Garrett & Sunny: Sometimes Love is Funny

by Peter Butler

  'Which part is apt?' she countered. 'The catastrophe or that he is waiting for you?'

  'Both,' I answered with a shrug of my shoulders. 'If we can't agree on how to fix the catastrophe, then I fear he will have lots of time to wait for his occasional visitor in his new accommodations.'

  That shut her up.

  She knocked on a very nice, dark-stained ornate wooden door and without waiting, proceeded into the office. I followed.

  'Mr. Barrymore. This is Garrett Nixon.'

  'Mr. Nixon,' he said with a curt nod of his head, as he offered me his hand.

  'Mr. Barrymore,' I said and did exactly the same back to him.

  Oscar was a man in his mid-fifties. His waistline was an advertisement for the fact that lack of money was not one of his problems. He had an aura of one who partook of the good-life as a matter of course and he regarded anyone who didn't fit that social class as unworthy of his attention and definitely unworthy of his respect. From the way he was looking at me he had already made up his mind about my unworthiness.

  'Can I get anyone a drink?' Julie said, as she backed away towards the door.

  'No thank you, Julie,' Oscar answered for both of us in an attempt at putting me in my rightful place.

  As the door closed behind Julie, the polite, niceness ended. 'What the fuck do you want, Nixon?' He bellowed in a booming voice to me.

  I'd met this type many times. The illusion of power was all a facade, a collection of props and big ideas expressed to the people who were most susceptible to bragging. It was all as fake as a three dollar bill. I was now convinced that the Bentley out front was Oscar's - a prop. As was the five thousand dollar fine-wool suit he wore. Props and distractions, necessary for a fat little man who had managed to get to a certain elevated financial level in life, not through brains, not through strength of character, but by bullying and luck. By finding someone, who had an actual gift that he could manipulate at will.

  Up until this moment.

  I stared at him, not saying a word and keeping my face totally expressionless. Then, I slowly opened the shoulder-bag I was carrying; I bypassed the laptop and pulled out a copy of the Power of Attorney that Warra had assigned to me. I stood. I was a good half a head taller than Oscar and I loomed over him as he sat behind his expensive mahogany desk. Another prop. He was trying hard to look like he was still in control but I could see his eyes were wavering. They wandered to what I had retrieved from my bag. I slid the legal document in front of him so he could read it, then I sat back down.

  'By the way, Oscar,' I said. 'That little outburst just cost you an extra quarter of a million dollars. May I call you Oscar? Or do you prefer... Aussie?' He glanced up quickly at the mention of Warra's version of his name. 'What you are reading is your copy of a legally registered Power of Attorney document, relating to Warra Goomagawa, giving me unchecked power to deal with Warra's affairs. We have a thorough understanding of the theft and corruption you have been undertaking for many years against Mr. Goomagawa.'

  He looked up from the document, his eyes had regained some fight. 'Who the hell is Warra Goomawhatever?'

  'Oscar, you're doing this all wrong,' I shook my head at him, a look of disappointment on my face. 'That lie just cost you another $250,000. We've only been at this for a minute and you've already wasted a half a million dollars, that I was originally prepared to allow you to keep.'

  I reached into my bag and pulled out the list Sophie had compiled of Warra's paintings in Oscar's six galleries. I put it on his desk in front of me but didn't give it to him, I left it taunting him.

  'There are two ways we can handle this nasty affair, Oscar,' I said, as I fixed a challenging look at him, with one eyebrow cocked.

  Oscar was returning my look, except his eyebrows were more in frown mode. We were playing a game of charades - guess which mood I'm trying to portray? He was going for impassive with a hint of "don't fuck with me", I think. He must still believe he could get out of this. I wondered what he had in the way of trump cards to play. Bluffing certainly wasn't going to cut it.

