“I considered a degree in wildlife management,” Quin said, telling the truth. “But I decided there was more money in business administration,” he said, telling a lie.
The men smiled politely. He felt them staring at his hair tied in a ponytail and the feather hanging from his left ear.
“I’ll be here for a semester, helping out in any way I can,” he said, keeping it vague.
Harold leaned on the table, carefully scratching notes on a legal pad. What had he said that old Harold found worth noting?
Big Ben stood up. “Very good, thank you. I’m Ben Moretti. I graduated from Harvard fifteen years ago, with my MBA also from Harvard. I’ve worked as a licensed securities broker and as a lobbyist in Washington. Over the past two years, I have been in the viatical settlement industry. Since most of my contacts are investors, I’m the one who finds investment capital so Safe Haven LLC can buy insurance policies. This is my company, Quin. If you do things my way, we’ll all have fun and make a ton of money.”
Spoken with confidence like a true alpha male.
Big Ben sat and nodded to a man with black wavy hair and a dusting of gray along his temples.
“I’m Richard Pomeroy. I’ve been out of college so long I can’t remember where I got my MBA—oh yes, it was Columbia,” he said, blowing his port-red nose into a napkin. Either Richard had a bad cold or he was an alcoholic, or both. “My job is to cultivate leads brought in by Christopher and James. I’m a closer.”
Richard sat back in his chair, apparently put off by all of this sharing. With an attitude like that, he wouldn’t last two minutes in some of the group therapy sessions Quin had attended.
The next man who stood was a few years older than Richard, maybe in his early sixties, and had more gray hair that he hid with a bad dye job. He had six gold rings scattered among his ten fingers and a copper bracelet like the ones some golfers wear to balance their energy.
“The name’s Bob Mullen. Like Richard, I’ve been in the exotic investments game since most of you were in diapers. I’m a Yale graduate with my MBA from the same fine institution,” he said, pointing at Ben. “I work the phones, helping James and Christopher bring in new policies. As long as you can help me keep my client list up to date, Quin, you and I will be all right.”
That was it. Bob didn’t waste words on the new intern. He just sat back, twisting the rings on his fingers.
Quin nodded to him. “I’ll do my best with your list.”
James pushed his chair away from the table while stroking his beard. His black skin looked out of place next to the white men. Quin admired his confidence. “We met yesterday. I’m James Rice the Third. Don’t call me Jim, or Jimmy, or Jimbo. The name is James. I received my MBA from Stanford. I’m looking forward to one day returning to the West Coast. It’s damn cold here, bitches!”
Everyone laughed, and James chuckled to himself as he sat down again.
Stray Dog stood up slowly before Big Ben stopped him. “Wait! Harold hasn’t spoken yet. Have a seat, Christopher.”
Stray Dog lowered his head, eased his tail back onto the chair.
Harold refused to stand, sitting with his arms crossed. “Harold Reiker, head of security. I’m a veteran of the Korean War. I’ve worked as a bodyguard and a private investigator, and I had a short stint as a cop in Milwaukee. Since many people tie their fortunes to life insurance inheritance, it can get ugly. When policy owners cash in early, we sometimes get angry beneficiaries who stop by to pay us a visit. Security is tight, but security is necessary,” he said in a mechanical voice, as if he were reading a police report. “I apologize for the fiasco we had yesterday. That deputy should be fired.”
Stray Dog waited for Big Ben’s permission to stand, staring at him with sunken eyes. When he got the nod, he rose. “Christopher Gartner, with an MBA from the University of Minnesota—”
Richard snickered under his breath, and Bob turned to him with a wry smile.
“What? The U of M, Carlson School of Management,” Stray Dog said. “It’s a reputable program.”
“I never heard of it until I moved here,” Richard said. “How about you, Bob?”
“I hadn’t either,” he said.
“Jesus, we hire an intern from the University of Minnesota’s general college,” Stray Dog said, motioning at Quin, “and you’re busting my chops because of where I got my MBA?”
