“We’ve got bigger problems,” he said.
“Bigger than a criminal investigation?” She didn’t sound particularly incredulous, but then again she always played it close to the vest. Part of the allure, he supposed.
He wondered how long she’d been standing outside the door. It wasn’t like her to be late like that, but obviously she’d heard all the pertinent stuff. “Well, yeah. Or at least it’s just as bad. I’ve got word from Hamm, our access is getting cut. So whatever the feds have in mind, we’re fighting with one hand tied behind our backs.”
“Shit.”
“Real deep shit,” Ted agreed. “Any ideas?”
* * *
It wasn’t hard to convince Ward of the need to funnel the money into one, hard to track location. In fact, he seemed to be practically begging for suggestions. How he ever managed to head up something as elaborate as the club still amazed her. He appeared incapable of handling big decisions, never mind being detail oriented enough to handle day to day operations. Marge Klein must’ve done the lion’s share, that was the only logical conclusion. She knew there were others at the top, still, and well hidden at that, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out what they did. Must have been strictly behind the scenes, nothing to do with staff, operations, or clients.
But there were others, she knew that much from the account balances. She intended to find them, but for now remaining close to Ward was a larger concern. So she gave him what he wanted, and then walked him through it, holding his hand the whole way, and finally she ended up just setting it all up for him anyway. All the better, it’d be easier to get her hands on it in the end this way, so there was no reason to protest. She did act slightly put out, but only to leave the proper impression on him, that she was just another flunky, unable to envision the big picture. He was just dumb enough to believe it, too.
* * *
Til’s behavior at the pinup awards had never been forgotten. Any and all sightings were reported on, analyzed to death and amplified in all directions. Even as she attempted to withdraw and regroup, the tabloids blanketed every newsstand with candid images of her disheveled appearance—it was impossible to lead a quiet life, never mind any semblance of a normal one. She retreated into her estate, occasionally visiting the homes of celebrity ‘friends’ and other places where the media could be kept at bay. Other than that, she never appeared in public at all, aside from ‘crucial’ engagements her handlers flat-out refused to cancel. Even some of those, she ducked out of at the last minute—threats and promises be damned—which lead to even more bad press. Like being sucked into a powerful whirlpool, spinning downward ever faster.
‘NetSave, simulcast live and in virtual space, was the benefit concert of the decade. She scored an invitation by the skin of her teeth, despite grave reservations from just about everyone involved. Her press agent worked overtime assuring them she was good to go, done with the shenanigans of the past year, and most important of all, clean and sober.
The event was being talked up as a new lease on life for Til Nune. A chance for her star to be reborn, her career thrown back into the spotlight. Til, unenthused but out of excuses, went along with the plans and hoped to get it all over with. She was out of options, the money had dried up as her public appearances had dwindled, and her newest album wasn’t catching fire as much as they’d hoped. Nobody around her said so, but what with all her expenses lately, the mansion, the cars, the personal assistants and bodyguards, and the unmentionable vices soaking up any leftovers, she was cash poor and nearly broke. A flashy, upbeat public appearance with some new live music to boost record sales was desperately needed.
* * *
Tears rolled down Ted’s cheeks as he stared fixedly into his seventy-five-inch monstrosity of a television. The breaking-story graphic assaulting his eyes, a piercing ring shot through his ears and up into his skull in shocked reaction to the news on the screen, tearing his soul into tiny little pieces. So sudden, so abrupt—yet at the same time a chilling culmination of all that had happened over the past year. Nune was discovered early this morning by a housekeeper, after an apparent fall from her rooftop sun-deck during the night. She’s thought to have been alone at the time of the incident. Neighbors reported hearing loud noises during the night, and foul play has not been ruled out. The sudden death of twenty-seven year old pop-star Til Nune was...
He looked around for the remote, having suffered through the lurid details a half-dozen times, but he couldn’t find it. Lost in pain, he gave up and left it on to torture him some more.
He looked down at the envelope he’d been clutching since the mail arrived, now fairly drenched in tears. The address was smudging, which upset him. For the third, maybe fourth time, he held it at arms length, trying to keep it safe. He tried to make out the postmark, determine how long ago she’d composed the letter, but that was smeared as well, the date unreadable. With a great effort, he flipped it over and tore it open. Then he sat for several minutes more, finally working up the courage to pull the letter from its enclosure.
Hey Teddy Bear,
That was enough. Wrenching waves of grief came over him, he just managed to place the letter to one side before they completely took hold. It lasted long enough for the news details to cycle through twice more. Out of the corner of his eye he finally spotted the remote. It was beside him on the oak end-table, right where it always was. If he’d been able to think straight, it would’ve been obvious. But his mind was all over the place. A million thoughts, followed by tunnel-vision, then the deep sadness, then a flood of confusing endorphins that muddled him up even worse.
He switched off the noise. In the silence, his sobs and sniffs echoed through the foyer and made him self-conscious even in his solitude. He reached over and picked up the letter again.
Hey Teddy Bear,
How long it’s been, huh? I know. I’m real bad about this, but an email just seemed so shitty, and I thought you deserved something personal. It’s been too long. I miss you.
