In the Company of Wolves_Thinning The Herd

by James Michael Larranaga

  Ben thought back on his first phone call from Quin, on the interview, the last few days of work. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. “I think you’re overreacting, Harold.”

  “All I’m asking is that you let me finish my background check on him,” Harold said. “He’s pitching a $10 million policy on our behalf, and we know nothing about him.”

  He was asking for permission to fall back on his methodical procedures, and if that was what he wanted, why should Ben stop him? “Go ahead, see what you can find out. But I won’t hear any more about this until you find me something significant. Pills don’t mean shit to me.”

  Ben turned on his heels and left the small office, walking quickly down the hallway. The real paranoid might be his partner, Harold. With all that had happened lately, he wanted some good news for a change.

  Quin poured himself another cup of coffee from the carafe on the table, watching Rebecca and Mike sitting together on the couch reading the offers. Stray Dog was right; Lunde and a man named Louis Schultz had stopped by yesterday to drop off information about Benson & White along with a formal proposal and settlement offer.

  How had Lunde pulled it off? Quin had given him Rebecca’s name at lunch yesterday, and by late afternoon, he had introduced Benson & White with a written offer.

  Quin sensed that they’d outbid Safe Haven, but Mike would not tell him how much more they had bid. If Quin and Stray Dog could help her, they had to come up with more money than Benson & White was willing to pay—but how much more?

  “What do you think of the offers so far?” Quin asked.

  “It’s a lot of money,” Rebecca said.

  Mike was cooler, more poker-faced. “They’re both competitive offers.”

  And by that he meant what? They were within $100,000 of each other? Or within $50,000? Quin knew that even if what he had felt upstairs in the studio was real, even if she was attracted to him, Rebecca and Mike were going for as much money as they could get.

  “Do I need to come up with more money?” Quin asked.

  “Benson & White are the high bidder at this point,” Mike said, holding the bids away from Quin, as if he were hiding the winning poker hand.

  “What difference does it make?” Rebecca asked. “A settlement of $8.2 million or $8.5 million is not that big of a difference considering how little time I have left. I won’t spend it all anyway.”

  Quin was about to step in and speak to that point when Mike put his hand on his ex-wife’s knee.

  “Honey, $300,000 is a big difference.”

  “But I want to work with Quin’s company,” she said, smiling back at him. “They’ve been very good to me from the start. Christopher has been helpful, Ben gave me an excellent presentation, and Quin stopped by today. I hardly know anything about Benson & White.”

  “They’re a solid, publicly held company,” Mike said, holding out a glossy brochure.

  That was news to Quin. He didn’t know much about the competition. They probably had deep pockets. Better jump in before your window of opportunity closes. Her ex is becoming quite convincing.

  “What if you could work with Christopher and me and still get a better price for your policy?” Quin asked.

  She scooted to the edge of the couch, away from Mike, closer to Quin. “I’m listening.”

  Start ad libbing. Lay on the heavy bullshit. You’ve got the audience’s attention. “Christopher and I are really independent reps, so if you don’t like the offer from Safe Haven, we could make you a better one.”

  Rebecca was thrilled, her face animated. “You could do that, Quin?”

  That was the bonus question. He really wasn’t sure if he could pull this off. He’d told Ben he could get the money from the reservation, but that was a bluff to buy himself time until he or Lunde or some real cop could make an arrest. Then Stray Dog had pawed his way in. He got him excited about the possibility of protecting poor Rebecca and making money while doing it. But could he get the money? He wasn’t sure himself.

  “Yeah, we’ve got a group of private investors that might be interested in this deal,” he said.

  Mike loosened his tie and sat back on the couch. His soft stomach pushed against his vest. “Who are these investors?”

  “They prefer to remain anonymous, and we would protect Rebecca’s privacy as well,” Quin said, surprising himself with a good answer. It sounded like something Big Ben would’ve said.

  Mike looked at his ex-wife and back at Quin. “She obviously trusts you, Quin. How much money can you raise?”

  He knew Ben’s offer was $8.2 million, and Rebecca had just revealed that Benson & White’s offer was $8.5 million.

  “Tell me how much more I need to offer to win your business,” Quin said.

  Mike shook his head. “No, you make her an offer the same way the other companies did.”

  Rebecca grabbed both proposals and handed them to Quin. “That’s nonsense, Mike. Here, if you can pay $8.5 million, I’m all yours.”

  Nicely put. He liked her, she liked him, and they could work out a deal if he could actually dig up the money.

  “I’ll need about twenty-four hours to meet with my investors,” Quin said.

  “Excellent!” Rebecca said. “So you’ll stop by again tomorrow afternoon?”

  He quickly thought about his schedule and his plans. Big Ben had given him the rest of the week off to head back to the reservation. Now he actually needed the time to do it. He might meet up with Stray Dog for some last-minute coaching and to draw up the paperwork, but other than that, tomorrow afternoon sounded good.

  “Around three o’clock?”

  Rebecca stood and shook his hand, holding it long and tightly. Mike stood, too, jingling the coins in his pocket, staring at them both.

  “If you make it around four o’clock, we can sign the papers, and I’ll fix us an early dinner,” she said.

