The Gold Club
a novel by
David Haskell
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright ©2015 by David Haskell
Cover design by Kit Foster
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Kindle Edition: September 2015
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Too Much Information
Notes and Thanks
Part I
1. Responsibilities
2. Colleagues
3. Assignments
4. Plans
5. Setbacks
6. Concerns
7. Meetings
8. Victories
9. Modes
10. Dates
11. Irritations
12. Initiations
13. Interviews
14. Clients
15. Critics
16. Ideas
17. Decisions
18. Reactions
19. Labels
20. Trials
21. Perspectives
22. Memberships
23. Preparations
24. Images
25. Introductions
Part II
26. Appearances
27. Deceptions
28. Confrontations
29. Awards
30. Encounters
31. Struggles
Part III
32. Feelings
33. Endings
34. Trappings
35. Advances
36. Conditions
37. Escapes
38. Alternatives
39. Surprises
40. Exits
41. Snares
42. Repercussions
For Carol, the rockstar of my life, and the inspiration for Til Nune
Part I
~ 1 ~
Responsibilities
Ted Ward was just trying to get through the day. This was not some idle notion, nor a pithy attempt to kill time. Nothing so trite or cute as that. ‘Just trying to get through the day’ was a mantra, a ritual, and an emotional first-aid kit. The story of Ted’s life, one long day after the next, could be summed up in those seven, desperate words.
Sometimes he included a countdown, starting with however many hours he had left to go. Then he’d move on to days and weeks, then months and years, but that strategy had a tendency to backfire—negative reinforcement often kicked in, reminding him that he might not make it. But if he didn’t give into despair over his potentially early demise, such countdowns occasionally gave him something else to hang on to.
His weekday routine was full of little extra chores, thanks to the age and condition of his tiny loft. Once every few days, he forgot to turn on the water heater before starting his shave. Today was one of those days. He turned on the tap, lathered up, and then stuck his hands under the water, freezer-burning his fingers to the bone. He stared into the mirror for a few seconds, hoping it would change on its own, watching himself make uncomfortable faces like an idiot. Then he tried to rinse off the cream, thought better of it, and shook his hands semi-dry over the sink instead. Raising his arms surgeon-style, he hurried into the kitchen and adjusted the water-heater panel. Back to the sink, he let the water run until it warmed, sighing in relief as the icy chill subsided. Comfortable at last, he flicked more water into the sink and yanked on his towel. The rack snapped clean off the wall and hit the floor, cracking several tiles on impact.
The morning commute was drearily uneventful. In his upside-down world, the thoroughfare out of the city contained every commuter within a thirty mile radius, all fighting morning fatigue, traffic snarls, and the impending time clock at the other end. Traffic lights took two to three attempts to navigate, fog and stalls led to brake lights winking on and off all along the way in the rubber-band effect, and the lack of sufficient parking at the other end meant a daily round of ‘musical cars’ to cap off the ordeal. This, too, was entirely typical.
Ted’s desk was located in a nondescript cubicle farm, one of many in the sprawling warehousing facility owned and operated by the multi-national Sahara Ltd. conglomerate. There he worked in the capacity of Vendor, Vartist, & Customer Relations (V.V.C.R.) Coordinator, Back of House Procurement Manager, & Executive Team Specialist. This auspicious sounding title-salad was actually an amalgamation of the assignments, acquired mostly through attrition, he’d been given over the years. Always just lucky enough to avoid downsizing, responsibilities were heaped on his back along with the titles, like so many badges of honor.
He was responsible, among other things, for keeping an eye on computer alerts. This was not difficult. They were mostly automated, and rarely sounded any important warnings. These routine alerts kept management apprised of the demands of sellers, buyers, third parties, partner companies, and everybody else nobody wanted to deal with and avoided whenever possible. As there were several employees responsible for the same thing, the redundancy mindset meant that nobody actually took action on the first alert—instead assuming that someone else would handle it. Usually by the third or fourth alert, someone, somewhere had taken care of the problem. Like so many darts being thrown at a wall, the misses didn’t make much difference after a while.
When truly serious complications arose, beyond that of a quick reset or an automated response script, none of the regular staff had anything to do with the fix. Instead, they would call down to Information Technology, or ‘Infotech’ in corporate-speak, which was where the real experts resided. Shortly thereafter a team of computer jocks would swoop in and get busy, while the rank-and-filers like Ted would take an extra-long coffee break.
* * *
Dennis Hamm was in-house, which meant a lot more busywork than usual. No real productivity, but the bustle made for a credible illusion.
Adding to the commotion were several vans worth of television equipment and film crews, setting up for yet another commercial shoot. Either they were celebrating the hundred-zillionth package shipped, or another record year in warehouse safety, or some such boastful propaganda. And airtime meant CEO time, Hamm wouldn’t miss it for the world.
