She remained at a distance as far as her personal life was concerned, so he didn’t feel comfortable prying any further. By the next week she was back to normal, at least as far as the outside stress was concerned. By mid-week she and Phil were back to casual banter, tossing out insults with a kidding smile, not taking each other too seriously. Ted felt like it was the calm between two storms, but he took it as a good sign that they were speaking at all.
* * *
The nightclub was noisy, clearly meant for a youthful set, but the Sahara girls settled in comfortably enough. The older ladies selected a quiet corner with two large tables, while the younger ones explored and mingled. A few of the adventurous ones even danced, helping to break the ice and get everyone loosened up. A few rounds later, with the night in full swing, Marge was fast becoming the life of the party.
It had been Marge’s suggestion that they all go out ‘for a quick drink’, and she was anxious for the night to be a success. Ever since the blow-up with Phil, she’d been thinking about branching out, strike up some new friendships in case the old ones fell apart. She spent the night chatting up everyone around her, despite the inevitable disadvantage of a lack of common interests. She kept up on the drinking end too, without getting too far gone. Not sober, exactly, but completely in control. She used the mild buzz to her advantage, posing questions only the tipsy could get away with.
She began with softballs such as; ‘so how do you like being in the club?’ just to gauge their willingness to talk. From there she jumped around, asking some about the money they were getting, others how it felt to be so sneaky, and a select few whether or not they had any suspicions about who was really in charge. She was able to get a good sense of who was aware of which elements, the ones with an eye on the big picture, and which of them understood their position in the pecking order. She made note of it all, said nothing of consequence in reply, and acted as if this were nothing more than a friendly gab session.
As they were approaching last call, a friend-of-a-friend colleague—who wasn’t in the club to begin with—joined the group, sitting right next to Marge. Although she would’ve preferred to spend the remaining time with the people she came with, Marge was in too good a mood to argue.
“Hi.” The stranger offered a hand. “I’m Judy Schott. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Oh?”—Marge accepted the handshake—“All good things, I hope.”
The other woman smiled.
Marge sipped her drink and smiled back. “I had no idea I was so popular.”
“Word gets around,” Judy replied. “Ever since I came to work at Sahara, all I hear is Marge, Marge, Marge! You’re practically famous. The way you’ve been moving up the ranks, all those new responsibilities...must be doing something right.”
Marge reminded herself they’d all had a few. In all likelihood this person had, too, and never meant to be so forward. Accordingly, Marge selected her next words with care. “Well, Judy?”—she paused until Judy’s expression confirmed she got the name right—“That’s very kind of you, Judy, but my pay grade’s just as low as ever. Believe me, I wish it weren’t! I think you’ve been listening a little too much to the office rumor mill.”
Judy brushed off the comment with a wave. “With all your responsibilities?”—her tone almost gushing now, Marge suspected the woman was being facetious—“You’re a dynamo! Anyway, I just thought you should know. People have been noticing.”
She smiled and stood, in a sudden hurry to return to whomever she’d come with. An odd conversation, but then again bar nights often brought out those types of encounters. Marge didn’t dwell on it, though she did remember their conversation when she ran into Judy again. This time, at Sahara, it was all business.
* * *
“I’m interested in setting up a meeting with Ted Ward,” Judy announced out of the blue, without so much as a ‘remember me?’, as though they were old friends.
Marge pulled her aside, looking around for potential eavesdroppers. “Sorry,” Judy said, acknowledging Marge’s concern by lowering her voice, “didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh, you didn’t,” Marge said, keeping her voice low and cool, “but I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m not in Ted’s department. You’ll have to go to him directly.”
Judy actually had the gall to act put-out. “I thought that you and he were working together,” she said in a questioning voice, “or that’s what I heard, anyway.”
“You heard wrong,” Marge said, deciding at that moment she didn’t trust this woman, “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
She looked ready to protest further, but then she smiled and said, “I see. Well thank you anyway, Marge.” Her tone was overly polite, almost too much.
