George was hugely responsible for Jackson’s success. Screening the callers, George was quick to determine whether a call would be interesting, informative, and provocative. George knew what the audience wanted to hear, and he knew how to make Jackson look good. All the proof one needed of George’s value were the listener ratings. They kept going up, and the show always led in its time slot. And the bottom line was money; the show made the station lots of it.
In some ways, George and Jackson were opposites. Jackson loved the limelight; George shunned it. Jackson could be loud and bombastic, a showman, but George was more reserved and businesslike. They were the perfect team. George was a dedicated, hard worker, but Jackson took that to a higher level. At a young age, Jackson lost his parents, but rather than bask in sorrow and misery, he channeled his anger into sports. A natural athlete, he excelled at baseball, basketball, tennis, and football, but he did not quite have the discipline to go pro—or the disposition, for that matter. His coaches loved the fire he brought to the game, but they didn’t appreciate his quick temper. If an opponent appeared to be cheating or impugned his integrity in any way, he’d better be ready for a fight, whether verbal or physical. A proficient fighter, Jackson never backed down.
After a commercial break, Jackson jumped back in, telling anyone who didn’t already know—and reminding those who did—who and what he stood for.
“Okay, folks, we’re back on.” Jackson readjusted his headset a little. “You’re listening to Bob Jackson, the Consumer Champion. This is the show where we track down the thieves, the con artists, the scumbags, and the very dregs of society. We expose them for the cockroaches they are. Our goal is to eliminate them and protect you from harm. And yet, after all these years doing the show, I still don’t understand what drives these jerks. I know they are greedy, but they can make just as much money—and probably more—by doing the right thing. And it blows my mind how they keep coming out of the woodwork. No sooner do we eliminate one, another pops up. No shortage of creeps, that’s for sure. I suppose I should be grateful to them. Without them, you wouldn’t need my show. But they are tiresome and persistent.”
Jackson rarely did a show without jumping on his soapbox two or three times. He was proud of his role as the public defender. And he loved to tell shady businessmen to beware.
“Okay, I think we have time for one more call.”
The caller went on to complain about Lane Stevens. She had just returned from vacation and learned that Stevens had been murdered. She had been calling his office for days and had been referred to the DA’s office. And they had been no help. They were still investigating, but at this time, had no clue where her money was—or anyone else’s, for that matter. And Jackson could offer no help. For him to be effective, he needed someone to fight with, someone to coerce into doing the right thing. Stevens was dead, and it would take a team of accountants to figure out where the money was and how—or if—it could be returned.
“Andrea. I’m sorry. Um… I really don’t know what to say or how we can help you now. You need to contact the police. Maybe they can recover your funds. If the money is still in some account somewhere, hopefully they can track it down and return it to you.”
Up until today, Jackson hadn’t considered what the fallout from Stevens’ death would be. It was true that he couldn’t rip anyone else off, but Stevens had evidently moved his victims’ money to places unknown. Unless they could track down what he did with the money, a lot of people were going to suffer. And from what he was learning, it was a substantial amount of money.
“That’s our show for today, folks. I would have preferred to end on a high note. But as I always say, save your problems for me. Have a good weekend and meet me here again on Monday.”
He took off his headset.
“I feel sorry for her,” said George.
“I do, too. I didn’t know what to say,” replied Jackson. “What could I do or say?”
“That guy was a major crook. I can’t believe how many people he ripped off. I hate to say it, but I think he had it coming,” said Steve.
“I wonder if the police will be able to track down the money and return it to the people he ripped off. And do you think they will catch his killer?” asked Julia.
“Killers,” Jackson corrected her. “As to finding the killers—well, I don’t know. When I talked to them, it didn’t sound like they had any leads. My guess is the money is gone. According to the newspaper, Stevens was on his way to the Cayman Islands. My guess is he moved the money to an offshore account, and I’m not really sure if they can recover it or what that entails.” Jackson changed the subject. “George, what are you doing this weekend?”
“Tanya and I were going to take in a movie. Mostly just hang out. What do you have planned?”
“I was thinking of going up to the mountain cabin to do some fishing.”
“Sounds good. One of these days, I need to bring Tanya up to the cabin.”
“Anytime. You know that.”
Tanya and George had been an item for the past year, and the office scuttlebutt was that George was going to propose soon. So far, no one was winning the bet.
“What about Tina? Is she going with you?” asked George.
“No, she’s away on another business trip. Seems like this time of year, she has lots of trips planned.” Tina was a pharmaceutical rep and was frequently on the road, talking to doctors or attending trade shows and conventions.
“How about a beer?” offered Jackson. “I’m buying.”
“If you’re buying, count me in,” replied George. “I have a little time before we meet up.”
“What about you guys?” Jackson said, looking across the room at Steve and Julia.
“I’ll have to pass, Boss. I have some work to finish up here,” said Steve.
“What about you, Julia?”
“Thanks. I’ll pass, too. I’ll help Steve, and then I have a date with my boyfriend later. Have fun.”
