yes and no—I’m being honest here, Austin—and so Vic
suggests we all go fishing together, have some fun.”
I stare back unconvinced. Rags and I have disliked each
other from the second we were introduced. A strong,
instinctively mutual distaste in the exchanged gaze. A male
challenge or something. It’s a hard thing to put in words
because the emotion feels so primal, as deep as our lizard-
brain core.
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Jack Getze
“So, yeah, you’re right. It’s no coincidence,” Rags says. He shakes his head. Smiling. “The story and the fishing invitation are connected, but not because I’m planning to kill you with a flying gaff, okay?”
93
THIRTY
The grin on Rags’ face makes my teeth grind. I don’t know
why he thinks this is so goddamn funny. The bastard ran me
down. Could have killed me. Why shouldn’t I believe he’d try to murder me again?
“Okay,” I say.
“That was an accident with the car, Austin.” Bastard reads
minds.
“I know.”
“Good. So are you up for a fishing adventure with Mr. Vic
and me?”
“Sure.”
“Probably next Saturday. I’ll let you know.”
He reaches for my papers. “Now, let’s see what you have
here. A transfer form?”
“Just need your signature at the bottom.”
“Two million going out of the Burns’ account, huh?”
“Yup.”
On the wall behind Rags are three Currier & Ives prints.
Bloodhounds, foxes, English riders in long red coats and black leather boots. I’ve heard Rags say his British ancestors were landed gentry. I think that means his great-great-grandfather was a stable boy who’d earned dibs on a corner of the horse
barn.
“I see the assets are staying with us,” Rags says. “Who’s
this Kelly Rockland?”
“Kelly’s the redhead Gerry came in with, the one you
talked to on the telephone.”
“I thought that was his wife?”
“He always told me she was his wife, but she’s not.”
Rags sticks out his lower lip. “Odd. And now that he’s
dying, he wants to give his little sweetie a present of two
million in bonds?”
“That’s what he wants,” I say.
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Jack Getze
Rags wouldn’t be going through this if it was any other
salesman. He would have signed it, passed it back. But no. It’s me, Austin Carr, and he’s going to study the names,
addresses, and account numbers like he’s eying naked girls in Playboy.
“What does his real wife think?” Rags asks.
“Doesn’t have one.”
His eyes are still on the form. Maybe he’s trying to
memorize it. “How about his kids?”
“He’s leaving the bulk of his estate to them—a boy and a
girl I think. Both doctors. They’re not going to be upset about two million.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Rags says.
“Gerry’s probably worth twenty million, all the businesses
he owns. The legal fees on his estate will be a million.”
“People are funny about money,” Rags says. “At the very
least, the kids are going to be curious.”
“Let them be curious. This is what the client wants, Rags.
And it’s his damned money.”
I shouldn’t have cursed. Rags doesn’t like it when I curse.
Maybe it’s that English aristocratic blood. A muscle in his jaw begins to flutter.
“This form isn’t complete,” he says. “You didn’t fill out
this one part properly...the reason for the transfer.”
My own jaw tenses. My back teeth rub. My ass and
backbone are still sore from the pounding his Jaguar gave me.
I could take a swing real easy, bust up that neat little Brad Pitt jaw.
“There’s a reason listed,” I say.
Rags shakes his head, no. “‘Estate planning’ is not a
complete enough reason, Carr. What’s required here is for the client to tell us exactly why he wants these assets transferred.”
“Estate planning is exactly enough. Ask compliance.”
“I have to sign this thing, put my name and career on the
line for it. Go back to Burns, get a reason, bring the new form and signature to me.”
I stand up. “I’m not going to do that, Rags. There’s no
reason in hell to do that. This form is complete, signed, and legal. Estate planning is a lawful reason. Again I ask you to 95
BIG NUMBERS
check with compliance. It’s the way we’ve done it for seven
years.”
“Sit down, Carr. And you will get a new form signed, or
there’s no transfer.”
I remain standing. “You are the world’s biggest asshole,
Rags. The biggest and the dumbest.”
A red cloud forms beneath the skin of his neck and climbs
to Rags’ ears. It’s so cartoonish, so vibrant a red, I expect steam to geyser from his ears.
“I’ve had it with you, Carr. You’re fired. Right now. This
fucking minute. Clean out your desk.”
“Clean out your ass,” I say.
I rip the transfer form from his hand and stride out of
Rags’ office.
My golfing buddy Mr. Vic will straighten this turkey out
pronto.
96
THIRTY-ONE
“What the hell is it with you two?”
Straight Up Vic Bonacelli is not happy. I’ve burst into his
private office waving my transfer form like it’s a winning
lottery ticket. Rags right behind me, screaming, face crimson, wings flapping like a chicken.
“I’m trying to do what my client wants, this asshole won’t
let me,” I say to Vic.
“He refused my direct order,” Rags says.
