The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller

by David Haskell

  ~ 42 ~

  Repercussions

  Dennis Hamm had just sat down to breakfast, his mood somewhere between upbeat and cocky. There was an important meeting scheduled for first thing, and he was looking forward to it more than most. A political appointee he had his eye on had agreed to meet with him to discuss ‘community outreach’, a bland topic even as euphemisms went. But depending on how that went, he might be looking at a new, inside the beltway phase of his career. This was a dream he’d had for a long time, and it’d seemed an impossible one until recently. Things were really starting to go his way recently, and he felt confident. He’d just picked up his spoon and was about to scoop some sugared oatmeal when he heard a shriek.

  With a start, he turned away from his food to see what the commotion was about. When his wife entered the room, he bit back the urge to laugh—she just looked so disheveled despite her pretty young features. Then he noticed what she was so concerned about, a crumpled up newspaper nearly torn in half around her balled-up fist, and his urge to laugh vanished.

  “What the hell, Denise?” he said, feeling the opening twinge of anxiety.

  When she didn’t answer, he made a grab for the paper, but she turned quickly and held it away. “No,” she mumbled, “you don’t need to see this.”

  “God dammit woman, just give it to me!” He reached for it again. She didn’t resist this time, letting go just as he got his hands on it. He ripped it from her fingers.

  With a prideful harrumph, he turned away and smoothed out the paper with a continuous, indignant sort of ironing motion. She just stood there, staring, without saying a word. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that her cheeks were wet, and that intensified his nerves considerably. He flipped the paper over, feeling his guts sink completely to his slippers as the headline sprang up from the page:

  Sahara Pyramid Scheme

  By ELLA JONES

  Special to The New York Reader

  Dennis Hamm read the headline/byline combination a half-dozen times, struggling unsuccessfully to read past it. He felt a rush of nausea, and was suddenly glad he hadn’t dove into his breakfast just yet.

  Stumbling away from the kitchen counter, he grabbed at the rumpus room end table twice before getting his hands on the remote. He aimed it and jabbed a few times, feeling like a blind man, before the television finally flickered to life:

  Another startling development in the Sahara.com fraud case, employees speaking on condition of anonymity told reporters they’ve been forced to participate in the scheme for as many as—

  ...massive class action lawsuits underway, armies of disgruntled customers are accusing the Sahara corporation and its subsidiary company, Sahara Gold Club, Ltd., of false advertising and fraudulent marketing. The new interim CEO, under fire since the day he took the reigns, promises a full accounting of any past wrongdoing, but has thus far dismissed the possibility of compensation—

  ...in other news, a spokesperson for The Temple of the Celestial Healers has denounced the actions of their deacon in the assault of Sahara security chief Henry Fangue, but insists that nationwide protests of their churches and facilities should be stopped.

  The deacon himself has maintained his innocence, claiming that Fangue had been sent to attack the church, and that he was acting in self-defense.

  Hamm fumbled for his phone and dialed his attorney without conscious thought, so that the conversation itself became just another part of this surreal tapestry. “Look, I don’t give a shit how you do it, just make sure my golden parachute is activated and get me a list of alternatives, it’s high time you earned your—”

  The lawyer took umbrage, his voice rising in pitch as he turned defensive. Hamm’s ruddy complexion paled into a striking off-white pallor, one that matched his stunned expression perfectly. Having been pelted by bad news like so many rounds of buckshot, he was no longer processing it properly. It all just swam around in his clouded mind like a nauseating vortex. IRS. Upcoming investigation. Unreported offshore account.

  He couldn’t listen any more. This was a million times worse than he had imagined. His voice shook as he cut in with a conciliatory explanation, already rehearsing the way he would explain things to the authorities. “Look, there has to be some mistake—I’m not some criminal mastermind,” he tried laughing, but it came out a dry hack, “I mean, come on now. There has to be something—”

  His shocked expression was gone, replaced by a blank stare. He nodded a few times, but held the phone away from his ear as if it were contaminated. “I see. Well, please keep me informed. No. Thanks. I appreciate it—”

  That was the end of the conversation. With receiver still on his ear, the phone emitted the loud beep, startling him so that he had to lean on the counter to steady his nerves. Sucking in air in greedy gulps, he looked at the screen. The sender was unfamiliar, but it was sent to the only private address he kept track of. It had to be someone important.

