* * *
Judy knew who the principal players in the gold club were. Had known for some time now. She had chosen to play it close to the vest for one reason, to get what she wanted out of Ted Ward before Hank got to him. That was all. She wouldn’t have even revealed Marge if Hank hadn’t become dangerously impatient with her lack of details. She’d been feeding him small fish for a long time, and he was fed up with it. She gave him the least important one, and he was satisfied for now.
Now her timeline was accelerated. She might have to push them into action before they were ready, which could lead to panicked reactions, but that couldn’t be helped. If Hank didn’t get what he wanted, he would move in anyway, and that would be disastrous to her plans. She preferred to handle things smoothly, with his cooperation, but she wouldn’t allow him, or anyone else, to interfere.
Before she could even start nudging the club in that direction, though, she needed resolution on one nagging issue—how did Hank figure her out? She thought she’d been careful throughout, but somewhere along the line she’d slipped. She needed to find out where so it wouldn’t happen again. She had to go back to the terminal, and no coming back until every last entry has been checked. Whichever client she’d toyed with that had gotten her caught, she would have to delete any trace of activity and either start from scratch, or drop it. She hoped it wasn’t anything to do with her primary target. As soon as she logged in, she checked first to see if anyone had been manipulating Til Nune, besides her of course.
To say that the answer came as a shock was a vast understatement. Judy was quite literally floored by what she saw, in the sense that she actually lost her balance and fell to the ground. Shaking it off, she got back up and read some more. Unbelievable.
* * *
The woman’s badge read ‘Brandi Snow’, identifying her as a member of the executive support team. Selecting her for additional screening was run-of-the-mill procedure, nothing out of the ordinary. That the computer refused to allow them to proceed was decidedly strange, though. Off the charts weird, in fact. So weird, so unprecedented, that the first call the security guard made wasn’t to his boss, but rather to Infotech. They insisted that nothing was wrong on their end. The next call went to the director of security for verification, a call he should have made in the first place. But he never reached his boss. Instead, the call was inexplicably shunted to the office of the chief executive.
With Hamm on the line, the security man—who’d been having a decent day up until that point—was beginning to feel uncomfortably nauseous. Looking over at Brandi Snow, she gave him the cutest little sexy smile, but it disappeared in a flash when he caught her eye. There was nothing enticing there, nothing remotely sexy. She was enraged. Quietly so, but it was there, a seething annoyance, aimed directly at him. He saw all that in a flash, and then he was being invited upstairs for a chat, and he knew that he had done wrong. He didn’t know what he’d done, precisely, but it had to be something serious. Nobody was summoned without good reason. He had pissed off the wrong people.
Looking back, he watched Ms. Snow walk through the checkpoint without so much as a bag-check, and he realized that she was walking in the same direction as he, with only one possible destination. It seemed they were both on their way to the principal’s office today.
Part II
~ 26 ~
Appearances
Til Nune was the hottest ticket of the season. Her debut video was getting massive airplay, her music was trending and streaming all over the place, and her shows were selling out—but just as she was growing accustomed to the new normal, her career switched gears all over again. She wasn’t even remotely prepared for the enormity of it this time.
It was one simple phone call, but it sent her career into the stratosphere and her stress levels shooting just a little higher than that. The call was to do with the popular teen drama Beaver OK, about small town life in Oklahoma. They wanted her to do a long-term guest spot which involved, among other things, one musical number every three episodes. She was to play a teen idol come to town for a final taste of small town life, before setting off on the path to fame and fortune. The concept hit way too close to home; the producers couldn’t have know the half of it. She might as well have lifted the part straight out of her diary. Still, it was a chance she couldn’t pass up. She might even get a long-term contract out of it, or so the network executives kept promising.
She held off on signing as long as she could, but the network ramped up the pressure, ignoring her repeated requests for more time to think it over. Her own agent, usually pretty cool about negotiations, was getting antsy for a commitment. Somewhere around the sixth meeting, in a moment of weakness, she found herself with a contract stuck under her nose and a pen at the ready. Sick of hearing about what a once in a lifetime shot this was, and wanting to just shut them up already, she signed her life away.
She should have been excited, even thrilled. Just a short while ago this would have been an enormous coup for her. When she was younger, she had always had a vision of combining her talents to become the Cher of her generation. But she couldn’t muster the kind of enthusiasm she’d always demanded of herself. In fact, there was little emotion at all, aside from the anxiety attacks, which were promptly medicated away. With all that had been forced onto her shoulders, the added burden of weekly episodes was weighing heavily.
Everything moved at a lightening pace once she’d signed the contract. Suddenly her picture was everywhere—billboards, TV, the internet. All over the internet. It got so she didn’t even want to go online anymore; a pastime that involved interacting with fans and friends, and something she’d always enjoyed. Personal interactions were all but impossible, what with the vast number of groupies vying for her attention, and seeing her own face with every click produced a level of anxiety she found hard to take. TV was the same. She could barely even leave the house without an escort anymore, not that she really wanted to. So she took to isolating herself, which was depressing, unless she was working, which was stressful.
