The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller

by David Haskell

  * * *

  In the process of refining the club’s functionality, it’d become obvious that creating a mini-Sahara was the way to go. This meant extending their reach into practically every department, and the need for a go-between was obvious. Phil didn’t fit the bill, and Ted was hardly better, but the question was how to find someone they could trust that had such extensive influence?

  “What about a talent search?” Phil quipped.

  Though he was being facetious, it wasn’t far off the mark. At least not the searching part.

  “Why not?” Ted said, prompting Phil’s jaw to drop. “We’ve got access to the personnel files, don’t we?”

  Hamm’s corporate access began with an organizational chart of Sahara, and all it took was a few clicks to delve into any segment of the company they might want to examine.

  “It shouldn’t be too hard to compile a list of employees with wide access,” Ted continued, “and all we’d have to do after that is decide who to interview.”

  Phil shook his head. “Won’t work.”

  Ted turned his palms up and shrugged out a ‘how come?’ gesture.

  “Who are we going to say they’re interviewing for. Hamm?”

  “Why not?” Ted replied, feeling like his train of thought was beginning to build momentum. Too much though, perhaps. It was a crazy idea. “We could call it a special ad hoc research position, answerable only to Hamm and select associates.”

  “Which associates?”

  “Us. Us! We’re the associates,” Ted said, giving his friend a select expression of annoyance reserved for only the densest of moments.

  Phil went through his few seconds of processing, then gave a slow nod. Now you get it.

  They delved into the company records to come up with a list, and set up parameters for narrowing it down, but they didn’t get very far before Ted started noticing one name that rose to the top time and time again. Marjorie Klein had worked in, or was associated with, virtually every department in the company at one time or another. Not only that, she seemed to be the only one. All the search parameters lined up for her, and nobody else even came close.

  Oh, God. Not her! But it was right there in black and white. His old friend Marge was the perfect go-between if they were going to get this project off the ground the way they’d envisioned.

  He jotted down her extension and email, stuffing it into a pocket for now. He didn’t have the stomach to call just yet, even if he knew it was inevitable.

  ~ 10 ~

  Dates

  The Monday night ritual had become comfortable, almost habitual—they would usually get together right after Ted got out of work because Monday was the only day Til had no scheduled gigs or sessions. Weekends were out completely. She was far too busy making what little bank she could. Most weeknights were out as well, what with all the bar engagements and rehearsals. So Monday had become their official date night, and they tried not to miss each other. The previous Monday Ted had been stuck working late, or more technically speaking scamming the company late, so they’d missed each other, and this time each had promised the other not to bail.

  Date-night was still fresh and exciting, but fast becoming comfortable enough for them to relax and enjoy themselves. Dinner was uneventful, with easily flowing conversation and reasonably good food. As usual, they both grabbed for the check and Ted pulled it away just in time with a sly smile. Til glanced back with an embarrassed enough grin to indicate that she probably couldn’t have handled it anyway. They followed up with drinks in a different spot, then a late movie and a nightcap before returning home.

  It was the time between dinner and the movie when the missteps of the evening occurred in rapid succession. First, just before arriving at the cocktail lounge, they were suddenly cut off by a Camaro that squealed past them and gunned it down the road. Ted shook his head in astonishment as he noticed the driver, a young man, stick his hand out and give them the finger. At the next light they caught up to the offender and noticed his vanity plate. It read ‘EXCESIV’, which gave Ted a chuckle as they pulled up next to the guy. Without rolling down the window or anything aggressive like that, Ted offered a ‘wtf?’ shrug as he got a good look at the guy. Thin, dark skinned, with a pencil-thin mustache and a wispy goatee. Rather than any apologetic gesture in return, the guy just stared forward and ignored them completely, then gunned it once again when the light went green.

  “Asshole,” Ted muttered, much too late realizing he’d been focused on the wrong person. Til had leftovers from the doggy bag all over her skirt and blouse, collateral damage from the swerve Ted had aggressively made when they guy cut them off.

