The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller

by David Haskell

  Ted thought about how he should reply. That held up the line, so he opted for a simple, “Sure, what’s up?” He didn’t know whether he should be defensive or receptive, so he stayed neutral. “Been a while.”

  “Yeah. It has.” There were sounds coming from the other end. It seemed like she wasn’t alone. “Ted, I’ve got to get out of here for a little while. I know I shouldn’t ask, but...”

  Whatever you want! He felt he might regret the impulse to forgive, but it felt right. He just wanted to be with her, nothing else mattered, pride included. “You want to meet?” He fought to keep the eagerness out of his voice, only partially successful.

  “That’d be great.” It gave him a fresh lift to hear so much relief in her voice. “Where are you?”

  * * *

  They met out in the sticks under a highway overpass. She wanted to ditch her car, so familiar to the paparazzi, and ride with Ted.

  “Aren’t you worried it may get stolen?”

  “Don’t care,” she replied, her voice flat and tired. She made no move to embrace him, though the circumstances hardly called for it. He was amazed at how much he ached to just reach out and take her into his arms, but he held back, trotting around to get the door instead.

  Once he got situated, he took one more look at her car. It wasn’t a Lamborghini, but something along those lines. In these parts, he guessed it would be stripped clean in minutes.

  “Sure you don’t want to...”

  “It’s insured. Besides, it’ll be fine. Nobody’s around.”

  They will be, he thought, but didn’t press the matter further. He pulled out and started driving before asking her where she wanted to go.

  “Someplace quiet. Get some coffee or something, corner booth in some dive. Anywhere nobody’ll notice us.”

  “Check,” he said, feeling stupid for having nothing cool to say. “Gotta say though, it’s not going to be easy to avoid being seen. Not for you, I mean.”

  She reached into her bag and pulled out ridiculously oversized shades, donned them, then reached back in again and removed a big mass of yellow.

  “That a wig?” Ted asked. As she was already reaching up to her head with it, he realized it was a ridiculously stupid question. She ignored it though. He strained to think of something witty, something urbane to say. Anything to break the tension. “Caught you the other night on Late Night.” He knew immediately it was the wrong thing, she blew out a breath and leaned away. He hadn’t thought she was so bad. Not that night, anyway. Not compared to the trainwreck she’d been lately. “Not your favorite moment?”

  She blew another breath out, long and slow, which he knew meant she was disgusted with something. He half-hoped it was something unrelated, though it rarely was with them. But she turned back and looked at him. “I’m sorry. Can we just not talk about TV shit? Or movies, or interviews?” She looked away again, then said much more softly, “Or music even? None of it.”

  Ted was completely taken aback. He’d been reading her annoyance all wrong. It wasn’t his lame attempts that were getting to her, it was her own bad behavior. Til was ashamed of herself.

  “Shit, hon, I had no idea.” He didn’t complete the thought. Had no idea things had gotten so bad? No idea you’d sunk so low? “Forget it. I won’t say another word about any of it. Promise.”

  “Pinky-swear?” He caught a smile, just a tiny one but it was there. He wished he could see her eyes, the shades were an impenetrable mirror. He reached out and shook pinkies with her. They drove on to the restaurant in relative silence, but not the uncomfortable sort.

  * * *

  They entered the diner and helped themselves to a booth way in the back, beyond any of the windows. Til sat with her back to the patrons, so all they could see was a mass of blond fakery and plain boring Ted sitting opposite. There was no way she’d be spotted.

  They ate, focused on the food more than each other. Ted waited for her to bring up whatever it was that had driven her back to him, but she seemed in no hurry. Finally, curiosity got the better of him.

  “I was glad you called,” he said, hoping the opening would set her off. But she just nodded, crunching down on a stray leaf of lettuce. “It did make me curious though. I mean, why now?”

  She looked up. Surprised? No. Just stalling, don’t push.

  “If you don’t want to talk about it—”

  “No,” she said, “it’s not that. It’s hard to know where to start.”

