When he was through, he put Camellia Industries’ corporate binder and G.G.’s files on a shelf and signaled for Ribeye to move the rest of the boxes, which Ribeye did quickly, stacking them in a corner of the galley.
Next, the fat man emptied the trash bags onto the table. Out spilled the stacks of wrinkled bills I had counted and wrapped with rubber bands, my handwritten scrawl of the amount on each package. Out came the bundled money with the torn counting machine wrappers that I had taped back together after counting each stack. “Frankie, is this everything? Are you sure it’s all here?”
“We didn’t count it. We just got everything together and brought it to the landing.”
I was starting to feel faint again. The boat’s oscillations were making me nauseous, and the pain in my arm was pulsing in unison with the movement of the vessel. From the gleaming brass fixture on the wall, I caught a glimpse of my face. It was sickly white.
The fat man commanded, “Put him on the bed in the cabin.”
Frankie and Ribeye pulled me up roughly, each movement making the pain and nausea worse. They opened a mahogany door, revealing a bedroom. Red velour wallpaper covered the walls and surrounded the ports that looked out onto the Gulf. On a built-in teak pedestal rested a large mattress adorned in purple sheets and a red silk coverlet. They put towels down so that my bloody arm wouldn’t stain anything and then closed the door so the fat man couldn’t see.
It was then that they harshly threw me down on the bed, and Frankie punched me in the gut.
I curled into a fetal position, groaning in pain.
Chapter 43
I was rocking in a hammock in the summer night. Taylor, in a clinging swimsuit, was seated at a nearby table, the moonlight painting her with a bluish glow. She held a tall slender glass in her hand. The champagne in it sparkled as she raised it in a silent toast to me. Her hair was loose and fell down around her shoulders.
The hammock swung slowly, in long arcs.
The table at which Taylor sat became a bed. She was toasting me from the bed, and I couldn’t get out of the hammock to go to her.
I could smell perfume in the air. It was a scent I couldn’t quite place. Like flowers. Mechanical flowers. Something metallic, different, strange and wondrous. A perfume with a petroleum base.
I felt an itch in my arm and scratched it.
The pain was startlingly immediate, coursing up to my shoulder. I was not in a hammock.
I could feel myself awakening. It was not an instantaneous awareness of being awake, but rather that slow revival you experience when you long to return to the comfort of sleep but cannot; when you want to retreat into the dream but every moment draws away another drape, opening the curtains into full consciousness.
I opened my eyes. The cabin was dim and the air smelled of oil and gasoline. Of salt and brine. Of fish.
I struggled to sit up. My left arm was burning and itching where I had tried to scratch through the bloodied strips of sheet.
I managed to walk unsteadily to the galley. No one was there. The table was clear. The cash was nowhere to be seen.
I walked out onto the deck. Ribeye, fishing rod in hand, was sitting in one of the wooden trolling chairs that were fastened to a chrome stand. “He’s awake,” he said to the fat man, who was reeling in something off the end of the boat.
Ribeye pulled up his line and examined it. A fleshy lump of bait hung limply from a stainless steel hook. “Fuck! Lost it.”
The fat man continued his battle. His rod rose up, and he cranked quickly and efficiently. Then the rod lowered again. I could hear the whine of the reel’s drag as the fish struggled to free itself. The movement was repeated again. Rod up. Quick cranking. Rod down. Whine of the drag.
The fish moved under the boat. The fat man followed, walking around the deck, holding the line to the left, then to the right, up, then sideways. He played the fish. He worked the rod, a conductor directing a symphony in the sea. Up and down. A legato movement. The fish tired for a moment, and the fat man’s hand was a blur as he reeled in the line.
Ribeye stood nearby, with a large net, ready to help.
The fat man bent over and looked into the water. “Damn. Thought it might be. Get the grapple.”
Ribeye put down the net and reached under the gunnels. He retrieved a metal pole with an evil-looking prong on the end. He bent over the side of the boat, next to the fat man.
“Ready?” Ribeye nodded.
