinghorn’s got a scam going. Let me Google him. Who the hell else is in this caper — the other dude in the cop cruiser?”

  They compared notes during the hour homeward. Astrid wrote down everything. In Argolis, Nick stopped at Centennial Quad to let the other three go their way. Just before she leapt out, Astrid said, “Lots of gaps here. We may need help from online professionals.”

  “Hackers?”

  “Some people call them that.”

  “Risky,” said Nick.

  “Yeah, but if we’re going to nail these bastards, we gotta take risks.”

  4

  Most of us were already gathered at Meroni’s Tavern when Em descended the stairway. When she saw José at the bar, she ran to him, enveloped him in her arms. “How is it, these many days since that date of ours?”

  “If I was hot for you this afternoon, baby, can you imagine my thermal radiation now?” José gingerly extricated himself from the long-armed princess.

  Nick, tagging along behind, held out his fist. José bumped it with his own, a new brotherhood I found fascinating and impenetrable. Guys, jeeze! On the other hand, it seemed that these three had, in a matter of a few hours, gathered round a sense of purpose sturdy enough to endure a lifetime. It turned out to be true, especially if one were to add Astrid.

  “Where is Astrid, by the way?” I wanted to know.

  Nobody had seen her.

  We gravitated toward a long table at the back of the basement tavern known as the best place in Argolis for surreptitious trysts. Meroni’s also served cheaper beer and was definitely not a noisy sports bar — no televisions even. Nor was it ever a place faculty or university staff were seen. On the other hand, it was anything but hygienic. Lit primarily by neon beer signs over the bar, it was dank and it was dark. The tables and booths were worn to grimy sheens and it took no more than a couple of minutes to detect the aromatic residue of gallons of beer spills and buckets of barf regurgitated by generations of Gilligan’s most inexperienced drinkers. Mario Meroni had served them all. And here he was now, denim apron stretched over his beer belly, taking orders from the gathered conspirators. “Nobody here underage?” he asked.

  “No, of course not,” replied Nick, though he knew José and me to be borderline at best. With no more than Nick’s assurance, Mario waddled back to the bar.

  Already seated were Lara and a slightly older woman called Adrienne whom no one seemed to know, Katherine, Jason O’Leary — an Australian grad student who worked with Lara, Frank — the goat-bearded flutist, and Sean — the grad student who freaked us about pandemics a few days earlier. We thought of ourselves as an impromptu steering committee. Em, Nick, José and I found places and sat down. Pitchers arrived. Glasses were filled, emptied, and replenished. Small talk ended. Lara cleared her throat and, in her queen-bee voice, said, “Okay, you beer guzzling greens, let’s hear what happened this afternoon and what we can make of it, where we go from here. Where’s our sister of the dreadlocks?”

  Nick responded. “She said she was following some leads online and would definitely be here tonight. She’s a reliable Canadian. Perhaps we should wait a few more minutes because she’s the one who took notes.”

  Ten minutes later Astrid came slinking past the bar toward our table. The Yeungling Beer sign cast a scarlet halo over her crocheted rainbow tam, a Rasta saint bobbing toward Zion. Ten pairs of eyes followed her progression.

  Astrid apologized. “Looks like I blew it. Lost track of time. Sorry.”

  “No worries, Astrid! Gave us a chance to chug a few pitchahs.” This said with a wink from Jason, the Aussie. Jason could drink anybody under the table and arise the next morning with bright eyes. Others nodded. José pulled up a chair for Astrid. She sat by his side.

  “I will say that my labors did bear some juicy fruit,” Astrid announced.

  “Great,” Lara said. “We can hardly wait. I hope nobody minds me facilitating here. We have little time and we need to plot a strategy.”

  With his usual bravado, Nick said, “I’m very okay with your facilitating, Lara — doing what comes naturally to you. Go for it.”

  All except Adrienne agreed. She continued to observe proceedings as though she had absolutely no stake in the discussion. Why was she here?

  Lara said, “Thanks everyone. Okay, let’s get started. These guys — Nick, Astrid, Em, and José — did in fact succeed in trailing Dr. Tulkinghorn this afternoon. I was a back-up part of the plan so I know what didn’t happen because I wasn’t needed. But I’ve yet to hear what did happen. Who wants to tell us?”

