by Zack Mason
“Why? What has he done that would justify it? Has he murdered anybody? Did he rape you, or any of the girls who worked with you?”
“No....not exactly.”
“What do you mean ‘not exactly’? He either did or he didn’t.”
“Then, no. No, he didn’t, but he certainly made all of our lives a living hell. I’ve had two different girlfriends OD and die from the drugs he gave them.”
“But they chose to take the drugs right? And they came to him looking for work? He wasn’t holding anybody there against their will, was he?”
“I can’t believe how cold-hearted you are!” She spat disgustedly.
“No! Look, I feel for them. I’d love to help them in any way we can. The guy sounds like pure trash, but I can’t just go murder somebody because they’re a filthy pig. This shifter, it’s powerful. It’s not to be abused. Can’t you see that?”
She sighed forcefully, slowly resigning herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to wear him down.
“Listen,” he said, “Let me go back and investigate. I’m sure we can put him out of business without resorting to murder.”
“All right, but I’m coming with you.”
Mark shut his eyes, mentally kicking himself. He should have just gone back alone without saying anything. She was obviously unreasonable with regards to the guy and would only be a hindrance to him working effectively. He knew there would be no arguing with her this time.
“Fine, but this is the last time you come along on a shift without me agreeing.”
“Fine.”
Dwayne Cole ran a messy operation. The strip club, like all of its kind, was located in a run-down part of town. The faded pink stucco exterior, which was meant to look alluring under a plethora of bright blue neon lights at night, only looked drab, lifeless, and decaying during the day. Light had an amazing ability to reveal the truth about something.
The lights inside the “club” were kept on permanent dim, using darkness to create a mysterious ambiance. Yet, Mark was sure if those same lights were turned up, you would suddenly see what a dump the place was. Cracks and dirt and filth in all its corners. Peeling trim, scuffed paint, and deeply stained carpet. Its appeal was a lie.
Cole’s back office was in fact, the only office. The only other room in the place, besides a stockroom, was the ladies’ dressing room. Mark had no desire to go in there. They were just here to investigate.
Cole’s office was a dingy mess. Dirty clothes, crumpled papers, and food wrappers were strewn about chaotically.
“So, what are we looking for?”
“I don’t know. Let’s see if we can find his stash.”
“Where does he get his drugs from?”
“A local guy named Rudy.”
“Did you use?”
She shot him a sidelong glance. “No, I wasn’t that stupid. I knew why he was always pushing us to take them. Here it is!”
She had pulled hard enough to pop open one of the lower drawers in Cole’s desk. Inside was what looked to be an enormous amount of drugs. Heroin, Cocaine, Marijuana. You name it, it was in there.
Mark grinned. “Let’s flush it all. That’s gotta be a tremendous amount of money he’s got invested.”
She returned the smile.
They dumped all of Cole’s stash in the toilet, though there was so much of it, it took four flushes to drown it all.
“That oughta set him back a while,” Mark said, “Let’s head back. I’m gonna brainstorm. I’m sure there are some other things we can do to make this guy’s life uncomfortable.”
Laura laughed. “Yeah, this alone is going to make him pretty mad, let me tell you.”
Over the next few days, Mark took his time shifting in and out of Dwayne Cole’s business. One day, he stole his guns, the next, his money. Then, he reported him to the Health Department. He stole and flushed the guy’s drugs four different times. Cole installed all kinds of security measures to try and catch the thief. He even started living in the club 24/7 for a while, but of course, Mark just shifted around him.
The pimp bought a small safe to store the drugs in, but Mark just slipped in and shifted out with the safe under his arm. After he’d blown it open, he returned it empty. Mark wished he could have seen the guy’s face when he walked back into that office and saw the safe with its door blown off.
Then, Mr. Dwayne Cole started storing his stuff at home. Of course, this didn’t stop Mark either. The fun finally came to an end, though. Cole eventually abandoned everything, the club, the house, and was never heard from again. Mark guessed he had gone deep in debt to some drug lords trying to keep his stash up and had to run for his life when he couldn’t pay them back. His girls were jumping ship right and left since he couldn’t keep them high or paid. The Health Department shutting him down for a week certainly didn’t help either.
In the end, Mark was content. He felt like the guy had gotten what he deserved, and a good scare to boot. Well, maybe not everything he deserved, but it was all Mark was willing to do. He thought Laura was happy with the results too. Which was what was important.
You've been searchin' from here to Singapore
Ain't it time that you noticed the girl next door baby, why not me?
“Why Not Me?”
~ The Judds
October 22nd, 2012, Boston, MA
The sun was up, bold and bright in the clear blue sky, marking a new day. A beautiful day.
Mark and Laura strolled into the office, full of smiles and laughter. They had dated for several weeks now, and Mark was overjoyed with the power of the relationship, with the way it seemed to fill a deep hole he’d born since Kelly had abandoned him. There were moments when he worried that maybe he was latching on to her too quickly, but the happiness he felt washed those concerns down the river before he could even weigh them.
He felt so good about their budding relationship, he was ready to introduce her to the rest of the crew.