  “Oh, lord. I’m sorry,” he began, but she shut him off with a wave. Reaching gingerly into the bag, she fished out a napkin and started cleaning off as best she could. Ted gave her space enough to do what she had to do, driving carefully so as not to make matters any worse. Finally, just before arriving at the lounge, she spoke up.

  “I’m afraid the food isn’t any good,” she said, embarrassed more than he’d realized.

  “Don’t worry about it. Til, I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Forget it,” she said, then pulled at her blouse and looked it over. “Do I look okay?”

  “Yeah, you do hon. Don’t sweat it.” But he knew that she would. He opted to drop it and try changing the subject once they’d relaxed with their drinks, following their customary ritual for dealing with unpleasantness. This time, though, matters only got worse once they were inside.

  After waiting too long for a table, they were seated by an unpleasant manager and, after another long wait, the waiter finally showed up. It was none other than Mr. Excesiv, a pencil stuck behind one ear and a disdainful expression on his face. The couple’s eyes widened instinctively, and Ted’s jaw dropped, but the waiter didn’t seem to recognize them at all.

  “Wh’kin I get you?” he drawled, even that opening line sounding bored and uninterested. Ted couldn’t help but wonder what his great hurry had been all about. Just to get to this shit job on time?

  They ordered, still taken aback by the fact they weren’t even remotely recognized, and in his own sweet time the waiter returned with their drinks. Aside from being slow, he started sliding them attitude, and by the second round Ted was growing tired of the schtick. It was killing their buzz, and worse threatening a tardy arrival for the movie. So he spoke up.

  “Look, pal, a little less attitude would do you some good.”

  “Oh, you think so, huh?” The guy was really laying on the attitude now, hand on hip and shaking his head at them. The only thing missing was a wagging finger in their face, which from the looks of it was coming up soon.

  The situation escalated from there. Ted was growing hot under the collar; Til just looked embarrassed to be there. Meanwhile, the asshole waiter was keeping up appearances with his looks of disgust and rolled eyes, staring daggers at his manager lurking uncomfortably in a corner. Rather than coming over to see what the problem was, the manager just hightailed it into the back of the establishment.

  Ted was ready to ramp up the fight, but Tilley put a hand on his arm and silently pleaded for him to just let it go. He didn’t want to, but he knew she was right. Even so, while they waited, Ted absentmindedly fiddled with the top of the saltshaker, twisting it halfway off and back on again with a mischievous expression. Til shook her head no, “The only people that’ll upset are the ones who dump it out on their own food. This jerk-face would probably just enjoy it.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said, tightening the top and placing it back down. He fished cash out of his wallet and threw it down, grudgingly including a small tip, and they left.

  Back at the car, it was Til who noticed the Camaro pig-parked across two lines, just a couple of spots down from them. “Is that the same car?” she asked, giving the pristine sports car a once-over.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. I think it is.” He looked inside himself, then walked around back to make
sure, and there was the license plate again: EXCESIV. Til looked over and Ted nodded an affirmative ‘this is the one’. With a gleam in her eye, she walked back to their own car and reached into the passenger side to pulled out the befouled takeout box from dinner.

  “You’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do?” Ted said. She looked back at him and nodded, pulling back the Styrofoam lid off the cheesy mess they taken from the previous restaurant.

  Ted smiled, then started laughing. He never expected her to be so devilish. She was laughing too, walking right up to the Camaro and smearing cheesy, glazed Jack Daniels goop all over the gleaming finish.

  Smearing the nasty orange/brown slop over the hood, down the windshield, on top of the roof, and chucking the rest down towards the back end, she laughed like Dr. Evil when she dropped the cheese-lined styrofoam container just under the drivers side door. The waiter from hell would probably step right into it in his haste to examine his precious car. Ted was impressed. Mr. Excesiv would be sorry he even showed up for work that day at all.