Vic throws his hands in the air, waving like he’s trying to
stop the horses pulling a runaway stagecoach. “Stop it, both of you. Not another fucking word.”
Rags and I take simultaneous deep breaths, competing now
to numb down in front of the boss. We sneak glances at each
other. Jesus. We’re like nine year olds.
“Okay, one story at a time,” Vic says. “But I gotta say
first, I am fucking livid. This personal thing you two have is costing
me
money.
And
I
will
not...stand
for
it
one...more...fucking...day!”
Rags and I are both reluctant to answer the charges. We
both nod our heads like pimply school kids before the hard-
ass men’s vice principle-slash-football coach. In high school, I was in that office a lot. I have the pimply school kid look
down pat.
Vic picks up his pro-balanced titanium putter, carefully
examines the sleek mallet-style head and the graphite shaft.
He wraps his fingers one at a time around the padded
Argentine-leather grip. There’s an electric tension coming off him, like his putter’s some kind of lightning rod.
Suddenly Mr. Vic’s shoulders snap-twist, cocking the
putter behind him like a baseball slugger. Then zoom, he
swings. The club head misses our noses by six or eight inches, then disappears into the fiberboard wall behind Mr. Vic’s
desk.
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BIG NUMBERS
/> A loud crack means the club hit a two-by-four stud behind
the plaster.
Ten minutes later Rags and I have both explained,
depicted, and reported our individual versions. My story
started out with exaggeration, then slipped into fabrication and total invention. Result being my whole chronicle was
pretty much bullshit. On the other hand, Rags’ tale showed
he’s pretty much figured out exactly what Kelly and I are up to: thievery. The sneaky bastard.
Vic coughs before he speaks. “Okay. First thing I gotta
say. Rags, I don’t see we have much risk with this transfer.
The client was in here last week, healthy and fit. This is his money, and this is what he wants us to do with it. If his
children have a problem with this transfer after he dies, let them sue Kelly Rockland. Seems to me we’re covered.”
Rags shakes his head. “We’re not covered if our salesman
is sleeping with Kelly Rockland. Two million is a lot to move just before a man dies. The relationship between Carr and this woman, the transfer, together they’re suggestive of a scheme.
The children’s lawyers will have us by the balls. We could end up having to reimburse his children the two million dollars.”
That’s punching below the belt, Rags. Threatening Mr.
Vic’s wallet.
Rags saying, “Who knows what shape this Gerry Burns
character is in now? Or if he even knew what the hell he was signing?”
I shake my head. Rags has it all wrong. I signed that
transfer form, not Gerry.
Rags reads my mind. “We don’t even know this signature’s
ligit,” he says. “It could be forged.”
I let my gaze find Vic’s. Man to man, Mr. Vic, my eyes are
saying Rags’ suggestions are utter and pure bullshit.
Mr. Vic breaks off our eye contact, leans back in his red
leather chair. His gaze slides to Rags, then the mahogany-
trimmed ceiling, and finally to a gold-framed snapshot of his wife and children, including Carmela, Rags’ new fiancée.
Ten seconds go by and his hands slip beneath his solid
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Jack Getze
black tie. Slowly, the fingers begin to scratch his belly. I’ve seen him do this a lot on the golf course, deciding which club to hit. Tough choices make Vic itchy.
The boss finally rests his forearms on the desk and stares at my nose. I give it right back because I know what’s coming,
what I’ve got to say. My little speech has been carefully
written and rewritten.
Vic asking me, “You sleeping with her?”
I stare at his nose. Like he taught us. Don’t blink. “No
freaking way, Vic. This is my biggest account. Would I risk it over pussy? Especially the way my business is now, my
situation?”
“You were in the room when Gerry Burns signed this
form? You witnessed his signing?”
“The form doesn’t require or ask for a witness, but yes, I
was there. I saw Gerry sign. He asked me to prepare the form last week. Also, for our files, I have a document coming in the mail that acclaims to Gerry’s soundness of mind. Signed by
doctors and a judge. Gerry wants to protect Ms. Rockland
from questions later. I thought a copy might protect us, too.”
“You never told me that,” Rags says. “You would have
told me that.”
“Shut up,” Vic says.
I feel confident, not because I’m such a great liar—there’s
no document coming—but because Mr. Vic knows better than
anyone how we all make our money. By pleasing clients. At
the beginning of the twentieth century, stockbrokers were
called “customer’s men” with very good reason. The point
being, I’m betting Vic understands that if Shore Securities
refuses to carry out Gerry’s requested transfer, Vic can pretty much count on Gerry moving his money to a firm that will.
“All right,” Vic says. “Here’s my decision.”
Rags and I inch forward. I hear the tick-tick-tick of Mr.
Vic’s little desk clock. My stomach’s growling for Cruz and a plate chili Colorado.
“First off, the transfer goes through. You’re suspicious,
Rags, but where’s the proof? I’ve known Austin seven years.