“Don’t mention it,” Marge said, wondering where this person was getting her information. It made her uncomfortable, but she couldn’t very well tell her off just for asking a few questions.
Ted didn’t mention Judy at their daily briefing, so Marge assumed they hadn’t connected. She did, however, happen to bump into her once more before the day was out, which lent an even stranger twist to the story.
“I wanted to thank you for your advice,” said Marge’s new acquaintance, “I followed up with Mr. Ward, and he agreed to meet with me next week.” She looked pleased with herself. When Marge didn’t reply right away, she added, “All on your recommendation, of course.”
Marge felt a cold chill, getting the distinct impression that she was being set up. “I’m sorry, my recommendation?”
Judy shook her head emphatically, “You explained how you were both in different departments, and that I should talk to him directly, and that’s what I did. So, thanks.”
Marge strained to recall her exact wording from earlier in the day. Had she actually given a recommendation, then? She remembered telling her to talk to Ted herself, that much was true. Had she said more?
She shook herself out of the memory-fog when she realized that Judy was still speaking. “...and I’d really like for you to attend, if that wouldn’t be too much of a bother.”
Marge considered letting it go, but decided to admit her lapse instead, in case it was important. “Sorry, I got distracted for a second. What was that again?”
“I was just asking if you wouldn’t mind sitting in,” she said, seemingly unconcerned with Marge’s lack of attention, “when I meet with Mr. Ward next week. “I can c.c. the appointment to you as soon as he gets back to me.”
Marge felt disconcerted. Judy’s seeming familiarity with their relationship was troubling. As far as she knew, nobody was aware of the fact that she met with Ted on a daily basis. They’d both been careful not to spread it around. But now she was being asked to sit in on a meeting with him?
“Oh, next week’s the plan?”—she was improvising—“I’m not sure about that. I’ve got a lot on my plate, actually...”
Judy paused a moment. Marge thought she noticed a glint of anger, just in that split second, but then it was back to manners and smiles. “I completely understand. I’ve been swamped lately myself. If I could still c.c. you though? Maybe you’ll find a free minute to pop in.”
“Of course,” Marge said. She didn’t like it, but couldn’t imagine any way to decline without being bitchy.
~ 19 ~
Labels
After a lengthy discussion, Ted agreed to look into the feasibility of striking out on their own, form a start-up record label with Til Nune as the star performer. He tried to toss in a few arguments against, but Til insisted, refusing to be a slave to Sahara for the rest of her life. So he went along, humoring her, even though he still harbored schemes of his own. In the meantime, though, he wasn’t opposed to helping her get started, so long as it didn’t involve too much of a commitment. With her out from under Sahara for a while, he could operate his own projects without having to constantly factor in what might happen to her rankings, which truthfully required a lot more maintenance than he would’ve liked. Her brand of hip d
owner music just didn’t have a wide appeal, and it was becoming exceedingly difficult to fake it.
He had no delusions about the project. In fact he was fairly confident in its failure, but he didn’t want to disappoint her right off the bat. Even as he was getting his own business off the ground on the other side, he was willing to go along with her plan for now just to keep her happy.
“I know we can make a go of it, you and me against the world, right?”
He liked the sound of that. Putting an arm around her, he pulled her in and kissed her neck, which always made her crazy. She smiled and tilted her head back. He breathed in the pleasant smell of perfume, mixed with a musty something familiar, akin to the aroma on the inside of her guitar case.
“And when that gets going, we launch into a tour that’ll take us places we’ve never been, and I can bring my music to fans all over the country. You’ll go with me, too, right? Stay right by my side?”
He nuzzled closer, “Mm hmm. Sure. Sure I’ll go,” he cooed into her neck, kissing it and taking her hand. Standing, he helped her up and led her to the bedroom. She didn’t resist, one hand draped over his shoulder and the other in his, they kissed on the way in and were ready for more. Only the doorbell rang.
