Daniel Ganninger - Icarus Investigations 01 - Flapjack

by Daniel Ganninger

  Dan Galveston was his name, I think, as he only liked to be called by his last name. I always joked that he changed it to that after he threw a dart at the globe and managed to hit the Texas City of Galveston. He would tell me it was either that or La Marque, a city up the road from Galveston, but that one sounded fruity and he didn’t want to be called a dandy his whole life. I went ahead and believed him about his name, but not about much else. Galveston was an enigma, only in the sense that he could change his persona in an instant to suit the situation he was in. He was a quick thinker, quick witted, and very smart. He was the one thing that challenged me in this rat hole.

  Galveston was officially a Sales Representative, a title he hated. He would have preferred to be called a lackey; he felt it suited him better. Galveston and I had arrived at this place at similar times and under similar circumstances. We both had gone through major career changes. I from the world of academia and business, him from the real world I surmised.

  Galveston’s voice arose from behind the cubicle wall again. “I had a guy this morning tell me that he didn’t receive his latest shipment, and boy was he pissed. I told him, ‘Look, Ed informed me that you didn’t want that shipping until tomorrow and out of the goodness of my heart I said, no problem’. Of course that was a complete pant load, I had just pulled up Ed’s name off their website. It ought to take him at least two hours just to figure out who the hell Ed is, and why vice president Ed was making these decisions.”

  We commonly worked with companies that were too big for their own good, and like a government they had complicated bureaucracies where little got done and one hand didn’t know what the other hand was doing. Galveston was a master at this manipulation and for good reason, we didn’t work with the most competent of people, nor did we have a very competent structure in this place. Taking a few liberties when in a jam only made our jobs easier, plus it was good fun.

  We were minor slackers, not major ones. We showed up for work and did our job every day, we just did it with a little more flare to keep it interesting.

  “You should have said that we stopped shipment because we had gotten a call from the creditors saying they’re going bankrupt, but nobody had the heart to say anything,” I quipped.

  “Nothing like giving some poor schlub a coronary first thing in the morning,” Galveston fired back holding a grunting laugh.

  I made the decision to try a little work and perused my inbox for new items for the day. Check on two problems with a shipment, another customer didn’t receive the right stuff, memo from our glorious leader with, one, two, three misprints. Next was a letter from a customer about stopping future business with our company, and under it a handwritten note from Belinda about the paving of the parking lot today which I tossed into the trash, two points.

  I clicked on my computer, an ancient machine about a step above an abacus. As it whirled to life I strolled over to Galveston’s “Den of Sanctitude”, as he referred to it, and peered over the wall.

  He had sheets of paper strewn everywhere, his superior filing system. He called it A.M. and P.M. The A.M. he would do in the morning, the P.M. in the afternoon, and the rest would get stuffed in the inbox of Hank in the next cubicle who was usually getting over a hangover for half the morning.

  “Where’s lunch today?” I asked. The orange juice I had earlier had already lost its punch.

  “I have a coupon for Rusty’s Barbeque.” He produced a ratty piece of paper, torn unevenly from side to side.

  “Pencil me in,” I replied as Galveston taped it to his calendar.

  “Done, and today I’ll buy the water.”

  The morning passed without incident. A few phone calls here, a bit of day dreaming, a trip to the bathroom, a drink at the water cooler, avoidance of our boss, and a return to my desk to see that my computer had almost made it halfway through booting up. I sat down and sighed heavily.

  Galveston grunted from behind his blue cubical wall, obviously checking his stock picks in hopes of stumbling on the next great start-up or tech stock that would take all his worries away.

  I wasted more time by watching Stan, our esteemed leader, crouched in his office as he saved the world from its many problems. Stan was a heavy set guy, to put it lightly. His dreams consisted only of the next great gin and tonic he would put down that evening. Stan was constantly hatching the next great scheme to convince his wife that he couldn’t come home on time. I didn’t know what Stan was up to after work, and I didn’t want to know. I needed to get a good sleep at night.

  My morning productivity was of course, nonexistent, and when lunchtime rolled around, Galveston and I made our escape past Belinda’s sullen gaze of disapproval.

  “Little early to be leaving for lunch, don’t you think?” Belinda snapped, again peering over the flat plastic rim of her thick glasses in her most annoying way.

  “Actually, we were just going out to vandalize your car,” Galveston said as he strode past her. “Would you like one scratch or two?”

  “You really shouldn’t provoke her,” I said to him when we were out the door.

  “Ah, she’s non-provokable. She’s like someone hired a gigantic rock and told it to get a personality.”

  Galveston opened his car door and popped my side. We slid in and drove to Rusty’s, a slightly run down restaurant with greasy tables and an even greasier staff, but the best real barbeque in town. We got our food and sat down at the nearest table to the door.

  “I actually have something to discuss with you today, for a change,” Galveston started.

  “If you’re going to tell me this could change my life, I’ll just walk back, thanks,” I told him in my most disdainful tone.

