In the Company of Wolves: Thinning The Herd

by Larranaga, James Michael

  Quin nodded politely. No matter what he’d call Ben publicly, he’d always think of him as the alpha—Big Ben.

  The security code for the department beeped, and Quin and Big Ben watched Christopher Gartner stroll to his desk.

  “If I’m the alpha around here,” Big Ben whispered, “then there’s your omega, Christopher. He’s new here. I hired him from a competitor, and he really hasn’t fit in yet. He’s sort of a stray dog, if you know what I mean.”

  Quin had already felt the pack ranking in the lobby when Christopher barked out his coffee preferences in front of the prospective client. He felt empathy for omega wolves because there were times on the reservation that he too felt like an outsider. He thought he’d give the stray dog a chance before labeling him the omega.

  “How come Harold is doing a background check on me?” Quin asked.

  “All of us here have access to our clients’ PHI—private health information. We also know their complete financial history,” he said. “So it’s important that we run a background check on anyone like you who might have access to those files. Besides, sometimes our past catches up with us, Quin. I want to know what to expect should your past catch up with you.”

  “But I’m only an intern, right?”

  “Our last intern left us without any notice,” Big Ben said. “About a week ago, she stopped showing up for work. We could’ve avoided that inconvenience by thoroughly researching her work history.”

  Quin wasn’t sure if he should ask the obvious question. “What happened? Did she take another internship?”

  “She and her boyfriend eloped. She always talked about marriage,” he said with a shrug. “Anyway, I’m without an assistant, and that’s where you come in, Quin. I’ll pay you $3,500 for a three-month internship. If things work out, we might even hire you when you graduate.

  “You’d make a starting salary of $45,000, plus health benefits and three weeks of paid vacation. You’d also have free access to the mansion, the company snowmobiles, and the boat in the summer. Oh, and one more very important thing: if you prove that you have the knack for our business, you’ll earn a commission on any deal you close. Questions?”

  Quin calculated the perks in his head. He liked the office, and the pay and benefits far exceeded his expectations. Who wouldn’t accept a job like this? But there was one small detail buzzing around in the back of his mind.

  “Are we selling individual life insurance policies or group insurance?” Quin asked.

  “We don’t sell life insurance policies,” Big Ben said. “We buy them. Did you meet Rebecca Baron in the lobby?”

  Quin remembered the woman he’d bumped into at the front desk. “Yes, she seems nice.”

  “And she’s dying,” Big Ben said with no emotion. “She’s planning to sell us her life insurance policy. It will be a great investment for our firm.”

  Quin struggled with the business model. “How do you make money buying life insurance?”

  “I’ll explain it to you while we set up a meeting with our client Munroe Pilson,” Big Ben said, staring across the room at his employees. He then turned his attention to Quin. “Hey, do you like guns?”

  Behind the Safe Haven mansion, a long veranda extended across the width of the house, offering a view to the lake carved out of the wooded lot. Quin stood outside in the cold wind, holding Big Ben’s shotgun, shaking his head. How many employers take their new employees out back for shooting practice on their first day? This must be illegal, especially in an exclusive neighborhood like this one. Somebody could get hurt.

  “Pull!” Quin shouted, leaning the butt of the twenty-eight-gauge shotgun into his left shoulder and squeezing the trigger. The clay target, rising low and from the right, shattered into orange dust.

  “Damn you’re good,” his new boss said, launching three more orange disks. “Try again.”

  Quin tracked the targets through the gunsight and shot each of them out of the sky as Big Ben cheered. For Quin, a hunter, shooting trap was easy.

  “Amazing. That’s twenty-four in a row,” Big Ben said, walking up a path carved in the snow.

  It was an odd feeling for Quin to shoot a gun within city limits, just off a public lake. He had shot beer cans back home on the reservation, but this was the suburbs, where you couldn’t even play loud music.

  “You sure it’s legal to shoot in the yard here?”

  “Don’t worry,” Big Ben said, waving. “I called the neighbors and warned them yesterday that it might get loud around here today.”

