14
John was in Chicago a few days longer than Tommy dealing with the aftermath of their crumbled business. However, after signing his settlement with the legal authorities, like Tommy, he was ready to get out of town. John also retreated home, to Whitefish, Montana. It was the only place he felt really comfortable. He hadn’t grown up there, but his wife had. He far preferred it to his childhood home, which had been a rough neighborhood of Philadelphia with a dad who never lived up to his own expectations, and took it out on John and his brother.
John and his wife had met at Northwestern. They visited Whitefish often as college kids and then as struggling, working adults. John always promised her that he would be successful enough to buy one of the big houses on the hill overlooking the town. Shortly before she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, they had done just that.
She struggled for a year before dying, with most of that time spent in their big house on the hill, surrounded by family and friends. She often told John during that year that she was grateful for having the place. It let her, “Look out over her life,” she would say. She could see the house where she grew up, the school, and the corner store, and from the back, she could see the top of the ski slopes where she and her friends spent most of the winter as kids.
John watched her die with such grace and dignity that he no longer feared death. She gave him that, but he struggled to replace her with anything else positive. Now the big house on the hill was all he really had to remember her by.
In the years since her death, John started to like being the rich guy in the big house. He liked being well-known in a small city better than one of many in a big city like Chicago. Throwing around hundred-dollar bills as tips got you noticed and talked about in Whitefish, particularly at the Bierstube, the bar at the base of the mountain.
The Stube was a classic, old, ski hill bar, where locals mixed readily with tourists and where gallons of beer were spilled every year into thousands of cracks in the wood floors. The pungent, slightly sweet odor of evaporating beer would ooze all day and all night long. When John was away, he couldn’t remember what the fireplace or the chairs or the tables looked like, but the smell he couldn’t forget.
He was early to meet with his friends and walked up to an uncrowded bar. The hill was still open and the spring skiing conditions were excellent.
The bar would be busy as soon as the sun moved low in the sky. It was mostly locals left, getting in the last few runs of the year. The bartender was a rugged looking guy that appeared more bouncer than bartender, until one noticed the peaceful soul that rested in his eyes. John ordered a beer and started a conversation. “You manage this place?”
“Nope,” said the bartender unapologetically. “I work here just enough to get the free ski pass and beer. Winter is for skiing, not working.”
“What do you do in the summer?” John asked.
“Landscape at the golf course. Work enough to get free golf. Summer is for golfing and fishing, not working,” he said, and smiled.
“How long have you been at it?” John asked.
“Well, just for one winter, starting fifteen years ago,” he answered with a grin. “What do you do?”
“Commodities trading and other things. I live in the old Westermen house,” John said.
“You must do pretty well to own that place.”
“Yeah, but I’m not having any fun,” John said.
“Yeah, but I’m not having any money,” the bartender said.
John glanced at the door and saw his friends coming his direction. He headed to a table, but looked back at the bartender, thanked him for the beer and put a hundred dollar bill on the bar. As they moved toward each other, John’s friends couldn’t help but notice he had put on a few pounds over the winter. They hadn’t seen each other in a few months, longer than normal, as John usually made his way home more often.
John’s once thick and muscular body was now softened by a fairly uniform, fifteen-pound layer of insulation. His hair was thick. They saw his twitchy and darting eyes were still present. He looked like a dog tracking a squirrel in a tree.
The two men, brothers, had known John since high school in Philly. They had moved to Whitefish partially to hang out and work occasionally for John but more so because of legal problems back home. It was best for them to get a clean start, or as it turned out, a newly corrupted existence.
They were only a year apart and looked like twins: thin build, smoking-induced
slouching skin, scraggly hair, wide eyes with a psychotic watery shine to them. They were street tough well beyond their weight, strength, and size. They were in and out of foster homes and juvenile facilities growing up, but they always managed to stay together, basically raising each other. Neither had regular jobs now, but they always had cash. Rick, with wrestler ears and a nasty scar on his right cheek, ran book, and Ron, with a scraggy nose and a limp, sold some pot and a little coke. Both had contacts that had them occasionally providing other nefarious services for hire. They each carried small handguns, concealed well enough that only a trained cop might notice.
Rick, a ping pong ball sized Adam’s apple wobbling in his throat, spoke first. “Welcome home. Didn’t see you skiing all winter. What’ve you been doing?”
“Working, but that’s over for now. Figured I’d lay low for a while. Couple of days skiing, then maybe some fishing. We’ll see.”
Ron spoke for both. “Call us, man. We always got time.”
“Will do. Want a beer?” John asked.
Rick spoke for Ron. “Yep. Make it two each to start.”
Ron said, “Say, you’re all into financial stuff. Me and Rick had a bit of a payday. Maybe we should invest or something. You’re the only guy we know with real money.”
“I can help you if you’d like,” John answered. “Sure you don’t want to just drink and smoke it up?”
“Oh, we’ll do some of that, too, but it’s a pretty damn good amount of money.” Ron said as he glanced up the hill as the last skiers of the day glided around both sides of a densely packed section of trees.