He had to pause again, sniffing, getting up to find tissues. Then back to the letter.
I have regrets, Ted, things haven’t been going so well. I know it seems stupid to say that, with everything I’ve been blessed to have, but something is still missing. And I know what it is. Every time I try to fill the void, it’s never what I want. I think so, but it isn’t. Not for long, anyway. Now I figured out what I want, for real. It’s such a trip, I’ve known it for so long. It’s you. It’s always been you.
Can we meet sometime? I feel bad about the way we left things. I’ll understand if you don’t want to, though. Take care of yourself Ted, and be careful.
Til
Ted wept some more, repetitively reading and crying, crying and reading, until his eyes ran dry. Then he put it away, careful to preserve the integrity of the envelope and that return address, bearing her name in that loopy, scratchy handwriting that looked like her lyrics. Too late, he realized the most painful irony imaginable—he loved her now more than ever.
Part III
~ 32 ~
Feelings
Til Nune’s third album, released posthumously by Sahara Oasis Studios, had claimed the number one spot for the third week in a row. Seeing her name at the top of every chart withered Ted’s spirit like a toxin. Knowing the royalties were destined for his own bank account was even worse. He didn’t want it. Didn’t even want to think about it. But it was coming, like it or not. He was her beneficiary. Not only would the ill-gotten spoils of her good fortune flow into his coffers, but the legitimate money as well. He’d hit the jackpot he had always wanted—soaked through with ironic justice, bitter as sin, a sickening reversal of fortune he would give anything to undo.
He felt another wave come flooding up from his gut, bringing with it a sickening, nauseous sensation that was beyond emotional distress. He felt like he was dying. Or maybe he just wished it would kill him.
He would fulfill his obligation. A request to dispose of her worldly poss
essions was not easily ignored. But he couldn’t keep it. He had to give it away, or he’d never be able to move on. Already his mind was churning, going over what kinds of charities she might have liked, where he could possibly do the most good with this and get it out of his undeserving hands. Even the gold club money was bitter to contemplate now, reminding him of everything he’d lost in trade for his obnoxious fortune. But at least those were his own earnings. Tempted though he was to get rid of those as well, there was no legitimate way to do that. As for Til’s, he called his lawyer, gave instructions on which charities to enrich, and ordered them to send whatever paperwork needed signing by the end of the day.
With that out of the way, he took a walk around the grounds, hoping the change of scenery might help him clear his head. The place was a mess, disheveled and unkept, much like the master of the house himself. He’d not been home in several weeks, and the help had slacked off. They’d need to be spoken to, or even fired in some cases, but he was too exhausted to worry about that right this minute. There was still too much he needed to do, like so many heavy weights pressing down on him.
* * *
Marge had been taking it easy as much as possible. She had less responsibilities at Sahara, which meant more time to enjoy her earnings. She had been downright indulgent, figuring it was about time she rewarded herself. Payment for all the crap she took, that’s how she saw it, especially for how shabbily they’d treated her in the end. She took herself on lavish shopping sprees, enjoyed expensive lunches with old friends, and allowed for several leisurely trips out of town. Unfortunately, she hadn’t remembered to take herself off the grid during these excursions. Just as she was relaxing into a mani-pedi, in the middle of one of her getaways, a phone call interrupted her bliss.
“Marge?” The voice was familiar. It was one of the newer girls, but they’d chatted enough times to recognize each other’s voices.
“Joan? Hi. What’s up?”
“Listen, Marge. I’m sorry to spring this on you. I know you’re out right now...”
Marge knew she meant out of the club. Word travelled fast around the warehouse floor rumor mill. “It’s okay Joan, I don’t mind. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, I just thought you should know, seems like the executive team is on the outs. Something happened, I guess. Maybe something went wrong?”
That’s an understatement. “Did you happen to hear which of them were going at it?”
“I think all of them. It’s hard to tell, you know?”
“Yes, I know.” She was relieved to know they were still keeping everyone in the dark. Obviously they didn’t know Marge was the one on the outs that everyone was talking about. “I appreciate the heads up, Joan.”
“Not a problem. Some of us were thinking it might be good if you, you know, made an appearance? Maybe if you were here, things might go smoother.”
There it was. The real reason for the call. The girls needed support, they were afraid of dealing with the bosses without her as a go-between. Not likely, she thought, rolling her eyes at the manicurist who laughed in response. “I’ll think about it, Joan. But I can’t make any promises.”
“Thanks, Marge. Hope to see you.”
“Okay. Listen, I’ve got to run. I’m in the middle of something...”
She thanked her associate for the heads-up and got back to focusing on the treatment. She had no intention of returning. She was having too much fun where she was. Let them regret not having her around, maybe it’d do them all some good to realize just how much work she did for them. For all of them, she thought. A flash of anger crossed her face until she remembered where she was and let it fall away. She smiled, leaned back, and relaxed again. If Ted or Phil found themselves needing her help, they knew what it would take to get her back. As for the rest of them, they were on their own.