The operations pit on the floor had been hastily converted into a makeup studio, where Hamm, along with several actors who had nothing to do with Sahara, were being primped for the cameras. Hamm needed the work more than the others, but they forced them all to remain seated just the same, in deference to the one who signs the checks. He was surrounded by staff holding binders, standing ready to proffer some vitally important paperwork, even if it meant interrupting the filming. He had his own fully furnished, spacious office in the executive wing as well. This was all for show—he did no actual work there. It served as a luxurious space to hang up his coat and hand off his dry-cleaning, nothing more.
What he did enjoy, and had a knack for, was his ambling, small-talky rap sessions. This took him around the various departments and into every corner of the facility at one time or another. He didn’t really want to talk to his underlings, so it was carefully coordinated to include just one, brief conversation with a designated flunky. The rest of the targeted department followed strict orders not to engage, bother, or make eye contact with the boss.
This system had become so engrained in the employees of Sahara that they averted their eyes whene
ver any managers happened by. This rendered them virtually invisible, an arrangement which suited everybody nicely. Roaming the halls while being studiously ignored gave management the opportunity to do what they really wanted: checking phone messages, downloading apps, performing pavlovian manipulation exercises, and whatever other virtual narcotic ramped up their dopamine levels.
As familiar with the layout as anyone, Hamm could work his way around with little guidance while never hitting the same department twice. This meant there were constant alerts and false-alarms from the human resources people scurrying to anticipate his moves. As such, the H.R. department was all but abandoned during his visits. Routine matters like missing paychecks and sick-leave requests were left undone, sometimes for days on end.
* * *
It was just Ted’s luck, that being of the all-bad variety, that he had somehow managed to attract the attention of the CEO of Sahara, Dennis Hamm. He’d never spoken to the man before. He wasn’t even on the list. He’d always carefully followed the instructions of human resources whenever Hamm would pop by, keeping head down and mouth shut, so he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why the boss would be calling him out. He knew one thing, though—it couldn’t be good.
Hamm strolled in, entourage in tow, calling out to Ted before he’d gotten halfway down the row. Ted responded by standing up too fast, hitting the flimsy bottom of the desk with his shin. Feeling his shin and the desk crack simultaneously, indicating the potential for damage both ways, he rubbed his injury with one hand and felt under the desk with the other. Not as flimsy as he’d imagined, the material was still intact with just a slight bit of damage where he’d hit it. In the aftermath his styrofoam cup of horrible coffee tipped over onto a stack of papers. Ted ignored it, smiled, and stuck out a hand. The CEO still hadn’t fully negotiated the cubicle maze, so the hand remained outstretched for the duration.
Hamm finally reached Ted’s position, stretching to grasp hands as he shot a look back at his gaggle of H.R. drones. A leggy but plastic-looking bombshell, barely out of her teens, scurried forward and made the introductions. Hamm proceeded to pump Ted’s arm twice more, repeating ‘Ted Ward’ both times. Ted had the distinct impression this was a memory device, the kind they teach at corporate retreats and seminars. It seemed rather useful, so he made a mental note to remember it. He probably wouldn’t, he also thought, because more than likely he would block out all memories of this encounter. He might even subconsciously erase the entire day, depending on how badly it went from here.
Hamm launched into a well rehearsed bout of small talk, touching on such varied subjects as the lousy weather (‘have you ever seen so much fog?’), the local sports scores (‘hell of a club they’ve got this year’), business matters (‘did you happen to tune into the quarterly conference call?’), and finally to the real business. This was far more than a social call, which Ted realized when the CEO suddenly dismissed his entourage. As far as he knew, such a thing had never happened, not in all the pop-in visits in all the departments Hamm had visited over the years.
Ted’s neighbors also made themselves scarce, cubes emptying in rapid succession so that within a couple of minutes, only the two of them remained. Hamm made a show of strolling the perimeter, checking to make sure that was in fact the case, before returning to Ted’s space and motioning for his subordinate to have a seat. Ted sat, and Hamm snatched a rolling chair from the next cubicle and eased himself down. There was an ominous creak, the chair adjusting to its new paradigm.
“So, Ward, I understand you’ve had some experience with encryption, is that right?”
Ted actually had to think back for a second, running through the myriad functions he’d performed over the years, and he did indeed run across a segment of work history, long forgotten, in which he’d done some encryption work. It was for a new product rollout. For whatever reason, the Infotech department was in a snit at the time, unwilling to be as helpful as they should have been, resulting in Ted’s crash course in password management coding. Ted was as surprised as anyone to be nodding an affirmative, but he couldn’t very well lie to the man. He had a strong suspicion that new work was upon him.
“Good,” Hamm replied, “good good good. You see, I’ve got a job for you, son”—it was well known that he called male colleagues ‘son’ when he was about to overburden them, prompting Ted to wonder if there was a female equivalent—“it’s nothing to worry about, so you can just relax.” He grinned, but nothing about this situation gave him the impression that relaxation was a plausible option.
