“No good person wakes up one morning saying, ‘I think I’ll pilfer a million dollars from my company today.’ Patterns of smaller wrongdoings grow into larger ones. Little wrongdoings give insight into character, about larger wrongdoings to come.
“The first rule when assessing corporate ethics is — character is everything.
“If someone doesn’t work hard enough or fails to achieve committed goals and there are no consequences, strong employees say, ‘Why should I follow the rules, these people didn’t, and nothing happened to them!’ No penalty for underperformance, financial or otherwise. No consequences.
“The second rule when assessing corporate ethics is — consequences are everything.
“Punishment from my father was pain that manifested itself into wisdom that has served me well ever since, made me a stronger and better person, and, I believe, contributed to whatever success I have enjoyed.
“In an organizational environment, collective employee behaviour together with rules, policies, and procedures form the culture. If that culture permits poor accountability, eventually good people do wrong.
“The third rule when assessing corporate ethics is — culture is everything.”
St. James took a moment to clear his throat and drink water.
“In the end, we all decide who we want to be. That is, our own personal truth. And we must have the courage to ward off negative influences that eat away at that truth.
“Character is everything. Consequences are everything. Culture is everything.
“If a weak character works in a weak culture with no consequences for wrongdoing, the probability that person will do wrong is extraordinarily high. There’s no culture of consequences to encourage them to be accountable.
“If a strong character works in a weak culture with no consequences for wrongdoing, that person slowly erodes into apathy. Eventually they don’t care, because no one else cares.
“If a strong character works in a strong culture with consequences for wrongdoing, that person has every opportunity to experience truth, justice, courage, and wisdom. Why? Because they live in an ecosystem that supports accountability.”
There St. James stopped and looked first at the clock, then around a still and silent room.
“I see I have kept you ten minutes longer than usual. I’m sorry for that. Janice will give you back your quiz marks in a few days. Have a great weekend everyone.”
Christina Stone stood. Everyone else remained seated. A sense of awe had blanketed the room. Christina hesitated a moment, looking around at her fellow classmates.
She turned back to St. James.
St. James didn’t know what was coming.
“Professor St. James,” she said. “I can’t speak for everyone, but for me you’ve given a very powerful insight into the practical influences on good and bad commercial behaviour. Any behaviour for that matter. I’ve not read a more complete explanation of how we are molded than the one I heard today. Thank you for a splendid lecture. I am moved by the experience you had with your father. I … I envy you.”
The rest of the class stood and, seemingly in one single move, began to clap.
St. James found himself blushing.
“Thank you for those kind words, Christina. Thank you, everyone,” he managed to get out.
The usual noisy mass exodus followed as students rushed up the stairs to their next class.
St. James felt overwhelmed by the recognition. Part of him just wanted to sit and take in the moment. But he had personal things to do. He hadn’t restocked food in ten days, he was in bad need of a haircut, and, most important of all, his wine stock was severely depleted. All necessities for life to continue as it should.
Chapter 21
St. James called Anna later that morning to tell her about the class response and to suggest a special evening at the Casino in Gatineau.
“Hamilton, I’m so proud of you. I wish I’d been there to cheer you on.”
St. James devoted the afternoon to satisfying his domestic needs. First a haircut and a barber shave, which he treated himself to once a month. Much smoother than his own shaves, which usually resulted in bloody nicks here and there. Next, he purchased various bottles of favourite wines — mostly reds, a couple of Chianti Rufina, Primitivo, Carnivor, and Conquista Mendoza. A few whites thrown in too. Finally, a trip to the grocery store to fill a long list. By 4:00 he was set for the week.
A little before 6:30 he picked Anna up in front of her apartment. She was stunning, dressed in an all-black pantsuit and white blouse with a matching pearl necklace and earrings. Her hair was down and flowing freely as she glided toward the BMW.
“You look handsome tonight, Hamilton. Nice haircut!” she said climbing into the passenger seat.
“Thank you. But I am outclassed by you,” he said, sounding corny but meaning every word.
St. James pulled the BMW 750 up to the Casino entrance and passed the keys over to a young valet. A second valet opened the passenger door for Anna, and minutes later they strolled through the main doors of Casino du Lac-Leamy, a first-class gambling establishment housing multiple bars and restaurants.
Le Baccara was St. James’s favourite. Its open kitchen enabled guests to view wonderful dishes being prepared by fabulous chefs. The wine cellar was something to behold, with 500 different wines in a 13,000-bottle collection.
Inside, an instant panoramic kaleidoscope of flashing slot machines, cherry wood panelling, plush carpets, bars, and people; hundreds of people, some wealthy enough to be there, others not so much.
Paycheques will be lost tonight, St. James thought.
They walked straight to the back of the large room, past bars and noisy machines, blackjack and craps tables, into a glass elevator that took them to the third floor where Le Baccara’s maître d’ eagerly greeted them.
“Bonsoir madame et monsieur. Bienvenue au Baccara.”
“Bonsoir,” St. James said, his poor pronunciation a dead giveaway. The polite maître d’ switched to English immediately to prevent St. James suffering further embarrassment.