They walked two blocks down the street to the Falling Rock Tap House, a pub known for having the best craft beers in Denver, maybe even the country. Jackson was a regular there, both because of the selection of craft beers and because he loved to go where he was known. They were warmly greeted as they entered, both by staff and a few customers. The patio wasn’t crowded, and they took a table there and quickly placed orders for beers and fried mushrooms. A few patrons congratulated them on another great show, which Jackson never got tired of. He wasn’t really humble but tried to play the part. “Thanks, just doing our job.” And yet, it was far from just a job to him.
“So, Jackson, how are things with you and Tina?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“You still compare everyone to Nancy, don’t you?”
Jackson made a face. “When did you get your psychology degree?” But he realized George was probably right. “Yeah, I guess I do a little bit,” he admitted.
“Still think you might get back together again?”
“No, we’re done. I think she might be getting remarried, anyway.”
Being an athlete with GQ-good looks gave Jackson lots of opportunities to date. With his wavy, black hair and dark complexion, women were easily attracted to him. But until he met Tina, everyone he dated seemed to bore him—or they were turned off by his work ethic. Tina was different. She was easily his intellectual equal and had her own successful career. They shared admiration and interest in each other’s work. After each of her business trips, they looked forward to catching up and renewing the romance. She loved to hear him talk about the various scam artists he was exposing, and he loved hearing about the pharmaceutical industry—especially the seedier side of it. Together, they were quite a show. She was a striking redhead with a body like a model who could have anyone she wanted—and, luckily for Jackson, she wanted him.
George could tell that Jackson didn’t want to talk about Nancy, so he changed the subject. “So, what do you think of Stevens? The guy rips off all those people and then
gets murdered the night before he was going to leave town.”
“Yeah. Too bad it didn’t happen sooner.”
“What?”
“I mean, if he was going to get murdered, it would have better if it happened before he ripped off so many people,” Jackson countered quickly.
George nodded. “I just can’t imagine stealing like that. Didn’t he feel bad about hurting all those people?”
“Guys like that don’t feel bad unless they think they left money on the table and could have taken more. Aside from the police tracking down the killers, there’s the question of the money. Where is it?”
“My guess is it’s in some bank in the Cayman Islands. I wonder if it can be recovered?”
The conversation switched quickly to other problems they were trying to help people solve. They drank a few more beers. George was starting to feel the effects.
“I better get going before I’ve had too much to drive, and you still need to be able to drive up the mountain.”
“Good point. A DUI would not be a good thing.”
“Good luck with the fishing. Thanks for the beer. See you Monday, Jackson.”
“Thanks. Say hi to Tanya for me.”
As he was paying the bill, Jackson noticed a beautiful redhead across the room, watching him. She reminded him of Tina, but she was flashier with her tight jeans and a revealing halter top. She winked at him, but he only smiled back and left.
Chapter Seven
“Under the rules of a society that cannot distinguish between profit and profiteering, between money defined as necessity and money defined as luxury, murder is occasionally obligatory and always permissible.”
—Lewis H. Lapham
Charlie Stanton pulled up in his ‘95 Ford pickup truck and parked in front of the auto repair shop that he had owned for the past five years. He’d acquired the shop from Harold Daniels, the previous owner, and the man for whom the shop was named. Charlie had worked for Harold for ten years, and when Harold announced his decision to retire, he’d made a deal with Charlie for a little cash up front and a percentage of sales and profits over the next five years. Charlie was a competent mechanic but a terrible businessman, and he had a gambling problem. At the time of the sale, Harold knew neither of these details. The first couple of years had gone smoothly, but then, Charlie started having trouble making his payments on time. Just when Harold would get to the point of breaking, Charlie would find a way to make the payments. Harold didn’t want the shop back and didn’t relish the idea of a legal battle or finding a new buyer, so he tolerated Charlie’s ways.
Foreclosure always hung over Charlie’s head, and as the pressure from Harold increased, so did Charlie’s gambling habit. The big win that he hoped would bail him out never materialized. The shop needed new equipment to keep the best mechanics and compete with other shops in the area but, Charlie gambled away all the profits. He was a regular at the Reserve Casino in Central City, but unfortunately for him, his card-playing skills were well below his skills as a mechanic or businessman. On the rare occasion he was ahead, either his overconfidence or his drinking would derail him. And, as with many gamblers, when he was behind, he pressed. And lost more. The regular poker players at the club were always happy to see Charlie and started making side bets on who would take the most from him. It was a rare day when Charlie left the casino with more than he’d walked in with.
The shop consisted of six bays with four mechanics, and equipment that was aging fast. They still held a decent reputation for quality, but that was starting to erode. The mechanics didn’t care for Charlie as a boss but pretty much kept their comments to themselves. All of them were more skilled and diligent than Charlie, but when Harold wanted to retire, Charlie was the only one who had stepped forward with an offer. If times had been better, most of the other mechanics would have left for greener pastures.
It had not gone unnoticed by the other mechanics that Charlie was working later and later, long after everyone else went home. They knew he had a gambling problem, and from his grumbling, they knew he was losing. The losses meant the facilities were falling into ruin, and worse than that, he often was late with the payroll.