“That goddamned Infotech department, I don’t trust them,” Hamm continued, “I just don’t. Nothing against those folks personally, mind you, it’s just something I’m not comfortable with, that’s all.” He paused, taking a breath that whistled through his nose. Ted realized at that moment he’d been holding his own for far too long, and he drew in a long one in rhythm with the boss. Then he worried it might seem mocking, so he held it in until Hamm had exhaled. The effort of holding back made him dizzy.
“Anyway,” Hamm said, paying no attention to Ted’s discomfort, “that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
It seemed like they might be coming to the end of the conversation, but Ted couldn’t be sure. He was beginning to feel constricted, so he took air in several quick gasps when Hamm wasn’t looking. That worsened the dizziness, which was fast escalating into nausea. He wondered if he might actually pass out. Hurry up and finish, please! The silent plea went unanswered, as Hamm only sat back—forcing an even longer, more plaintive sounding creak—and looked like he might stay a while.
“What are your thoughts, Fred?”
“Ted,” Ted corrected, immediately regretting it. If he’d gotten the name wrong, the work might’ve wound up in someone else’s lap. Then it’d be Fred Ward’s problem, assuming such a man could be found in the directory. But it was too late for that.
“Ted?” Hamm sounded uncertain, as if the correction itself might be wrong. “Right. Sorry, what are your thoughts, Ted?”
Ted had no thoughts, other than the sort he couldn’t possibly voice to a colleague, never mind the CEO. But he tried to come up with something quick. “I...know what you mean about Infotech.” It was lame, but hopefully harmless. Hamm had complained about it first, after all.
The CEO stared at him, stared into him really, making Ted flinch unconsciously and look away. Then Hamm laughed, a straight from the gut guffaw, entirely manufactured. “I like the way you think, Ted! Excellent. So you’ll help me out, will you?”
Ted grabbed the proffered hand and shook warmly, grateful that the encounter seemed to be at an end. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
“Good. Good. I’ll send someone up for you before the end of the day. Now what happened to my escorts, I wonder? Probably in the breakroom scoffing up donuts, right Ted?” He elbowed Ted in the ribs, a quick stinging shot. Ted repurposed his pained grimace into a grin just as the boss caught his eye. He nodded stupidly and waved, but Hamm had turned to leave, the entourage rematerializing and falling in line behind him. Off to torture your next victim? Even his inner voice was meek, the words trailing off to nothing as he felt his knees buckle.
* * *
Making Ward the keeper of his codes was no random decision. In the normal run of things, the honor would go to Infotech, but Dennis Hamm would sooner trust his secrets to the local police than those sharks. He had no leverage against Infotech. Independent, powerful, and they knew everything; the joke around Sahara boardrooms was that they could teach the CIA a thing or two.
Hamm never put himself in a precarious position without leverage. He did need technical support, though, so he’d had to find an alternative. One he could leverage.
The CEO had done his research, and the personal profile of this man was ideal for his purposes. Clever, but unmotivated. Familiar with all segments of the enterprise, but without means to influence any of it. A bit of a loner, unlikely to share information. Harbors a distrust of authority, which
meant he’d likely avoid the cops. Not interested in advancement, nor status. An imperfect specimen, just right for the job.
There was another point in the file, one that Hamm had consciously kept an eye out for, and that was a particular ethics profile, one neither good nor bad, but right in the middle. Ted had committed numerous policy violations, most of it penny-ante shit, often revealing no apparent motive other than spite. All of it subject to disciplinary action, much of it termination-worthy, and some even capable of resulting in rarely used, but readily available, prosecution.
Hamm was a leverage man. That was the secret to his rise to power. Not innovation, not brains, not influence. Just leverage. And he had had plenty of it here, just the way he liked it. Ward didn’t know it, but he would learn right quick if he stepped an inch out of line. Until then, it was vaulted away in a place no one, not even the vaunted Infotech department, could get their hands on it.
* * *
The executive assistant showed Ted into the expansive suite and, after a considerable delay, Hamm showed up. He gave Ted his current passwords, along with instructions on where sensitive information was kept, and that was the end of it. Ted was officially in charge of CEO Dennis Hamm's passcodes and privacy.
Hamm didn't stay around long, leaving Ted to work out the particulars with the assistant. The man was deferential in front of the boss, but as soon as they were alone he turned dismissive and rude, bordering on obnoxious. Either he didn’t like Ted personally, or simply didn’t care for others invading his territory. Things turned particularly unpleasant when the man admitted Ted was to receive his own office. Beside himself with excitement, his own office of all things, but the other man acted like it was a personal affront. Nonetheless, the office was assigned and the key grudgingly handed over, and Ted began to feel as though things were finally looking up for him. He dismissed the assistant with a wave, before realizing that he was, in fact, still in the assistant's domain He was the one who needed to scram. That was somewhat embarrassing, but did little to dampen Ted's good humor.
The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller Page 1