  Nick spoke up. “As you know, I was driving and to that extent I was captain at the beginning the chase. After that, we began to pool our observations and decisions and without realizing it we morphed into a jolly good band of spies.”

  “Yo ho!” Frank exclaimed.

  Nick glanced over at Frank, tilted his head, flashed a crooked smile. Frank was a time traveler from the 1950s. “As I mentioned,” Nick continued, “Astrid took notes, so if she’s willing, I’d say she should first go through the facts — what we actually saw and heard.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” ruled Lara.

  “Okay, I can do that,” Astrid agreed insouciantly. “This is in chronological order, more or less.” What followed, in clipped tones, like a CBC newscast with the volume turned down, was Astrid’s recounting of the chase, the highway patrol handoff and the unknown third party in the patrol car, the players besides Tulkinghorn, and the rendezvous at the pub in Henry Falls. Leaning in to listen to her, we looked like kids at the library story hour. Astrid spiced up the chronology with brief anecdotes of Em’s spying from the underbrush, their urgent rush to the toilets at the service plaza, the mysterious Guido, Em’s and José’s impromptu date, and the cowboy with the red truck in Henry Falls. Astrid was a hilarious storyteller. Who would have guessed? When I first met her, she seemed so nerdy and taciturn.

  “Who is Guido?” Jason wanted to know.

  Astrid: “Guido actually ought to have been called Dimitrius or Giannis. When we dubbed him Guido, Nick speculated he might not be Italian. That turned out to be true. I’ve discovered his name is Marcus Katavanakis. He is Governor John Winthrop’s Deputy Chief of Staff. His grandparents were Cypriot immigrants to Cleveland during the Great Depression.”

  “Whoa,” uttered Nick. “Fantastic research.”

  “A stud in that car,” agreed Frank. “So, the Governor may be part of this story?”

  Astrid: “Somehow, maybe. Haven’t figured how.”

  “What happened when this guy — Kata … whatakis? — got into the patrol vehicle?” Jason asked. “And who else was in the car?”

  “That we do not know,” Astrid replied. “Perhaps related, I did learn from the Portsmouth Clarion website that our President, Dr. Redlaw, huddled with the Governor and his Chief of Staff at a regional Chambers of Commerce meeting in Portsmouth earlier today. The tête-á-tête between Winthrop and Redlaw was behind closed doors. Katavanakis, the deputy, was not at the meeting.”

  “Did the article say anything about the subject of that meeting?” Nick asked.

  “No, but reading between the lines of conversation we overheard in the St. Marion Brew Pub, I began to piece something together. I was trying to verify my suspicions when I realized I had lost track of time
. I can speak of that now or later.”

  “Now,” urged everybody in unison.

  “Okay, all of us picked up something about a tradeoff and leases and royalties. We could not pull out specifics because of background noise in the brewpub. But in that context, we also kept hearing the word ‘northeast’, or ‘northeastern’. Thinking about this, I wondered if the university had land in northeastern Ohio. Investigating no further than the university’s website, I realized that the university, in fact, has a campus called Northeastern Regional Campus in Farmersburg. What I did not have time to find out is what could be offered there as a trading chip. I’m suspecting it is oil and natural gas.”

  “Interesting speculation,” observed Lara. “Turning that campus into an industrial landscape to save Blackwood Forest. Some trade-off.”

  Nick: “I’m still not getting how the governor might be involved, why he would send one of his staff to meet with Tulkinghorn.”

  Lara said, “I may be able to throw light on that. First, let Astrid finish.”

  I asked, “So, who was the guy in the cowboy suit in Henry Falls?”

  “It was Jasper Morse. The blurry photo Nick shot through his car window matches Morse’s online photos. Plus, we saw the Morse Valley Energy logo on the side of his truck. So, in the pub, the three were the wily Dr. Tulkinghorn, Mr. Katavanakis, and Morse.”

  “A redoubtable trio,” observed Katherine. “So then, did you pick up any info about Blackwood in the pub?”