  Ted waited, giving her space.

  “Ever think about robbing a place like this?” she said, taking him completely aback. “You know, pulp fiction style?” She made a face and laughed.

  Ted laughed too. She’d been so crazy lately, it’d almost struck him as plausible for a second. It was a relief to hear her sounding so lighthearted. “Well honey bunny,”—she laughed harder—“with my luck, Jules and Vincent would walk in and put me down like a dog.”

  She grabbed a napkin from the holder and dabbed her eyes, still laughing. She sighed, folding up the napkin and toying with it. Then her face went suddenly serious, like flipping a switch. “Sometimes I think about doing something crazy, ya know? Not that crazy, nothing criminal. But maybe run away or something. Just run. Give it all up and run.”

  “Sounds lonely,” Ted answered.

  “Which? The running, or wanting to?”

  “All of it.”

  Til pushed her plate away, shaking her head in agreement. “I’ve missed you Ted. Missed this.”

  “I’m still here.” He wanted to reassure her, protect her. Snatch her up and take her away. Still he held back, some sense of stubborn pride preventing him from exposing his own vulnerability. Or maybe it was just the knowledge that she could hurt him if she wanted to.

  “I know you are,” she answered, “I just don’t know for how long.”

  “For as long as you—”

  “Don’t.” She reached out and put her hands on his. “Don’t say it. No more promises you can’t keep. Okay?”

  “Okay. No promises. How about this,”—he slid his hands out from under, placing them on top—“I’m here right now. How’s that?”

  She batted her lashes and gave him a smirk. Playful, just for him. “That’s what I wanted to hear.

  * * *

  They got back to Ted’s place arm in arm, feeling good in spite of the drenching they’d taken. Laughing, shaking themselves off, Ted got the door and pushed it in for his girl. My girl. He liked the sound of it. Things were still rough around the edges, but he had a good feeling. The past week had been far more like the early days than anything recent. She even seemed healthier, more vibrant. She was off the drugs, for now, and getting along fine without them as far as he could tell.

  Watching her run for the bathroom, he felt a sense of contentment that had thus far in his life been frustratingly elusive. She returned with towels and handed one over, starting in on her own sopping hair with one of the large fluffy ones Ted had never found a use for.

  “You okay?” he asked, half-hoping she would offer to let him help her towel off. She shook him off with a casual ‘no thanks’ as she headed back into the bathroom to finish up. He let her be, staying in the doorway until he was reasonably dry. When he let the towel drop, it hit the porcelain with a moist slap. Remember to hang that out in the morning, he noted vaguely, most of his attention on the sexy girl in his bathroom rather than the wet towel in his doorway.

  Moving to the bedroom, he removed his damp shirt and changed into a fresh one. When he pulled it down, he gave a start. Tilly was in the doorway, holding something at arms length. With embarrassed realization, he remembered what it was he’d left behind that morning in the bathroom. The list.

  “What the hell is this?” she asked, shaking the paper and balling up her other hand. Her face was resolute, while her clenched fist was turning whitish-purple from the pressure.

  He didn’t answer right away. He did open his mouth several times, but shut it just as fast as every cover story
he’d imagined delivering evaporated in the face of Til’s outrage.

  “Well?” she demanded. There was no way she was letting him off the hook.

  “That’s not. It isn’t. I mean—” He couldn’t shake the stammering, nor the feeling of angry self-loathing. “That’s not what it looks like.” Brilliant.

  “Are you joking?”

  He knew flimsy excuses wouldn’t hold up, could feel it in his gut, so he resolved on the spot to go with honesty.

  “It’s not as if I was using them against you. You were always my first—”

  “Your first?”

  “Priority,” he said in a rush, “my first priority. I made sure that you stayed ahead of the curve, ahead of the rest of them.”

  She looked back at the list, a sickened expression on her face. He knew what was coming, and she didn’t disappoint. “None of that was my doing. Not even luck. You were cheating?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that, no.” But she was on to something. In a real sense, cheating was exactly what he’d been doing.

