Ex-Con Times Two

by Jay S. Wilder

  My stomach turns. It’s what I was born for. At least that’s what he keeps telling me. “One day, you’re gonna have to do something big to help your old man. It’s not gonna be a walk in the park, but when it’s done, you will never owe me again.” The man gives me that lecture every other month. This time, it’s different. This time, it’s seriously damning.

  I’ve handled the three dead girls, so I tell him that was something big, and I’m not sticking around for it to get any fucking bigger. He tells me it won’t after this, and I don’t believe him. Then he says he needs a favor, and it has to do with the girl who got away. Now that she’s been confirmed dead, the media is having a field day that she’s Rushton’s niece.

  I nearly lose it, because Rushton and his wife have been all over the news about women’s rights and standing up against violence. It’s hypocrisy, pure bullshit because the man is a regular user of our private box for the all-female mixed martial arts fights in Atlantic City. He gets driven into our catering bays in his black cars with blacked out tinted windows, and sneaks around the place so no one knows. That’s the shit the media should have a field day about.

  I lose it anyway because I know Rushton’s going be a problem, now that his own disturbing tastes have come full circle and bit his niece in the ass. You can’t pay off cops when shit gets too big, and adding a politician to any equation is like throwing a stick of dynamite into a burning house and hoping for the best. It’s just not smart. Still, we’re talking about my dad here, and as brilliant a businessman as people say he is, he does some dumb shit in his personal life. Case in point.

  Mondays are always busy at Fairchild Industries. Heck, every day can be busy. I’m the VP of strategic marketing and I take my job seriously. I know everyone says if you want to hire a family member in a multi-billion dollar empire, just put strategic in front of a title and you’re good to go. It’s probably true for most people, but it’s not true for me. I work my ass off. I pore over my projects and I make decisions that could affect the Fairchild businesses around the world to the tune of several billion dollars on any given day.

  When I started out in the job right after Harvard three years ago, I would crap in my pants before I could make a fucking decision around here. It was too big to conceive of back then. It took a while to understand the scale of what I had signed up for. The US-based Fairchild Industries is the kind of company that quietly owns every aspect of the average American’s daily life. It’s the third-largest private company in the US, and directly employs ninety-two thousand people in sixty-four countries.

  If an American starts the day with a shower and they wear underwear, Fairchild Industries already owns them. Their Savoy Chemicals make most of the body wash used around the world, and their Sashay Textiles arm provides most of the fabric behind all sexy panties, silky boxers, and tank tops. Put a store-bought coffee in your hand and they got you there too. Their Charlotte-Pacific subsidiary makes Strongerman cups, and the garbage bags you throw them into when you’re done with that skinny chai latte.

  If you’re into eating organic, its True Earth organic soil feeds almost all the organic produce you buy that was grown on US soil. By the way, that organic stuff is a bunch of bullshit. The whole planet is a fucking wasteland, and nowhere is pristine anymore. So unless they start shipping in soil from Mars or Uranus, the food ain’t organic.

  Drive your car and do almost anything for the rest of the day, and it’s game over. Fairchild Industries has many of the oil sands refineries and pipelines worldwide that make sure your car and other goods work. They also own eighty percent of all the mines around the world that extract the rare minerals needed for electronic micro-components in the huge smartphone market. They have cornered that entire market, supplying to every major smartphone manufacturer. So take a selfie, post an update on social media or check your work email on that little device, and you are owned by Fairchild.

  To top off their vertical integration—or something I like to call the invisible human behavior monopoly—their manufacturing subsidiaries supply much of the physical components and equipment to all the above industries. Don’t even think about their real estate holdings around the world. Forbes continues to speculate about the total value of the Fairchild Industries holdings, but the truth is, it’s too big and too secretive to ever let net worth details out of the bag. The last external estimate was that each member of the secretive Fairchild family—nineteen of us, if I include Dad, me, Mandy’s purse dog, which believe it or not, is in her will, and her ninety-five year old grandmother—is worth up to sixty-two billion US dollars. The brutal truth is, that number is not even close.