  Ted held an arm out, reaching to give her a much deserved hug, as she giggled and squeezed him back.

  “I can’t believe I just did that,” she said, her giggling turning infectious on him.

  “Me neither. But you did it,” he said with a smile, motioning for her to hurry up and hop in the car.

  After getting her situated and gently closing the door, he raced around to his side and peeled out before anyone could catch them in the act. They were laughing hysterically at this point, both of them pleased to have expunged the bad vibes, if only for now.

  * * *

  Winding up spending the night together was unexpected, but didn’t feel rushed—they were just that much into each other, and old enough not to worry about the rules all that much. The evening had been fun, and special; one thing had led to another, and they were ready for more.

  Til curled up into Ted’s chest afterwards and ran her fingers back and forth across his damp skin, enjoying the moment but hoping for intimacy of a different kind. She was nervous. Honest expression never came easy for her, but she wanted to try, even the superficial kind would be good enough to begin with.

  “Remember what you asked me the other day?” Til asked, stroking his arm, “About my name?”

  “Sure I do,” he answered. Although he didn’t sound certain enough for her taste, she let it slide.

  “It’s ‘Tillany’,” she whispered, embarrassed by the sound of it.

  “Seriously?”

  “‘Fraid so,” she stopped touching him and sat up a little, looking him over to gauge his reaction. At least he hadn’t burst out laughing.

  “It’s pretty.” He was obviously lying, but even so he couldn’t manage a convincing performance. Then he started laughing, making her laugh, too.

  “No it’s not. It’s just like me—a mistake,” she hoped he would understand without her needing to elaborate.

  “A happy accident, you mean.” He squeezed her in a way that was welcomingly reassuring, and she felt a chill from being so connected.

  “An accident, anyway. I was born overseas. Military brat, you know?”

  He nodded, listening carefully, seemingly interested in the minutia.

  So my parents had to go to the American embassy, to get me a birth certificate. Well, not a birth certificate exactly, a consular’s report...same thing though.”

  “Yeah, I understand.”

  “So the staff at the embassy were all locals, and not so great with English. They wrote down two “L’s” instead of the double “F’s”.

  He looked amused, but not in a mean way, “So all along you’ve been Tiffany?”

  She nodded, but then shook her head. “I never was though. My parents couldn’t be bothered to go back and fix it. So I was Tillany from then on.”

  “Tillany Nune, huh?”

  “No, dumbass,”—she was laughing, and gave him a slap on the chest—“ I changed my last name when I turned eighteen, that was all me. Tillany may be lame, but Til Nune has a ring, you know?”

  “It does,” he said.

  “Anyway, that’s why I stuck with it.”

  “You must really hate them for that,” he offered, his expression unsure, like he was afraid of offending her.

  “Not really,”—she wasn’t mad—“I hate them for other stuff. But that’s sort of what they’re all about, ya know?”

  “Mmm,” he hugged her tight, and she felt a lump welling up. Sniffing it down, she pulled away a little. It was a little too much for so soon. But it felt good, opening up.

  “Tiffany...” He paused, then snorted and laughed out loud. “I can’t picture you as a Tiffany.”

  She laughed with him. “Me neither!”

  Relieved that a genuine connection was made, she stretched up for a kiss. They stayed in place for a while, not talking much, kissing and enjoying each other, as the rest of the night fell into a more comfortable sort of togetherness, the sudden maturing that can happen in a relationship that hints of real love.

  ~ 11 ~

  Irritations

  Ted was heading for the snack machine, avoiding eye contact all the way. He was just about there when a nails-on-chalkboard voice called out to him, coming from the last person he wanted to see.

  “Hello Marge.” He turned, slumped, and hoped he was looking stressed or busy enough for her to get the message. It worked for most people, but he hadn’t tried it with her yet. Judging from past experience, she didn’t seem all that keyed in. Maybe he’d be lucky and find her to be in a more observant frame of mind.