  “Yes. Yes you were. You were cheating the goddamned system, and you lied to me every time I asked you—”

  He shook his head, “I didn’t lie to you. I told you that you earned it, and you did. You stayed on the charts by your own merit.”

  “Oh, please,” she scoffed.

  “I’m serious. Just look.” He gently took the list from her still trembling hand, turning it over to the monthly summaries. “It’s all right here. I gave you a push, that much is true. But you stayed up there all on your own.”

  Her demeanor didn’t soften, but she was reading. He hoped that she would realize the truth in what he said. She’d been her own sensation, he had little to do with it, she had to believe that.

  * * *

  After a while she calmed herself some, while still refusing to talk or make eye contact. He wondered if she would banish him to a night on his own sofa, but when it came time to sleep she didn’t protest when he entered the bedroom. Nor did she speak to him, which didn’t promise a quick end to the argument. He readied himself for bed and climbed in with her, but she turned her back. Great. He was tired, so at least he wouldn’t stay up worrying. That was a plus. Things would look better in the morning, or that was his hope as he drifted off.

  He was awakened far too early by an urgent phone call. It was Judy, or as he’d recently begun thinking of her, ‘New Marge’. On the verge of anger, she tried to convey what was wrong between drawn out, calming breaths. She demanded that he ‘just come in right away’. Ted told her to sit tight and wait for him. He sat up and tried to shake himself awake. Til rolled over, looked about to speak, then a glint of recollection flashed in her eyes. She rolled back, ignoring him. He got up and left, reluctant to even attempt a good-bye.

  ~ 31 ~

  Struggles

  Two hastily arranged staff meetings later, and there was nothing to show for it. Ted then proceeded to conduct one-on-one sit-downs, at huge personal risk, all in an effort to put a lid on things and calm everyone down.

  ‘Tell me what most concerns you right now?’ was the opening line at every meeting, followed by frank, open dialogue and a sympathetic ear. He wasn’t there to tell them what to do, but rather to find out what they thought needed to be done. Though the answers he received varied in specifics, the theme remained as consistent as it was disturbing:

  I just don’t want to risk what I’ve got anymore.

  Can’t you see we’re sick and tired of this shit!

  How much longer do we have to keep going?

  As much as he wanted to ease their concerns, Ted had nothing new to offer. All he could do was ask them to hang on just a little longer. The splinter group wanted out as soon as possible, and the rest of them were just sick of the drama. It seemed impossible for the club to continue as before.

  Ted had considered trying to come up with enough funds to pay off the quitters, an idea which he floated at the meetings with the people he felt might be receptive. That only made matters worse. Every one of them walked away with the impression that they were about to be robbed blind. What if those guys made off like bandits while the net closed around the rest of them, before anyone else could syphon off their own cut? Paranoia set in, and not just among the dissatisfied minority anymore, either.

  * * *

  The evidence on Hamm’s desk was damning. Intimidation, bribery, corporate espionage, fraudulent negotiations. All exposed to the light and in plain view of his legal advisors. With Sahara fingerprints all over them. Not Hamm’s, of course, but his associates had signed off. Any serious digging might begin to connect those two-bit watergate burglars to his office.

  But he wasn’t so worried about any of that. This wasn’t his first rodeo. And that’s what all those legal eagles were paid for, anyway. But one thing did worry him. A name had popped up he didn’t want anyone to see, including the lawyers. Especially the lawyers. Brandi Snow. One of the counter-signatories on one of the west coast documents.

  Documents with Brandi’s name on them should never be sitting on Hamm’s desk, under any circumstances. He waited until he thought none of them were looking before sliding the paper over and off the desk, where it fluttered to the floor. He placed a foot down casually and kick-slid it under the desk. Then he looked away, nodding to the lawyer sitting next to him before his gaze landed on Fangue, who was staring back at him. His eyes narrowed, moving to that spot on the floor where the paper had been. Shit.

