by Jim Markson
Steve was skilled at keeping the operation working at a feverish pace. “What’s the matter, new guy? You getting a little tired? Voice a little worn out? You want some vagisil, you little pussy, or do you want to make some serious money?” It was an artificial pace, but it kept everyone plowing through the cold calls. And there was indeed serious money to be made. Someone would ring a bell and then jump up and begin high-fiving everyone around him, running around the floor, sometimes shouting the amount of commission they had just earned. The more experienced operators would high-five the winner without ever breaking stride in their sales pitch, while the newer guys would hunch over their phones, afraid that the hollering would somehow be heard over the confidencer.
Money was the complete focus. The experienced operators were walking proof that good money could be made, but there was a sense that the good times wouldn’t last long. You had to be aggressive and get yours while the getting was good. And inevitably, every conversation or comment regarding a successful sale involved an accompanying derogatory comment about the investor/victim. “Fucking idiot, this guy is actually a Ph.D. teaching college kids biology … soon he’ll be able to give ’em a lesson in economics, dumb motherfucker.”
It was always hard and cold, and Mike figured it had to be that way. All the operators knew the investments were bullshit, but it was good money and you did what you had to do to pay the bills. Making the victims out to be chumps, putting the blame for upcoming financial losses on the victim’s own shoulders… it was only human nature. It made it easier to make that next sale, bring home the bacon, feel like a winner, and avoid the stress that might come with any deeper reflection.
The longer Mike stayed in the job, the more he also realized the victims did often have to share part of the blame. There were many potential investors who harkened back to what they had been taught since childhood about things that “sounded too good to be true,” and they simply hung up on Mike and his fellow operators. Sure, there was the occasional victim who was incompetent to make any significant financial decision about their future, but many more were well-educated, fully capable of accumulating and appropriately investing wealth; they had simply been tempted by greed, by the thought of a quick profit, a little something more than their due. They were not evil for wanting to make a quick profit, but they were also not that different from the operators who lured them into the scam.
The lust for money was at a level Mike had never encountered before. The individual salesmen could make over $100k in the typical six to nine months that a given operation was active. The overhead would seem to be minimal: coffee, pizza, maybe some cocaine for extra encouragement, and the electricity, phone lines, and rent in a relatively safe but dumpy out-of-the-way business park. Mike estimated the sponsors probably made over a million dollars of profit for every three months of operation.
Mike was not without talent, and Steve had spotted it quickly. Mike had a confident delivery, a good voice, and the ability to convey a sense of urgency without ever seeming to care whether this potential client made an investment or not. Steve had taken Mike aside, put his hairy arm around Mike’s shoulder, and opined that Mike was a natural. “Stick with me, kid; this is just the tip of the iceberg. You’re gonna make good money here, but believe me, you got room to grow. There are opportunities down the road that you can’t even imagine. Did you know that I own a forty-five-foot yacht? Don’t owe a cent on the bitch, completely paid off. You landed up in the right place; just listen to me, do what you’re told, don’t think about nothing else, and you will be a rich man very soon.”
By the third week of working undercover, checks were starting to roll in from Mike’s “clients,” and he was the new up-and-comer in the boiler room. During his routine morning briefings at FDLE, however, his bosses and the Assistant State Attorney began to realize the liability involved if people lost their money directly as a result of the sales efforts of an undercover FDLE Special Agent. Warrants were quickly prepared, and a civil cease-and-desist order drafted that would freeze all the funds currently in the operation’s bank accounts—hopefully before any of the checks from Mike’s clients were cashed.
Mike was disappointed by the hurried and half-assed nature of the actions, but he understood the political realities and went without sleep for thirty-two hours to help prepare the appropriate documents. The bank accounts were frozen, the boiler room was raided, the phone equipment and records were seized, and three operators were arrested on the spot for possession of cocaine.
The following week, without asking anyone, he began to sift through the evidence: shoddy sales records and banking documents to which he had not had prior access, but which confirmed his projections regarding the significant sums of cash that were being generated by the boiler room operation. While the true identity of the individuals actually involved in working the operation had already been confirmed, Mike wanted to dig through the next layer and discover who had financed it, and who was likely, even now, planning the scam that Steve had promised was next in line.
As he started to draft the subpoenas and search warrants that would be the logical next step of the investigation, the quiet mumbling disapproval of his supervisors grew into a bigger obstacle. The boiler room had been shut down; it was an effective disruption operation, and some of the victims would get their money back, but the Department did not have the resources to pursue every crime that occurred in the state of Florida. It was a matter of priorities, and although the boiler rooms were admittedly a rampant problem, especially in south Florida, they were not high on the list of FDLE’s objectives. Mike responded by indicating he would do the investigation on his own time and, noting his suspicion that the funding and origin of these operations likely had a few experienced sponsors, identify and prosecute these individuals and it could have an exponential impact on the overall scam industry.
Mike’s supervisors at FDLE were sympathetic, but also discreetly explained the realities of the politics involved. The Department had gotten some good press from the arrests and raids, but the anticipated pay off from the next step was likely to be very low in comparison to the work hours he, and others, would inevitably have to dedicate. While they weren’t thrilled with the situation, it was what it was; the Department wanted big drug arrests and the takedown of corrupt officials that brought them headlines in the newspapers. The sooner he accepted this, the happier he would be in the long run.
