“Thanks for dropping by,” called the greeter bunny.
Bong waved and headed outside. He decided to grab lunch. There was a Dairy Queen on the other side of the lot, and he could use a hit of sugar before calling the franchise.
Clients. Bosses. Assholes come in all sizes, shapes, and labels.
* * *
The meeting had occurred twenty years ago.
Bong remembered it like yesterday. He was working in Makati, the business district of central Manila. Earnest and practical, though somewhat brusque, he had earned a reputation for cutting through the nonsense and getting things done. He was a rising young star.
Until he wasn’t.
At first, the news had all been good. One boss encouraged him to apply for a work-study fellowship. The firm would pick up his law school tuition as long as he stayed for three years. After graduation another boss encouraged him to spend six months in Hong Kong. There, he could learn the company’s infrastructure, really get to know it.
The promotions came fast and furious.
Four years after law school, Bong was poised to take over the division. The prevailing rumor was that his boss would be kicked upstairs to either Singapore or Hong Kong. Both were juicy assignments. And Bong was the natural successor.
“Will you close the door behind you?” The embroidered stitching on his boss’s barong Tagalog, the lightweight business shirt favored by the business community, was a little too bold for Bong’s taste.
“Sure.”
“I guess you heard I’m going to New York for a three-year assignment.”
“Wow. Congratulations.” Bong could almost smell his own opportunity growing. A shift this big could only mean good things for him personally.
“That’s why this discussion is so difficult for me.”
Shit.
His boss was wringing his hands, not making eye contact. “Er, I’m not sure where to start.”
“I take it you’re passing me over?”
“They’re giving my job to Bebe.”
“Bebe! You’ve got to be kidding.”
“You’re reporting to her.”
“She’s not qualified.”
“We want you to run Cebu,” the boss said, ignoring Bong’s outburst. He was referring to the island near the center of the Philippines.
“I have to move back?”
He nodded his head yes. “Your family will be thrilled.”
“Did I do something wrong?” Bong’s eyes blazed. He could feel his anger welling over, the overwhelming urge to kick this fop’s ass.
“No.”
Did you fuck Bebe?
Bong folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not leaving till you tell me why. You owe me that. Because we both know you’re shipping me off to the boonies.”
“You ask too many questions. The type that doesn’t win friends around here. I’ll leave it at that.”
* * *
Bong thought about ordering another shake. But that would only delay the inevitable. He pulled the mobile phone out of its packaging, fussed for a few seconds with the $25 card, and called his franchise client.
“It’s me.”
“What’s taking so long?” Moreno did not speak. His mouth slithered, his s’s serpentine.
“I had to tidy some things up.”
“Tidy!” scoffed Moreno. “You made a mess in D.C.”
Bong held the phone away from his ear until the yelling stopped. “It was business as usual.”
“It’s not like you to be late.”
“I fixed the problem.”
“That’s what Sammy said.”
There was nothing veiled about the threat. Sammy’s unfortunate journey through the food chain was legend. Moreno fed him limb by limb into the throat of a commercial-grade wood chipper, fifteen horses that didn’t leave much. Then he chummed the hammerhead-infested waters off the coast of Malpelo Island with the remaining chunks. And now Sammy was nothing more than fish turds on the ocean floor. Or perhaps the shit dissolved on the way down, only to be ingested by zooplankton. Moreno was thorough to a fault.
Bong felt queasy. “We’ve been working together a long time.”
“Let’s keep it that way. This isn’t baseball.”
“What’s that mean?”
“One strike, and you’re out.”
“I don’t get the threats,” Bong protested. “You pay me to watch the details.”
“I don’t want a perfectionist.” Moreno lingered on the s in “perfectionist.” “I want my money. That’s what I want.”
Twenty minutes later, Bong stopped at South of the Border. For all the billboards along I-95, the theme park looked empty and decrepit. The place had seen better days. He pulled a hammer from his suit bag, checked to make sure no one was watching, and smashed the cell phone into tiny fragments. He dumped half the pile in the trash can outside the fireworks store.
Forty-five minutes later, Bong dumped the remaining circuits at a Hardee’s off I-95 outside Florence. There was nothing like the threat of fish chum to prevent mistakes. He grabbed some fries for the road, something greasy to calm his stomach.
Fucking Moreno.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Don’t do it.”
“It’s for your own good.” Walker stared at her with BB eyes. His features were expressionless, the kind of face you see on passport photos, save one thing. He chewed the inside of his cheek. The right side was more concave than the left.
“Forgive me if I don’t see the value.” Torres regretted the sarcastic outburst. But her boss was moving FBI field operations from D.C. to Quantico. The extra forty-minute commute would kick-start high-level peace negotiations with her husband and younger sister, the nanny of first and last resort.
“My job is to keep agents safe. Their families, too.”
Torres rolled her eyes. “Aren’t you being a little melodramatic?”
Walker’s back went rigid. “There’s a dead priest in our backyard. And three years ago, Moreno placed a bounty on FBI investigators. Excuse me if I don’t see the melodrama.”