“Good morning, Savannah,” Mark called as they swept in.
Savannah sat gracefully behind her desk outside Mark’s office working on the latest report for him on her computer. Her white cotton skirt draped daintily along the line of her legs, its hem angled so that one end revealed a bare knee while the other corner reached her ankles at the heel. A fresh, blue pastel blouse graced her shoulders, and her honey-streaked hair was wound up in a bun as usual. A pair of thin, red-rimmed glasses had slipped down toward the tip of her finely chiseled nose, but she pushed them back up as Mark and Laura waltzed in.
“Good morning, Mark,” she replied.
“Savannah, this is Laura. Laura, Savannah. Savannah’s been a huge help to us. She’s our primary historical researcher.”
Savannah blushed lightly at the compliment.
“Nice to meet you.” Laura extended her hand.
They shook hands abruptly, a faint and unusual tension between them.
“C’mon, Laura,” Mark said, “I’ll show you the rest of the place.”
Savannah watched them go, pursing her lips. She did not know the woman and had been surprised by her arrival. She was instinctively protective of Mark, and her first impression of this new woman left her feeling like Mark could do better. Something else about it made her distinctively uncomfortable, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Reluctantly, she returned her attention to editing the report.
***
Angelo Lombardi was the name of the only other coin specialist in the Boston area Clyde Moore had thought would be capable of making the molds Mark Carpen had wanted.
Alex Rialto appeared at Lombardi’s shop in person, as he had Moore’s, but Lombardi was much more reticent to talk. Rialto could tell the guy just wanted to get rid of him. The Italian coin dealer completely denied having ever heard of Mark Carpen, or anyone else requesting antique coin molds for that matter. Clearly, he was holding something back. A trained investigator instinctively knows when someone is lying.
It didn’t take much effort to prove
it. A visit to Lombardi’s bank provided Rialto with copies of his account records over the past year, which revealed deposits of several large checks made out to him by a company called Historical Enterprises. The checks totaled a little over $4 million. A little more investigation and Rialto discovered that Lombardi had not declared this as income when he’d filed his taxes. Now, things were getting juicy.
A visit to the Secretary of State’s website and Alex found the registered agent for Historical Enterprises was none other than Mark Carpen himself. Rialto had more than enough to put Lombardi in jail for tax evasion, but the link to Carpen was still pretty weak. He had no proof that Mark had done anything illegal with those coin molds.
The next step was a hardline interrogation of Lombardi. It likely wouldn’t be too difficult to get Lombardi to take an immunity deal on his failure to pay taxes in exchange for squealing on Carpen. Even if he had to encourage Lombardi to make something up, he would. Carpen was the big fish and he was up to something. As long as Rialto got him in the end, it didn’t matter for what.
***
October 24th, 2012, Boston, MA
“Yes, Savannah?”
“There’s a Mr. Lombardi on the phone for you, Mark.”
“Okay. Thanks. Put him through.”
Angelo Lombardi was thoroughly rattled. He told Mark about the visit he’d had from the IRS, how he’d failed to declare the payments from Mark as income, and the IRS agent’s endless questions about Mark. Angelo insisted he’d denied even knowing Mark, but the guy had been relentless.
“You didn’t have to deny knowing me, Angelo, or that I paid you,” Mark said, “I’m not doing anything criminal.”
“Well....I didn’t know. I wanted to be safe....just in case.”
“You were protecting your own butt is what it was. Don’t worry about it. Call my attorney, and he’ll take care of it for you, but you’re going to have to pay back taxes plus penalties. We’ll try to get the penalties waived.”
“Sure, Mark.”
Mark gave him the contact info for his tax attorney and hung up. Then, he picked the handset back up and paged Savannah.
“Yes, Mark?”
“Savannah, please get me Senator O’Brien on the phone right away.”
***
“You wanted to see me, Sir?”
Sanford Pennington did not look happy. He motioned for Rialto to take a seat.
“Rialto, I won’t beat around the bush. I just got a call from the Senate Majority Leader about you.”
“About me?”
“Have you been harassing Mark Carpen again?”
“Uh....not directly. I’ve been investigating him.”
“After I gave you a direct order to stop,” Pennington affirmed.
“Well....” Rialto was caught completely off guard by this attack, though he guessed he should have expected it.
“Have you found any evidence of wrongdoing?”
“Yes. Last year, Carpen ordered some molds made so he could fabricate counterfeit antique coins in mass quantities.”
“That’s what the call was about all right. Rialto, you do realize that Carpen has some powerful friends in Congress. He’s contributed to a lot of campaigns.”
“No, I didn’t know that, but it doesn’t change anything.”
“Carpen maintains the molds were to start a replica coin company which never got off the ground.”
“I’m sure that’s what he says.”
“Do you have any evidence he’s done anything else with those molds?”
“Not yet, but...”
“But? But what?! How long have you been working on this?” Pennington was getting madder.
“Uh....”
“Let me take a guess. Since I told you to stop? Is that right?”
Alex nodded.