The two worked together. The fat man kept the rod parallel to the water, cranking all the time, and Ribeye swung the pole with its curved, sharpened crook like a scythe.
Together they both pulled back and flung a shark onto the deck, writhing and thrashing, the hook and line in its bloody mouth.
Ribeye’s metal prong was sticking from a deep wound in its side. The shark’s mouth was agape, all teeth and blood and anger.
Ribeye unlatched a piece of heavy pipe from a bracket near the aft railing and walked cautiously around to the shark, which was flopping all over the deck. Ribeye grabbed the end of the pole, which was still protruding from the shark’s stomach, to hold the shark in place and used the pipe to club it again and again, each stroke making a thick, resonating thud as he beat the life out of the creature. He worked with vicious efficiency, pounding it mercilessly until the pipe was bloodied and the shark was motionless. Then, giving me a sneer, he hit it one more time.
Frankie had come down from the upper deck holding his knife. In a practiced move, he went over to the shark and dug the metal prong out of its side with a few quick slashes. The end of the grapple emerged, dripping blood over the deck.
The fat man tightened the line. Frankie went to the shark’s mouth. He cut out the hook and then grabbed the mangled body by the tail and threw it back into the water. It sailed over the edge of the boat with a rainbow of blood marking its trajectory.
While Ribeye pulled out a mop and bucket to clean up the deck, the fat man pointed to the galley. “Schex . . . isn’t that what they call you, Mr. Schednaydre? I’m glad you had a nap. I think we need to talk.”
Chapter 44
“You can’t imagine how pleased I am to have an attorney like you representing one of my investments.”
I didn’t understand what the fat man was getting at.
Ribeye and Frankie stood behind my chair, looming over me.
He shoved a wine glass across the table toward me. “Here. Pinot Grigio. Very nice.”
“You have something stronger? My arm hurts like hell.” If I was going to be killed, I didn’t want to end it with a glass of white wine.
“No doubt. Frankie sometimes gets a little too eager. Try this.” He reached up to a high shelf and pulled down a bottle. “Lagavulin. Islay single malt. You’ll like this. Sixteen years old.” He filled a tumbler and put it in front of me.
The scotch was peaty and smoky. I gulped it down. Anything to quench the pain in my arm.
He refilled the tumbler to the rim. “I have read through the corporate documents on the five new corporations you formed. Fine job. Very complete. I’ve also looked at the Camellia Industries books. Everything is in order.” Why was he playing with me?
“Did you draft the Camellia Industries papers too?”
“No.” That was all I needed to say. When faced with cross-examination, answer only the specific question and nothing more.
“But, you represent Camellia Industries, right?”
I shrugged noncommittally. At this point, what the else could I do? I had planned to take the money and leave Camellia and Taylor behind, but now these guys had the money and I had nothing.
Frankie jabbed his elbow into my bad arm, sending an electric shock of pain up my nerves. Everything ached again. My arm. My head. My whole body.
Frankie raised his hand, ready to strike me again if I didn’t respond. “Mr. Micelli expects an answer.”
Micelli! Confirmation that my situation was hopeless. The fat man had to be Carmine “The Snake” Micelli’s son, t
he one Taylor had mentioned. “The Snake” had been brutal and merciless.
Frankie flipped open a switchblade.
“That’s not necessary, Frankie,” Micelli commanded, adjusting his Saints cap. “Go sit over there.” He pointed to one of the red bar stools.
Frankie took a seat but did not put the knife away. Ribeye backed away from my chair and lounged near the cabin door.
“Come on, Schex,” Micelli said pleasantly. “You might as well have a drink. We’re out beyond the 12-mile limit. Blue water. International seas. Beyond state borders. Therefore, I feel perfectly comfortable in asking how you like representing Camellia Industries.”
How did he know my name? What was the purpose of his questions? He had everything now. Why did he need to ask me anything?
“It’s really not a hard question. Either you do or you don’t represent the corporation. Surely, you seem to represent Camellia Industries. You watched it from a boat in the bayou. You attended the meeting at the St. Bonaventure Gym. You were at Wholesale Flesh and Fur with Trey the day that Spider’s body was found. You were married to Taylor and were with her at Poirrier’s.