  'The first way is that we go public,' I said. 'Call in the Fraud Squad and go through all your sales records for the past twenty odd years. Then bring the Taxation people in to pick over the bones of whatever is found. Oh, and don't forget the Cultural Heritage Laws you have broken by exporting paintings over the value of $10,000 without getting approval. Then we take you to the Civil Court and sue for what you have cheated Warra out of and then double the amount, for lost interest, plus penalties. In the meantime I will personally mount a publicity campaign across Europe and the States pointing out what a fraudulent asshole you are. There go your six galleries around the globe. Poof! Oscar goes broke. Oscar goes to jail.' I paused to take a reading of his expression.

  He didn't like my first option very much. I could tell because I was getting good at seeing past his manufactured expressions.

  I continued talking, never once taking my eyes off him. 'I can see from your expression that you're not too excited by option number one. I understand. Jail is the last place you want to find out you've just become a sex-toy. I'm not totally in favor of it either because of the time it will take. You might be dead before it got resolved. By the way, dead was Warra's first choice. I managed to persuade him to let me try doing it this way. Which brings me to option number two: You make a very, very big cash payment to Warra to make up for his lost profits over twenty odd years. The means of that payment will be determined by me.' I grinned at him for the first time.

  He glared back at me; his expression was still stolid and unbending. It was time to bring him into line.

  'Oscar,' I said, 'snap out of it, man. Option number two is time sensitive. If you plan to accept it you have to do so right now.' I slammed my hand down on his desk to emphasize my point and the noise seemed to break through a barrier. He shook his head; just a quick little shake, like he was casting aside something annoying. Was it denial finally being abandoned? Or was he scheming a way out of this mess? The look in his eyes had me momentarily wondering if he was going to pull a gun out from under the desk and shoot me.

  'How much money are we talking about?'

  Bingo!

  Short, succinct, to the point. Oscar liked option two. My preferred one, also.

  'There are two aspects involved here, Oscar. The first one is, and you'll find this funny, Warra doesn't give a flying-fart about money. So, in retrospect, had you been fairer, or more correctly less greedy, and paid him maybe $500 or $1,000 per picture, this little scam most likely would never have come undone. That said, the thing that Warra values more than anything else is the land he lives on. And that land is under threat from a mining company.'

  'So?' Oscar said. His expression once again, indifferent.

  'To make up for your wrongful treatment of Warra, I want you to buy the mining company for him, Oscar.'

  His mouth gapped open, a look of horror spread over his face.

  'I might have overstated that a little,' I smiled and continued. I was enjoying his discomfort. 'I want you to buy him 10% of that mining company. It's called Plutarch Resources and it is listed on the Australian Stock Exchange. How you do that and how much it costs you is dependent on your negotiating skills. Sadly, the people who own the parcel of shares I want you to purchase - the one's you'll need to negotiate with, aren't uneducated aborigines, but hardened, highly educated managers of two American hedge funds.' I paused for him to absorb what I'd just said. The look on his face told me he accepted that he'd be the one getting screwed on this deal.

  'The shares are trading at about 10 cents each at the moment and you'll need to buy about 10 million of them. That should require over $1 million to purchase the shares as they will ask for more than 10c. The Funds are not interested in ownership of the company; they will sell to you for the right price.'

  Once again I studied his face. What I saw told me that the number I'd just quoted didn't concern him. This was good news, the last thing I needed to fin
d out was that Oscar was leveraged up to his eyeballs and had no ready access to cash.

  'But... you need to consummate that purchase by 3:00 p.m. tomorrow afternoon, or the deal is off. So pay the premium they ask and get the deal done.' Once again I paused to allow him to digest his instructions. 'You buy the shares and immediately transfer ownership to Warra Goomagawa. You will need to get your stockbroker to do that for you.'

  'And that's it?'

  I laughed out loud at him. 'Oscar, you need to sharpen up if you are going to get any good at this,' I berated him. 'Of course it's not all. Warra needs to be paid his rightful share of the profits from the sale of his paintings. $1.5 million dollars is what we require. A cash deposit into his bank account.

  'He doesn't have a bank account,' Oscar said with a smug sneer.