Not that she was all that bad as an actress, in fact she took to it pretty naturally, but it was all still new to her and some days were harder than others on the set. She was surrounded by more seasoned professionals, and they had little patience for newbie mistakes. The network executives had all but disappeared, leaving in their place a cadre of demanding producers and directors telling her what to do every minute she was on the job.
When her episodes aired, there was even more of a visceral reaction around her. The audience at her live shows had changed dramatically, more teenaged and less savvy about music, they hardly cared as long as they got their selfie pics taken by friends with Til somewhere in the background. The die hard fans were relegated to the back, looking even more detached and sullen than ever, though she tried to direct her energy back there as much as she could.
And then there were the detractors. Fans of the show who couldn’t care less about Til Nune or her music, and resented her very existence from the get-go. They were out in-force, online and at live appearances, never hesitating to deliver their uninhibited opinions in obnoxious fashion.
* * *
It started simply enough. Insidious, really, as the innocence of it all allowed it spread like a contagion. The girl responsible was an older lady named Rhonda, and she was getting re-married, which was none of Marge’s concern of course. But the rock she strolled into work wearing was very much Marge’s concern.
Breaking into the gaggle of coworkers fawning over the blinged out hand, Marge moved in as though to get a closer look and muttered, “Come see me Rhonda, will you?”
Rhonda extricated herself and followed Marge to an empty breakroom. “Need something?” she asked. “I really should get back—”
“That’s a gorgeous ring Rhonda. Boyfriend buy it for you?”
The comment stopped the other woman in her tracks. She stammered once before getting out, “Mutually. We bought it together Marge. Why?”
/> “Well, as you know, we’ve been talking about caution as far as our little extra money deal is concerned, so I’m just a little bit curious as to why you’d not only purchase such an extravagant item, but then parade around the office with it.”
“Now you hang on just a second. I never said I used”—she lowered her voice—“that money for this.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. But let’s just make sure this is the last spending spree we see around the warehouse. Okay, hon?” Her final words were fairly dripping with sarcasm.
The other woman opened her mouth, but thought better of it when she caught Marge’s dangerous gaze. She kept her mouth shut and nodded her understanding, and Marge continued the warning stare in return. Whether or not this staffer’s feelings were hurt mattered little. The floodgates were open, and it would take a firm grip to stem the tide.
* * *
The next item up, far worse in scope and scale, was a car. A shiny European roadster, one that no Sahara employee could possibly get their hands on.
This was too much. It was Ted who insisted on handling it this time, typing up a scathing admonishment set to make the rounds at the soonest possible opportunity. He wrote and re-wrote it, trying to get just the right amount of vitriol in with the understanding tone of someone who gets their pain. He kept going too far one way then the other, and the re-writes just seemed to make it worse. He ended up calling Marge for help, feeling very much the jackass in the room for having insisted on handling it in the first place.
“So you need me after all?” Marge grumbled. “So much for taking charge, eh Teddy”—don’t say it!—“Bear?”
Bitch.
He needed her help, so he refused to take the bait. Somewhere deep down he thought she knew how much that bugged him, yet she kept at it. Particularly when she was feeling put out, he realized. Hardly a slip, then. “Yeah, look I’m sorry. I thought I knew what to say, but it’s a real balancing act. You know, any one of them could walk if they felt like it. Or worse.”
Marge nodded. “Welcome to my world,” she said with a dry delivery, “let’s what what you’ve got.”
He handed her a printout, which she peered at over her overly-small frames. All business. Whatever annoyance she was feeling, she was over it. She got it all squared away within ten minutes, though Ted couldn’t help but notice the version she went with was strikingly similar to his original.
* * *
Phil was even more distant than usual; still pissed about the laminates and unable to let it go. His compatriots had given up on trying to cheer him, figuring that he would get over it when he was ready. In the meantime, they had a lot of work to do implementing the new directives. Phil dealt with the computer stuff, which he could handle no matter what sort of mood he was in, but he did make a show of taking his time at each station so that everyone would know how hurt he felt. Most didn’t pay any attention, those that did notice just took it for Phil being Phil, which made him all the more embittered.
Ted was deep into organizing the re-structured staff hierarchy. Hashing it out in a meeting was one thing, but putting it into practice would require some intricate coordination. Normally he would have Phil to bounce ideas off, remind him of things he might have missed. That not being an option at the moment, he went at it alone and hoped for the best. Once completed, he still had to map out the coded messages like always, and hope that everyone had received the proper one informing them of their new responsibilities. He was almost sure there would be mixups, so he steeled himself for the encoded rebuttal messages that were sure to follow.
As for their new directives on dealing with the talent, that would be the trickiest adjustment. Likely to chafe at any hint of change, they would have to be handled with kid gloves. Marge was the one with the strongest sense of empathy, and so she was stuck with that unenviable assignment.
