The Lights of Tenth Street

by Shaunti Feldhahn

  The chief operating officer was waiting for him when he got to the office. He was sitting in Doug’s chair, his feet up on Doug’s desk, smoking a cigar.

  Doug hurried into his office and halted in surprise.

  “Hey. What’s up?”

  The COO blew out a long breath and smoke curled around his head. “Come in and close the door.”

  Doug hung up his coat and glanced at his watch. “I’ve only got a few minutes, and I’ve still got a few things to do for the meeting.”

  “Close the door, Doug.”

  His voice was calm and cold, and Doug’s skin crawled. He slowly closed the door.

  “Sit down in that chair.” The COO pointed at the chair in front of Doug’s desk. “Good. Now. We need to have a little chat before the board meeting.”

  “Look, if Jordan put you up to this, I just want to go on record to say that—”

  “There will be no going on the record here. What I have to say to you is between you and me. Nobody else will know.”

  His colleague calmly pressed a few keys on the computer’s keyboard. “I’d like you to see something.” He turned the monitor toward Doug and hit “enter.” The screen went black then flickered to life. Sleazy music blared out. A video of the inside of a strip club began to play, and the camera focused in on one person in the crowd.

  Doug grabbed the arms of the chair, sure he was about to vomit.

  The COO watched him carefully as he pressed another series of keys.

  Doug’s voice came out husky. “Stop … please …”

  Another scene was played, and then another. Dates and times flashed across the screen, dates and times when he was supposed to have been at work … when Sherry was in bed. Trusting Sherry. A wife he adored, who loved and trusted him implicitly.

  O God, O God … Doug closed his eyes, but they flew open again when the music changed. A screen flew by, a graphic of a credit card—with Doug’s name on it—being paid into an innocent-looking computer. The screen crackled to life with a date and a time, and Doug realized it was showing the wee hours of that very morning. A parade of images began—exactly as he had seen it downstairs in his office. Every scene, every picture in its ghastly, brutal explicitness. Every key stroke, captured. Every perverted desire, graphically laid bare.

  O God, O God … Doug grabbed the trash can and vomited up his breakfast. What would Sherry say? She’d never understand. How could any woman understand? What would the church say? He’d lose his friends, his family. His kids. Everything he had.

  O God, O God, have mercy …

  A cold voice broke into his despair.

  “No one has to see this, Doug.” The COO was leaning back in Doug’s chair again, watching as Doug cleaned off his mouth and sat back down, shaking.

  “What do you want?” Doug forced his mouth to work. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m doing this because I need you to cooperate. Because I have a lot of money at stake, and I don’t intend to lose it. Because you and your stupid ideals are throwing a wrench into some carefully laid plans. And I don’t intend to let that happen.”

  He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the desktop, the perfect picture of reason. “So here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to tell the board today that you fully approve of the Silicon Valley deal. You’re going to tell them that it’s the best thing for the company, and that we can’t afford to lose all the money and time and effort that has already been expended on the project. You will fight off every objection, overcome every concern. They will listen to you and approve the deal.”

  Doug tried to sound calm. “What then?”

  “You’ll come back to your desk and work for the company like a good boy for as long as I tell you to. You will not quit, and you will not mention this little conversation to anyone—inside or outside the company. You’re a highly skilled CFO, and I need you as long as you don’t let your idealism get the best of you. I intend to ensure that that never presents a problem again. From time to time, I may ask you to approve a particular deal, green light a given project. You will squelch these nitpicky negatives you keep coming up with, look at the big picture, and stop trying to sabotage my efforts.”

  Doug closed his eyes again, and then tried to sit up straighter in his chair, grasping its arms for support. “You know that I can’t … I won’t … do anything illegal. It’s one thing to approve a deal I disapprove of fiscally. It’s another thing to get into an activity that could land me in jail.”

  The COO puffed out a few smoke rings. “Highly moral words, Doug.” His eyes traveled to the now-blank computer monitor. “Funny that they come from the same man I saw on that screen, tipping a whore.”

  “What my personal problems are is none of your business.”

  “Oh, but I’m making it my business.”

  “Obviously.” Doug clenched his jaw. “What I’m trying to say is that if I have a personal struggle that I’m dealing with, that’s a matter of my conscience. It’s another thing entirely to commit fraud or do something illegal. I will not do that, no matter what the consequences.”

  “Well, well. The man of steel comes out.” The COO stared at him, a half-smile on his face.

  Doug stared back, trying to relax. His colleague suddenly stood up, placing the cigar on his ashtray. He walked around to the front of the desk and perched on it, staring down at Doug. Without warning, his face relaxed into a smile.

  “I’m glad I have your attention, but you’re taking this far too seriously. I’m not talking about anything illegal. Not remotely close to it. I don’t have the same moral qualms as you, but I don’t want the cops hounding me. I stay within the law because it’s too inconvenient not to. However, what I am talking about is you getting back to the job of being the kind of CFO that this company needs. I have my own side interests that depend on some of these deals, and I don’t intend to let your idealism flush all my money down the drain.”