  The neighbors had nothing to worry about. Quin was concerned about the people ice fishing on the lake.

  “Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Big Ben asked.

  “I grew up on the rez, remember?” He handed the gun to his new boss. Quin liked hunting, and he’d mentioned that on his resume. “You set this up for a client?”

  “Like I told you earlier, I have a very important client arriving this morning,” Big Ben said, loading new shells into the shotgun. “This is for the client. Munroe Pilson likes to shoot, so I set this up for him. I bought him a Glock thirty-five handgun as a Christmas gift. I asked him to bring it with him.”

  Big Ben leaned into his gun and began aiming up at the trees along the lake’s shoreline. He tracked a squirrel jumping from branch to branch.

  “Seems like a lot of work,” Quin said, watching him aim. “You do this kind of thing for all your clients?”

  “If they like golf, then I take them golfing. If they prefer tennis, we play tennis, and if they’d rather shoot trap in the middle of winter, then that’s what we do.”

  Big Ben aimed the shotgun. “Watch this.”

  The instant the gun went off, the squirrel flinched and dropped from the canopy of trees onto the ice below. The gun’s blast echoed across the lake as two ravens flew overhead. They landed on the ice and inspected the fresh kill.

  “I never miss,” he said, setting the gun down.

  Nice shot, Quin thought. Big Ben knew how to handle a gun, and his aim was dead on.

  “Munroe will be here any minute,” his boss said, cradling the gun as if it warmed his gloves. “I want you to load the traps. I’ll reload the guns.”

  Quin felt a subtle change in the man’s mood. Big Ben became hyper-focused on the business task ahead of them.

  “Remember, Quin, we are not selling anything. ‘Selling’ is a four-letter word to these clients. We are ‘settling’…’settling’ is the word,” Big Ben said, reloading the guns quickly. “We’re in the business of viatical settlements. Clients like Pilson already have life insurance contracts. The only difference is, these clients are terminally ill, and they’re willing to cash in their policies now so they can have access to the death benefits while they’re alive. Make sense?”

  Big Ben described the intricacies of the job while they were shooting. He explained to Quin how in recent years, insurance companies had received pressure from people who wanted to cash in their insurance policies while they were living. AIDS patients, cancer patients, and others had created an opportunity for insurance companies to pay death benefits early but at steep discounts from the original face value.

  Big Ben’s company, Safe Haven LLC, offered settlement deals for any dying person regardless of which life insurance company the policy was with, but he preferred to work with clients of the home office, Indiretta Life.

  “How much will Mr. Pilson get for his policy?” Quin asked. He tried memorizing the figures so he could record them later and learn more about the industry in his free time.

  “He’s got a death benefit of $500,000 with our home office, Indiretta. If he worked directly with them, they’d pay him seventy percent, or roughly $350,000. But six months ago Pilson agreed to work with Safe Haven because we offered him a higher rate.”

  “You compete against the home office?”

  “Not really. My company focuses on smaller clients, the ones who need more attention and hand-holding. We build a portfolio of smaller
policies, and our home office focuses on bigger policies. My job is to find outside investors who will come up with the cash to pay Mr. Pilson. So we make the monthly premium payments, and in return, Pilson makes my group of investors the beneficiaries of his policy.”

  “And the investors’ profit is the difference between the policy face amount and the discounted amount they paid for it after a client like Pilson dies,” Quin said. “Right?”

  “We prefer to say ‘after the investment has matured,’” Big Ben said, continuing to load shells into the guns. “Sometimes it’s a hell of a great investment, too. We paid Pilson eighty percent, or $400,000, and when he dies in the next few months, we collect $500,000, so we’ll earn $100,000 on our money. And the best part is, there’s zero risk. Pilson will die, guaranteed.”

  The dollar level these investors played at surprised Quin. “Well, how do you pick your offering price?”

  “Actuaries run the numbers. We base it on the client’s life expectancy. The longer he has to live, the longer the investors wait for the maturity, so the less it’s worth to us,” his boss said. “Investors don’t want to tie their money up too long.”

  Quin warmed his hands inside his coat before loading more clay targets. “How do you know how long someone will live?”