“A good chunk of money you say. What did you boys go and do?” John asked.
“Do you really want us to tell you?” Rick smirked.
“No, I don’t!” John said. “Spare me the details.”
“All I’ll say is that it was a weird job, and those pay the best,” Ron said.
John looked down at his phone at a text from his old secretary. It read, “I’m so sorry, John, but George died. Please call me as soon as you can about the funeral.” He paused and stared blankly at the phone, then spoke to the brothers without looking up. “Fun is going to have to wait a few days. I’ll be back from Chicago over the weekend, but I gotta run now.”
15
Tommy caught an early morning train back to the city and made the short walk from Union Station, arriving at the church early. It was very short notice for him to get to the funeral, but evidently George had died almost a week earlier. Tommy figured it must have been his first day on the slopes after the business failed.
Mourners were already starting to enter. He hung back and watched as people gathered, talked, hugged, and went in through the oversized wooden double doors. He didn’t recognize a single person. He realized that he couldn’t even remember George’s wife’s name and had to look it up in the funeral program. Deb, that’s right, he said to himself. It wasn’t just his fault. George didn’t mix his work and private life. Tommy thought that was the way he wanted it, so he didn’t pry.
After fifty or so people entered, Tommy finally recognized someone.
It was John. He saw Tommy coming and extended his hand. “Hi, Tommy. Sorry this is the way we get back together. How are you?”
“Broke, but better off than George,” Tommy said.
“Yeah, puts things in perspective,” John replied, solemnly.
“Speaking of perspective, mine is that I got screwed on this thing worse than you did,” Tommy said, realizing that t
his was an inappropriate time to bring it up, but not caring.
“Really? How do you figure? Remember, I lost twice as much money on the business as you did, and I paid five million extra in fines and penalties to avoid a lifetime ban.”
“I get barred and you don’t?!” Tommy felt the rage welling up again.
He tried to take slow and steady breaths.
“Hey, all the evidence pointed in your direction. Remember, you were responsible for the business that fucked up, and you made it clear it was my job to stay out of your way. You’re the one who’s lucky you’re not in prison. From where I stand, you are the one that fucked me over. It wasn’t George and it wasn’t me and it wasn’t…” John stopped himself and shifted his eyes to the mural on the wall.
“Who?” Tommy asked.
“Mark Schmidt. Who benefited more than McKinstry?” John said.
“Or maybe it was you or one of your people.” John was about in Tommy’s ear at this point, so as not to have to speak too loudly and draw attention away from the front of the church where the service was about to start.
“You really think it was me?” Tommy asked through clenched teeth.
“What am I supposed to think? They trotted out all the same shit for me that you saw.” John hit back.
Although the crowd couldn’t make out their words, people in the front of the church were starting to turn their attention to the pair.
Tommy and John drew a cold, dead, Botox stare from Deb. They had each only met her once. She was tall, spry, and notable with an intensity that cut through the two of them. She had thin and pale facial features and dark brown hair that was impeccably kept.
Tommy and John each moved quickly to pews on the opposite sides of the middle aisle. They both sat patiently, learning all of the things about George and his family and life that they should have known. The solid relationship with his wife and kids, the volunteer work through church, the network of friends, and the fabric of a rich life cut too short.
At least Deb and the kids would be taken care of, Tommy thought to himself. The business had a key man life insurance policy on George for ten million with George’s family getting half and the business getting the other half. Tommy figured there was no chance of seeing a penny of the business half of the policy. Another win for Mark and McKinstry, as they would lay claim to the other five million since George’s death happened after the business transitioned to McKinstry.
Both felt too much like outsiders to greet the family after the service.
Tommy slipped out first and started walking with no goal or destination in mind. It was hard not to obsess over who was behind the business falling apart. Obviously, someone at one of the two businesses would have to have been involved. Tommy was also thinking about Jenny and what Pat had said about her. He still thought he should move on, but didn’t know if he could. He wandered east a few blocks from the church and ended up very close to their old offices.
Seeing the building once again, Tommy remembered that he had received a message on his phone the other day from McKinstry stating that he was free to use his old key fob to gain access to his office to pick up his personal items. Since he was so close and with nothing else to do, he decided he might as well get that out of the way.
The office was dark and quiet and clearly no longer a place of active business. Paper and boxes were randomly strewn. There were no computers or file cabinets. Everyone had been moved to the McKinstry offices or terminated. Tommy didn’t much care which. He opened the door to his office. There was his phone, message light blinking, sitting on the floor with a couple of candy bars and packs of almonds that had been in his desk. The shelves were still there with a few of his pictures and personal books.
He hit “play” for his messages and was greeted by, “You have twelve new messages.” He considered deleting them all, but since he had nowhere to go, he sat on the floor next to the phone and listened. “Sorry to hear the business ran into…” Tommy hit delete before the message
finished. “Hi, want to have lunch? This is…” delete.