Almost as an act of sympathy, Mike’s supervisor agreed with the request that Mike and his partner talk with the Assistant State Attorney (ASA) that had handled the case so far. The ASA, a quick-witted and friendly attorney from New York named Fred, was always receptive and friendly with Mike. He had been a strong supporter of the case, and was happy to have supported the raid that resulted in several arrests and some good headlines.
As soon as Mike and his partner came in, Fred reiterated his congratulations, noting it was the first such takedown of a boiler room in South Florida, and his supervisors were pleased by the case. It was also noted that plea bargains were likely on the drug-related arrests, adding to the always important successful prosecution statistics, and there was no indication anyone from the operation was going to contest what had been seized, yet another favorable development for the case.
Fred noted, however, that he had briefly reviewed the prospectus and partnership agreements, and, while he agreed the entire deal was a straight-up scam, there was little misrepresentation made in the written documents that could serve as overwhelming proof of intent to commit fraud. And while Mike had worn a wire while working undercover, and the conversations revealed disgusting and deceptive sales practices, they hadn’t thought to record the other end of the phone conversations that would be needed to present the open-and-shut case standards typically needed for the current State Attorney to pursue prosecution.
The bottom line, Fred explained, was that the State Attorney was very happy with the case. There had been some good PR generated by the raid, more plea
bargains were likely on felony charges, the stats were quick and good, and one set of bad guys had been put out of business.
When Mike made his case to dig deeper into the case, to identify and prosecute the deep pockets that he believed were behind not only this operation, but other operations that popped up like whack-a-moles throughout the state, Fred tried to conceal his lack of interest. He noted that it was one thing to shut down a group of bad guys, but the time and complexities involved in establishing what would likely wind up being a racketeering case, with an unknown probability for success, were clearly not in line with his personal agenda for advancement within the State Attorney’s office.
Fred was polite, sympathetic, and genuinely friendly. He was also honest and made it clear his Office was not likely to invest any more time or resources into the investigation, and this included pursuing any charges beyond those that had already been levied. As consolation, Fred emphasized that FDLE was free to pursue whatever investigation they wanted, but they both knew it was a dead issue.
Mike would have liked to imagine there was some type of omnipotent and conspiratorial corruption working behind the scenes to stymie his investigation into the deep pockets of the boiler room industry; an evil force with which he could do inspired battle, a case of good versus evil. But in truth, he knew it was just the sad compromise of bureaucratic realities. Politicians needed good PR to get elected, prosecutors needed convictions, the Department needed metrics to justify their budget, and little by little, the goal of being the “good guy” was slowly usurped by the goal of getting by.
IV
Mike woke up on top of the beach park table where he had fallen asleep after having landed the boat the prior evening. A stray dog slept peacefully underneath the table as John walked up in the pre-dawn darkness with a ridiculous smile on his face and the smell of hot coffee somehow hovering around him.
“Top of the morning, Skipper” John said softly. Mike was not sure if his brother was mocking him or just in a particularly good mood after having survived the prior evening’s misadventure. He sat up and accepted the greeting without response, surveying his surroundings as well as himself. He was stiff and sore, but the lump on the side of his head had subsided and all his extremities seemed to be functioning. He breathed in the coffee aroma, imagining the flavor and comforting warmth as it slid down his parched throat. Despite the aches and pains, the soreness and the salt, Mike looked out beyond the dark beach, listening to the waves roll in, and could not help but think that yes, maybe his brother was right, and it was going to be a fine morning.
Mike stood up and was quickly reminded of the deep bruise he had suffered on his thigh. He looked up toward the beach road and wondered how much time they had before the sun would be up and their privacy would be lost to the light of day.
“There are public showers about 100 yards up the beach. I rinsed out both of our dry suits; they’re stretched out over the boat. We’ll have to wait till daylight to really know what damage there is to the boat, but it doesn’t look like anything serious.”
“Senor,” Mike responded in a nouveau riche accent, “I don’t know anything about this boat of which you speak. This coffee, however, was particularly delicious. Now, I think I will avail of the showers at my personal cabana and, if you would be so kind, I would like a mimosa when I return. And please, use only fresh squeezed oranges … the preservatives in the frozen stuff are not good for my skin.”
“Si, Senora. And perhaps some fresh fruit and a massage when you get back?” John played along with his overdone Spanish accent. Mike said nothing and walked creakingly toward the public shower stall, where the water was neither hot nor cold, but soothing as it washed the salt off his aching body.
As he walked back to the park table after his shower, the gulls were starting to squawk and dawn was just starting to break. The brothers walked down to the beach where they had beached the small boat in the early morning darkness. There was enough light now to begin a damage assessment and inventory, and both were surprised at the minimal amount of damage that had been done to the sturdy little boat. The mast collar, which held the bottom of the mast in the boat, had been busted out on the rear side, but this was a minor repair that could easily be accomplished with some new wood, a few screws, and some caulking. The small sail boom had been busted in half, and Mike reached for the side of his head, wondering if the two were connected. But again, this would be a relatively easy repair, requiring only some type of bonding material and a length of locally procured 2x2, or even a discarded broom handle if necessary.