  “Oh, Ted! How nice to see you.” No such luck. “I was hoping to run into you at some point today. I’ve got a few things I still need to work out concerning the schedule.” She pronounced it British-style, the only person in the building who did so. She never made the adjustment, even when everyone said ‘ske-jew-al’ right back at her. Was this part of her style too? A way to buck the system in the mildest way possible?

  She waited. Apparently his look of far-away disinterest read to her like non-comprehension. “The schedule, hon? For the conference? We talked about it yesterday, remember?”

  “Yes, Marge,” he said, noticing the flat monotone but not taking steps to fix it. “I remember. Yesterday. The conference skejewal.”

  “Yes, dear, the conference schedule.” She smiled, putting a hand on his shoulder and speaking slowly. Like she had just now concluded he was soft in the head. “By the way, as long as I have you cornered—”

  An amazingly apt description. “Yes?”

  “Well, I have the spreadsheet back from the departmental survey. I thought you might want to go over it.”

  “Yes!” Finally some good news. “I definitely want to. How about my office in say, twenty minutes?”

  She nodded, practically beaming in the light of such friendly interaction. This lady needs to get out more, Ted thought as he smiled back, hoping it didn’t come off as sarcastic. No point in revealing the truth now that he needed her for something.

  “Wonderful!” She said, sounding like she really meant it. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Oh, with the spreadsheet, of course.”

  “Of course.” He waved her away, and turned his attention to the vending machine in case she needed a stronger prompt. So much for an actual lunch break, he would have to grab something and eat it back at the desk as usual. He dropped in some quarters and settled on something greasy and salty. It promised to be filling if nothing else. He grabbed it and bolted for his workspace before anyone else could sidetrack him into more useless conversation. As he half-trotted along, he was aware of the food making all kinds of racket, bumping against his thigh, creating a rhythmic sha-cring, kasha-cring, kasha-cring, kasha kasha-kasha-cring—. He held it away from his body, trying to silence the bag but only subduing the ‘sha-ka’ part—the crinkling sound refused to go away entirely.

  Eighteen minutes later, Ted was hovering over his desk, Marge indicating various items of
importance on her spreadsheet. She jabbed a finger at it excitedly, showing an enthusiasm for the work that Ted found hard to believe. He nodded along and tried to catch every detail, afraid of having to ask her to repeat herself.

  “Here’s the revised auto-responder scripts. Gail—she’s one of the gals I asked to help—Gail got those all fixed up just yesterday. Works like a charm now.” She was getting even more excited as she went along, her hyper-speech style ramping up to an ear-piercing degree. “And the form letters of demand to vendors are spelled out in column “n”, just after the internal memos. I wrote most of them up,”—emphasis on ‘I’ and ‘most’—“but the girls finished up everything I couldn’t get to. And your list of VIP clients? That’s on page six.” Marge took a long breath. Ted began to feel slightly dizzy. “It’s set up cross-referenced like you asked, with the percentages deducted and a complete list of ranks and status, just like you asked for.”

  Ted looked up from the page, feeling out of breath just from listening to her. He bit back the urge to praise her, knowing that would only lead to unwanted thanks, and possibly overconfidence. It was better she and her team were under the gun, that would keep them from slacking off.

  “They did all this,”—Ted swept an open palm over the overflowing volume of data—“for coupons?” He was referring to the 50% off ‘select Sahara e-items’, otherwise worthless surplus that Phil had gathered up. This was their hastily crafted incentive program, though neither of them had thought it would actually work.

  “Oh, Ted, after I had a little talk with them they were happy to do it. If you want to know the truth, they really just needed someone to get in there and motivate them. What with all the executives working up their own documents and projects, they had plenty of time on their hands. I just convinced them to make better use of their time, gave them a little push in the right direction. So you see—”

  “Yes, I get the picture,” he interrupted, not allowing her to get rolling. “Well, er, good work Marge. To you, and the girls as well.” Damn. Too Much?