  Astrid asked Nick to respond. “Yes, Blackwood was woven through and around much of the garbled conversation we picked up on our phones and what Em and José were able to hear. You guys have anything to add?”

  Em spoke, “When Morse said something, when he was very, very angry, yes, Blackwood was a word we heard. A couple of times, he said something like, and pardon the naughty word here, ‘that fooking oil and gas are mine’.”

  “Speaking of naughty words,” José cut in. “When Morse was referring to our professors, more than once, he called them, ‘fucking liberal socialist commies’ and he referred to us as ‘tree-hugging vegetarian hypocrites who deserve a serious ass-kicking’. We also heard the president and provost trashed as ‘pussies’.”

  “Sordid,” Jason muttered.

  Astrid simply nodded. She pulled at her dreadlocks, paused, staring off numbly toward the bar apparently mesmerized by the blinking Yeungling sign. Finally, she continued, “Anyway, to get back to us, my take is that this Morse dude is out to seriously flatten students. If we tangle with him, we could be totally hosed.”

  “That verb cracks me up, eh!” Nick chided.

  “It’s part of our national vocabulary, you hoser.”

  Lara ignored the Canadian banter. She called on Jason.

  “So, why do you think our impetuous boss, Dr. Tulkinghorn, is involved in these conversations?”

  I said, “Yeah, I’ve been wondering that too. Remember I told you guys the other night that my source speculated that Dr. T. is trying somehow to enhance his future at Gilligan. I don’t get what authority he has. Anything on that?”

  Astrid replied, “Yes, and this might, I say might, help answer your questions. The word ‘chair’ got bandied around in the pub. I believe this refers to the academic tradition of naming a Chair for a gilded donor. The minimum donation for a named Chair at Gilligan is two million dollars — that’s from the GUO development office web page. The named Chair is then occupied by a distinguished faculty member, in perpetuity in many cases, with prestige and lots of other goodies: puffed-up salary, travel, research funds, what-not.”

  “Perpetuity, eh? Good word, that,” remarked Nick.

  “Yeah, I picked it up at Iroquois Ridge High School. We’re proud of our mastery of the English language in Oakville. We suck at Français, though.”

  “So, Astrid, are you saying that Dr. Tulkinghorn may be maneuvering for a Chair, maybe financed by Morse?” I asked.

  “Maybe. Lots of maybes, I realize, partly because I don’t understand what Morse gets in return and I wonder, as you do, Hannah, why Tulkinghorn has any agency here. We need more information from your listening post. I will delve deeper into his résumé.”

  Sean said, “This is making my head spin.”

  Astrid replied, “Mine too. There’s more. We all also heard something about The Caymans.”

  Em interrupted. “Yeah, in the pub I whispered to José, ‘What are these Caymans?’ He whispered back, ‘Corporate tax haven and resort for very rich guys.’ I ask, ‘Near Puerto Rico?’ He say, “No, south of Cuba.’ I ask, ‘Like Puerto Rico?’ He say, ‘If Puerto Rico be Wal-Mart, Caymans be Saks Fifth Avenue.’ You get that?”

  “Word!” Frank pronounced.

  Astrid nodded knowingly. “Yeah, from what I understand, the Cayman Islands have the aura of underworld laundering of drug money and other ill-begotten revenues, fake corporations, tax-dodging, offshore banks that hide depositors’ identities, and the like.”

  Jason cut in: “Ill-begotten: another blinder! You must be an honors student.”

  “I am, for what it’s worth.”

  Jason had another question. “Are we thinking this crude Ohio tycoon rubs elbows with piss-elegant bankers and drug lords in the Caymans?”

  Astrid replied, “Apparently. Crude has nothing to do with it, unless you’re talking about barrels of oil.” She paused for affect. She would then drop the biggest of her discoveries. “Okay, get this.’

  “In following leads on Morse Valley Energy, I discovered a U.S. Senate Subcommittee Hearing document on offshore tax-dodging by U.S. corporations. Morse Valley Energy was on a watch list as having an office, within an unnamed corporate group, in Georgetown, the Cayman Islands capital. I won’t say how, but I followed a trail to some bank accounts. I discovered Mr. Morse has at least a dozen dollar and euro accounts in banks that include the Cayman Maritime Bank and Trust, the Island Royal Bank, the Commonwealth Bank of Canada, and several others.”