With no evidence, how can the firm refuse a client’s legitimate request?”
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BIG NUMBERS
I sigh. Rags glares at his Florsheims.
Mr. Vic turns to me. “But Austin, you asshole, you are
officially on one-month probation. Rags is your boss. You
can’t talk to him, defy him like you have been. I’m not
making you clean out your desk today, but if you disregard
Rags’ direct orders in the next thirty days, I will physically throw you out of this office myself, got it?”
Guess I can follow orders for a month. “Can I tell him to
go screw himself after thirty days?”
Vic growls. “Don’t get smart. I could change my mind
about your ass having a seat here today.” He yanks on the
putter but it’s still stuck in the wall. “Both of you get the hell out of my office. Make me some money.”
100
THIRTY-TWO
A full September moon and fast-moving clouds cast Shore
Securities’ parking lot alternately in shade and heatless gray light. Night birds twitter nervously. A steady wind rakes my face with the claw of winter.
I’m dressed in black slacks and a black T-shirt, black
sneakers. It’s three o’clock in the morning. Think I might be up to no good? Ha. That’s right spy fans, meet Stockbroker
Special Ops, Austin Carr. Now that some of Gerry’s money is
on its way to Kelly, I need to destroy the evidence—that
forged transfer form.
The security code and a key to my place of business, Shore
Securities, are in my possession. But to unlock the back door, walk in, and punch the code means a permanent record of
someone being here. For all I know, there’s a camera working.
No, my plan involves the little bathroom window that
opens on the alley. The bathroom window has those slatted
louvered windows our security guy told Mr. Vic are
impossible to protect. Doesn’t take an expert to slide the
panes out one at a time without tripping the alarm. I know
for a fact Mr. Vic was supposed to replace that window, call the security guy back in.
I cross Shore’s never-empty parking area. Some of the guys
go out drinking after work and inevitably a couple of them
can’t drive later, take cabs or bum a ride. I recognize Bobby G’s green Lexus, and on the other side of that, Mr. Vic’s
Beamer wagon. Odd. The boss doesn’t drink with the
salesmen much, except maybe Christmas.
A stranger thing hooks my interest. Shore’s back entrance
is cracked open. My heart-rate climbs a notch. Dim blue light shines from inside through a narrow, seven-foot-tall drop line of unclosed door.
When I step closer, a telephone begins to ring.
The night birds halt their squawking. Maybe that phone is
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BIG NUMBERS
Shore’s security company checking in, what with the back
door being open like this. Alarms should be blazing.
If Mr. Vic is in there, why doesn’t he answer the phone?
The steel surface of Shore’s back door cools my fingertips
as I pull it toward me. Inside, I make my eyes unfocused to
scan for movement. The light inside
comes from Shore’s big
sales room down the hallway.
Should I answer the phone? Or do what I came to do?
Shore’s kitchen is darker than the back entry way. Takes a
few seconds for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I tip-toe
across the eight-by-twelve-foot room and open a drawer,
second one from the left.
The phone stops ringing.
A popping noise freezes my hands and my breathing.
Sounded like somebody dropped something. Or maybe a light
bulb snapped. The noise wasn’t loud, but it was definitely
human. Something man-made.
I try to finish my mission—find Shore’s packet of
documents being sent to storage tomorrow. In the packet, I
can locate Gerry’s transfer package, which should be close to the top of the stack, then pick out the Third Party
Authorization to Transfer Assets form I signed Gerry’s name
to. I need to stick that piece of nasty evidence into the
shredder.
It’s too late to change my mind about helping Kelly,
agreeing
to
accept
that
fifty-eight
thousand
dollar
commission. I’ve done the deed. And since I’m past the point of no return, why not add burglary to grand theft, fraud, and forgery? I’ll feel a whole lot safer when that fake signature no longer exists.
Could be a copy or two around, sure, but legally copies are
a different story.
I have the forged signature in my hand when a floor-
shaking crash thunders in the hallway. No light bulb, this
explosion. Could have come from Vic’s office.
Slipping the transfer form into the shredder, I press the red button. It whirs two seconds. Gonzo forgery.
I resume tip-toes, this time to the kitchen door and peak
around the corner, down the hall toward the front entrance.
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Jack Getze
My heart’s already out-thumping most rock n’ roll tunes, but what I see on the hall floor turns the beat to double-time.
The carved oak door to Vic’s suite has been knocked off its
hinges, the replica of a Florentine masterpiece now lying flat across the hallway. Dragging Mr. Vic’s motionless form
across the fallen door is Psycho Sam Attica.
I fight the urge to vomit. Mr. Vic’s broken-looking body
sinks me like a lead fishing weight, holding me down. Think.
I’m going to be Psycho’s next victim unless I run and keep
Big Numbers (Austin Carr Mystery Book 1) Page 10