He sure knew a lot about me.
Micelli leaned forward. “Let’s not be coy, Schex. Keeping cash hidden in an attic in plastic bags! Rather gauche, don’t you think? So, confirm for me whom it is you represent.”
I figured he was going to kill me, regardless of what I said. I took another swig of scotch. “If you know so much, why is that important?”
“Frankie, he has spunk, don’t you think?”
Frankie approached, waiving the switchblade under my nose. “I’ll slice the fucking spunk right out of him. Just give me a chance.”
“Put that away! You’ve done enough damage already. You and Ribeye go up on deck.”
Deep voiced, muscled, ponytailed, short-tempered Frankie let the short fat man, over whom he towered, command him like a servant and huffed out, followed by Ribeye, who slammed the cabin door behind him as he exited.
“Now, Schex,” said Micelli softly, “you can tell me. Whom do you represent? It’s either telling me, or having me let Frankie work on you some more.”
“That’s not much of a choice is it?” Why bother to do anything other than lay it all out. “Taylor was going to retain me to represent Camellia Industries at the injunction hearing coming up next week. Not likely I’ll be there, is it?”
Micelli ignored by question. “See how easy that was. And the money? That’s
Camellia Industries’ money?”
“That’s what some people think.” Who could know anything with G.G. dead? All I knew was that it was never going to be mine.
Micelli raised his wine glass and toasted me. “See how simple it all becomes. I ask that you confirm your client, that you confirm your status as an escrow agent for the money. Now it’s clear. I am pleased you have been protecting my investments.”
“What investments?” I blurted. “I’m not your lawyer. You hire your lawyers by kidnapping them and having them beat up?”
“You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, for Frankie’s excesses. Of course, you are not my personal lawyer, but you are most definitely the attorney for one of my investments.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. “You’ve got the books. You’ve got the money. But you have no ‘investments.’ I checked the books. Camellia Industries was owned 50-50 by G.G. and Taylor.”
“Ah, Schex. For an attorney with a degree to have said such a thing! I am amazed. Even I, a mere English major and classics minor – even I, who only made it through the first year of law school at night – even I can comprehend such legal documents. You clearly did not read them carefully.”
“Great,” I sulked. “This is the quiz before Frankie comes in and finishes me off?”
Micelli’s face broke out into a cherubic smile. A smile that said trust me. A smile that was knowing and warm. A smile in direct contrast to his cold, calculating gaze.
Micelli reached under the table and pulled out the Camellia Industries’ white three-ring binder, the one with the stock ledger. He opened to the tab labeled “Stock Certificates” and swiveled it around for me to read.
I looked at the certificates as Micelli slowly turned the pages. Two separate certificates, each numbered, each for 500 shares. One in G.G.’s name, one in Taylor’s name.
I took another sip of scotch. The alcohol was numbing the pain in my arm, but my head remained clear enough. “See, I told you. 50-50.”
“Certainly, but did you read the stock powers carefully?” Micelli turned over the certificates. On the back of each of their documents, G.G. and Taylor had signed the stock power in blank.
Micelli was right. I hadn’t read the documents carefully. I had been in such a rush that I had only read the books perfunctorily enough to satisfy myself that the only stockholders were G.G. and Taylor and that the two of them were the only directors and corporate officers.
Undated stock powers signed in blank are like checks payable to cash. Whoever holds the stock certificate is the owner. No one would normally keep signed checks payable to cash in their checkbook. No normal corporation would have stock powers, signed in blank, for just anyone to fill in and claim ownership.
Micelli pointed out another unusual aspect of the stock powers. G.G.’s certificate had G.G.’s signature on it, but, above that, in Taylor’s handwriting, was an endorsement of the stock to Taylor. “You see this, don’t you?”
I did, and I realized that this only raised more questions. An endorsement transfers ownership. Had G.G. meant for the stock to go to Taylor? Had Taylor gotten him to sign the stock over to her? Had she tricked G.G. in some way to sign the stock power in blank, and then later filled in her own name?