“That bounty’s a joke. You know it. I know it.”
“It’s a million bucks,” Walker said.
“And I doubt some creep will ID me outside our D.C. office.”
“That lawyer found you.”
“That was different. He dialed an evidence bag and got the surprise of his life.” So far, Torres wasn’t buying Walker’s caution.
“Maybe Hughes is a shill for Moreno.”
“No way.”
“I don’t get your pushback.”
Walker stopped speaking for a moment, long enough to work furiously on his right cheek. Torres wondered if he would ever bite all the way through. At least he didn’t crack his knuckles.
“Moreno’s people just killed a priest,” he continued. “You think agents get immunity?”
Walker was right.
Torres didn’t like the extra commute. But she’d handle it, like always. That was the thing about her line of work. You lived with the inconveniences. The ankle holster rubs you raw—get over it. The snitch phones during your daughter’s play—get your ass down to see him before Prince Charming kisses Snow White in the second act. Arrests made all the sacrifice worthwhile. There was nothing better than the adrenaline rush from mushing some perp’s sad-sack puss into the wall.
“Okay. I get it.” Torres stood to leave. It was futile to argue anymore.
“Close the door and sit down.”
Walker’s request was not a good sign. “Is there a problem?”
“Yeah, I’m worried about you.”
“Why’s that?”
“We’ve known each other a long time.”
“Cut to the chase.” Torres landed back in the guest chair with a great whooshing sound. She wished Walker would get on with it.
“You’re starting to fray.”
“‘Fray’!” Her voice rose. Her hands strangled the arms of
the chair.
He chewed his cheek. “I wonder if you need some time off.”
“No.”
“You’ve got a short fuse around the office.”
“I want this case.”
“You’re too good an agent for me to sit around and watch you burn out.”
“I put three years into this investigation,” she told Walker. “Pull me out now, and you rip out my heart.”
“Nobody’s pulling you out. But I wish you’d consider flexible hours.”
There it was, “flexible hours,” the kiss of death for FBI careers. “That’s the fast track to mediocrity. You know it. I know it.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“The thing about women in the work force.” Torres paused.
“Yeah?”
“We don’t pull stud duty when we’re put out to pasture.”
“Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”
“I did,” Torres said. “The answer is no. We’ve got bigger issues to address.”
“Like what?”
“Biscuit Hughes for one. That lawyer is picking a fight with the wrong guy.”
Walker’s face reddened with exasperation. “I told you. He may be part of the Moreno family.”
“You’ve got to trust me on this one.”
“I hope you’re not discussing Moreno with him.”
“Maybe,” ventured Torres, which sounded too much like “yes” to Walker’s ear.
“You’ll compromise our investigation.”
“Hughes is a bulldog. He’ll sniff around Highly Intimate Pleasures and end up losing body parts if Moreno finds out.”
“Not our problem.”
“Dammit, Walker, he’s a civilian.”
“Not our problem.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BISCUIT’S OFFICE
Staring down an LCD screen is a loser’s game. Computers don’t blink.
For the last two hours, Biscuit had studied the Catholic Fund’s websites and come up empty. His eyes were red and his mind was fuzzy. The attorney rolled his head in a big circular motion as though to shake free the cobwebs. He racked his brain for ideas, puzzling what next. He owed Mrs. Jason Locklear a phone call and remembered his words to the subdivision two Sundays ago: “My first instinct is to check out the owners.”
Yeah, right.
Biscuit riffled his tangled mop of hair. He drummed his porky fingers on the desk and pushed an invoice from his accountant off to the side. He had filed his taxes only two weeks ago—extensions were a way of life given his stake in Phil’s Polynesian. And the damn accountant had already sent the bill. The ink on his 1040 wasn’t even dry.
“That’s it!” roared Biscuit, pumping his fist, radiating the power of a eureka moment.
“You okay?” his assistant, Margaret, croaked from her workstation outside his office. She did not bother with the intercom.
“Happy as a dog with two tails.”
Tax returns, Biscuit knew from experience, provided a wealth of information. Ordinarily, they took forever to obtain. But philanthropies were an exception because the IRS required charities to make their filings public. The title of Form 990 may have been the ultimate oxymoron: “Return of Organization Exempt from Income Tax.” It was also Biscuit’s best idea since last Sunday.
He typed “guidestar.org” into his browser. The site contained 990s for most foundations. And with a few keystrokes, he pulled up the most recent filing from the Catholic Fund. On the first page under the section labeled “Summary,” the 990 read:
The Catholic Fund’s primary exempt purpose is grant-making. We partner with donors to promote economic justice. We focus primarily on the rights of children and on their ability to live in a healthy sustainable environment where human rights are preserved and protected.
“Where’s the economic justice in porn?”
“What’s that?” hollered Margaret. His assistant had the ears of an elephant.
“Nothing, darling.”
Further down the page under the “Signature Block,” Biscuit found the name “Father Frederick Ricardo, President.” Even better, he found the San Francisco phone number of the paid preparer, Donald Lim of the CPA firm Bustamante and Lim.