  The sheer scope of this mega-company was enough to turn a brave man like me into a gun-shy, thumb-sucking mess that couldn’t make a decision for three weeks. It took Mandy’s brother to verbally slap the shit out of me, and threaten to fire me before I could function. The thing he said that helped me the most was to have my assistant drop some zeroes off the figures before I looked at stuff. It worked like a charm.

  After that, I was good. Now, I make decisions at Fairchild Industries until the cows come home. This Monday is no different. Except this morning, I have someone on my mind. On my way in this morning, a young woman who was in a rush at the coffee shop next door spilled half her espresso down my favorite suit. My white shirt was probably ruined.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” she said.

  She began to dab the stain with the napkins in her hands. It was a mess. I pulled her hand away gently, and for some unknown reason, the briefcase in her other hand fell to the ground. Her tablet and papers went flying everywhere.

  “Shit!” she exclaimed.

  She gave me the evil eye, but then reined in that look, because she probably realized it was all her fault. We both dropped to the floor, gathering up papers and other items around us.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated.

  We both stood up after everything that fell was safely back in her purse.

  “It’s okay,” I answered that time.

  I stopped for a moment and took a good look at her. She was dressed professionally, wearing a nice brand of pumps. From what fell out of her purse, I pegged her for a law clerk or paralegal. She seemed a little too insecure and too young to be a lawyer—but not insecure or young for me. I could smell her. She had just had a shower, and her dark brown hair was pulled into a neat bun, but I could still smell her shampoo. I took it all in, thinking maybe I needed to get laid. She realized we were standing inches from each other. Maybe she could read my mind, because her cheeks flushed and she took a step back.

  “Can I pay for the dry cleaning?” she asked nervously.

  “It’s alright. It’s my fault.”

  “I bumped into you, remember?”

  “Yes, but I had a hand in that briefcase of yours falling. You tablet screen may need replacing too. I suppose I could take care of that for you. I’d need your phone number or some way to contact you.”

  I probably spooked her, because she took another step back.

  “You know what? It’s okay. I’m—I’m really late, so I have to get to work now. My apologies again, sir.”

  She turned and left, and I couldn’t help wondering what it was that I said. That’s not how women normally react to me. In fact, most women don’t say no to me. I shrugged, got in line for my coffee and the interaction was soon forgotten. Until now.

  I get to the office soon afterward and change into one of the business suits I keep there. My schedule is packed and now I have to get my executive assistant to move things around. I can leave after lunch and take the crawl on the four-ninety-five to Long Island for whatever my dad has up his sleeves.

  I get there—after cussing like a sailor at the traffic I had to sit in—and I walk around back. It’s the only place he would be this time of day. He’s out on the grounds, walking through the rows of rose bushes he plants every spring. Looking at him, I can’t help but feel this man is a living, breathing contradi
ction. One minute he’s nurturing these plants like they’re his babies and taking care of Mandy now that she’s terminally ill, and the next, he’s stringing up call girls in the octagon.

  Before he looks up to see me standing on the back deck, I notice his face is awash with worry. He’s pensive about something, and he should be, but he’s looking at the bushes as though they’re an answer to his problems. I have no patience for this. I whistle to get his attention and he meets me at the deck.

  “So what’s the deal, Dad?”

  “Let’s go inside. I had the tech guys do a bug sweep in my office this morning, just to be safe. We can talk there.”

  I’m following him to the office, and on the way, I see Mandy. For a woman who’s got stage three pancreatic cancer, she looks great. She’s dressed to the nines, has her hair flowing down her back, and looks like she’s going out on the town. The woman is living on borrowed time. She was given a year to live eighteen months ago. In fact, she looks better than she looked when she was diagnosed. It has me wondering what she’s taking as I walk up to greet her.

  “Hi Mandy,” I say, giving her a kiss on her forehead.