* * *
With the restructuring work underway, and the club returning to full capacity, the last major task left undone was the new payment structure. Ted had to handle the revised system of compensation, and it was a lot more complicated with the profit sharing and seniority rules staffers had insisted upon. He had to make sure to do it right the first time, lest he create another reason to have to get back together again. The last thing they needed was another tedious, not to mention dangerous, meeting. A screw up for one was likely a screw up for many, or maybe even all of them, so one-on-one’s wouldn’t cut it either.
Carefully he cobbled the funds together, divvied them up as perfectly as he could, and slipped them into the offshore accounts Phil had set up. In fact, Phil had suggested they keep it even simpler by cracking the codes of some local banks and stick the money in there, but Ted wouldn’t hear of it. That sounded all the more dangerous, and besides what about when the club staffers went to get their money out? The last thing they needed was suspicion in their own back yard.
So offshore it was, adding a new element of insanity to the situation. This was becoming more of a master criminal enterprise every day, and he was growing more paranoid the deeper they plunged into it. Is it really paranoia if they’re after you, though? If you’re really the bad guy?
* * *
Marge felt sick, staring wide into her computer screen, forcing back tears. She tried not to let the vitriol get to her, but this was too much:
TO: M. Klein ([email protected])
FROM: Joe Sampson ([email protected])
SUBJECT: What that hell!?
To whom it may concerned;
Have you people lost your minds!? I’m disgusted to hear about this new downgrade of my service, and I have half a mind to cancel my account if you people can’t get your shit together and fix this mess!! Do you know how long I been a member of Sahara? How much money I made for you!? You seriously need to get your shit together, I’m sick of the runaround I’m always getting from your supposed “premium” service. I expect a reply asap, and it had better be with an apology and a new contract. Or else!!!
Client after client invaded her inbox in like fashion, bitching and moaning, all of them outraged over the sudden changes. It was amazing how fast they became accustomed to being fawned over, in just the briefest span of time since the club had launched their faux-careers.
Ingrates, every last one of you. She drummed up as much fake sympathy as she could stomach, going down the list and calling each one—the last thing she needed was for them to complain about an impersonal, electronic reply.
Hello, Mr. MacKenzie? This is Marjorie calling from the Gold Club, how are you this afternoon?
Every call was the same. She followed a script to keep from getting upset, staving off the worst of the abuse with ready answers. She went down the list, lending understanding and agreement to their complaints, ticking off the talking points written specifically to mollify them. Most of them appreciated the personal touch. They even seemed to buy into the arguments, largely because Marge made sure to tell them the bad news was ‘only temporary’ and the changes were all ‘for the long-term benefit of your contract in particular’, and so on until their complaints had run dry.
The four women, a splinter group of staffers representing nearly every involved department, hovered over Ted’s desk and stared down at him. Ted hadn’t agreed to their invitation to meet, so apparently they’d resolved to track him down. Any remaining anonymity amongst the staffers seemed to have gone by the wayside, he felt the exposure of it all begin to sink in as he motioned for the ladies to take seats. They remained standing. He’d have stood too, but he was feeling queasy and worried about vertigo, so he stayed put and stared up at them instead.
“Okay, you found me,” Ted acknowledged. “What can I do for you?”
They spent the next half hour or so hashing out the issues, which weren’t as outrageous as Ted had assumed when they barged in. They wanted a fair cut of the profits, but more than that they wanted a seat at the table. Bargaining power and voting rights, that sort of thing.
&nb
sp; “I wouldn’t say that’s totally out of the question,” Ted agreed, “but we can’t very well turn this into a free-for-all.”
The leader, a plain-jane in casual attire named Joan something, had elected to speak for the group, when they were settled down enough to allow for it. “We know that. What we’re asking for is to be allowed to choose our own representation, and hear back from them whenever major decisions are made.”
“Who’d be responsible for organizing all that? The voting and such, I mean. Marge?”
That got them agitated, and Joan faded into the background while the mob complained. The gist was, Marge was management. No Marge.
“Okay. No Marge. So then you’ll handle all those details yourselves?”
“Yes,” they all said at once.
“Fair enough. Now let’s get back to the money.”
* * *
Ted wound up acquiescing to most of their demands, not out of any sense of fear, but because they were reasonable enough. But now there would be a shortfall, and as it would affect Phil and Marge as well, he sent out a meeting request. Might as well get it over with. He felt the familiar queasiness of impending confrontation begin to gnaw at his insides The walls of his cubicle felt like they were closing in, almost imperceptibly, but relentless, constricting. He heard the strains of All Along the Watchtower kick in over the tinny sound system high above. Just an instrumental, but it was eerie how perfectly the lyrics worming through Ted’s mind applied to his life right now. Got to be some kinda way outta here.
He waited one minute, then called Phil.
“I got it already,” Phil said.
So much for hello. “I know you did. Look, I need to talk to someone. Can we go get a drink?”
The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller Page 18