  'I guessed it was you who talked him into storing the cash you gave him in a bag in his hut,' I nodded at him, acknowledging the benefit to him of not having the Taxation people aware of what was going on. 'Anyway, he does have an account now,' I said as an aside, annoyed at myself for accidentally subtly giving Oscar a compliment. 'By the way that payment from you was only going to be $1 million until you became belligerent and rude.' I gave him a broad grin as I played my trump card.

  'So, that's the lot?' He asked, seemingly relieved that I'd only asked for such a small amount.

  I would never know how much free money Warra had provided Oscar over the twenty or so years he'd been fleeced by him. But, I was prepared to let Oscar keep some of it, as he had made a market for Warra's art. And that was no mean feat given that there are probably well over a million artists across the globe...

  'The final requirement we have is that you return ownership of the 67 paintings you currently have in your galleries in Europe and America to Warra.' I pushed the list over the table for him to study. 'Or, if you want to buy them and save bringing undue attention upon yourself you can just pay the total retail value into Warra's account. An extra $1.85 million. That's US dollars, but for simplicity sake we will take it in Australian dollars.'

  'You can have the fucking paintings back,' he sneered at me. 'I'll need two to three weeks to arrange it.'

  That last demand made me realize Oscar had a way around the customs people. That made total sense and explained how he had been able to avoid the strict laws about selling aboriginal art to overseas buyers.

  '67 paintings in good condition, Oscar. Or, $50,000 to replace every one that is missing or damaged. I will advise you where they are to be sent.'

  'Are we done, now?'

  Finally, I saw the defeated look I'd been waiting for.

  'Almost,' I said, delving into my bag for the final time. 'I've taken the liberty to write down every demand we have. Just replace that $1 million number with $1.5 million. I've included Warra's bank details, plus the name and number of his lawyer. You should know that I have access to his bank account through my laptop. I'll know if you do anything stupid. Plus, my phone and email details are listed if you need to contact me. You will also find the names and numbers of the American hedge funds that each hold about 5% of Plutarch Resources. I want you to insist that they advise me of the transfer immediately it is completed. This is vital, Oscar. If you miss the deadline, which I repeat is 3:00 p.m. tomorrow, we instantly move to the first option. The "go straight to jail and don't pass go", option. Do you understand?'

  'Yes,' he answered flatly as he glared at me.

  'You have some small advantages. The time difference between here and the US will benefit you if you need to transfer funds. I suggest you start calling the hedge funds from about 9:30 tonight to catch them bright and early in their morning.'

  I got up from my chair and stood over him. He looked very different from the man who had yelled at me just after we met. I had no sympathy for the man. He had been a fraud, a thief, a smuggler and who knows what, for a large part of his business career.

  I left him without saying another word.

  I made my way through the gallery, admiring the works that surrounded me. Julie approached me from the side. A look of concern on her face.

  'He can be pretty tough,' she said to me. A look of genuine concern covered her face 'I heard him yelling, I hope he wasn't too hard on you.'

  I looked at her and laughed. She was beautiful and self-confident. If the business went under she would find another job very quickly. Beautiful people always do.

  'Goodbye, Julie,' I smiled. 'Nice to meet you.'

  As I waited out the front of Barrymore Fine Art for a passing cab to pick me up, I strolled over to the Bentley, to admire it. It was a beautiful dark blue color. The canvas top was the same blue color. Inside the seats were a luxurious rich tan. It was a magic looking beast. The only things that looked out of place, were the three parking tickets on the windshield.

  As I lusted over the car a rather lovely mottled eggshell-gray pigeon landed gracefully on the Bentley's canvas top. I waved my arms to move it along - even assuming who the owner most likely was I could see the car was an inappropriate roost for the bird. It took flight in alarm at my gyrations. Unfortunately the phrase "scared the shit out of him" came into play and it left a large dollop of pure-white poo on the canvas roof in its haste to depart.

  Oh dear, someone was definitely having a bad day.

  ***

  Tim's cab took him to a small worker's cottage in Millers Point. It was within walking distance of the City. Lower Fort Street ran beside the on-ramp for the Sydney Harbour Bridge and actually sheltered in its shadows. From where Tim stood he could make out the length of the bridge. He examined the front of the house and marveled at how something that was once the basic possession of a humble workman had, over time, become a prized piece of real estate, valued in the millions.