“Okay, so, a powerful multi-billionaire has been paying this government billions in taxes. You, an expert investigator, can’t find anything wrong with his returns that would normally launch an investigation. I order you to stop. You then disobey my direct order, neglecting to investigate real, known criminals, simply because you’ve got a feeling something’s not quite right with the guy. After making me look bad in front of the President of the United States with the Santos gang screw-up, you harass Carpen’s business associates until I start getting phone calls from Senators. And you still don’t have anything to show for it.”
“Sir, I just need more time...”
“You don’t get it do you, Rialto?” Pennington slammed his fist onto the desk. “You work for me and for the government of the United States of America! You don’t get to go around investigating whoever suits your fancy. I don’t care how many cases you’ve cracked in the past. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll drop it.” He’d let it go for a few months until Pennington calmed down, then pick up the trail again.
“You’ll do more than drop it. Your work’s been suffering lately. I’m busting you down to customer service.”
“Customer service?” Rialto burst to his feet.
“You got it. Permanently.”
“Sir,” he pled, “You can’t be serious. I’m a good investigator.”
“You’ve left me with no options, Rialto. You stepped on the wrong toes at the wrong time, and with nothing to show for it.”
Rialto’s face turned purple in silent rage. Balling his fists, he stammered, “Then, you can have my resignation!”
“I’d like that even better, actually.”
Carpen!
Carpen would pay for this. He would find a way to get even with him, no matter how long it took.
You always had an eye for things that glittered...
“Just to See You Smile”
~ Tim Mcgraw
“You look beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you, Mark.”
Candlelight glittered and danced on the gemstones adorning Laura’s neck. Matching ornaments graced her earlobes and wrists. Her dress was from one of Back Bay’s high end fashion shops. After spending an entire afternoon of shopping together, mainly for her, they were now enjoying a luxurious dinner at one of Boston’s finest restaurants.
Maybe if I’d been able to do things like this for Kelly, we’d still be together.
He couldn’t take his eyes from Laura, and his heart seemed to be following suit in hypnotic lock-step. In store after store, her magnetism had this magical way of lifting his wallet from his pocket and effortlessly placing it the hand of the shopkeeper — and he normally hated shopping.
“So, what’s next, Mark? What are you planning to do with that shifter?”
“Not sure yet. Savannah’s drawing me up a list of tragedies I can go back and try to fix.”
“I was thinking, what if you tried to become the richest man in the world?”
Mark laughed. “Yeah, I guess I probably could, but why? We’ve got more than we can possibly spend as it is now.”
“Just to do it, I guess. If you’ve got something as powerful as that thing is, you should use it.”
Mark scowled.
“There are lots of good things we can do, and we are going to do many of them, but I don’t think the endless pursuit of wealth is admirable in of itself.”
It was her turn to frown. “You don’t always have to be such a goodie-goodie, you know. Why can’t you do those other things and still pursue wealth too? How about we buy an island? I’ve always wanted to have my own island.”
A slight smile returned to Mark’s face. “Sure, sure. No reason we can’t do that. We’ve got all the time in world.”
***
July 17th, 2027, 2:00 AM, Boston, MA
To be exact, fifteen years is what it took Alexander Rialto to find his method of revenge.
The year was now 2027. Since the day he’d quit the IRS, he had been forced to work as a menial tax preparer at various storefront operations in order to support himself. It was humiliating, but it allowed him to moonlight as a private eye. A private eye with just
one case.
After fifteen years of investigation, Rialto believed he had finally discovered the secret to Mark Carpen’s wealth, and he had figured it out without the use of government resources too. At first, he had refrained from soliciting the help of friends and other government contacts just because he wanted to keep a low profile. Later, as his suspicions mounted, he had decided he didn’t want the government to get wise to Carpen for other reasons. No, once he figured out Carpen’s secret, Rialto realized he could use it for himself. The IRS and the good ol’ U.S. of A. could go jump in a lake.
Staring at his hands, he thought about how much older they looked. This morning, when standing in front of the mirror, he’d keenly noticed all the gray in his hair. He shouldn’t have had to wait this long. Fifteen years of his life were gone, wasted. Which was especially ironic if Carpen's secret was what he thought it was.
He squinted to see better in the dim light offered by the street lamps. The shadowy figure, which had to be Carpen’s friend, Ty Jennings, was moving along the sidewalk toward him. He was now approaching a yellowish pool of light emanating from the lamp post nearest Rialto. This large black man should have been almost 90 years old by now, but he still looked 50.
Ty didn’t see Rialto as he passed. Firmly holding a silenced .38, Rialto stood from behind the bush concealing his position and extended his left hand. One short spit from the muzzle and Ty lay prone on the ground, blood welling from a hole in the back of his head.
Rialto crept toward the body, unsure of the accuracy of his shot. Sure enough, it had been dead on. Jennings was dead.
A strange whirring sounded from the part of the man’s body that interested him the most, his left wrist.
The watch. That strangely futuristic, smooth, gray wristwatch that Rialto had observed on the wrists of all three men, Carpen, Jennings, and Phillips. The watch was making the whirring sound.