  Doug sat still for a moment, trying to force the words out. “What will you do with that … that …”

  “That highly instructive video presentation has been made into a CD-ROM, which will remain in my possession indefinitely. If I find that you have talked to anyone about this—inside or outside the company—I will personally ensure that copies find their way to your wife, your church, your alumni association, your professional association, and anyone else that you care about.”

  “If all you care about is my green-lighting these deals, why the blackmail? Wouldn’t it have been a lot easier for you to just fire me and hire someone to be your puppet?”

  The COO stood to his full height. Doug slowly stood as well, waiting.

  “It might have been easier, but it would’ve created too many complications. Jordan likes you; the board likes you. You’ve done a lot to get the company to where it is today. You have a lot of skills that cannot be easily replaced. It’s in my best interest to protect my interests, and your presence is one key to that.”

  “What if I decide to leave?”

  “Oh, didn’t I make that clear? Unless someone else fires you, consider yourself part of the furniture for the indefinite future.”

  There was a sharp knock on the door. Doug swung around and stared at the computer monitor. It was dark. Doug reached across the desk and turned it away from the door, seething at the smirk on the COO’s face.

  There was another knock, and Jordan suddenly poked his head in, his face annoyed.

  “Doug?” His eyebrows lifted in surprise when he saw the two men in the room. “The board is waiting for you both. What’s keeping you?”

  Doug forced his tongue to work, forced some semblance of normalcy.

  “Sorry. Did Mary get the briefing books—”

  “Of course she did. They’ve already been passed out. Everyone’s waiting for you. Come on.”

  Doug finally began to move, and Jordan made “hurry up” motions with his hands. Doug dimly sensed the COO following as they hurried around corners. J
ordan walked next to Doug and lowered his voice.

  “I know you’re set in your ways, Doug, but I’m asking you one more time to reconsider your position on the Silicon Valley deal. Even if you could be neutral for the deal rather than against it, that would help.”

  Doug slowed to a stop outside the conference room. He turned and looked Jordan full in the face, but saw only agitation. Doug glanced back at the COO and saw his face darken with threat.

  “Jordan, you should know that I have reconsidered my position. I may have been too hasty in my criticism.”

  A flicker of surprise flashed across his boss’s face, quickly replaced by delight. “Wonderful! That’s all I can ask. Well, let’s see what they say.”

  Several hours later, Tyson took another call in his island paradise. The deal was a go and not a moment too soon. Tyson looked at his watch and called his driver.

  The car took him to a boat and a fairly smooth thirty-minute ride. From there he went on foot to a bustling five-star hotel and found the right elevator. He rode it down to the subbasement, stood in the corner of an abandoned kitchen area, and waited. Proxy’s instructions had been specific.

  There was no one down here; the corridors were deserted. The restaurant equipment was dated and covered with a fine layer of dust. Tyson could hear the distant rattle and hum of a busy kitchen above his head, but this level appeared to be completely unused.

  It was a brilliant place to rendezvous. There was no way that any tail could follow without being seen or heard, and it would be difficult for a bug or tracer to penetrate so far below ground.

  Within five minutes, two men appeared from nowhere. Their eyes were hard and they carried guns. They wore western clothing, but when one man spoke, it was with a thick accent.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry. This is a big hotel, and I appear to have lost my way. I’m looking for Mr. Mohammed.”

  “And who are you?”

  “My cousin is an old friend of his. He suggested that we meet.”

  The two men lowered their weapons, but their faces remained watchful. The first one parked his gun in a holster under his jacket.

  “Please to follow me.”

  The little group set off down the echoing corridors, which seemed to stretch forever. From time to time, they would reach a locked, rust-encrusted metal door, which would open smoothly to the guard’s key and reveal another set of passageways beyond. The corridors were poorly lit and damp in several places.

  After walking for about five minutes, they reached another subbasement lobby. A set of storage rooms were spaced along the passageway, facing a service elevator. The two men ushered Tyson into a small storage room lined with linens on ranks of shelves.

  They closed the door behind them, blocking out the light. No one said anything.

  After a long moment, Tyson heard an indecipherable noise and realized that the wall that had been behind the doorway was opening, shelves and all. It swung outward like a regular door and light flooded in.

  He stepped into the light, and was instantly pushed up against a wall, the barrel of a machine gun pressed to his head.

  He let out an alarmed exclamation, and heard a soft chuckle from the room beyond. Someone gave a short command in a foreign language—Arabic?—and Tyson felt rough hands searching him, as another person scanned him with an electronic device.

  Just as quickly, he was released. He tried to catch his breath and still his heart’s pounding.

  “I am sorry.”

  Tyson turned to see a small, olive-skinned man approaching. He spoke with a trace of a British accent.

  “I apologize for the rude treatment, but we had to be sure you were not bugged, or carrying anything dangerous to us.”

  Tyson tried to look indignant. “I wouldn’t—”

  “Ach.” The man interrupted him with a wave of his hand. “You might be bugged and not even know it. We had to be sure. Please, sit down.”