“Do you have a reservation, sir?”
“Yes. The name is St. James.”
He nodded and ran a finger down the reservation list.
“Bon, please follow me.”
He led St. James and Anna to the back of the restaurant, to the very last table on the right, by a window. Privacy always being important to St. James, the table was as secluded as he could have hoped for. The maître d’ placed menus in front and announced Jean-Paul would be their server for the evening. Minutes later a short thin dark-haired man with a narrow face, pointed nose, and round metal-rimmed glasses appeared at the table.
Couldn’t possibly weigh more than a hundred pounds, St. James thought.
Jean-Paul introduced himself and asked if they would like drinks. St. James looked at Anna.
“I feel like red wine tonight,” she said casually.
“Me too. How about Châteauneuf-du-Pape?”
“Perfect.”
St. James looked at Jean-Paul. “Châteauneuf-du-Pape it is. A bottle, please.”
Jean-Paul noted the request. “Bon.”
St. James and Anna turned to each other.
“Did you hear from Louis today?” she asked.
“No. We talked yesterday. He’ll call on the weekend. He knows I have to speak with Mary DeSilva Monday.”
“So what’s on for the weekend?” Anna asked, hoping to be included.
“Golf with Pierre in the morning. CISI planning on Sunday. And as much of you as I can get.” St. James smiled.
Anna looked disappointed. “Sounds like you won’t have much time for me.”
“Not so. We’ll finish golf about 2:00. The rest of the day is for you. Would be nice if you could stay over and spend Sunday with me.”
“I think I may be able to arrange that,” she said teasingly.
Minutes later Jean-Paul reappeared with an uncorked bottle of Châteauneuf and two
crystal glasses. He poured the customary dribble for tasting, and St. James gladly obliged. With their glasses full, Jean-Paul asked if they would like appetizers; they took a moment to peruse the menu.
Anna went first.
“I’ll have the shellfish bisque. Sounds wonderful.”
“Excellent choice, mademoiselle,” Jean-Paul said, turning to St. James. “Monsieur?”
“I’ll have the seared duck.”
“Also excellent.”
Jean-Paul noted the choices and rushed off toward the kitchen.
“We should look at main course selections before he returns,” St. James suggested.
He ran a finger down the entrée section. “I don’t think we can go wrong with poached lobster.”
Anna did the same. “I’m torn between that and the roast Québec lamb. The dish descriptions are very creative. Listen to this — salted herbs, vegetables, and lamb neck cannelloni, creamy polenta with watercress, melted rebellion blue cheese from La Fromagerie Montebello, lamb jus. Sounds almost melodious, don’t you think? Makes my mouth water.”
“I think that’s the idea of it all,” St. James poked.
When main courses were decided, they folded menus and raised wine glasses to toast the future.
“Wonderful choice, Hamilton. Full bodied. Very nice.”
“Always one of my favourites, rich in flavour but not too expensive. Except here. Here everything’s expensive.”
They both smiled.
“Have you ever played the slots or tables?” he said.
“Not the tables but once I lost ten dollars playing the slots in Niagara Falls. I felt guilty about wasting the money.”
“We’ll play a little after dinner. You can waste my money.”
“Afraid that won’t make a difference,” Anna said, shaking her head. “Doesn’t matter whose money it is, I still see it as a waste.”
“Do you mind if I play a little blackjack later?”
Anna brushed hair behind each ear. “Not at all. If you enjoy it, you should.”
“Fair enough.”
Minutes later Jean-Paul appeared with the appetizers.
“Wow,” Anna said. “The shellfish bisque looks fabulous.”
“The duck too.”
“Bon appétit,” Jean-Paul said as he slipped away to the next table.
They took time to savour each mouthful.
A few minutes later Jean-Paul returned from taking drink orders at another table.
“For the main course, mademoiselle et monsieur?”
“I’ll have the lamb,” said Anna. “A little pink in the centre, please.”
Jean-Paul nodded and smiled. “But of course, mademoiselle. Monsieur?”
“Poached lobster.”
“Very good,” he said, scribbling on a small pad.
He topped up their wine glasses and rushed off once again.
For a moment they watched Jean-Paul dart among neighbouring tables, asking if everything was satisfactory.
St. James grinned. “I see why he’s so skinny. The man never stops.”
“I updated my resumé,” Anna said, ignoring Hamilton’s assessment. “Dropped it off to managers at the Green Turtle Grill, The Lazy Politician, and Yesterday’s News. Can’t take it anymore. Sid’s become too difficult. He’s getting worse. Yesterday he yelled at Jim for not leaving a tip.”
“No! Old Jim? Why, he must be eighty-five,” St. James mused, staring out at the dusk. “Been a Duck regular for years. He can barely afford a pint on his meagre pension. Doesn’t deserve to be treated like that.”
“No, he doesn’t. He’s the most respectful customer I serve. Dare say we won’t see him back again. Few of his friends either. I’ve never seen so many angry people.”
St. James nodded, then changed the subject. “You enjoying the research?”