  “Jonathan honey, I haven’t seen you in weeks, darling. You’re looking so sharp in that suit! How are you doing, love?”

  “Good. How about you? You’re looking better and better every time I see you. I think you need to tell me what organic, probiotic, antioxidant shakes or whatever it is you’re taking, because I swear you look five years younger.”

  “Oh that’s the Botox, son,” she answers with a chuckle. “Or maybe it’s because I picked up painting. It’s so calming. Speaking of which, I’m on my way to my lesson. Will you stay for dinner? I’ll be back soon, and I would love to catch up, dear.”

  “I’m not sure I can stay too long, but I’ll try. How’s Claire?”

  “I’m fine.” Speak of the devil, she comes down the stairs and makes a bee line to me. “Jonathan!”

  “Hi Claire.” I give her a warm hug. She’s the closest thing I have to a normal family member.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to see Dad.”

  “How come you didn’t call so we could do dinner or something? You know I can never get enough time with my step-brother.”

  “Seriously, Claire. You know I live less than half an hour away, right? I’ve told you already, you can come by anytime you want. You still have my key, don’t you?”

  She gives me another bear hug and buries her head in my chest before looking up at me. “Me, in downtown Manhattan? It’s a jungle out there. I can barely stand it when I come in once a week for my hair appointment with Raoul. Nice suit, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Come on, it’s not that bad. Anyway, how are things with you? How’s Parker?”

  “Oh, didn’t you hear? My loving husband took an investment banking VP job in Dubai six weeks ago. You know, the one that Savoy has a majority share in? I haven’t heard from him in two weeks, but I got an email that he’s flying in today. He should be here any minute, actually. He wasn’t the… ”

  Before she finishes, Mandy speaks up. “Jonathan darling, I’ve got to run. I’ll have Juanita make your favorite if you stay for dinner. It’s so good to see you, son. I’ll talk to you later.”

  She hugs me, and kisses dad and Claire on the cheek before she leaves. She’s carefree and walking on a cloud. I’ve known the woman for eight years, lived under her roof for five of those, and I can tell something’s up with her. I’m not here to meddle in my dad’s and step-mother’s affairs, so I wrap up with Claire—promising to pop by her room after I’m done with Dad—and I follow him to his office to hear what he has in mind.

  “Lay it on me, Dad. What is it? What do you want me to do for you now?”

  “Have a seat, son. Care for something to drink?”

  “Vodka. Make it a double. No ice.”

  “I’ll have one with you. No son of mine is drinking double vodkas alone.”

  He walks around to his bar and pours us each a glass. He’s stalling. The man never hesitates, so I’m figuring that after he throws back the vodka, he’ll loosen up and give it to me straight. I sit back, relish what’s in my glass, and wait for the axe to fall.

  Chapter 4

  Rebecca

  We’re driving in Kara’s limousine. The antagonistic phone calls from other law firms and her top clients do not stop. She puts every call on speakerphone so I can hear. She even signals to me when she wants me to take notes on my tablet. I know I’m learning from this woman. I feel it in my bones. Every second around her is like a year at law school. She’s authoritative and brilliant—and above all, she commands respect.

  The thing is, those aren’t the only adjectives people at the office use to describe her. While most of Kara’s closest staff and associates respect and adore her, there are the odd few staff members who revile her. Some of them are longstanding, trusted associates. To them, she is a conniving, underhanded, ruthless control freak who is pulling the strings behind the scenes for some of the most powerful organized crime bosses. They would never directly accuse her, but there have been subtle hints, placing Kara at the butt of distasteful office jokes.

  I sometimes feel these associates are testing me when they say some of these things about Kara. They may be checking to see where my loyalties are. I may be new around her office, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know how the mind games work in these places. Barnaby warned me a long time ago, and now, in just three months of working here, I’ve already seen seven junior associates and legal analysts fired on the spot, and escorted out of the office within twenty minutes of being canned. There is always more to the story, but rumors are they were set up by their own colleagues.