He had been out gambling the previous evening, and as usual, it hadn’t gone well. If today wasn’t payday, he wouldn’t have bothered to come in. Fortunately, he had just enough to make payroll this week. Next week was going to be a problem.
As he shuffled into the garage, Tim, one of the senior mechanics, called out to him. “Charlie, how’s it going?”
“Shitty, really. Lost a bundle last night. I had a full house, jacks over deuces, with a huge pot going, but this son-of-a-bitch pulls a full house of his own, queens over deuces. Fuck, I just can’t seem to catch a break.”
“Damn, that’s hard.” Tim tried to sound like he cared. “We okay for payday today?”
Charlie glared back. “Shithead only cares about himself,” he mumbled under his breath. “Yeah. I’ll get the checks written in a little bit,” he answered.
Tim called back out to him, “Oh! Bunch of messages on your desk. Some guy named Todd or Rod, not sure exactly; he was screaming a lot. Says you screwed up the work on his car. Threatened to make a formal complaint. Then, you got a couple calls from some dude at the Consumer Champion show, asking for a comment on all the complaints they have been getting lately.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing, man. I don’t want to get in the middle of this. I said you weren’t in but would call back later.”
“Ah, fuck. I fixed that asshole’s car last week. What the fuck does he want now? Why didn’t you tell me right away? You shithead!” Charlie slammed his door shut and started throwing things around the office.
“What the fuck?” Tim moaned as he walked away. “Not my fucking fault he’s a shitty mechanic.”
All the mechanics knew Charlie’s skills as a mechanic had declined. Or, as they started to suspect, Charlie was cutting corners on jobs, even using used parts and telling the customers they were new. As complaints piled up, the other mechanics became more uneasy.
Charlie sat down at his grease-stained desk, cluttered with invoices from vendors and job tickets. Taped to the phone were pink Post-It notes with messages from the Consumer Champion and some disgruntled customers. He looked at them briefly but had no inclination to call anyone back. He crumpled them up and tossed them toward the trash can in the corner of the room. He missed, and they just mingled with the other papers on the floor.
Head in his hands, he started to sweat with panic. His heart was racing as he tried to think of a solution. He needed an out. Something to turn things around. But nothing came to him. The company was so far in debt that even if he tried to sell out now, he couldn’t cover his bills. Soon, the auto parts supply dealers would cut him off.
The phone rang and startled him. Without thinking, he answered the phone. “Daniels Automotive, what can I do for you?”
“Is this Charlie?” the caller asked.
“Yeah. Who is this?” he replied, quickly realizing he had made a mistake by answering.
“Todd Martin. You worked on my car last week. Charged me about fifteen-hundred dollars.”
“Okay, so?”
Todd raised his voice, his patience long gone. “Don’t fucking act like you don’t know who I am or what I’m talking about. Listen to me, you crook. You charged me for new brake pads, and I found out you never changed them. I also had someone check on some of the other work you did and found out you just cleaned some of the parts and charged me for new ones. I want my money back. I’ve already complained to the authorities.”
Charlie slammed down the receiver before he could say another word. “Fuck you. Sue me,” he said to the phone.
The phone rang again. “Now what?” Charlie was seething but answered the phone anyway. “Daniels Automotive. Can I help you?”
“Is this Charlie Daniels?”
“Yes!” screamed Charlie. “Who’s this?”
/> “This is Steve from the Consumer Champion show on KNRR radio in Denver. I’d like to talk you about some work you did for Todd Martin.”
“Yeah. Bite me.” Charlie hung up and started laughing. “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”
Like a madman in a movie, he started laughing uncontrollably, and then his laughter turned to sobbing. What had he been thinking when he bought the business? He had no experience running a business and certainly lacked the discipline required, and now, it was all crashing down on his head. Almost from Day One, he’d been in trouble. Broke and in debt, he’d resorted to ripping off customers to pad his profits and save the shop. It started by overcharging a few dollars here and there, and soon, he was using cheap parts—or, in some cases, used parts he had cleaned up. When he could, he fabricated problems to unsuspecting customers. The scheme had been working, and had it not been for his gambling losses, the money he was stealing would have been enough to save the shop. His justification? People were gullible. Given the chance, they would steal from him, so he was just getting to them first. And he was convinced people were cheating him at cards. How else could you explain his continued losses?
The stress had given him a perpetual headache, stomach problems, and now, a racing heart. He thought he might die if he didn’t get out of the shop. What he needed was a shot or two of whiskey to settle him down. If he could just slow everything down, he could come up with a new plan of action. He just needed time to turn his bad luck around.
Walking through the garage, he informed the crew that he wasn’t feeling well. He was going to run home for a bit and would be back later. He asked Tim to cover the phones while he was out.
“Uh, sure, Charlie, no problem,” Tim replied. “What about payroll?”
“Oh, yeah. Don’t worry. Just give me a couple hours to get rid of this headache.”
When Charlie turned his back, Tim muttered, “Yeah, like I believe that,” and flipped him the bird. The other guys laughed.
All In A Day's Work Page 8