  “No, this is actually legitimate and serious. It’s seriously legit. I just got a call from an old acquaintance of mine. I thought about it last night, wrote up a couple things, and figured you might be interested. With or without you I’m going to try it.” Galveston squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow, his best serious look yet. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

  “My first question then, is this legal, and how much will it cost me?” I asked with an air of suspicion.

  “It’s only slightly, just slightly, on the fringe of illegality, but only if you’re looking at that sort of thing. I have it all worked out,” Galveston answered quickly.

  I felt as if he was going to tell me he had a plan to bilk little old ladies out of their bus fare or Social Security checks.

  “I want to start an investigation service. Like a private eye but a little more secret. We would deal with things private investigators wouldn’t touch,” Galveston told me bluntly. “I’ll explain why I want to get in this business and why I want you involved. I have it all planned out.”

  I didn’t say anything and ate my sandwich slowly. My interest was piqued however, because when Galveston said he had worked something out, I believed him.

  -Chapter 2-

  We sat in the restaurant for an hour or so as Galveston told me his awkward business plan and why we needed to quit our jobs. I tried to think back on the many joyous times I had at “la Technologies” and failed to find any. I was beginning to believe our lunchtime meeting could become my own personal kick in the pants. Sometimes a person needs a defining moment to take them out of their comfort zone and plunge them into a sea of uncertainty. This could be my opportunity to take a risk, what did I have to lose and what would be the risk? At this particular moment, unfortunately, it felt like everything.

  Galveston began by regaling me of his personal exploits in the previous year, his need to do something different with his life, his fine automobiles, of which he had none, and his extensive overseas activities, which he curiously didn’t elaborate on. What brought him to this place, this moment of action? Everyone’s life has a story, poised as a drama, a comedy, sometimes slapstick as mine usually felt, but as he talked he opened up about more than I bargained for, and more than I really had wanted to hear.

  “I think I have
to explain some things to you, why I want to pursue my ideas. I’m just tired of giving up,” Galveston said.

  “What do you mean?” I inquired, tearing my napkin into tinier and tinier pieces.

  “Well, I haven’t been that honest with you. I’m not some ‘fly by night salesman’ or some ‘big idea man’,” he said using air quotes with his fingers. “Things happened that kind of forced me out of the life I knew.”

  “Like what? You ran with the wrong crowd or something?”

  “Yeah, maybe. This business is supposed to be my new start.”

  “Oh my God”, I thought as he said these words. Was he some sort of white collar criminal, someone in the witness protection program, or worse yet, a mobster? Had this guy started out as a woman? My mind raced as I pictured Galveston dressed in high heels and a bad dress with his chest hair popping out, saying, “Well, I think I’ll be a dude.”

  “I don’t even think I want to know. Please tell me you’re not some long lost criminal,” or a gal named Shirley, I thought.

  “No, no. Let me tell you,” he leaned back slightly in his chair half smiling, moved his plate aside, pulled out a picture from his wallet dated May 1999, and placed it in front of me. “You probably thought I’d say I had a sex change,” he laughed, smacking his hand on the table not knowing he had read my mind.

  “Yeah, no, nothing like that,” I replied shifting uneasily in my chair.

  “This ought to help with evidence of who I was,” he said tapping the picture with his finger.

  In the picture was Galveston, in a dark blue suit and tie, shaking hands and smiling in front of a sign for the Central Intelligence Agency with the President of the United States.

  “You were a spy?” I exclaimed loudly, holding the picture up.

  “No, no, no,” he said as he slapped the picture back onto the table, looking around as he did. “The politically correct term is intelligence officer, and no, I wasn’t one. Come on, calm down,” he quieted his voice. “Let’s use a little discretion. I was officially a private special consultant for counter-intelligence. I wasn’t employed directly by the government.”

  “This is all a little much for me to handle,” I stammered, spilling soda down my chin.

  “Just wait there Nancy, let me elaborate a little. If you think I’m a nuts and don’t believe every word, then I promise I’ll never bother you with this again.”

  “Well I already think you’re nuts and you’re already bothering me,” I replied while he rolled his eyes. He began by giving me a narrative, just like a flashback in a movie. If nothing else, he was a good storyteller.

  “Let me take you back to a time of innocence and…”

  “Hold it,” I said, stopping him midsentence of his rant. “Just get to the point, will ya?” I retorted.

  He sighed and a sly smile came across his face as he began to tell his story.

  -Chapter 3-

  Galveston began by explaining how he graduated from Rutgers University with a degree in political science.

  “I was a below average student, probably near the bottom, if not fully at the bottom,” he told me.

  After getting his act together he managed to go to graduate school, somehow making it into the Elliott School of International Affairs at George Washington University. In the process he had racked up mounds of school and credit card debt. Saddled with bills and a newly printed diploma, he took a low level position in the State Department, mainly just answering phones and pecking at a computer.

  A friend had him apply to the State Department’s Bureau of Diplomatic Security. It offered many of the challenges he had been searching for; foreign living, travel, and law enforcement without the pesky steps to get there. The Bureau of Diplomatic Security took him on a different life path, and ultimately a collision course with his future.