  The brass plate beside the front door said, "Frank Spiller Enterprises". Tim rapped on the door, using the solid metal knocker that had provided that service for well over a hundred years.

  The door opened and a smiling face greeted him. 'Hello. You must be Tim,' he said, warmly. 'I'm Frank Spiller. Nice to meet you.'

  'Tim Cullen. Lovely to meet you, Frank.'

  Frank showed him into a reasonably large sitting room, that had been converted to an office. He pointed to a large, comfortable looking lounge and suggested Tim take a seat.

  'What's your poison, old boy? Scotch? Gin? Wine? Please don't ask me to make coffee or tea. I'm rubbish at it and Jeremy is out at the moment.'

  From his accent and his attitude, Tim concluded that Frank was an ex-pat Londoner and quite gay.

  'I'd love a beer. Or is that a stretch?' he said with a cheeky grin.

  'Touché, old boy. I'm actually not quite as useless as I made out. Your brother-in-law taught me how to open a beer bottle many moons ago, when we were in school together.'

  Frank poured himself a liberal shot of scotch and added some ice from a chest fridge. Next came Tim's beer which he gave to him without a glass.

  'I couldn't help noticing your eye, Tim. Don't tell me you forgot to duck?'

  Tim felt the non-purple part of his face color slightly. 'Nah. Slipped in the shower at the outback pub we were staying in.'

  'I can't tell you how many times something unexpected, like that, has happened to me in the shower,' he laughed, then got down to business. 'I gather from Gary that you have some damning information about a mining company.'

  Tim nodded. 'Plutarch Resources. They're a Coal Seam Gas explorer, drilling in the middle of Queensland. Sadly, they have no regard for the environment.' Tim pulled his phone out of his pocket and showed Frank the pictures.

  Frank pulled a face and said, 'Oh hell! My God! That's not right. The bastards.'

  'Exactly,' Tim agreed. 'We want you to get these pictures out in the public domain, Frank. Along with the name of the company and its Managing Director, Felix Geyer. But we don't want to be seen to be associated, in any way, with the release of this information, and we don't want your name to be connected, either. Is that achievable?'<
br />
  'Timmy, my friend, anything is possible if you know what you're doing. Fortunately, I do. Thanks to the internet we can generate some social network noise, then help it build to a crescendo. We do that by knowing the sites the journalists monitor. They love a scoop, particularly one that comes with pictures.' He looked up from the ones he was examining on Tim's phone, and said, 'And blow me down. We have some.'

  'So, you'll help us out?'

  'I'd like to know why Gary wants to sink the boots into a company on the other side of the planet from where he lives? Tell me about that, Tim.'

  'It's very simple, Frank. Our grandmother, she's an Australian by birth, is good friends with the aborigines who live near the drill site. They've been driven off their land and Gran asked us to see if we could help them.'

  'You are both incredibly doting grandchildren to go to such lengths,' Frank said, his sarcasm and suspicion obvious.

  Tim knew he'd have to say something to end Franks probing questions. Thankfully Gary had foreseen this outcome and they had devised an answer. 'What can I say, Frank. Gran's getting-on,' he grinned at him, then added, 'and she's kinda loaded, if you know what I mean. If she says jump we don't just do it, we ask her how high she'd like us to go.'

  Frank seemed to understand this line of logic. He nodded to Tim. 'Got it.. But seeing you're both in it for the money, then I have to bypass the favor I was going to do for Gary and make this a commercial engagement. My fee is $5,000.'

  'That seems like a lot of money for a few comments in Facebook and Twitter.'

  'Oh, it's much more than that, Tim. Anyone can rant and rave on these sites, but its the same as standing on the top of a mountain and slandering every rich person on the planet. Nobody knows, nobody cares. But if a celebrity says something, even something mundane, it will most likely be re-tweeted to infinity. It's knowing the right voices to use, and in this case, because you require anonymity, it's knowing the "back-door" way to get the right voices on board. So to speak.'