by Jason Pinter
Morgan’s eyes went wide, and he turned to Chester.
Chester seemed to notice this, and he smiled.
“Not to worry,” he said. “That’s Darryl. He’s part of our private security force, and he’s the best there is. We run a relatively small business, and have had to relocate our operations over the last few days, so security is at a premium. This might not exactly be what you’re used to, but I’m sure you won’t mind.”
Morgan shook his head as though agreeing with Chester’s assessment, but he couldn’t help but stare at the black muzzle pointing at the ground, wondering how often, if ever, it had been fired. And if so, what it had been fired at.
When the gate opened, the car drove through. Gravel crunched under the tires, and Morgan caught this armed man, Darryl, eyeing the backseat window intently as the car came to a stop. The driver got out, and Morgan went to open his door.
“Not yet,” Chester said. Morgan looked at him, confused, but then the driver came around to Morgan’s door and opened it for him. The driver bowed down, and Morgan slid out. Though this odd gesture in front of some sort of run-down warehouse confused him even more,
Morgan did not let it show.
Chester came around to him and said, “Follow me.”
The blond man led him up the driveway to a door. It wasn’t quite a front door, since this building didn’t seem to have been built with traditional comings and goings in mind, but Chester punched a security code into a small black keypad and an LED light turned from red to green. Chester turned the latch, opened the door and ushered Morgan in.
They were in a gray stairway, steps leading up and down. Chester took the path upward, and beckoned
Morgan to follow. They went up two flights of stairs.
Morgan could see numerous cameras lining the stairwell, each with red lights. At the top of the third-floor landing,
Morgan noticed that the camera was in fact moving, panning over the entire stairwell.
“Security measures,” Chester said. Morgan nodded.
Again Chester punched numbers into a keypad, and Morgan heard a latch unlock. Chester smiled at him, and opened the door.
“Go on in,” he said. “Take any open seat.”
“Thanks,” Morgan said, and stepped into the room.
And if he’d been confused before, this just took it to a whole new level.
The room inside was wood paneled, as though it had been transported from some high-end hotel. In the middle of the room was a long, dark mahogany conference table, polished and gleaming. Track lights illuminated the entire room. But what struck Morgan more than anything was not the room’s decor, but rather the dozen young men, dressed to the nines just like him, surrounding the table.
20
Morgan didn’t know what to say. The other men turned to see him when he walked in, but then turned away. They all had looks on their faces that looked startlingly like his own: confidence on the outside, but eyes that showed confusion, discomfort, and above all desperation.
Every face was cleanly shaved, every suit neatly pressed. The ties were knotted perfectly, and the room reeked of designer cologne. There were young men of every race and ethnicity. Black, white, Asian, Indian,
Arab. Tall, short, fat, skinny. Some had full heads of hair, some looked to be going prematurely bald. None of the men looked to be older than their early thirties, and some looked barely old enough to have graduated college. Yet every one of them looked like a hungry dog waiting for a meaty bone.
Morgan felt Chester’s hand on his back, and a soft voice said, “Sit down, Morgan.” The voice had become much firmer than Morgan was used to.
There was an empty seat in between a lanky Indian man and a chubby white guy with a red face and thick shoulders who was fiddling with his cuff links. Morgan walked over and sat down. The chairs were red leather, plush and comfortable. Morgan debated leaning back, but noticed that all the other guys were sitting straight, waiting for something, not wanting to be viewed as too aloof. Morgan guessed that they were all there for the same reason he was: money.
There was something oddly familiar about the grouping, and it didn’t take Morgan long to realize what it was.
Everyone at the table, their clothes, their mannerisms, their style and smell, all reminded him of men he used to work with.
Morgan looked back at the doorway, wanted to see
Chester’s reaction to all of this, but the blond man had closed the door. Morgan noticed there was another small keypad on this side of the door he’d entered from. The
LED light on it was red. They were all in here until someone let them out.
There were few noises. Chubby played with his cuff links. A black guy at the opposite end seemed to have the sniffles. A young guy with red hair and a pocket square was rubbing what looked like a razor burn on his neck.
And then the door at the other end of the conference room opened. Every eye in the room turned to face it, pupils wide, breath being held.
In strode a man who stood about five foot ten. Brown hair, neatly trimmed and parted to the left. He wore a suit that Morgan guessed to be Brooks Brothers, maybe
Vestimenta. There was a gold watch on his left wrist, and a thick silver wedding band as well. He had wide eyes, narrowed ever so slightly. He wore a pair of smart, stylish glasses and gave off an air of both confidence and wealth.
He stood at the doorway for a moment, his eyes traveling around the room, gazing over every single person seated.
And then he walked over to the head of the table, put his palms on the wood, hunched over and stared at them.
“I know why you’re here,” he said. “I know why you all went to bed early last night, got up this morning, took hot showers, broke out those shave brushes and dolled yourself up like you were going to the fucking prom. I know why you did that.”
He looked at the chubby kid, fingers squeezing one cuff link like a pig trying to get the hot dog out of the blanket. “Son?” the man said.
“Sorry?” Chubby replied.
