by Kendric Neal
“Yeah they did, and they traced it to our company.”
“What?!”
“Something Falk wrote in college. Shut down the PN just before exams, couldn't get it back up. He's the one they called in to fix it.”
“Digerati Day-glo? You're kidding me.”
“That's what they're saying.”
“CT paid him overtime. He loves telling this story.”
“He didn't have the rent.”
“And this virus is derived from that?”
“Almost exactly. Close enough for veracity, there's even a typing error carried over. They say they're going to sue.”
“Who found it?”
“Falk.”
“So the allegation is we got our best guy to infect their newly protected system, shut it down, force them to go with us to clean it up, then our computer expert, the same guy, reinfects it and tells them about it?”
“That's the quick version.”
“So we're brilliant enough to outwit one of the top NetSecs in the world, but we're then idiots enough to tell them we did it?”
“Criminals do stupid things.”
“CalTech whizzes immolate themselves in their own industry with stuff they wrote in college?”
“It's really not about making sense, it's about a lawsuit for $60 million, the life of the security contract. They just have to convince a jury.”
“Who won't understand a word of it.”
“They know we'll settle. They also know we'll take a major hit.”
“Are you really taking this seriously? Sounds like sour grapes to me.”
“They've already served us with a warrant. They'll be here in twenty to peg our servers, make a BR, give to their experts. That's why the network's on hold in case you tried it, we're not allowed to input one keystroke.”
“Where's Falk? What about our team?”
“We've been ordered off the premises, Jepp's pissed, they want us there regardless. Can't afford another lockout with MarCon coming.”
“So what's the problem? They want us, we want them.”
“Pedott-Carey. We're under court order. Pending outcome of their allegations.”
“Which could take months.”
“I'm sure. I'm afraid those bonuses will have to wait.”
“Who cares about that right now?”
“I do. I'm closing in February on a home in the Keys. I don't think this is going to get resolved easily, Neely. If they trace that to Falk, the jury's going their way.”
“Anybody he went to school with could have rewritten it.”
“They could. But not that typo. Falk's a lousy speller.”
Marcia came on the line. “Mr. Thomas, you have visitors in the lobby.”
“Who?”
“Miles McKee. Meghan Sterling. SEC.”
“Jesus. Tell them to make an appointment.”
“They have others with them.”
Donaldson stared at him. Neely stared back at him. “The SEC?” Donaldson said.
“They seem quite insistent,” Marcia continued on intercom.
“Talk later,” Neely said to Donaldson.
Donaldson watched as the SEC group passed him in the hallway. McKee sat down in Neely's office and Meghan stood, leaning back against the credenza with the box full of money on it. Four other agents stood in the doorway, their SEC badges around their necks, arms crossed, keeping other office workers away.
“Mr. Thomas, you look like you haven't slept. Where were you last night?” McKee said.
“Your sister's place. Goddamn, what's with the fisting? That's just wrecked,” he said, trying to shake the kinks out of his good hand.
“Ditched your car, huh?” Sterling said.
“How'd you do?” said McKee.
“How do you think?”
Sterling noticed the box behind her, a few twenties and hundreds hanging out around the sides.
“Illegal winnings, associating with known felons, guess we'll have to bring in the Organized Crime Unit too,” said McKee.
“DOJ, while we're at it,” said Sterling.
“Don't forget the IRS.”
“RICO, at least.”
“You guys weren't popular in school, were you?” Neely asked.
“Mr. Thomas, you got the life expectancy of a housefly, you realize that, right?” Sterling continued.
“Guess what my translation of all that is? 'We don't have shit so let's be obnoxious.' Now get out. I need more coffee,” Neely said.
“We do have shit, as a matter of fact. We got a boatload. Your attorney contacted us requesting a stay, the judge denied it. You have casino winnings of $5.7 million this past week, we got the 1099 this morning. Quite a week. We added Suspicion of Money Laundering to our list,” McKee said.
“Big week at casino and the market, this is real Third-World dictator's idiot son kind of shit, were you hoping for no parole?” Sterling said.
“Thirteen mil in one week? Plus what's behind Door Number 3,” McKee said, nodding towards the box. “That's why the idiots get caught.”