Quin could feel the omega wolf clawing his way to a higher position in the pack. Quin knew what it felt like to be an outsider and now felt empathy for him.
“We didn’t hire Christopher for his pedigree,” Big Ben said. “We hired him because of his life experience. Isn’t that right?”
”Yeah.” Stray Dog nodded directly at Quin again. “Previously, I worked for one of our competitors, Benson & White, but I left them because—“
“Because you were fired,” Richard said under his breath, before sipping his juice.
Stray Dog sneered at him. “I wasn’t fired, I quit.”
Richard offered a fake, plastic smile and waved him on. “Fine, continue.”
“I search for new policies, and I have a lead on a $10 million policy right now that—”
“That’s enough,” Big Ben interrupted.
Stray Dog melted back into his chair and sipped his coffee. The group underling, the whipping boy nobody respected, fumed. Quin knew wolf packs sometimes adopt strays the way Big Ben must’ve taken him in from a competitor. Rarely do wolves allow the weaker omegas into the inner circle. Omegas travel on the outside of the pack, and their whole existence depends on the benevolence of the alpha.
Big Ben wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin and stood up. “Finish your breakfast, and let’s head back down to the library and make our calls. The weather is god-awful out there, so James and Christopher, I want you two to stay here for the morning. Help out on the phones while I work with Quin. Questions?”
Richard blew his nose into another napkin. “What’s the story on this lead Christopher’s brought in?”
Stray Dog sat up in his chair, bright eyed. “A $10 million policy. The largest single policy anyone has brought into the company.“
“She’s not a client yet,” Big Ben said, nipping back at him.
“Whoa, $10 million?” Richard said with surprise. ”How long have we been chasing that one, and why wasn’t I told about this lead?”
“Who gets to close that deal?” Bob asked.
“I’m closing this one on my own,” Christopher said.
“What are you talking about?” Richard said. “You find the leads, and we close them!”
“I closed deals when I was at Benson & White,” Christopher said. “I have a good rapport with this client.”
Richard and Bob were seething and glaring at Big Ben.
“What?” Richard said, as if he were speaking for both of them. “Did you agree to this, Ben?”
Big Ben sighed. “It’s still early in the process. We haven’t even presented her with a proposal.”
“Well, who is the insured?” Bob asked, drumming his golden fingers with envy, as if maybe it was his lead after all.
“Ms. Anonymous,” Stray Dog said with a devilish grin, hoarding his large morsel of food. “She has a brain tumor, and she’s decided to ride it out and forgo treatment. She’s got less than three months.”
Richard looked more agitated than his red nose. “You’re letting him keep this lead anonymous?” he asked the boss.
“I’m pursuing this one with Christopher’s help,” Big Ben said, with anger rising in his voice. “You’ve got plenty of other leads to follow up on.”
“Not leads this big,” Richard said, turning away, coughing.
“Tell them where you found the lead,” James said, enjoying all of this.
Stray Dog smiled. “She goes to my church. We have a Hospice Hospitality Meals charity that supports the elderly and the sick. I volunteered. That’s how I met her.”
“Hospice Hospitality Meals?” Bob asked. “Why don’t you
try that, James?”
“Are you kidding? Using charities to find leads?” James said with forced laughter. “It’s bad karma, man.”
“But who will follow up on the lead?” Richard asked Big Ben again.
“I’d like to,” Stray Dog said. “I really hit it off with her.”
Richard tossed his napkin to the center of the table. “Are you letting him follow up?” he asked the alpha.
“No. She’s mine, Richard,” Big Ben said.
Richard slumped back in his chair. “I figured as much.”
“I’m keeping the lead warm until I’m confident I can come up with the cash to make her an offer,” Big Ben said. “I need serious investors for this one. I’m meeting with the client later today, and I hope to have investors lined up soon. Everyone back off!”