“Shit,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” he answered, letting go of her hand and grabbing her waist, pulling her closer, “I’ll get rid of whoever it is. You just make yourself—”
“Comfortable,” she said, giggling.
“Sure.” He let go, and she fell backwards onto the bed, laughing more.
“Go!” she said, shooing him along, “Go get rid of them!”
He reached down to kiss her once more, she pushed him away and he walked out, laughing, and made his way to the front door. At this point, the person on the other side had lost patience and was incessantly knocking.
“Hang on!” Ted called out, reaching for the bathrobe tossed over a dining room chair in the ramp-up to one of their amorous evenings. He wrapped himself up in it and cinched it shut, then paused.
“Who is it?” he demanded.
There was no answer. Something about the situation made him nervous. He felt his stomach churn as he slowed, leaning forward so as to look through the peephole without casting a shadow under the door. A stupid maneuver for a man who’d just finished yelling at the doorframe, he knew, but it was all he could think to do to protect himself. From what, he had no honest clue.
Peering out into the hallway, he saw one annoyed looking man with a red puffy face, no apparent weapons, and not too much of a threat aside from his bulk. Deciding he could face this ‘danger’, Ted swung the door open. The man pushed past him and made his way into the center of the room, removing his hat and coat.
“Hey!” Ted blurted out. Not much of an effective protest.
“Excuse me,” he tried again, “just what do you think you’re doing?”
“Mr. Ward, I take it?” he said, his voice full of annoyance and scorn. “Go get your girlfriend. We need to talk.”
“I beg your pardon?” Ted replied, feeling less threatened and more indignant from the way this conversation was going.
The man rolled his eyes. “Just get her, will you? I haven’t got all night.”
Ted, resisting the urge to protest a third time, suddenly slumped and walked back to the bedroom. Maybe having Til at his side would prop him up sufficiently to kick this guy out of the apartment.
* * *
After a cursing session that Ted was forced to endure, followed by an inordinate amount of time required to ‘get ready for this guy’, Til made her appearance.
“So who the hell are you now? And why shouldn’t I throw you out on your ass?”
“Thanks for coming out, I apologize for the intrusion.”
This caught both of them off-guard. Til didn’t reply, she just nodded, giving him tacit permission to proceed.
“I’ll explain why I’m here,” the man continued, “but I have to ask you both a question first.”
He looked at them for confirmation, waiting for their agreement to continue. He was so much calmer and less aggressive than he’d been upon barging in. The couple held back their anger and waited for him to pose his question.
“If I were to tell you something serious—potentially incriminating, even—about the CEO of Sahara corporation, could I trust the two of you not to go and blab about it to the press?”
* * *
Following a full day of outreach, Ella Jones’ suspicions were confirmed—her peers had felt the crunch as well, she wasn’t the only one being marginalized. The system that used to work in their favor was now rejecting them all. Content they had summarily dismissed was mysteriously climbing the sales ladder, and to add insult to injury, it appeared that many of their reviews were disappearing outright. It was almost as if someone inside of Sahara had committed to play protector, shepherding these inferior works through the process without the slightest consideration for the gatekeepers in charge of quality assurance.
She wrote carefully crafted letters to her colleagues, explaining her conjecture and asking for their support. She walked to the liquor trolley and fixed herself a strong drink. Two hours later, each person had either replied in the affirmative, or been stricken from the list. She would ostracize them later, but for now she had the support she needed, and it was time to go to war.
She banged out letters to the editor, pre-wrote some social media posts and blog comments, and composed a set of scathing emails to blast out to hundreds of influencers at a moments notice. With these weapons of blackmail in hand, she punched up the addresses of Sahara employees she had worked with in the past. Personalizing each note with an anecdote about how they knew each other, she reminded them of how much her services had meant to the company, and how many friends she had in the business. To cap off the attack, she added some cautionary threats in the form of print and television critics who might be willing to boycott, publishers and third-party vendors who were fed up enough to consider renegotiation, and independent artists ready for a change as well.