  “We study the medical records, and we sometimes have one of our own doctors perform medical exams on the clients,” he said. “Then after all of that, I do stupid things like this. I shoot trap.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you can’t believe everything you read in a medical report,” Big Ben said. “I use my intuition to decide how long the client will hang on. If we can spend a few hours on the golf course, I can get a good read on the person’s condition. That’s what investors expect of me, to set up good deals and to be as accurate as possible about the life expectancy. That’s why I spend time with the clients.”

  Quin didn’t want to sound stupid or naïve, but something wasn’t adding up in his head. “If you’ve already got Pilson as a client and you’ve already paid him for the policy, why are you meeting with him today?”

  “It’s part of the follow-up I do with my clients. I meet with them regularly to see how they’re doing, and then I report back to the investors so they know when to expect their investment returns,” Big Ben replied, smiling and with breath rising out of his mouth into the crisp winter air. “The human spirit is an amazing thing, Quin. You’d be surprised how many sick bastards live far beyond their life expectancy.”

  Quin thought about how all of this worked; Safe Haven chased after the weak and dying. Wolves do that too. “You’re thinning the herd,” he said.

  Big Ben stopped organizing the boxes of shells. “Huh?”

  “When wolves hunt, they search for the weakest animal in a herd. Takes less effort to pick off the weak ones.”

  Big Ben cocked his head and smirked. “Yeah, good analogy. You could say we’re thinning the herd, only going after ones that will die soon anyway. I like that, Quin.”

  Harold rounded the corner of the mansion. “Munroe Pilson has arrived, but there’s a problem.”

  Big Ben stopped organizing shells. “What kind of problem?”

  “Looks like he got pulled over by the sheriff’s deputy. He’s at the end of the driveway,” Harold said.

  “Munroe! He’s always speeding,” Big Ben said with a chuckle. “Come on, let’s go see what all the fuss is about.”

  Big Ben and Harold started walking along the stone pavers toward the front of the mansion, and Big Ben turned to Quin. “Don’t stand there, come with us.”

  Quin dropped the clay target he was holding and caught up with them as they made their way to the front yard. He spotted a silver Bentley at the end of the long driveway. Behind it he saw a squad car with blue and red flashing lights.

  Harold stopped, but Big Ben walked closer to the action. “Quin, what are you waiting for?”

  Quin walked by Harold and stood next to Big Ben on the driveway only twenty yards from Pilson’s Bentley and the squad car.

  “See his new ride?” Big Ben asked, licking his chops.

  Quin nodded. “It’s a Bentley Mulsanne, and that one costs over $275,000.”

  “Oh, you know your luxury vehicles,” Big Ben said.

  “We have a casino on the reservation. Anybody who drives into the valet with a Bentley is considered a high roller.”

  “Pilson bought it with our money. Ever since he cashed in his policy, he’s been living high on the hog. Who drives a Bentley in the winter? A man who doesn’t give a shit, that’s who.”

  Pilson looked toward Big Ben, obviously frustrated by the inconvenience. The sheriff’s deputy was in the squad car, writing him a ticket.

  “What’s Pilson dying of?” Quin asked.

  “Cancer,” he said, without taking his eyes off the Bentley and the client inside. “The ‘Big C’ is always hard to predict. He’s lived beyond the life expectancy I projected. We probably paid too much for his policy, but I was under a lot of pressure from the investors to make the deal. I didn’t want to make a lowball offer, or Pilson would’ve gone to a different death broker.”

  Death broker: was this the title on their business cards? The word made Quin uneasy, but that was exactly what his boss was dealing in—death.

  “He looks healthy to me,” Quin said.

  “His cancer is in remission, but he’ll be in hospice within six months. You ever had a family member in hospice?” Big Ben asked, and continued without waiting for Quin’s reply. “My mother died of cancer, and it was a long, slow process. It was very painful to watch.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Ben.”

  Big Ben ignored Quin’s sympathy and yelled to his client. “Munroe! You speeding again?”