“You're killing me, Smalls,” Neely said.
“And you're surprised we came to see you…” said Sterling.
“Just a case of Darwinism in action,” said McKee. “The bad ones always flame out.”
“If you don't have a warrant, leave my office immediately. You know I have an attorney, it's a breach for you to contact me instead of him,” Neely responded.
“No, it isn't. We're investigators, we investigate,” said Sterling.
“We can come see you anytime,” McKee said.
“Call first. Now I'm going to have to fumigate,” said Neely.
“We're requesting permission to look over your files,” said Sterling.
“Files? What files?”
“Mr. Thomas, a Mr. Dunn is here to see you,” Marcia said over the intercom.
“That would be Derek Dunn? A known associate? Convictions for Wire Fraud, Misappropriation of Funds. That who you were with last night?” said McKee.
A frightened old security guard appeared at the door.
“You want any more answers, talk to my lawyer. You want to ask me questions, arrest me. You want to search my files, bring a warrant. Til then…out,” Neely told them.
“Tell you what. We'll do all three. Berkman and Gatlick will stick around the lobby, make sure you don't borrow any more cars til we get back,” said McKee.
“Okay. Bye Felicia,” Neely said. “And close your legs, Sterling. I'm tired of holding my breath.” Sterling's eyes flashed angrily, not quite as good at taking abuse as her partner.
The two groups crossed paths in the hall as most of the office watched. McKee started dialing his smartphone while Sterling took a photo of Dunn and his entourage. She suddenly recognized the man with Dunn and gasped. “It just gets better and better,” said Sterling, snapping more pics until the beefy guy with them used a forearm to push her back.
Neely couldn't help but notice Dunn's normal scew-the-world insouciance was seriously MIA. The guy to his left looked like a quarter-ton of rancid ground beef squeezed into a tube of Hugo Boss…he even smelled like violence. The other guy was the frightening one. He was fat, he was old, and he had hard cruel eyes that looked like they'd still convey murderous rage even a week after he was dead. He alternated between a withering scowl and a thousand-yard stare that unnerved the cowering Janet and Marcia, whom Neely was sure was busy tinkling in her pants. Ken heard the hubbub and came into the hall, ready to launch into Full Douche Mode, but the sight of the two underworld figures killed the words before they even got out of his mouth. Suddenly all the hallways were full of curious eyes and there was dead silence in the cubicles.
“Neely, this is Robert Rossi. He asked to meet you personally,” Dunn said. Gee, Neely thought, I didn't even know Dunn had a tail to tuck between his legs.
“A pleasure, I'm sure,” Neely said, holding out his hand disarmingly.
“Shut the door,” Rossi said, not taki
ng his hand as the hamburger made it happen.
“I don't often welcome unannounced visitors, but any friend of Derek's is a friend of mine,” Neely said.
“I'm not your fucking friend, now shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down.”
“Funny act,” Neely said to Dunn, who didn't see any humor in it. “I'll have to ask you to watch your language, Mr. Rossi. We try to maintain a fuck-free atmosphere here at Donaldson/Danning TeG.”
“Vegas, Naccahaw, last night, your betting sites, your online poker. All done. You know this already, I'm only repeating it.”
“Why is that, Mr. Rossi? Or should I call you Don? Tony? Sonny? Mr. Soprano? What family you with? I bet the meatballs are to die for.”
“Jesus, Neely, would you shut up! SHUT UP!” said Dunn. Neely did, surprisingly. He'd never seen Dunn take anything seriously before, it was interesting to witness now. “Just shut up. Let him finish and SHUT UP.”
“Everything. All gambling interests. Local bookie, even the goddamn lottery. You're done. Consider this an intervention.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I said so.”
“That's all I get?”
“Yeah.”
“Is this a threat?”
“It's a courtesy.”
“Place up the road, got a game called Nudge. What about that? Or Trivia Night at the Fox & Flute. Pot gets up to a hundred bucks, I hear.”
“You're lucky you're getting it politely. No more. This ends here, dickhead.”
“Well fuck you, Olive Garden. You can't bar me from everywhere. There's plenty of legal places to gamble.”