* * *
TO:
FROM: lo4)$5;ae33:Cal9#)[email protected]
BCC: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Found another one
Hey Ted. Here’s another one. That makes seven I intercepted direct from the critic lady, and 18 altogether. She’s trying to get in a bunch of ways, but I caught them all. Get working on the replies, when you forward them I’ll re-route accordingly and drop them in her box (hehe). Phil
Ted pushed his thumbs into his temples and stared down at the floor, rubbing vigorously. Phil’s system of red flags and electronic interceptions having saved their asses again, he still needed to write up all the personalized replies. He wasn’t the best at creative writing, so he would have to run it by Marge. She could check for individualized styles and the like, but he needed to make sure they all said the same thing: We are extremely shocked to hear of this problem, and we promise to look into it right away. Please allow up to two weeks in order for us to fully research your concerns. Thank you for your patience.
This bought them some time, but they still had to consider the larger picture of what to do about this critic and her cronies. And just when it seemed like things were smoothing out, too.
~ 20 ~
Trials
Ted dashed off the last of his email instructions and shut down the computer. He’d become a real creature of habit lately; work all day, work all night, work until bedtime. Where’s the fun?Switching on his e-reader, he thought about starting a new book. Then he remembered how much energy that would require, so he browsed the internet instead. Finally he chucked the device aside altogether. He killed the lights and was about to close his eyes when his house phone broke the silence. Who the hell?
Fumbling in the dark, he had to grab for it twice before it took hold. “Yeah, hello?” he barked. He heard the voice come in, but it was all garbled. Even with the horrible connection, though, h
e knew who it was straight away. In the recognition, his heart sank.
“Yes, sir,” he said to the CEO, his barking snap long gone. He attempted to calm his racing heartbeat with deep breaths in-between frantic acknowledgements, “I certainly do. Yes. Yes, absolutely. Yes, I can appreciate that...”
The line went dead, the boss not bothering even with a proper goodbye before hanging up. Then again, he hadn’t bothered with an appropriate apology for the intrusion or the late hour, either. He didn’t have to.
Ted got up, knowing that sleep was no longer possible. He went to the sink and reached down under for his stash. He hadn’t smoked in a long time, but stress was the biggest trigger and he had plenty to spare. Shaking the pack, he lamented the fact that there were so few left. He’d resorted to rationing some time ago, with prices on the rise and scant disposable cash to play around with—two packs a month, max, after that he had to bum them off somebody at work or go without.
It wasn’t just the money, either. This was his way of staving off the habit. His stomach lurched, reminding him how he’d just gotten off the phone with the CEO, and still hadn’t completely recovered. Then he felt sicker imagining how things were going to work out if he tried pulling a fast one in the lion’s den. He fumbled for his lighter and lit the cigarette, taking a long first drag. It made him lightheaded and slightly more nauseous, but he tried to enjoy it anyway.
There would be no more money coming in, ill-gotten or otherwise, assuming Hamm didn’t have him hauled away to jail straight away. He harbored a glimmer of hope that this might still have something to do with access codes, but why would Hamm have made the meeting public if so? No, he was in deep shit. He took another drag and thought about simple pleasures, hoping to settle his gut while the nicotine settled his nerves.
* * *
Ted sat stock-still, trying not to fidget or draw any more attention to himself than he already had just by being there. It felt like he was under a spotlight, on display there in the outer office like a truant waiting for the principal, which wasn’t so far from the truth. The secretary looked at him with an expression of pity. Uncomfortable with the attention, he tried looking away, then up, but there wasn’t really much to fixate upon. Just her desk and the woman herself. She met his gaze when he looked back and offered up a half-smile. He smiled back, hating himself for it, sure it came off as pathetic. He certainly felt pathetic.
The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller Page 12