  Nick whistled. “Holy shit! This could be lethal.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” Astrid calmly responded. She certainly seemed to be enjoying parceling out her findings. “Undoubtedly, some of the man’s fossil fuel earnings go off shore. That’s not so remarkable, especially for a privately-held company like Morse’s. What’s astonishing is the number of accounts. I cannot believe he needs so many simply to hide money from his mines and wells. Here’s why: Morse Valley Energy generates annual revenues on the order of 30 million dollars, yielding a before-tax and debt service profit of three to five mill. Having taken over Concourse Gas recently, Morse is now in debt. Bottom line here is that the amounts going off shore should be modest. In no way does it make sense to have at least a dozen bank accounts. In my opinion, those accounts have been set up for some other kind of income, some much bigger shell game.”

  She looked around the table and saw Nick’s jaw slackening, his mouth slightly agape. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. They exchanged glances. Astrid released a knowing smirk.

  She went on. “I know this sounds totally improbable but the cigarillo-smoking dude in cowboy boots we saw in Henry Falls is wheeling and dealing in fast company and may be insanely rich. Oh, almost forgot. I also discovered something in a GUO Development Office file called ‘Platinum Asks’. They had Morse valued at only thirteen to fifteen million dollars. In that file are notes about his bundling contributions for Governor Winthrop last year in the vicinity of fifty thousand, not counting a thirty thousand contribution from the man himself and Morse Valley Energy employees. Morse is a freewheeling libertarian and Winthrop, a Republican, leans in that direction.”

  José asked, “If you believe he has a cash flow way beyond what he makes in coal, oil, and natural gas and beyond what GUO thinks he’s worth, what is this bro into? Drugs, sex trafficking, blood diamonds, weapons, what? And how would you find out?”

  “I can’t divulge my methods, José. You can understand that, right? And I’ve no idea how he is making his money, but I intend
to find out. Then, exposure could be our best strategy.”

  “Yo’ talkin’ blackmail, sistah?” José broke a wide smile.

  “Not yet, bro.”

  Katherine interrupted, “Looks like we’ve stumbled into a high stakes game. This is making my jitters spin out of control.”

  Lara tried to calm her. “Hang on, Katherine. We’re only at the data gathering stage. José’s remark was a joke, right José?

  José, nodding, “Right. Worse thing you can do, Katherine, is to take me seriously.”

  “Whew,” Lara said, “these numbers make my fellowship look like penny candy. Full disclosure time, gang.”

  Everyone came to attention. Adrienne arose from her passivity.

  “I have something to tell you,” Lara began. “Last spring I was awarded a Winthrop Fellowship to finish my dissertation. This fellowship has been endowed in Governor Winthrop’s name by, you guessed it, Jasper Morse. Winthrop was re-elected last year, as you just heard, with considerable help from Morse. Perhaps now you can see why the governor may be in the thick of this mess. He has some influence over Morse perhaps. Not sure how. But then it would seem Morse could have him by the balls as well. Meanwhile, though my fellowship pales by comparison to Morse’s wealth, I would be hosed, to use Astrid’s word, without it. My advisor told me point-blank not to meddle and here I am facilitating, what? Actions that may bring the FBI down on us? Where does that leave me?”

  Adrienne straightened her back and stared intensely at Lara. I watched Nick watching her. She was an attractive tallish woman in her upper twenties maybe, now looking enraged, copping something ominous. She wore black high top shoes like those of a boxer, tight jeans, a sleeveless form-fitting pitch-black jersey disclosing smallish but praiseworthy breasts. Her short dark hair was harshly cropped and streaked with bleached spikes, shooting up like stems of straw. She had silver studs in her ears and at the side of her nose. There was a swirly tattoo, a vine of some sort, on her left forearm climbing across her elbow and over her bicep, equally praiseworthy. This was one formidable woman. A terrifying beauty.