  FROM: lo4)$5;ae33:Cal9#)2s7@torvalanch.onion

  TO: CEO@sahara.com

  BCC: largeincharge@sahara.com

  SUBJECT: Insurance Plan

  Hiya Dennis. Just wanted you to know I have no intention of revealing Brandi Snow’s involvement in all of this. Or Denise, for that matter. Brandi...Denise...so hard to keep track, isn’t it? If word of our involvement should happen to slip out, though, I’d of course have to hand everything over to the authorities, and nobody wants that. Least of all poor Denise. Careful with your passwords next time boss. Good luck with the Club!

  A couple of minutes later, he realized the television was still blaring, so he picked up the remote and switched it off. In the sudden quiet, he let go of the remote and sank into the couch.

  Ruined. The word churned around in his head like a declaration. A declaration of fate, perhaps, or his failure, or simply the end. He couldn’t stop it repeating. His head started pounding and he realized, almost too late in his rush to kneel on the bathroom tiles, that no breakfast was necessary to trigger a violent reaction.

  He flushed, pulled himself up off the floor, and staggered out. His wife approached, but stopped short at his warning glare—she hesitated for a few seconds, then gave up and left. He shuffled across the lush hardwood floors and out the sliding doors to the pool. There he stared down at his reflection for a time.

  When he was done outside, he shuffled back in and across the house, past expensive works of art and fragile vases sitting on glass. He climbed the stairs slowly, feeling a sense of doom descend upon his shoulders, weighing heavier with each step. He entered the bedroom and sat on the bed, hoping to rest a while. Maybe it’ll all turn out to be a dream. The notion hit him funny at first, but it turned mirthless and cold in the light of reality. He smiled anyway. Yes, he needed to take a long rest. Then he could deal with these ridiculous charges.

  He got up and walked to the closet, a spacious walk-in full of expensive gowns and evening wear. His own wardrobe hardly occupied twenty percent of it, but he did keep a chest in the back, stuffed with odds and ends. He waved away a puff of dust as the hinge creaked in protest, then plunged his hands down and fished around the bottom until his fingers felt cold metal. He pulled out the weapon, hefted it, and returned to the bed, pistol in hand.

  He sat and stared at his most lethal possession for a long while, wondering what had prompted him to retrieve it. Shove it down his throat and blow off his head? He laughed aloud. The very notion amused him. The easy way, a last resort for the weak and pathetic.

  Use it to kill that bastard Ward, then? Shoot him dead, then leave a message for that useless lawyer to come get him out of lockup? No. He wanted to destroy Ward’s life, not ruin his own.

  Then the the truth struck him like a bolt from the blue—the pistol was a symbol. A reminder of his own power, and what he could do with it. He didn’t need to use it. Just knowing the option was there was enough. And he would take care of Ward in due time. And that Fangue son of a bitch, him too. And Judy. He would take care of them all. But first
he had a fortune to protect. And a family. Those bastards wouldn’t touch him, wouldn’t touch the ones he cared about. Wouldn’t dare. Nobody’d get one over on Dennis Hamm. Nobody.

  He needed some rest. Then salvage the situation, then deal with his enemies. He fell asleep thinking about revenge, a deep, dreamless sleep. Not the least bit fitful. He slept so soundly, he didn’t even hear his wife depart, quiet as she was not packing a bag or entering the bedroom. He also slept through two urgent calls from his attorney’s office; one to his cell, the other direct to the house. If it weren’t for the police and their incessant pounding on the door, he might’ve slept the whole day.

  * * *

  “Hey, if it isn’t Mr. Fortune 500!” Ted said with a wide grin, reaching out to pat his friend on the shoulder. Phil didn’t return the gesture, but looked reasonably pleased to see Ted as well. “I caught your interview on CNN. When’d you get back?”