  As much as he liked the idea, Quin felt uncomfortable with her flirtation in front of Mike. He wasn’t into this voyeuristic stuff. Mike didn’t seem to like it either.

  “Rebecca! This is serious business,” Mike said.

  “I know it is. But you do business with friends. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “The two of you are friends?” Mike asked in disbelief.

  Quin hardly believed it himself. He liked her; she was attractive and interesting, but they’d met only recently. She moved fast.

  “He likes art. So do I,” she said, leading Quin to the door. “Thanks for stopping by. I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” she said, squeezing both his hand and arm in a rather informal handshake.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,” he said, sliding into his coat and stepping into the cold air outside.

  He had to come up with $8.5 million. Could he really do it? To save Rebecca from the hungry wolves, that was exactly what he’d have to do.

  To change pack hierarchy, wolves continually challenge each other.

  Christopher stared out the barred windows of the sales department, biting into his Big Mac. He set the sandwich on his desk while he choked down the ground beef, the lettuce, and the special sauce. He almost never ate at his desk; he preferred to use his lunch hours to wine and dine his bird-dogs for leads.

  However, when he had observed Harold rifling through Quin’s desk earlier, he got a little uneasy. What was he searching for? And what had he found?

  Christopher took his time setting his own personal belongings into a briefcase, just in case Harold decided to make a late-night raid. He had nothing to hide really, but who knew what Harold was looking for?

  The sales department was always deserted at lunchtime, and the only sounds he heard were a few random phones ringing before rolling to voicemail. He took another mouthful of burger, questioning: What was in the special sauce?

  He surfed through the database records, casually reading the notes. Richard’s records had personal comments and opinions about his customers. Bob’s records had typos. He couldn’t type worth a hoot, so his notes were br
ief and to the point.

  Glancing around the room, Christopher decided to try the database download function again. His attempt had been unsuccessful yesterday. Could he retrieve the client, prospect, and investor database? He inserted a USB drive into the computer, clicked on “Export Records,” and waited.

  The database would be invaluable in helping him launch his own viatical settlement company. Why reinvent the wheel when all the leads and investors were right here?

  The screen flashed: “Security Violation.” Just like yesterday.

  Harold and Ben had a higher security clearance than the other sales representatives. But Christopher had a new idea to try. He had helped Ben on numerous occasions when his boss had trouble logging into the computer.

  He logged out and logged back in as Ben, using the boss’s password. After he clicked on “Export Records,” the screen flashed: “Export Database?”

  Yeah! Why not?

  He clicked on “Yes” and waited as his computer’s drive whirred away. Had he known it was this easy, he would not have ordered the super-size Coke and fries. He could’ve downloaded this data and still had time to work a few deals at the hospital cafeteria.

  With the task done, he ejected the drive, tossed it in his briefcase, and logged back in as himself. His new viatical settlement company, Gartner & Partners, was about to be launched. He knew his life was now in jeopardy, but he planned to squeeze through those narrow bars and never look back.

  For the last hour, Ben had been pacing the hallways of the mansion, wondering how Quin and Rebecca’s meeting had gone. In the main foyer, he stopped at the secretary’s desk. “Any calls come in from Quin?” he asked Mary Ann.

  He liked her. She was a friendly secretary with none of that arrogant East Coast attitude.

  “He called about ten minutes ago. I put him into your voicemail,” she said, pushing back the microphone on her headset.

  “Thanks,” he said before running down the hallway and up a flight of stairs.

  His private office was on the same floor as the conference rooms, at the back of the mansion overlooking the lake-shore. It had mission-style oak furniture, heavy wood with leather. The only picture on the walls was the fifth hole of Pine Valley, where he’d shot a hole in one from the blue tees.

  He kept that picture as a reminder that no matter how gruesome this job could be, it paid well and he was a winner. He needed small reminders now and again.

  Sitting at his desk, he listened to the first of two voice-mails. It was the message from Quin telling him he had just finished meeting with Rebecca. Everything had gone fine. He’d spent time with her, they hit it off, and she would be making her decision this weekend. Quin said he would meet with his tribe and be back soon, hopefully with the money. He also mentioned that two other companies were bidding on her business: Benson & White and another he didn’t get the name of.

  Grrr! Ben wasn’t expecting as much competition on this one. He thought Christopher had dug up this lead quietly and that Rebecca wasn’t considering other offers. He’d lost too many bids to Benson & White lately. They were funded by stock market investors and were shrewd negotiators. Ben wondered who had let them in here.

  His second voicemail was from Senator Paul Almquist, calling to brag about his new position in Washington. The senator was short on cash and wanted to know the status of the Munroe Pilson settlement.

  He had obviously stopped reading the local newspapers since leaving for Washington, Ben thought. All the senator cared about was his image and his money.

  Ben called Almquist’s cell phone, staring out onto the snow accumulating on his windows. Did it ever stop snowing here?

  An assistant or secretary answered the senator’s phone with a loud shout. “Senator Almquist’s office!”

  “I’d like to speak with Paul,” Ben said.

  “I believe he’s in a meeting. Can I take a message?” she asked with her young college intern voice. Paul had probably met her on the campaign trail and dragged her across the country to be his mistress and secretary. He was such a dishonorable son of a bitch.