He looked at his watch—a little after nine A.M. on the West Coast—and punched in the 415 number. To his surprise, a man answered on the first ring.
“Lim speaking.”
Biscuit introduced himself, stated his profession, and explained, “I found your name on the 990 you prepared for the Catholic Fund.”
“Okay?”
“I’d like to contact Father Ricardo.”
“To make a donation?” asked Lim. “I can tell you where to mail your check.”
“No. I want to discuss the Catholic Fund’s stake in Highly Intimate Pleasures.”
“Are you looking to buy it?”
Lim’s response caught Biscuit off guard. “Is HIP for sale?”
“Everything is on the table—when children’s lives are at stake.”
Biscuit scratched his head.
The seconds dragged on.
Lim grew tired of hearing the dust settle. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. Hughes.”
“Actually, there is,” Biscuit replied. “I’m surprised.”
“About what?”
“That you would sell a business open a little over a week. That a Catholic charity owns an adult superstore.”
“Is this why you want to speak with Father Ricardo?” The explanation irked Lim.
“Better him than the NBC news affiliate in Fayetteville.” Biscuit had no desire to establish an adversarial position so soon. Nor to call the press, given the warning from Agent Torres. But Lim was about to hang up.
“Whatever.”
“Wait till the press profiles HIP.” Biscuit was desperate to flush information from the accountant. “I can see it now. Catholics package sex toys with indulgences from the pope.”
“Have you ever been to the third world, Mr. Hughes?”
“Iraq. That third enough for you, pardner?”
“Then you’ve seen the squalor and filth slide downhill.” Lim’s speech was growing faster, more animated. “Kids get the worst of it. And the good my client does outweighs any wrong you assign to taking such a gift.”
“Lemme get this straight. Somebody donated HIP to the Catholic Fund?”
“I’ve said too much,” backtracked Lim. “I’m not at liberty to discuss donors.”
“Fair enough. But I still want to speak with Father Ricardo.”
“He’s a busy man.”
“And my clients are furious about Highly Intimate Pleasures.”
“Tell them to focus on the kids.”
“Easy for you to say,” countered Biscuit. “Your backyard isn’t a magnet for perverts.”
“Like I said before,” replied Lim. “If your clients don’t like HIP, make us an offer.”
Click.
“Why don’t you pour yourself a cup of kiss my ass?” Biscuit replied to dial tone. He had Lim’s phone number and office address, a respectable location at 44 Montgomery Street. The accountant would talk, if not over the phone at least in court.
Maybe.
* * *
It was always fifty-fifty whether Biscuit’s assistant would mash down the Talk button or holler from around the corner. This time Margaret used the intercom. She spoke in a hacksaw voice, raspy from Lucky Strikes and the nightly marinade that included two drinks of gin.
“Biscuit honey. Mrs. Locklear is here to see you.”
“Shit.”
“I heard that,” growled Mrs. Jason Locklear. Much to his growing consternation, Biscuit realized his thumb was still on the intercom’s Talk button.
Short, stout, seething, she stormed through the door even before he could say, “Send her in.” The woman’s face was red, the bridge of her nose a whopping wrinkle. For just a moment, Biscuit wondered if he should fire his client before she fired him. But he thought bett
er of it.
“Nice to see you.”
“Why didn’t you call this morning?”
Biscuit rounded his desk and held out the guest chair. “May I get you some coffee?” He knew the only way to disarm an angry crowd, or five sisters, was to listen with compassion. Mrs. Jason Locklear was a mob of one.
“I don’t believe in caffeine.”
“Water?”
“Cut the crap. We have a big problem.”
“Oh?”
“One of my girlfriends just took a job with HIP.”
“These are tough times.” Biscuit thought the Swiss solution best. He intended to stay neutral.
“That’s my point. The heathens are paying us to work.”
“Okay?”
“You don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” she snapped. “We’re losing our will to fight.”
Biscuit’s expression remained blank.
“They throw thirty pieces of silver at a few employees,” Mrs. Jason Locklear ranted. “Meanwhile, home prices are dropping like hot horseshoes.”
She had a point. Nobody wanted a truck stop in his backyard. Biscuit tried to soothe her anyway. “Maybe HIP has its own problems.”
“How so?”
“HIP’s been open a little over a week,” he explained. “And they’re already recruiting new employees. I wonder if somebody quit—if they have personnel issues.” Lim had suggested that HIP could be bought. Biscuit knew that organizations sometimes put themselves up for sale when problems cannot be cured.
“Issues? Yeah, they can’t handle the foot traffic.”
“How do you know?”
“The manager told my girlfriend. The store’s putting up thirty new billboards this week.”
“HIP doesn’t sound like a company that’s up for sale.”
“What are you talking about?”
Biscuit described his conversation with Lim and repeated the accountant’s exact words: “Everything is on the table.”
When he finished, Mrs. Jason Locklear asked, “Can’t we take a petition to our congressman?”
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