  Now at this point my mouth was agape and I slowly sipped my soda. This was fascinating, but what did he want with me and with this new business?

  Galveston continued on a rapid pace and explained how he spent many years bouncing from embassy to embassy in Europe before being assigned to Brussels, Belgium, where he participated in the security mission for the European Union, which is where the EU is based. Ten years passed and he fostered connections with a variety of agencies, such as the National Security Agency, CIA and FBI.

  “You don’t say,” was all I could mutter as I chewed on some ice from my empty glass, riveted by the facts he was laying out in front of me.

  “I should have just stayed where I was. I had a great job, but for some reason I was looking for more, to make more of a difference,” he told me, twirling a napkin in his hand. “A really dumb move on my part.”

  He resigned from the Bureau of Diplomatic Security after his ten year anniversary. The connections he had made then led him to the smoky world of the consultant and work as a private government contractor.

  “I was doing okay and working out of London, but then I had to get out, and out of any government work. Of course a woman was involved and that’s a whole other story in itself,” he told me as the waitress eyed us intently, seeing if we were ever going to pay our check. “It was during this time that I made the biggest mistake. At the time it seemed great, but man, was I stupid,” he said shaking his head. “It was at this point where my life really changed.”

  -Chapter 4-

  During this stupidity period, as Galveston so lovingly liked to call it, an informal meeting popped up between him and a government liaison for a company called Black Bear Security.

  Black Bear was a multi-international company with ties to many governments and private organizations. It employed many contractors that provided security, investigatory services, and covert operations. It also dabbled in corporate espionage. I assumed this was similar to how someone likes to dabble with golf on weekends.

  Galveston had garnered quite a reputation as a master investigator and was eyed by the top brass for his uncanny ability to assess a situation and unravel pieces of an investigation. For that skill he was invited to join Black Bear as a security consultant and to use his connections in the FBI and CIA to increase the scope of Black Bear’s work.

  “Why did you join them?” I asked.

  “Money mostly, and I got to stay in one place for a time, at least that’s what I thought would happen. But things changed quickly. I was usually involved in preliminary items, not knowing the end result of my work,” he stated flatly. “I powered through the ranks of a backwoods hobbit to become a mighty steed,” he told me proudly.

  These were his words, and I wasn’t sure how much more of that I could take. Essentially he rose through the ranks, bringing on more delicate assignments. Apparently it was at this point that things got complicated.

  “I didn’t know all the details, but I met a man named Wallace Murray once at a meeting in D.C., at Black Bear headquarters. Murray used to do black ops for the CIA. I think he only set up covert operations for the company, mostly domestic corporate espionage kind of things at first, you know, computer hacking and sabotage, fuzzy things that went unnoticed. I know he had mercenaries on the payroll, and some juiced up ex-special forces guys, the ones that had no conscience and took orders well. He chose the real winners and expected some nasty things out of them, if that’s what it took. I think he may have been dropped on his head a few thousand times as a kid,” Galveston paused to take a drink and to see if I was still following along.

  I listened carefully as Galveston spun his tale. Surprisingly, I continued to be riveted to my seat, but I didn’t have any idea of what was truly factual and what was embellishment. Galveston continued again, taking time only for a few small breaths as he now quickened his speech further.

  “A weapon’s company hired Black Bear to find out if they were dealing with illegal gun dealers and they gave me the case. It was, unbeknownst to me, my last case. It dealt with large sums of money being transferred into and out of a Cayman Island’s bank account. I eventually traced the money to a guy conn
ected to some of the biggest arms dealers in Eastern Europe and the Middle East. The name was Wallace Murray.” He stopped as if I understood the connection.

  “I should have told the FBI, but I followed the rules. If you came across something or someone in an investigation that was related to Black Bear in some way then it must be reported to upper management. I filed a report to the Black Bear management and heard nothing. Days passed, then weeks and still nothing. Then all hell broke loose. I got a call to bring in all my computer hardware because we had, quote, ‘a serious matter to contend with’. That matter was me.” He pointed his finger to himself and looked me straight in the eye. I could see by his tone and expression that even talking about it made him angry.

  “I had my credentials taken away, my hard drives were destroyed, and an allegation of impropriety while on duty was thrown on my record. They accused me of using the Black Bear database for personal and financial gain. They had phone records, computer records, and multiple transfers into my bank account from all over the world. My credentials with the CIA and FBI were toast. My sole friendly contact at the FBI, David May, tried to find Wallace Murray, but found he didn’t exist. All just a figment of my imagination, I guess. Just like that, all my work, gone.”

  “Well, what was the story with this Wallace Murray, or whoever he was?” I inquired.

  “I’ll guarantee you he was somehow involved in those arms deals and it’s a pretty safe assumption Black Bear knew about it. I mean, Black Bear employees have some of the highest security clearances of a private corporation in the nation.”

  “Well, did you ever hear what happened?”