  “Back?” Phil looked confused. “Oh, the press tour,”—he attempted a finger snap, but no sound was produced—“I got back a few days ago. Been busy.”

  “Seems like it,” Ted said, nodding.

  It had been a while since they’d seen each other, what with Phil’s overnight success and all. It was being hailed as the Caldorian Revolution, an entirely new paradigm in the field of security apps. An ever-adapting, ultra vigilant platoon of security bots, vaporizing all traces of spam, pop-ups, advertisements, and attacks. But it went beyond simple elimination, particularly designed as it was for the male user. The genius was that it never eliminated any of the ‘bad’ stuff men actually wanted to see. Phil wasn’t just the enemy of spammers everywhere, he was a friend to everyone else. To the man who didn’t mind seeing some cleavage now and then, and enjoyed browsing ads for, and only for, golf clubs, yachts, and cool tech—every desktop had to have one. Phil Caldorian was fast becoming a household name; he’d left Sahara, the club, the baggage and all that other small-time shit far behind him.

  “Yeah,” Phil said, rocking back and forth on his heels, “pretty busy.”

  “Guess all that moonlighting paid off in the end?” Ted jibbed, ducking to meet Phil’s eyes and look for signs of amusement.

  Phil didn’t reply, didn’t smile, didn’t meet Ted’s gaze. He just stared down at his feet like in the old days.

  “So, um...how’s Marge doing?”

  “Hm?”—Phil leaned in—“Marge? Oh, she’s okay. Last I heard, at least. She’s keeping busy too. You heard from her at all?”

  “Naw. Not since. Well, you know.”

  Phil nodded understanding, then returned his attention to the ground.

  They were silent for a time, Phil kicking at some dust at his feet. Finally, he spoke, “Guess I’d best be going then.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Ted said, wishing he could come up with an excuse to hang out a bit longer. He couldn’t think of anything, so he just said a weak sounding “Hey, shoot me an email now and then, will ya? When you get the chance, I mean.”

  “Sure,”—Phil began stepping backwards—“so yeah, I’ll see ya Ted.” He turned and walked back to the car, halting just before the door as the driver stood attentively by, ready to open it. Phil took something out of his shirt pocket, starred at it a while, then tossed it into a trashcan by the curb. He trotted the last few steps to the car and hopped in. The driver jogged to the front and alighted smartly, and the limousine pulled away.

  Ted walked up the steps to his door. He noticed that the screen was askew, and made a mental note to ask the landlord to fix it. That and a half-dozen other problems that had cropped up since move-in. He stopped at the top, paused, then decided he had to go back and see what Phil had left behind. Walking slowly back to the corner, he hesitated, then looked down into the half-full mound of trash. On top of the pile, glinting in the sunlight, was the gold club laminate.

  Too Much Information

  Terrorism and pandemics — the two deadliest threats facing the modern traveling public. Thermo-Magnetic Imaging is touted as the definitive solution.

  Attorney Rob Folsom is a champion of civil liberties. When he agrees to represent security agent Rosa Perez, he's dragged into her world of high-tech spies, black-ops, and political intrigue. Surveillance giant SecureSystems Inc. will do anything to keep her quiet, having already launched the opening salvo by unfairly terminating her employment. Rob must do everything in his power to vindicate his client.

  SecureSystems and their political cronies insist TMI is perfectly safe, dismissing the possibility that such cutting edge technology could prove harmful. Powerful forces align, unexpected allies emerge, and the ultimate, frightening agenda is revealed. Rob fights back in a desperate effort to expose the truth, while citizens around the world recoil under the glare of TMI's invasive lens.

  TMI on Amazon.com

  thanks

  I must apologize in advance for thanking most folks by group. The list is far too deep for me to do it justice in just a few paragraphs or pages. First and foremost, many thanks and my deepest appreciation go out to my wonderful and beloved family, and to my amazingly supportive friends.

  To everyone who supported my dream by buying this book, and Too Much Information before it, thanks to you all as well. And for all the comments and reviews I’ve received (yes, even the critical ones :p), thanks for that input and feedback as well.