“Those things aren’t going to fly away. You don’t need to keep touching them.”
“Sorry,” Chubby said. He stopped fidgeting, and placed his hands on his lap.
“Anyway,” the man continued, “my name is Leonard
Reeves. But you’re not here to be my best buds, so let’s cut to the chase. Two years ago, I was making one point two million. I had a sweet corner office at one of the most prestigious firms on Wall Street. I had it all. When people say they had it all, they’re usually bullshitting you, but man, I had it all. Beautiful wife who could’ve put those
Swedish bikini models to shame. A penthouse spread overlooking Central Park with a terrace bigger than most people’s homes in the Hamptons, and a secretary that I could tell wanted to blow me every time I stepped into the office. Everyone in my life acted like I walked on water, and that’s how I felt as well.”
Chubby smiled. He must have liked that mental image.
“But then, just like that, I lost it all. Every cent. My company got bought by another, larger corporation. Overnight my millions in stock options were worth less than the Pope’s cock. I owed three million dollars on my mortgage. When I hadn’t found a new job in a month, my wife left me. For one of my best friends, who was lucky enough to be working at the same company only in a sector that didn’t overlap. She divorced me on the grounds that I was emotionally distant, which, to be honest, I probably was.”
Morgan heard a few muted laughs, but they were respectful rather than dismissive. They’d all been there. Or knew those who had.
“So I got thrown out of my apartment,” Leonard said.
“My parents offer me a place to stay, but I refuse. Stupid decision, I gotta say, because you know where I end up?
On the street. Borrowing money to buy drugs that I can’t pay for. One day I wake up in an alleyway on a Hundred and Thirty-eighth Street with three broken fingers and a dislocated kneecap.”
He held up his
left hand. Three of the fingers were held at an awkward angle. Morgan grimaced looking at them.
“I’m in the hospital, but of course I don’t have insurance. Second day I’m there, a guy comes to visit me. I don’t know him from the inside of my ass, but he tells me all my bills are paid for. He tells me he knows who I am, and where I’ve come from. His name was Stephen
Gaines, and he saved my life. Want to know how Stephen saved me?” Leonard said.
The room nodded.
“He gave me my life back. More importantly, he let me become a man again. See, once I lost my job, lost my wife, lost it all, I wasn’t a man anymore. I was a dickless nothing wandering the streets waiting for someone to put me out of my misery. And Stephen took me from that, and he gave me my life back.”
“What did he do?” Chubby asked. Leonard smiled and walked over to Chubby, knelt down and stared at him in his bright red face.
“He let me earn again.”
Chubby nodded, and suddenly Morgan realized he was doing the same thing.
“I know each and every one of you,” Leonard said. He looked at Chubby. “Franklin LoBianco. Laid off from
Morgan Stanley three months ago. You’re listed as owning a four-bedroom apartment on Madison and Thirty-fourth.
Nice neighborhood, Franklin, but I bet you’re wishing you didn’t splurge on that four-bedroom now.”
Franklin lowered his head.
Leonard walked around the room and stopped by a young Indian man with a slight goatee and an earring.
“Nikesh Patel,” Leonard said. “You were the chief financial analyst at a hedge fund that was worth one point two billion dollars. But then that fund blew up, and you were without a job. I bet it makes paying for your parents’ home in New Delhi rather difficult.”
Nikesh opened his mouth questioningly, but shut it as
Leonard walked around the room some more. Morgan went rigid as Leonard stopped right by him and looked down at him.
“Morgan Isaacs,” Leonard said. “A few years ago, you bought your apartment for one point eight million dollars.
I’m sure at the time it seemed like a good buy. A good investment. But records show that that same apartment was listed two months ago at one point five. Then one month ago at one point two. Now, it’s currently off the market. Figure between costs and renovations, you’re out a million dollars minimum. And this real estate market isn’t going up anytime soon.”
Morgan felt the eyes of the room locked on to him, but when he met their gaze he saw there was no condescension, no patronage, no disdain. Instead there was pity. And
Morgan smiled when he saw his fellow brothers, knowing they were right there with him.
“In the past twenty-four months,” Leonard said, standing straight up and walking back to the front of the room,
“I have made two point three million dollars. Twice as much as I ever made on Wall Street. And that’s in the worst economy in decades.”
Morgan could tell his eyes were just one of a dozen pairs that went wide when hearing that sum.
Leonard continued. “And that’s after taxes.”
A few hushed whispers now rose through the room, including one person who said, quite audibly, “Bullshit.”
Leonard locked eyes with the speaker, a bald, black guy in his early thirties. “Two point three after taxes, that’s, what, four million before Uncle Sam takes his cut? You’re telling us you went from being broke-ass on the street to making seven figures after taxes in two years? In this economy?”
Leonard nodded. “Welcome to the new America,” he said.
“How?” Chubby said, suddenly springing to life.
“How,” Leonard said, rubbing his chin as though debating the question. “That’s the key. How. And I’m guessing not just how, but how can you do it, too. That’s kind of a multipart answer. And let me tell you this. If you aren’t comfortable with the first part, you won’t be right for the rest of it. Ready? Here goes. You will make money.