  “...and it won’t just go away now that the Federal Trade Commission has taken it up.”

  “The Federal Trade Commission?”

  “FTC, yes,” Hamm’s legal advisor said, “and the FBI and the IRS won’t be far behind.”

  “Oh, Christ! Are we going through all this again?”

  “The government takes these matters seriously, Mr. Hamm, surely you can see—”

  “Yes, yes. I know. Alright then, we’ve got to shut it down asap. No more fucking around. Fangue, take what you’ve got and round them up. I was hoping to catch the ringleaders holding the smoking gun, you know, but as it stands...”

  Fangue nodded, ignoring the legal team on his way out, and made a beeline for his office. That name again. Snow. Always in relation to some corporate oddity or other. And always in relation to Hamm. Once again Hamm was protecting someone, just like Ted Ward. It took some effort, which in itself was unusual, but he finally found her file and began looking it over:

  * With the company for many years in one capacity or another.

  * Always high-level jobs, always abandoned after only a year or two.

  * Underwent a series of investigations, external as well as within.

  * All of them scrubbed for technical or legal reasons.

  * Never faced so much as a reprimand in the process.

  With the company for many years in one capacity or another, always high-level jobs, always abandoned after only a year or two. Underwent a series of investigations, external as well as within, all of them scrubbed for technical or legal reasons. Never faced so much as a reprimand in the process.

  What sort of hold did this woman have over the company, that she could hang on so long while violating so many rules? All but untouchable, answerable to no one he could identify. Carte blanche, and no particular skills nor work accomplishments to be found either.

  Fangue had seen people like this before, both on the side of law and order as well as amongst the bad guys. Informers, sleeper agents, scouts, clean-up experts. People who could get jobs done no matter the consequences, handle things for people who didn’t want to be seen or known. But what would someone like that be done for a corporation like Sahara? And for whom? That was the better question. Find out who she answered to, and he’d find out her angle.

  Hamm turned to his assistant, lowering his voice. “Get me Senator Clark on the line, too. I’d better start smoothing this over before it explodes in our face. No sense in making these fine agencies waste their limited resources.” He cl
ucked at his assistant, shooing him off. Hamm was getting the impression that people were starting to treat him differently. Like he were toxic.

  No matter. Once he swept this all under the rug it’d be business as usual. Speaking of sweeping things under... He bent down with a grunt, scooped up the paper with Brandi’s signature, folded it, and tucked it into his breast pocket. Her role in the company was not for public consumption. He pulled up the files she’d signed off on, poking around to make sure he’d found them all, dialed the one extension he’d committed to memory, and got Ted Ward on the line.

  * * *

  “We’re on the hook with the feds now, looking to nominate us for goddamned ‘Pyramid Scheme of the Month’. For fuck’s sake, is this The Onion or something? Jezus!”

  The club staffers just stared at him, blank-faced. They’d never seen Ted on a tear before. Now was their big chance.

  “I need all documentation you have, every one of you. Every last scrap of it. No paper trails, got it? And don’t bring it to my office, either. Route it through—“he glanced around at all the fresh, young faces, not a one he felt he could trust at this point—“route it through—“

  “Through me,” Judy Schott said, having just arrived and still standing in the doorway, “I’ll handle it.”

  “Oh, Judy,” Ted said, feeling his stress dissolve at just the sight of a competent ally, “I was wondering when you’d get here. Good, that’s good. That’ll be fine. We route it through Judy, okay? Okay.” He sighed, looked down at the crap on his desk, and toyed with the idea of picking it all up and tossing it in the incinerator. For all the good it was doing him, he might as well burn it. “Look, everyone, get what you can. Don’t leave it for the feds to find, okay? Thanks. That’s all.”

  He waited for the office to start clearing before calling Judy back in.

  “What is it, Ted?” she asked. Her voice was a comfort to him, though he’d never admit it. She sounded like she could be a singer. He allowed the enticing idea to linger for one second, then pushed it away. No attachments, not now. And definitely none in the office.