  He led the way to a small conference table ringed with comfortable chairs. There were lush hangings on the wall, and the room was lined with silk flowers and greenery. An alcove in the corner hinted at a kitchen area beyond. The room was carpeted and the air smelled fresh.

  Tyson took a seat, glancing around. “Quite a setup you have here.”

  The small man smiled. “It has proven useful.”

  “Are you Mr.… Mohammed?”

  “You may call me that, yes.” He turned and said something in Arabic to one of the guards, who disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a pitcher and glasses.

  “Would you like some orange juice?” Mohammed said.

  Tyson almost laughed. “Uh—sure.”

  Mohammed’s gaze was serious. “It is the only drink I can offer you. We do not take alcohol, of course.”

  The guard poured two glasses and retreated. They were left alone.

  Mohammed studied Tyson for a moment. “Tell me about yourself, please. You come highly recommended, but I like to know a little about the person I am dealing with.”

  Tyson gave the man a quick overview. Tufts undergrad, Wharton MBA, top-tier consulting … and then Proxy recruited him.

  Mohammed interrupted, his eyes bright. “And do you know your Mr. Proxy well?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot discuss him. That is his request. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I do.” There was no trace of disappointment. “Most wise. Well, let us begin.”

  Mohammed stood and began a slow circuit around the room, as if the motion helped him form the words.

  “I represent, as you know, a government that has a great interest in Proxy’s proposal. We have reviewed your initial offer, and I have been given authority to negotiate programs and financial terms on their behalf. Subject to their final approval, of course.”

  Tyson nodded, as Mohammed continued.

  “You, of course, have been authorized by Proxy to do the same. So let us not waste time. No one can hear us here. And no one is watching. We cannot have many such meetings, so let us discuss the choices you have presented to us.”

  “First, you must agree to one nonnegotiable condition,” Tyson said. “If the condition is met, then we can continue our discussion. If you cannot agree, then I’m afraid this conversation must end and we will adjourn until your backers are able to reach agreement.”

  Mohammed’s eyes narrowed in surprise. “And the condition?”

  “Proxy must have a full 50 percent of our payment up front, nonrefundable, deposited in the financial institution of his choosing within one week of this meeting.”

  “But how can this be? This project will take some time. Months, even one or two years in some cases. You will not have delivered anything within one week.”

  “Our greatest risks will be taken during the setup phase, before a single project is completed. Our first payment is for the setup, whether or not the program is instituted and whether or not the desired outcome can be delivered. All sorts of things can go wrong, and we are taking all the risk on the front end.”

  The small man resumed his circuit of the room, nodding. “I cannot promise anything but—”

  Tyson stood. “If you cannot promise anything, Mr. Mohammed, then I’m afraid this conversation must be postponed until a later date.”

  Mohammed stopped a few feet away and crossed his arms. He looked down at the floor, appearing to take his time thinking the demand through.

  Tyson felt a surge of confidence. It was an act. He would never have been sent into this meeting without the full ability and authority to negotiate such details.

  After a long moment, he looked up at Tyson. “Agreed, then. Fifty percent, non-refundable, in one week.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mohammed. Now, let’s get down to business. What project would you like to discuss first?”

  His contacts eyes gleamed. “Next year. Superbowl Sunday.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The mall clamor stirred Ronnie’s senses as she and Tiffany left
one store and walked on, scanning the window displays. Ronnie had already spent more money on clothes in one day than she had in the past year, and yet hadn’t exhausted the amount she’d saved from the last few weeks of dancing. And that was after paying her monthly bills, finishing her last GED payment, helping her mother with some medical expenses, and sending Georgia State her advance tuition payment.

  She could get into this.

  “Oh, you’ll love this place!” Tiffany pulled her through the entrance of a trendy boutique.

  Ronnie protested, but paused by a display rack, running her fingers over the soft silk of a nearby dress. “Really, Tiff, don’t you think I have enough for now?”

  “This isn’t the part of the store I was talking about. Come on.”

  Tiffany wound her way to the back of the store and spoke quietly to the woman at the counter, who smiled and gestured toward a closed door.

  Tiffany grabbed Ronnie’s arm. “Come on, slowpoke. Only one person can use it at a time, so let’s get in there before someone else does.”

  Ronnie hung back. “What—”

  “You are such a party pooper. Just go with the flow and stop asking so many questions!”

  She propelled Ronnie through the door and flipped on the light.

  Ronnie stood in a good-sized room lined with mirrors on one side and shelves and drawers on the other. Directly in front of them a procession of mannequins displayed different lingerie styles.

  Tiffany closed and locked the door behind them. “This is one of the few stores you can actually buy the kind of dancers’ lingerie we need. You’ve got your outerwear; now you need the fun stuff!”

  Ronnie tried to relax as Tiffany chattered on about what she’d recommend, forcing herself to act nonchalant as Tiffany prodded her to try on various items.

  The lights were stark and glaring, not like the dark stage-show environment, and she was with an old friend with whom she’d shared junior high slumber parties, braces, and childhood broken hearts. It was easier to wear—and take off—these racy outfits when she was putting on an act, a persona, especially now that everyone was calling her by her new stage name, Macy.