  To the Gold Club beta readers, many of whom were also TMI beta readers, your assistance has been absolutely invaluable, and I hope to bend your ear pretty soon when the next project is ready for scrutiny. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention two folks in particular, Ann Labuda and Bob Sirrine, who not only read my book and offered great feedback, but who also gave me a considerable amount of copyediting help. Thanks to you both!

  Special thanks to Kit Foster and Robert Chute from Kit Foster Designs. A sweet cover design, individualized service, great attention to detail, and an efficient and professional vibe made for a pleasant and rewarding experience from start to finish.

  To Hiroko and Alisa – thank you for being my world. I love you forever and more. I couldn’t have done this without you.

  author’s notes

  The sophomore curse. That’s my rather pathetic excuse for why this book has taken so long. More than two years have passed since I published Too Much Information, and I had hoped to get The Gold Club published a full six months ago, but c’est la vie. At least it served as a learning experience, and what I learned was that I can write pretty quick, but I edit slow as molasses. No worries, that just means I can keep writing at a brisk pace, and I’ll have several manuscripts ready for editing at any given time (I have two more just about ready for editing now, in fact). As it takes somewhere around four to six months to really flesh a story out of a manuscript for me, it makes sense for me to keep writing during that time. Might be faster in future, might be slower (Lord, I hope not though!), but in any case it probably matters little to my readers so long as I continue to publish new books, which I am fully committed to doing. And next time, no two year gap in between. That’s a promise!

  So here it is. The Gold Club. My second book. One I’m proud of for a number of reasons, even if it did take a half a year longer than planned. Maybe especially because it took so long. When it comes to this whole authorship thing, I’m in uncharted territory every exciting step of the way. Just getting another one done is an accomplishment unto itself. Done well is a matter best left up to others to determine, but I can say that I’m happy with the story and my characters turned out. In a sense, I sort of feel like this is a bigger deal than the first one. Taking a chance and putting your work out there for people to judge is tough enough in the first place. Once you know how that feels, the good and the bad, it feels even more daunting the second time around. The excitement of publishing is still as awesome as the last time, though, which makes up for it in spades. I hope that rush never fades even as I work my way up into more and more frequent publications.

  Til Nune is a character I realized, in the middl
e of writing, was inspired by, perhaps even based on, my mother Carol. Not in any concrete way. There couldn’t be anything concrete in there since I only know about my mother through second-hand stories. She passed away just after I’d turned four. So I suppose the “rock star” image of my mom is what Til has mostly taken after, plus the whole hippy thing I’ve always envisioned my mom to be all about. From what I’m told, that wasn’t ridiculously far from the truth, so it works on at least those couple of levels.

  Other characters in the Gold Club have, to various degrees, been inspired by people I know. But not in any concrete way. More like vague impressions that I have of certain folks that seemed to wind up on the page at one point and then expanded into the folks populating this story.

  As for the club itself, it all stems back to daydreams I used to have when working in one capacity or another for corporate America. Dreams like ‘if I took over this company, I’d do this, and that, and the other thing, and it’d be so much better!’. That all sort of germinated when I thought about the topic for my second book, and came together as this member’s only club that even the club owners are unaware is happening all around them. Something like that.

  about the author

  David Haskell lives near Tokyo, Japan with his wife and their eleven year old daughter, and has been living in and around Tokyo for the past fourteen years. Prior to that he spent some time traveling back and forth to Japan drumming at Tokyo Disneyland and DisneySea on trashcans and other assorted ridiculous instrumentation, as well as some similar gigs back in Florida at DisneyWorld and Universal Studios. He attended the University of Massachusetts where he studied percussion under two great mentors, Dr. Peter Tanner and Professor Thom Hannum. Around that time he also lived for a year in Concord, CA while performing with the world famous Blue Devils drum corps. In California he studied under the guidance of legendary percussion guru Tom Float, who incidentally created the trash can trio gig at Disneyland that spawned the groups David was a member of in Japan.