As for the equipment inventory, well, a lot of it was gone. Most significantly, from Mike’s perspective, his booze and the bag of weed he had never even gotten to try. The most important item, however, his wallet, was still in the water-tight bag along with a few other essentials, securely fastened under the bow plank. John commented that the damn food Mike had packed, military grade MREs, or “Meals ready to eat”, had somehow survived, but they would need to get some water containers … unless, that was, Mike had decided to switch to an all-alcohol diet.
Tucking his wallet into his shorts, the boys headed back up the beach and into the town of Anna Maria. It was early morning on a Sunday in March, in a small, sleepy tourist town that had not yet swollen to accommodate the crowds that would come with the summer, and this particular morning, the streets were quiet and innocent like a sleeping baby. There were still locals in residence, however, and the boys soon found signs of life stirring at a local breakfast/lunch eatery called Tammy’s just a few blocks off the beach. It looked like it might have been a Dairy Queen a few decades prior but, with its location outside the prime beachfront hub of activity, it now looked like the kind of joint that the year-round residents frequented and tried to keep secret from the tourists.
The lights were on inside the restaurant, and the boys could see the shadows of people stirring in the back kitchen, but the doors were locked and the joint was obviously not yet open for business. They sat on the cement steps without saying a word, breathing in the breeze that was just starting to come in off the water, stirring softly as the sun began to warm the land, giving an upward lift to the air, constantly replaced by more of the salty breath until the temperatures ultimately reach a point of homeostasis later in the day.
They were startled as the doors to the restaurant opened up behind them and a hard, wrinkly, yet somehow friendly woman spoke to them. “We don’t open for another half hour … but you look a little rough, and I ain’t sure you’re gonna make it that long.” She eyed the ship-wrecked brothers up and down and asked, “You got money to pay … or need a free handout?”
Mike responded by pulling out his wallet. “Yes ma’am, we’d be paying customers. Apologize about how we look but we had some boat problems last night.”
“No worries little Jimmie, we don’t have a dress code. Come on in, assume you want some coffee?”
“Yes ma’am” replied Mike again, as the old lady headed back to the kitchen, pondering whether she called everyone younger than herself “little Jimmie”.
Returning to their table with a pot of coffee, she poured the warm brew and asked if they knew what they wanted or needed some time to look at the menus. Asking what she recommended, they ended up ordering grits with shrimp, and a scrambled egg-with-sausage croissant sandwich. In the process, they learned that the old lady’s name was Tammy and that she had owned and operated the restaurant for the last fifteen years, never taking a single day off.
“You were just outside,” she explained. “It’s March and the temperature is sixty degrees before the sun comes up. The breeze has started; I’m done by three each afternoon. I’ll see a bunch of old friends come in and out all day. If the tide is running when I ride my bicycle over the bridge on the way back home, I’ll probably watch the porpoises feeding. If conditions are right, might even take the skiff out and do some fishing myself. Who needs a day off when my whole life is a vacation?” She didn’t wait for a response.
“But it is Sunday, and if you’re inclined, St. Patrick’s is two more blocks east and mass is at 11:00 during the off-season; you look like it might do ya good … and they don’t have no dress code neither.” Tammy chuckled to herself as she headed back to the kitchen.
The boys sat silent for a while before John finally said, “Wow, I’m having a tough time remembering the last time I went to a real Mass.” He paused before continuing. “But if you’re going to stay at the helm indulging your newly-found bad habits … maybe I ought to heed the wisdom of Ms. Tammy and get things right with the Lord.” He chuckled to himself much as Tammy had moments before.
“Very funny,” Mike responded, silently recalling that his last time in a church had been for a funeral that rocked the foundation of his life, but unable to recall the last regular Mass he had attended.
“I assume you must have covered your bets while you were over in the Afghanistan. Is it true what they say, that there are no atheists in a foxhole?” Mike asked while stirring the sugar into his coffee.
“You know, it wasn’t like the old days and going to a formal Mass when we were kids, but now that you mention it, I did make it to services of one sort or another whenever I got the chance.” John paused, clearly reflecting before continuing. “And it did all seem to have a much more immediate relevancy given the circumstances … funny how that happens when you find yourself in the middle of the shit.”
“It wasn’t always a Catholic Mass, although I did actually look forward to old rituals from our youth when a priest showed up for services. But the whole situation kind of condensed things to a very fine point—kind of added focus or clarity—at least for me. I liked the simplicity of a Mass where the altar was a bunch of crates and everyone wore the same uniform.”
“But there were other guys who adamantly refused anything to do with religion. I remember thinking that maybe they were afraid it was a sign of weakness … or they thought it would distract them from concentrating on the objective of staying alive, which generally involved killing the enemy to the best of your ability.” John paused for a while before breaking the silence. “Kiss my ass on the issue of foxholes and atheists, son, you have enough serious issues of your own to ponder sitting here in Ms. Tammy’s little paradise in the land of milk and honey.”