  Munroe Pilson lowered his window. “This car rides so smoothly I can’t tell how fast I’m going,” he said with a deep smoker’s laugh. He was flabby and pale, with a thin patch of brown hair.

  “Did you bring the Glock?” Big Ben asked.

  “You know I did,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah? Let me see it,” Big Ben said.

  “I can’t show it to you now,” Munroe said. “She’s already writing me a ticket.” He motioned back to the squad car.

  Big Ben looked over at the squad car and then back at his client. “Let me see the Glock. She’s not paying attention to you. Show Quin, our new intern, your Glock.”

  “You’ll get him in trouble,” Quin said to Big Ben.

  Big Ben ignored him. “Let’s see it, Munroe. Show us your pistol. I dare you,” he said with a mischievous laugh.

  “How much will you give me if I whip it out right now?” Munroe asked, looking back in his rearview mirror at the squad car.

  “I’ll give you $100,” Big Ben said.

  “Give me $500 and I’ll step out of my Bentley waving the Glock like a gangsta.”

  “He’s such a gambler,” Big Ben said to Quin. “Go ahead, Munroe, show us how gangsta you are.”

  “Oh, what the hell.” Munroe opened the door of the Bentley and stepped out with the Glock in his right hand. He pointed it directly at Big Ben.

  Quin couldn’t believe the man’s stupid bravado and Big Ben’s pleasure in all of this. He saw the sheriff’s deputy push open the door of her squad car as she shouted at Munroe.

  “Drop your weapon!”

  Munroe turned suddenly toward her with his Glock level. Quin heard a crack of gunfire. Munroe flew backward as if in slow motion onto the street as his gun went off, cracking the windshield of the squad car. The officer fired again, and Munroe’s body went limp.

  Silence prevailed except for the distant echo of the deputy’s second shot.

  “Holy shit!” Big Ben said.

  Quin and Big Ben watched as the deputy approached Munroe cautiously before kicking the Glock away from his hand. She had her gun drawn on him, but he was motionless.

  Big Ben took a few steps toward the street, but the deputy turned with her gun pointed
at him. “Don’t move a muscle!”

  Big Ben froze. “I’m staying right here,” he said in a calm voice.

  “Did this man threaten you?” the deputy asked.

  “No, he’s my client. He was joking around.”

  “Stay right where you are,” she said before calling for backup on her radio.

  She holstered her gun and walked closer to Munroe’s body, staring down at him. Quin looked back at Harold and the front entrance to the mansion. Employees were gathering in the ornate windows, gawking at the scene. Sirens wailed in the distance. Backup law enforcement was already on its way.

  She pointed first to Big Ben. “Names?”

  “Ben Moretti.”

  “Harold Reiker.”

  “Quin Lighthorn. The man on the ground, the guy you hit, is—”

  “Quin, shut up,” Big Ben said.

  She put her hands on her belt. “What were you doing out here?”

  “Waiting for my client, Munroe Pilson, to arrive,” Big Ben explained. “When we noticed he got pulled over, we came to see him.”

  “Why did he pull a gun on you?” she asked, confused.

  “He was fooling around,” Big Ben said.

  Quin stepped forward. “I saw the entire incident,” he said. “I can see how you misinterpreted the situation.”

  What law enforcement officer shoots first and asks questions later? Quin was wondering.

  The distant sirens were now less than a block away, and louder, more piercing. The officer looked up at Quin and then down at Munroe’s body again.

  He noticed a sheriff’s squad car parking alongside the deputy’s car. A man got out of the car. “You OK there, Monica?”

  She looked back at him, searching for an explanation in his eyes, some meaning to all this. “Where were you? We were supposed to cover this together.”

  Her partner tilted his hat back off his blond hair. “Clear at the upper end of the lake.”

  Quin assumed that the sheriff had been too far away to get there in time.

  “I got a mess here,” the deputy said.

  She moved back a few feet so the sheriff could examine the body. He had a worried expression on his ruddy face. He turned away slightly, but Quin heard the sheriff comment to his deputy, “You got a mess all right, and a whole lot of witnesses.”