“Not for you.”
“Who said? You work for someone, right? Who told you to tell me this?”
“Someone whose name you don't need to know.”
“Or what? Give me an 'or what,' I'm curious.” Rossi gave Dunn a cold stare as he turned to leave. Dunn grabbed Neely's arm and turned him to the wall.
“Jesus, Neely, you're mine, you understand? This is on me.”
“You threatening me too?”
“You don't know what you've done.”
“I don't care.”
“Well, I do. Cap this shit and put it back where you got it. The only reason you're still alive is there's something about you that scares them.”
“What? Because I'm winning.”
“You're doing a lot of things, Neely, but winning isn't one of them.”
“Mr. Thomas, there's a Joseph Wright here to see you,” Marcia said over the intercom in a trembling voice.
“Who the fuck is Joseph Wright?” Neely said.
The exclamation that came out of the squawk box was unintelligible, but Neely had the distinct feeling Janet had just peed again. He stepped out to the hall to see what looked like the entire WNC Hellions 666 motorcycle gang swaggering towards him, dragging black leather and chains as Tchavitz and Donaldson stared, open-mouthed, and Ken lurked behind them for cover. Dunn tried to exchange words with Stig, but was pushed aside.
The two groups ran into each other in the doorway as Stig looked at the thug in the suit and said menacingly, “You gonna move?”
The hamburger considered murdering him when Rossi intervened, “Our business is done.” He edged Stig out of the way.
“You must be fun at parties,” Neely said to hamburger as he and Rossi left.
“This doesn't concern you,” Stig said to Dunn, closing the door in his face as Will, Jacy and Threece stationed themselves outside to keep him and any others out. They had the office's attention now, in fact, everyone in the building was taking an interest in the procession of characters in and out of Neely's office. Threece looked up at a furtive crowd of onlookers peering over their cubicle walls and made a lunging motion. The office workers retreated so fast they took a wall down, and Threece and the others chuckled.
“I heard about your night,” said Joseph Wright. He was a massive powerlifter of a guy in his late 40's, with a handlebar mustache and bigger-than-life theatricality like he'd been a pro wrestler once. Neely was working on no sleep and not enough coffee, so his patience was worn through, especially as Wright sat at his desk and put his feet up. He seemed to be in charge, not Stig, as his patch said “OG”.
Neely said, “Yeah, took you quiff whiffers for all you had. Fair and square. What'd, you come to get it back? Does papa bear wipe their bottoms too?”
“I don't give a shit about the money.”
“You don't?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
Stig pulled out an iPad and pulled up the screen. There was a promo shot for an upcoming bout with photos of two fighters, one white, bearded and covered in tattooed scrollwork, the other Hispanic, bulging with muscle, who looked like a brain-dead psychopath. “Who's going to win?” Stig said.
“Win what?”
“They go up tonight. Private event. Serious shit, doesn't end til it ends,” said Joseph Wright.
Neely took the iPad from Stig, interested now. “This actually happens?”
“Pick one. He wins, we're good. He loses, you lose.”
“You know, you're the third guy to threaten me this morning and you know what? You're the one I most want to laugh at. Look at you, you look like a joke. You ought to be in a gay bar hitting up leather twinks.”
Wright picked up the framed photo of Hope, Jess and Cullen and smashed it, the glass shards flying everywhere. “That lucky streak…that extend to them too?” he said, holding up just the photo. Neely lost it. His impatience redlined and he lunged for Wright, jamming his throat against the wall separating the offices. Stig and Slider quickly pulled him off and Wright landed the hardest punch to the face Neely had ever taken. He hit the wall so hard, he caved in the sheetrock in an imprint of his head. “You feel lucky now?”
“Yeah,” Neely said through bloodied teeth.
“Pick.”
Neely looked at him, considering a remark that would surely get him killed, and instead motioned with his eyes to the Hispanic fighter on the right.
“Be at this address at 2 a.m. Don't make us come looking,” Stig said.
“Can I get a bet in?” Neely asked. Wright just looked at him as his guys let him go and he slumped to the chair. As Wright and his guys left, the rest of the gang left a swirling haze of cigarette smoke as they swaggered out. Ricky winked at Marcia, who ducked quickly back into the ladies' room.