* * *
With Marge out of the picture and Ted emotionally unavailable, Phil was forced to handle the spillover. He didn’t mind the extra work, but having to deal with actual people was far beyond his wheelhouse. Bombarded with calls and texts, each one more demanding than the last, he grew quickly overwhelmed. In his attempts to mollify the clients, he only made things worse—with no ear for tact and an inability to empathize, his replies only added fuel to the fire, creating a snowball effect of angry rebuttals. After a particularly brutal exchange, one which took aim at supposed incompetence within Club Gold’s technology department, Phil felt like he’d been punched in the gut.
Officially at the end of his rope, he opted for the unthinkable. He shut off all his gadgets. Totally off, not muted or deferred, but powered down and blank as death. He took a minute to notice the quiet, realizing as he listened into the stillness that he’d not been in a completely natural environment like this in months, if not years. He didn’t really care for it though, it was like one of so many uncomfortable silences he was burdened with every time he had to relate to others. He even considered powering up just one machine, for comfort’s sake, but decided against it. He needed the break, and regression was the only method he knew to make the stress disappear.
Digging out a dusty VHS tape of his favorite childhood show, The Banana Splits, he curled up on the sofa and grinned wide as the television blared out the familiar Tra-la-la! La-la-la-la! theme song. Within minutes, his mind was shut down just as thoroughly as his electronics.
* * *
There was little excitement happening in the ranks of the club since Marge had quit. New clients were the exception rather than the rule these days, most of the low-hanging fruit already picked. Either they were in already, or they’d rejected the offer, or they had a better deal elsewhere. There was nowhere left to expand, the higher-profile potentials were too risky, being on friendly terms with so many Sahara higher-ups. The gold club had become a routine business, no more exciting or exceptional than any other departmental task or initiative.
For the most part Ted and Phil were handling the routine work, even picking up some of the slack left behind by Marge, without the need for unpleasant consultations. So Phil was somewhat surprised to hear from Ted late in the day on Friday, asking if they could have a conversation before he went home.
Phil showed up in Ted’s office at precisely 6pm, having made sure to inconvenience his partner to the tune of one extra hour, but not a minute more. Phil always overthought such things, and in this case Ted was hardly in a position to leave anyway. He had another couple of hours of work left on his desk.
“You wanted to talk with me?” Phil asked, leaning halfway in. When Ted didn’t immediately answer, he knocked on the doorframe, hard. Ted looked up to see Phil make a face and shake his hand, cradling it, and he visibly fought back the urge to chuckle. Phil was angry with himself for showing weakness, so he stomped his way in and tried his best to intimidate. This only made Ted’s effort to hold back the laughter all the more obvious.
Covering his grin with one hand, Ted gestured at the guest chair with the other, making no move to stand up or extend any special courtesy. He muttered a cursory, “Thanks for coming,” that sounded exceptionally insincere under the circumstances.
“Uh huh,” Phil replied, “Sorry I’m late.” He wasn’t sorry. Again he could see Ted resisting the urge to react with amusement. Maybe he was doing it on purpose, to lighten the mood, but Phil didn’t want to give up any ground by humoring him. He studiously kept his expression neutral.
They allowed the awkward silence to fester. Phil lowered his head and studied the carpet, while Ted turned to his computer and clicked aimlessly at the screen. Neither of them were willing to crack first, so it turned into a juvenile contest; Phil staring harder, Ted clicking more intently. Finally Ted gave up, pushing the mouse aside, clearing his throat and saying, “Guess I’ll start, then...I’m glad you agreed to come. I’m hoping we can clear the air.”
“Yeah,” Phil replied, feeling grateful for not having to break the ice, “that’s a good idea.”
More silence. They stared at each
other some more, this time slightly less adversarial and more hopeful. In a burst, they both spoke at once, “I...think maybe we...”
They laughed nervously. Still uncomfortable, but there was a hint of a thaw. Phil gave the signal for his partner to ‘go ahead’, and gave Ted his full attention.
“I was thinking maybe we need to find a way to close up shop,” Ted spilled out the sentence, almost tripping over the words in his hurry to get it all out.
Phil nodded vigorously and said, “Me too!” He felt a rush of excitement in realizing both of them were on the same page. “This whole thing is just getting—”
“Out of hand,” Ted said, finishing his friend’s thought, “I agree. It’s time to figure out a way out. Before it’s too late.”
“Too late,” Phil echoed, “Yeah. But we need to do it soon, then.”
“Oh?” Ted was apprehensive.
“Don’t worry,” Phil said, relaxing for the first time since entering the room. It was such a relief to think they might not have to fight any more. “It’s not as bad as all that. But I just think the sooner the better.”
“Before they catch on to us, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
“So how do we do this?”
Ted launched into a detailed explanation of his plan, “One of us will have to take out the Sahara Data Center, where all the backups are kept, so that our club activities will be erased from the databanks...”
The local servers would then need to be fed the false information, and it would have to be practically simultaneous for it to work. The emergency backup protocol for a data center crash included out to the local servers to retrieve the latest company information. A temporary backup measure, it would be the only data left in the SDC for the company to fall back on.
The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller Page 23