  “Tell him it’s Ben Moretti calling from Minnesota. I’m the one who put him in office. I expect him to take my calls.”

  “One moment,” she said before muffling the phone, probably against her big chest.

  There were a couple of whispers, then shouts before the senator picked up the phone.

  “Hey, Ben,” he said. “How are you?”

  “Don’t ‘hey’ me,” he said. “I could be better. Have you read the papers for your home state?”

  “It’s been real busy here,” the freshman senator said. “I’ve been unpacking boxes, getting the new office set up. I’ve had three or four interviews with the media this week.”

  Blah, blah, blah, you’re successful now, who gives a shit? Ben had heard this before, time and time again. His viatical settlement deals had helped the Republican Party land half a dozen men and women in the House and Senate. He was their secret fundraising weapon, the man who could instantly come up with a war chest if they needed one. But as soon as politicians got to Washington and were aligned with some PAC, they would distance themselves, ignoring the date who had brought them to the dance.

  “You called about Pilson,” Ben said. “He’s dead.”

  A happy pause. “Oh, OK—”

  “A tragic accident,” Ben said, speaking in code in case anybody had tapped the line. ”You can read all about it in the paper or online.”

  He knew Paul was trying to act normal on the phone, that he didn’t want his staff to pick up on their conversation.

  “And I’ll receive my money when?”

  “Could be two weeks,” he said. “But I’m holding it. I need funds to close a $10 million deal. And I need you and your party to come up with more money to help me secure it.”

  “Ten million? Damn, that’s a big one.”

  “And I’ve got a cash flow problem,” Ben said. “I’ve already got a call in to my home office, but I could use your help, too.”

  “Why? What can I do?” the senator asked, distancing himself.

  “Put some political pressure on your party. Remind them that my settlement deals put you, and a handful of other Republicans, in office. My investments mature as your party needs them to.”

  This was the problem Ben had experienced working with the Republicans; once the elections were over, they weren’t as interested in viatical settlements. They were a nervous bunch of investors, afraid of finger-pointing and paper trails.

  “What’s the client’s prognosis?”

  “Inoperable brain tumor. She’s stopped treatments,” Ben said. “The doctors say she has three to six months.”

  “Ten million is a big policy. You’ll need about $8 million, I suppose,” the senator said.

  “I’ve already bid $8.2 million. We’ve got a bidding war.”

  “Jesus, that’s a lot of money to tie up,” the senator said, as if it were his money and not the party’s.

  “Well, she might die sooner than three months,” Ben said, using his code, reminding him of how guaranteed his investments were.

  “And you’re bidding against other brokers?”

  “Benson & White,” he said.

  “Tell me about them,” the senator said, more businesslike now.

  “They’re a publicly held viatical settlement company, but most of the people on the board of directors are in the environmental industries,” Ben said. “I think they do fundraising for the Democrats.”

  That was all the Republican senator needed. Ben could hear him scribbling on a notepad. Paul didn’t like environmentalists.

  “Any other brokers in there?”

  “One other,” Ben said. “Quin vaguely mentioned it in the voicemail, but we have no details on that company.”

  “Send me the medical records and your proposal,” the senator said. “How soon do you need the money?”

  “Yesterday would’ve been great,” he said.

&
nbsp; A commotion on the other end of the line distracted the senator. It sounded as if one of his assistants had dropped a box. He could hear the senator directing people where to set his personal items.

  “Ben, don’t worry about this,” he said, with the sincere ”I feel your pain” tone of a politician. “I’ll get you the money.”

  The senator hung up, and Ben spun around in his chair, facing the window. The wind was gusting outside, the trees creaking over the mansion. He noticed his hands had been sweating. He pressed his palms against the cold windowpane, the glass icy cold. God, how he hated this place.

  Quin had changed out of his Armani threads and into jeans, a flannel shirt, and cowboy boots. He sipped tea as he checked his e-mail from the kitchen table in the apartment.

  Zoe approached him from behind and set her hands on his shoulders. “You were out late last night. Where were you?”

  “Sorry. Ben gets what Ben wants,” Quin said. “We went to the casino.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “He’s testing me. He wants to know how much money my tribe has.”

  “Don’t give him anything,” Zoe said.

  “I know. I’m only playing along until I can figure out how to protect Rebecca Baron.”

  “What is she like?” Zoe asked.

  “Nice person, lives on Lake Minnetonka, likes to paint.”

  “Married?”

  “Divorced.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Probably thirty-five or thirty-six.”

  She lifted her backpack over her left shoulder. “Is she pretty?”

  Quin realized what Zoe meant. She had every right to feel jealous with him staying out late with Big Ben and then spending time with Rebecca. He stood and wrapped his arms around Zoe’s waist. He could see the distrust in her powder-blue eyes, and he rolled a wisp of her black hair over one ear.

  “This is all work related,” Quin said.

  Zoe faked a smile. “People can fall in love at work.”

  “Rebecca isn’t a coworker, she’s a client,” Quin said, remembering Big Ben’s advice. “We don’t fall in love with our clients.”