“Mr. Thomas…” Neely heard from the intercom in a voice on the edge of hysteria.
“Yes, Janet.”
“The po…the po…police are here…”
Neely sighed wearily. “I'm not going to get any work done today, am I?”
He walked out of his office as two officers with photo IDs on the belts filed past the rest of the motorcycle gang getting onto the elevators. Both cops were middle-aged, short, fat and balding—Neely thought they looked like a couple of bobbleheads. “You Neely Thomas? You own a Freelander Orion Motor Coach?” the one on the left said.
“Yes and no.”
The detective indicated the window of Neely's office and he looked outside. Amidst the BMWs, Mercedes, Range Rovers and Lexuses, Jim Nykes's camper was engulfed in flames as a fire crew arrived to put it out. Neely laughed uproariously, further convincing one and all he was crazy.
“I guess Jim's going to need a new love nest…” he said.
“Do you have any idea who might have done it?” the other one said.
“Take your pick.”
“Are you aware your wife has reported you missing?” the short one said.
“What? No, I just—” Neely looked at his burner, realizing it was still turned off. The cops looked at each other, then back at Neely's bloodied face, his disheveled appearance, and the box of cash sitting on his credenza.
“I think we're going to need you to come down to the station.”
“You're serious? After everything that's happened, you're going to arrest me for this!?” He laughed like a madman and look
ed at all his coworkers wanting to share with them the bitter irony, but none of them was seeing it. One of the cops went to grab his wrist and Neely wrested it away. “Let go of me. Who do you think you are?!” He struggled as they went to cuff him, and they took him to the ground, knocking the file box full of cash off the credenza. The whole office watched as a cloud of twenties blew into the air and into the hall.
CHAPTER 25
“That camera works, right? You heard me, right? First thing I said when we sat down, 'I want my lawyer', you heard that?” Neely said. He sat in a concrete-walled interrogation room with the two bobbleheads, his hands cuffed to the table.
“We haven't arrested you for anything,” said Detective Wisniewski, one of the two fat cops. Not much of a snazzy dresser or groomer, Wisniewski looked like his morning routine took little more than twelve seconds, and even that he considered wasted time.
“Not the point. The point is, I asked.”
“We're just having a friendly conversation here,” added Detective Leidt, who sported a carefully-groomed beard and wore a custom-made suit. Neely guessed divorce—back on the market, trying again. Can't blame a guy for working with what he's got, no matter how meager.
“No, we're not. you're holding me against my will, this is a police interrogation. If I tell you I just signed with ISIS and we're taking down next month's Monster Truck Rally, you're going to do something about it right? That makes this an interrogation. The moment I asked for an attorney, you had to shut the hell up and let me talk to an attorney. Boys, boys, boys, you dicked up big time. This is inadmissible, all of it.”
“As far as we can tell, Mr. Thomas, you've broken no laws,” said Wisniewski.
“Now we're getting somewhere.”
“We just want to know where the money came from,” said Leidt.
“See, you're not listening, that's your problem. I don't have to tell you. You have to tell me. You have to prove it's not mine, that I obtained it illegally. Sitting in this room? This is you hoping I'll do your job for you. It works on dumbasses, which is what you're used to dealing with, I understand, it does not work on guys like me who know you're a couple of asscracks whose dads were asscracks and whose kids are going to be asscracks. You know how this ends, don't you? In twenty minutes, I walk out with the cash, get into a car worth more than your house and go have dinner with a woman five times as beautiful as your wife. What do you do? You go drown your sorrows in Ancient Age at the nearest piece-of- cop bar and complain about your life to a bartender who's not listening. Get over yourselves. If you push me any harder, I'll throw $100K at my lawyer to sue you for wrongful arrest. You'll find yourself in early retirement on a half pension. That's gonna put a serious kink in your plans to retire down to the Banks and buy a cabin cruiser with a seat big enough to hold your garage-sized ass, am I right? So why don't you shut up, get me a Coke with a cup of ice, a bag of Sunchips and a phone charger and let me get on with my life, you miserable pissant dickheads.”