So, who was lying to whom? Did G.G. lie to me? Did Taylor? And what was
Micelli’s part in all this?
Micelli tapped his thick index finger lightly on the back of each certificate. “And of course you recognize this.” On each of the certificates was a stamped inscription in red ink:
“THESE SHARES ARE SUBJECT TO THE PROVISIONS OF A PLEDGE AND SECURITY AGREEMENT, COPIES OF WHICH ARE ON FILE IN THE COMPANY’S OFFICES. THESE SHARES ARE NOT REGISTERED UNDER FEDERAL SECURITIES LAWS
OR STATE BLUE SKY LAWS.”
Whatever he was going to do to me was going to happen regardless of what I said, so there was no need to hold back. “I didn’t read the back of the certificate. You know that already, but I would have seen a security agreement had one been in the binder.
“No doubt. That’s because I have the original.” Micelli opened a green folder he had retrieved from a locked cabinet and handed it to me. Four pages of single-spaced legal jargon that I understood. This was why Micelli had said that Camellia Industries was his ‘investment.’ The stamp on the back of the certificates indicated that the stock secured a loan, a loan that had to have been made before G.G. and Taylor signed the endorsements, because their signatures covered part of the stamped text.
The four-page original that Micelli had placed in front of me showed that G.G.
and Taylor had given a security interest in all their stock to ‘LaCIE, Louisiana Commercial Investment Enterprises, LLC.’
Until whatever loan LaCIE had made to G.G. and Taylor was paid off, LaCIE controlled Camellia Industries.
I pushed the original security agreement back across the table to him, “This is why you needed the corporate books, isn’t it? You didn’t have the original stock certificates, and without them you were unsure if you could really enforce your security interest. G.G. was screwing with you, wasn’t he? Well, now I guess you’ve got it all. The company. The stock. The money.”
“Perfectly correct. And if you represent Camellia Industries and if I have ‘it all’ pertaining to Camellia Industries – as you said – then you represent my investments. See, there was no reason for your denial earlier, now was there?”
I stared out the window into the azure swells that rocked the boa
t. How much longer did I have to live? “If you think I’m Camellia’s attorney and if you think you own Camellia, then fine. I resign.”
Micelli wagged his sausage of a finger back and forth like a metronome. “You’re so doctrinaire. What’s the matter? You represented G.G., such a paragon of virtue, and yet you suddenly resign when you think I’m involved? You can’t imagine how pleased I would be to have an attorney like you.” He was smug.
I was aching in pain, anger, and fear.
The throbbing in my arm was constant and increasing. I was angry at myself for getting into such a mess. Angry at being powerless.
And fearful because I knew my life was about to end. What he had in mind was obvious. I was going to be killed and dumped in the ocean, out beyond the 12-mile limit. No one would ever find out. I would be one of those missing persons whose whereabouts and fate are unknown.
I sighed and said, dejectedly, “You have no power over whether I resign or not.
That’s my decision. So make whatever decision you’re going to make and get on with it.”
“I can oblige on that account.” He turned towards the hatch leading to the deck and bellowed, “Frankie! Ribeye!”
Chapter 45
“Stand over there,” Micelli commanded to Frankie and Ribeye as they entered the cabin. “Next to the porthole.”
They did as instructed. Frankie had to bend over because of the low ceiling, but his lip curved upward in a grin of anticipation as he pulled out his switchblade.
“Put that away,” snapped Micelli.
Frankie did so reluctantly.
Turning to me, Micelli’s tone was suddenly gracious. “If Frankie and Ribeye roughed you up a bit, I apologize. Sometimes they are overly enthusiastic.” Micelli looked over his shoulder and said peremptorily. “Frankie, apologize.” Apologize? I thought Frankie was going to lose his temper and lunge at Micelli.
But Frankie did nothing of the kind. He took a deep breath, shook his head in disgust, and said, without any feeling at all, “I apologize.” Micelli signaled for Ribeye to say something.
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