  This is why I never react when they come to me with rumors. I’m like the three monkeys—I see, hear and speak nothing. All I do when they approach me is nod. When they’re done, I duck my head down and do the best possible work that’s been assigned to me. There is nothing they’ve ever told me that has made it back to Kara or another employee of Henry, Miles and Rothman—not through me, anyway. Conversely, there’s nothing that Kara has ever said to me that’s made its way back to a soul. This may be the reason Kara is taking me to meet the Sloans.

  I get this trait of keeping secrets from both my reticent parents. My mother is a psychiatrist to many notable Washington, D.C. politicians, and my father is a federal crypto-analyst. Growing up, our house was a vault. I think they had become so secretive, they didn’t know what was okay to share and what was off limits anymore. Asking either of them the weather was like waterboarding a loyal federal agent if he had dealings on Russian soil.

  They were also deeply committed and entrenched in their careers. If I asked my mother to help me with homework, she would psychoanalyze the mental underpinnings of the question. Asking my father was no better—he could turn my history or literature assignments into cyphers. I eventually became just as secretive with them. As a teenager during my early dating years, I was too embarrassed to bring anyone home. I even hid my graduation date from them. I had a fear that together, they would mentally and mathematically torture Bryce to the point of no return.

  It ended up being a good thing they didn’t know about Bryce. He turned out to be the biggest, most two-timing, high society jock-jerk in my entire high school. He had four of us girls thinking we were his date for the dance. He told us all to meet him at the dance, something we compared notes about, after realizing we were all his unsuspecting victims. Bryce turned up an hour late, with Asha Morena, Miss Vogue Teen, draped over his arm. The four of us were crushed.

  We had the last laugh in the end. We got together while he was twirling Asha around on the dance floor. At first, the other three girls were sad and regretful. I was the one who got angry and righteous. I convinced them he had to pay. They agreed when they saw the pair sitting beside the table with the bowls of punch that were definitely laced with whiskey and vodka. Asha practically sat on his dick in that cha
ir—that’s when these ladies found the courage.

  We tracked down his lucky Swiss army knife. It was his most favorite thing in the world. We found it in the glove compartment of his precious Jaguar convertible, and each of us took a turn slashing the tires. When he saw the damage we did, the look on his face was priceless, and well worth our earlier pain.

  He suspected it was us, but none of us stuck around to confess. I keep in touch with his other three victims to this day. One of them, Sarah, moved to New York City, and as luck would have it, she lives in a brand new condo a block away from me now. We’re comrades in arms, the four of us, made stronger by our common grief, and corresponding steps to prevail. Still, I’m the most secretive of us four. No one knew I kept his lucky Swiss army knife.

  A call comes in on Kara’s phone. It’s the first time since we made off for Long Island that she keeps the speakerphone off. Just as she did back in her office, she has a conciliatory tone with the person on the other end of the line. She’s a different woman with whoever it is. Her shoulders haunch over, she frowns and whispers, and her eyes seem suspicious, looking left and right like paranoid set in.

  Whoever she’s speaking with either has a formidable hold over her, or is her kryptonite. She looks pale and weak, and the person has seemingly brought her to her knees. I don’t know what to make of it, but it’s not my job to understand my boss. I turn to look out the window, and act like I’m not present to her transformation.

  In my mind, though, I’m taking precise and meticulous notes. To me, this is the most powerful female lawyer in the entire world. Someone or something has turned a dominant lioness into a weak and frightened one-day-old kitten, and I can’t help but feel a little sorry for her. I start to wonder whether something like this could happen to me fifteen years from now.

  In the blink of an eye, she hangs up, finds her composure, and she’s back to her usual self. It’s like I imagined the entire thing. Now I have to wonder whether it was real or completely contrived—possibly for me to see. Why would she play a part like that just for me to witness? I’m so curious now about who was on the other end of the phone call. Still, I go along with her, nodding as she resumes her briefing on the Sloan men, as though the last seven minutes never happened.