The room went silent. Quin could hear only the sleet outside lashing at the window. A log in the fireplace snapped and fell into the ashes. When the alpha raised his voice, Quin noticed the other wolves bowed in silence with ears down, tails between their legs. Big Ben had the gift of regaining the group’s attention with a single growl. Interesting.
Harold’s vibrating phone was the first to break the silence. He stood up and walked to the window, whispering, concealing the conversation from the rest of the group.
He slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket. “When you’re finished here, I’d like to have a word with you,” he said to his boss.
Big Ben turned his head slowly. “What is it?”
Harold’s eyes shot a brief glance at Quin as he leaned down and whispered to his boss.
Quin felt a bead of sweat rolling along his underarm, and his heart pounded hard in his chest. All the men were looking at him with hollow expressions. Had they figured him out? Had Harold’s background check uncovered the truth?
Big Ben took a sip of his water. “Quin, we’re all sitting here describing ourselves openly, and Harold tells me you’re withholding information.”
The rushing sound of blood throbbed in his ears. He had never done undercover work before. His assignments with the FBI had always been bounty assignments, search and retrieve, hunt and track. Now he wondered what they were thinking. Did they know who he really was?
Stall, think of something. “Withholding information?”
“Harold tells me your relatives on the reservation own a casino,” Big Ben said.
The background check had already centered on his personal life. Quin wondered if they had spoken to anyone back home. These men moved fast. “Some of the tribal members own the casino. How long you’ve lived on the reservation determines whether or not you are an owner.”
“Plenty of money out there,” Big Ben commented. “Are you rich, Quin?”
This was a hard question without a simple answer. The casinos were both a blessing and a curse to the Lighthorns. The money had brought with it better homes, newer cars, and bigger plasma TVs, but it had also strengthened their demons and weakened their resistance to drugs and alcohol. Achieving the white man’s success meant dealing with the white man’s problems.
“My grandfather collects a check from the casinos each month,” Quin said. “I don’t.”
Big Ben cleared his throat. “Well, if your grandfather ever needs a place to invest his money, viatical settlements are a wonderful way to balance out any investment portfolio,” he said, slipping into a sales presentation.
Quin could now see where Big Ben was heading, and the other men were staring at him with renewed interest—especially Stray Dog. Quin wasn’t just an intern, he was a potential source of capital. He now knew why he’d had such an easy time getting a job here.
Quin could feel his stress level increasing, his fear and paranoia rising to the surface. He took some deep breaths and looked out the window at the falling snow.
Relax, it’s OK. You’re using them, they’re using you.
There was no way he would allow these wolves anywhere near the reservation, but maybe if he led them on for a while, he’d learn something. “If you want to give me an information packet, I could bring it home on a weekend.”
Big Ben’s face beamed. “We’d love to, Quin.”
Rebecca Baron dipped her Grand Prix round size-six paintbrush into a glob of black acrylic paint and swiped it on her canvas in sharp, angular strokes. Outside the studio window in front of her was a grayish black horizon of trees along the bay; she tried capturing their dull luster and the deadness on her canvas.
Her art studio on the south side of her home had twelve-foot ceilings, skylights, and large picture windows. Her ex-husband called it the “greenhouse.” What did he understand about art? He was a mergers-and-acquisitions investment banker who enjoyed finance and accounting. Mike never understood her need for sunlight, especially in the dark winter months when there was no color on the landscape except for the sparse green of the occasional pine tree.
How could an artist live without light and color?
Maybe she would add a person to this painting. That man she had bumped into yesterday at Safe Haven, the Native American, might look good on her canvas. She admired men like that: youthful, exotic, not afraid to wear an earring to the office. She swirled her brush in an attempt to capture that man’s warm skin tone, squeezing a tube of burnt sienna onto her palette.
She felt good today. Before she had quit the radiation treatments, she had days when she couldn’t stand up. Now she felt almost back to normal, painting for hours at a time without the headaches or dizziness.