Anna smiled. “Yes, it’s fun. More challenging than my regular job. Boss is more civilized too.”
St. James smiled. “Good to hear. But you’re comparing your research boss to a very low standard.”
She shrugged playfully as if to say she wasn’t sure.
“What do you like about it?”
“In some respects it makes me feel part of something … a team. You make me feel useful. Appreciated. Guess that’s the bottom line. Hard to feel appreciated as a waitress. Even harder when your boss is a tyrant.”
“It really helps you were research-trained in Germany. Kiel’s loss, my gain.” St. James winked.
Jean-Paul stopped to pour water.
Anna said, “Speaking of research, I found information on The Carstairs Group.”
“Oh?” he said expectantly.
“The company’s in the construction business, located in Chicago, just as you thought. Just a couple of projects on the go. Commercial ones of some sort. No residential. Nursing and retirement homes, that sort of thing. Hundred per cent owned by a company called Macadamia Investments, which as far I can tell is owned by a fellow by the name of Stan Gyberson.”
St. James felt his brow furrow. “Recognize the name from the Washington files. But there was no mention of The Carstairs Group there. I only became aware of it recently, from Slate.”
“Slate?”
“Close friend. FBI agent.”
“Oh. Carstairs ran out of money in the middle of constructing a retirement home just outside Chicago. Newspaper said the project was abandoned suddenly without warning.”
“Did you see the name Nells anywhere?”
“No. No Nells.”
“Hmm.”
They chatted about places they’d like to visit. Anna told St. James her parents had been Americans living in Germany when she was born. She attended an English–German high school there, became perfectly bilingual, and lost her German accent by eighteen. Her family took European vacations, but she was too young to remember much.
The main course arrived, and they continued discussing travel as they ate.
When they declined dessert St. James looked at his watch. 8:30.
“Let’s go downstairs,” he said, excitement in his voice.
He handed a credit card to Jean-Paul who darted to the front of the restaurant only to return minutes later with a portable bank machine. St. James added a generous tip and signed off.
They rode the same glass elevator down to the main level and were hit once again with a barrage of flashing lights and ear-piercing noise.
St. James purchased five hundred dollars in chips. Anna gasped as he peeled off hundred-dollar bills.
Gaming tables were lined in neat, even rows like cars in a dealer’s lot. Strolling up and down aisles, St. James eventually found an empty seat at a blackjack table in the third row.
The dealer shuffled cards and asked St. James to randomly insert a cut card into the deck, presumably to show no sleight-of-hand had occurred to improve the house’s odds.
St. James placed a $25 bet. The dealer dealt him the ace of hearts, a card to each of the four other players at the table, and the king of hearts to himself.
St. James signalled for a second card. Three of hearts. He paused, then tapped the table for another. Three of clubs.
“Seventeen,” the dealer said.
Against all odds St. James tapped once again, and the dealer flipped over the four of diamonds.
“Twenty-one,” he said without inflection.
The dealer dealt himself the three of diamonds, then the ten of diamonds.
“Twenty-three.” And in one sweeping motion he slid two chips in front of St. James. $50.
St. James put down $100 in chips. Anna gasped again.
“Looks like you may have a gambling problem,” she said cautiously.
Again the dealer dealt a card to each player and one to himself. Ace of clubs to St. James. Ace of diamonds to himself.
“I have a certain penchant for throwing caution to the wind,” St. James replied.
Anna shook her head.
St. James tapped for a second card. King of hearts.
Blackjack.
Dealer took a second card for himself. Three of diamonds. Four or fourteen. Then a third card. Seven of spades. Twenty-one.
The dealer was expressionless.
St. James turned to Anna and smiled. “A very satisfying win.”
Her forehead furrowed, and her eyes rolled with disapproval.
“Blackjack beats an ordinary twenty-one,” the dealer said, then slid $200 in chips St. James’s way.
St. James turned to Anna.
“How much is your rent?”
“$1,000.”
He passed her chips. “Here’s $175 of it.”
St. James played the next game and lost $25. Anna frowned.
The next game was much more exciting. St. James’s first two cards were aces, which meant he could split them and play two hands at once; make two bets. He placed a $200 bet on the first ace. Splitting the cards meant he could bet another $200 on the twin hand for a total of $400. He thought Anna would faint.
The dealer dealt himself a seven, the jack of clubs to St. James. Blackjack.
His twin hand drew the queen of spades. Again blackjack. Now, St. James thought he would faint. He didn’t know the odds of two blackjack hands on a split, but it had to be a fraction of one per cent.
The dealer — twenty-two.
“Let’s get out of here, Anna,” St. James said with excitement, “it can only go downhill from here.”
St. James cashed his chips and gave Anna the balance of her rent.
“You are out of your mind, Hamilton St. James. I think you need help,” she said as they walked out of the casino.
“Fine thing to say to a gentleman who just won rent money for you. Not very appreciative, I’d say.
Chapter 22
They stepped out of the casino to a cool, damp evening. A light mist glittered beneath the soft street lighting lining the boulevard up to Autoroute 5.
Double Shot of Scotch Page 11