“It’s George. Hey, call me soon, please.” Tommy listened, hoping for more, but there wasn’t anything. He played the message a second time to hear George’s voice again and then hit delete.
“Hey, Tommy, it’s Jack. You had me researching that company, Big Mountain, that was actively hedging prior to our, uh, problems. I don’t know how to say this, but . . . it looks like the business involved John DeFallo.”
Tommy scrambled to his knees and stared at the phone for a moment, then he hit delete, knowing full well what he heard and what it meant, and he was sure he never wanted to hear it again. Then he stood up, grabbing the phone as he rose, and hurled it at the window, breaking the inside pane of glass of the big old double-hung. As the phone hit the ground, Tommy pulled out his cell phone and was dialing, rage flushing his face.
The redness and frustration intensified as he waited for an answer, the phone warping slightly under the pressure from his grip. Tommy started to calm himself after a few rings, as he needed to sound sane enough to avoid Jack hanging up on him if he was too contentious.
“Hi Jack, this is Tommy. I don’t know how long ago you left it, but I got your message.”
“Hey, sorry to hear about George. Good guy. Always worked hard for you,” Jack said.
“Yeah. Hey, do you have more on John and those trades?” Tommy asked.
“You know, I landed at McKinstry in the shake-up so I could track the trades a bit more easily, but you gotta keep me out of this.”
“You got it,” Tommy said.
“No, really. I don’t want anything to do with this or you or John.”
“I said you got it. This is the last time you ever hear from me. Now tell me what the hell you know,” Tommy demanded.
“Near as I can tell, he and some partner made eighty million or more on hedges that paid off big when the price tanked. John was a fifty percent partner in Big Mountain with RD Partners, but I haven’t been able to track down who owned the RD Partner half,” Jack said.
Without saying another word, Tommy hung up his cell phone; his teeth clenched so hard they felt like they could easily grind to powder, the veins in his neck were blue and pulsing. Tommy headed toward the Hilton on Michigan, knowing John’s place was nearby and he liked to eat there regularly.
When Tommy arrived at the hotel, he saw John from across the restaurant and he bee-lined for him. Tommy could see he was removing his napkin and readying to stand. As he did, Tommy caught him completely off guard and pinned him against the wall next to the table. Tommy jammed his forearm up against his throat and somehow positioned the chair to hold John’s legs against the wall. John was left with no choice but to grab Tommy’s forearm with both hands to take some pressure off his windpipe.
Tommy pushed his face up to John’s, close enough so that only a few people sitting close could hear. “You made eighty million off of our business going under, you son of a bitch!”
“I only made half of that, and it didn’t even cover my losses. I didn’t want it going bad. I was approached with an idea and put a little backup plan in place.” John struggled for enough air to speak.
“You set the whole thing up to fail. The fictitious trades. You knew that you could cash in if we failed.”
“I did suspect that things were going a little too well. You had to see it, too. I was just covering myself. I thought that you were screwing me.”
“I wasn’t!” Tommy was now loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Still looks like you were to me,” John squeaked out.
Tommy’s teeth were clenched again, his jaw muscles rippled. It made Tommy realize he was close to doing something that would end with him locked up tonight and maybe forever. He let John down to cough and gasp for air and walked quietly out. Just like when the business fell apart a week earlier, he headed to the train station, calling Pat for a ride.
After the run-in with Tommy, John packed a couple of
things and took a cab to O’Hare. He knew word of their encounter would spread quickly in Chicago. No need to stick around for that. He headed back to Whitefish.
16
Tommy rolled over in bed without opening his eyes. He could tell it was morning and the room was annoyingly bright; too bright for his eyelids to keep his brain dark enough to sleep. Still without the energy to open his eyes and with a pounding headache, he pieced together his location by memory. Oh, yeah. Pat picked him up. He had told Pat the whole ugly story about the eighty million and the incident at the hotel.
They drank beer; Tommy drank lots of it. He realized he was in a bedroom at Pat’s house. He opened his eyes. It was mid-morning on Friday. The house was empty. Everyone was off to normal weekday activities.
He remembered telling Pat why he thought John had screwed him over. He hated John and figured that he was just the worst kind of human being possible. He was all worked up and lashing out figuring he had eighty million, or forty million, reasons to despise John. The exact math didn’t matter.
Tommy rummaged through the bathroom until he found ibuprofen. He popped five in his mouth and stumbled around the house, eating and watching TV, not knowing what else to do. It was a cool April day, and just after noon, Tommy heard the back door slam. “Dude, you awake?”
It was Pat.
“Yeah, in here.” Tommy said, still in long Nike shorts, a T-shirt, and calf-high sports socks.
“You drank pretty fast last night. Talked fast, too,” Pat said.
“Yeah, some of it is starting to come back to me,” Tommy said.
“Sounded like a pretty nasty day,” Pat said.
“I must have shared quite a bit.”
“Yep. Good thing this John guy wasn’t around. You might have killed him.”
The Squeeze Page 8