Spontaneous remission, her doctors called it. They warned her it wouldn’t last, especially since she’d stopped the treatments early. But she didn’t care. What good were her last days if she spent them sick in bed? She would rather stand and paint.
Mike stepped into the studio. Without looking, she felt his cold presence. The illness that should’ve brought them together had actually pulled them apart, crushing any last pieces of an already broken marriage. He was always stopping by now, checking in, probably out of guilt, but he was never comforting.
“Painting again?”
“I feel better today.” She could hear him standing in the doorway, anxious to leave. He’d done his duty and eased his conscience by showing up.
“You need anything while I’m out?”
He often looked for an excuse to leave her quickly, to go off to work or run to the drugstore. The doctors had told her that the people around her would grieve differently and that he might be detaching early. She felt he’d buried her months ago.
Give him something useful to do. Let him contribute to your well-being, the doctors told her. “On your way back from work, you could pick up some aspirin,” she said.
“Great. I’ll see you around six then,” he said, still standing in the doorway.
Was he admiring her, longing for the healthy Rebecca? Was he comparing her body to his young new bride’s? Mike’s second wife, the new and improved model, was fifteen years younger, barely out of college, full of energy and life.
“Rebecca?”
She turned to see him wearing a navy suit, dressed like a banker with a red tie. He was a successful executive now, a negotiator who couldn’t even find common ground in his first marriage. How could he stand there and watch her die from his safe distance?
“Yes?” She expected that he might finally apologize for all that she’d been through.
He coughed slightly. “Aspirin or Tylenol?”
“Aspirin,” she said before turning back to her canvas and looking out onto the lake, listening for the shuffle of his foot-steps out of the studio.
His cool aloofness had only made her decision to sell her life insurance policy easier. Since she felt better, she could use the money to take a vacation or buy a bigger boat for the lake in case she’d live long enough to enjoy it. She might even give the money to charities while she could still see it put to good use.
He didn’t deserve the money—that much was certain in her mind. She’d bought the policy when she w
as a corporate lawyer bringing home the big dollars and he was the stay-at-home father raising their daughter and studying for his MBA.
Because Mike had battled alcohol in those years, she’d never really believed he’d amount to much. She’d even feared that if something happened to her, he wouldn’t be able to provide for their daughter. Based on the advice of a friend, she had purchased the largest life insurance policy she could afford on her salary.
But her four-year-old, her beautiful Celia, was gone now. She’d been dead for seven hundred and forty-six days, and all because of him. Was Mike keeping track of the days too? No, he’d remarried and moved on.
She’d bought the policy, and she’d cash it in soon. Rebecca looked across her studio to the white frozen water and saw nothing but colorful icehouses scattered like toy blocks on the snow. Her daughter had had blocks like those, now stuffed in a box somewhere.
The larger the prey, the more strength and endurance is required of the wolf to drag it down.
“The database is the key to our survival here at Safe Haven,” Big Ben said, sitting next to Quin. “You must update our clients’ mailing addresses and their health status each month. Are you listening?”
Quin was momentarily distracted by his coworkers’ telephone conversations. Each of the men sat at one of the cherrywood desks, wearing a headset and typing information into the database. Occasionally Stray Dog would break into short bursts of forced laughter, or Richard would curse after finishing a call.
James used his deep baritone voice as if he were hypnotizing his callers. Bob called his old clients, pretending to reminisce before he made his segue into a sales pitch. Each of the men had a unique hunting style that Quin found fascinating.
He refocused on the training. “Yeah, I’m listening. Every two weeks I mail out these postcards to clients, and I log them in the computer after the client mails the card back.”
On half of the yellow postcard was a biblical quote such as, “Oh that my grief were thoroughly weighed, and my calamity laid in the balances together! — Job 6:2.” On the other half was a place for the terminally ill to sign, verifying they were still alive.
In the Company of Wolves_Thinning The Herd Page 6