You will also file a W-2. You will do everything a good taxpaying citizen of this great country does, including paying state and federal income tax…only what you will be doing to earn that money will not be legal.”
“The money is illegal?” Nikesh said.
“Money itself is never illegal,” Leonard said. “It’s how you obtain it that determines the legality.”
“So what will we be doing, exactly, that determines the legality?” the black guy said.
“It’s actually very similar to what you’ve all done throughout your entire adult lives,” Leonard said. “What is finance? What is the stock market? It’s a drug. It’s gambling. It’s doing something that feels so right, that can change your mood, change your mind, change your outlook on things. Just like a drug, the stock market can either expand your mind, or make you lose it. It all depends on who’s doing it and how responsible they are.
You’re all pretty responsible guys, it’s not your fault you found yourself on the sole of God’s shoe. So you’ll be doing exactly what you’ve done, and what you’re good at. Selling people things that make them feel good.”
“Drugs,” Morgan said.
Leonard cocked his head. “That’s right.”
Nikesh said, “I don’t understand. If you sell drugs, how can you file taxes on it?”
“That’s for us to know and you not to worry about.
Once you come on board you’ll file your taxes just like anyone, and through our company, 718 Enterprises, you’ll be just like that waitress on the corner. Nobody looks at her tax return, and nobody will give yours a second glance either.”
“What do we need to do?” Nikesh said.
“Simple. Every morning, you will arrive at a predetermined location at eight o’clock. You will be given different items in different quantities. You will dress the same way you did today-like a businessman. You will carry on you a cell phone that will be given to you on your first day of work. Throughout your shift, you will receive calls on your cell phone, alerting you to the location of your next customer. We will also tell you what the customer requires, and how much. You will go to the customer’s location, exchange money for goods just like anyone, and leave. At the end of each day, you go home. Eighthour days. None of the ten, twelve, fourteen-hour crap you’re used to. The next morning you’ll come back, drop off all the money you received the previous day, fill up your bags and start again. The faster you are, the more runs you’ll be given throughout the day, the more money you will make. Those of you who prove that they can handle a lot of runs will be promoted to later shifts. More action, more money. At the beginning you will work with a partner. This is for trust. You are your partner’s eyes, and vice versa. But you are also our watchman.”
“Watchman?” Chubby asked.
“This business is built on trust,” Leonard said. “Because of the sensitive nature of our business, we cannot take risks. We thoroughly check out every single person before we bring them here. We know everything about you. Your background, your families, brothers, sisters.
Your son, Greg.”
The black guy swallowed.
“If you do your job, you will make money. If you decide you do not want to continue, that is your prerogative, provided you give us the customary two weeks’ notice. But if you decide that you suddenly want to, say, alert anyone outside of our employ as to your job activities, you will be reprimanded. Severely. There are no second chances, no third strikes. You are not in kindergarten. If you make your bed, you lay in it, and your first offense is a punishable one.”
“Punishable by what?” Morgan asked.
Leonard stopped. Looked at Morgan. “Let’s hope I never have to answer that question for you.” Morgan said nothing. “If you agree to be a part of our company, you will start this Monday. You each came here with a sponsor, and that sponsor will call you Friday night with the location where you refill and drop off your merchandise and money. Work that starts Saturday morning. Yes,
Saturday
. Your sponsor put their reputation on the line bringing you here. Don’t embarrass them. In a short time, we will be starting an initiative that has the potential to bring in even more revenue than I’ve already discussed.
But you only get to be a part of it if you start now. So if you want to be a part of our organization,” Leonard said,
“stay seated. If you decide this is not right for you, I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
Nobody moved. Chubby had forgotten all about his cuff links. Nikesh was absently rubbing his back pocket, where his wallet was surely kept. Greg looked at the table, briefly, considering the offer, then looked right back up at Leonard. His eyes said that he was in.
Morgan did not move. The money seemed too good to be true, but he knew Ken Tsang had fallen on hard times and had gotten out of it. And if things didn’t work, he could always quit. But the opportunity was too good to pass up. This was Morgan’s way back in the game.
Suddenly a chair squeaked. Everyone turned to the back of the room to see a short, balding man stand up.
He waved his hands, as though trying to explain a crime he hadn’t committed.
“I…I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t do this.”
Leonard tilted his head, a look on his face like a parent who’s been disappointed by a child they’ve put so much effort into. “Jeremy, are you sure?” Leonard said.
“I-I’m sure. I can’t be a part of this.” He moved to the back door, still wringing his hands.
“You’ve disappointed us,” Leonard said, motioning to the rest of the room, still riveted to their seats. “One last time, Jeremy. Stay. You heard what I said to everyone about our rules.”
“I know, I…I heard you, but…I’m sorry, but I have to go. Good luck, guys,” Jeremy said, and he reached for the door.
“Good luck, and farewell, Jeremy,” Leonard said.
Then, lightning quick, Leonard reached into his waistband and pulled out a gun. And before Morgan even knew what was happening, a crack echoed throughout the room, and Jeremy’s head erupted in a spray of fine pink mist.