The Last Day

by John Ramsey Miller

  “My friend Erica hired Todd to check out a guy she was dating. The guy had just moved to town and he never let her pay for anything. He drove a Mercedes, dressed expensively, wore an expensive watch, was attentive, knew wines, took her to expensive restaurants, was handsome, always said and did the right things. She works, even though she has a large inheritance her aunt left her. When he found that out, he mentioned he was getting a thirty to forty percent return on some Chinese farm machinery deal a friend of his got him into. She never committed to it, but said she'd think it over. He never tried to push her. One day he left out a check where she'd see it, and it was for two hundred thousand dollars. He said it was a quarterly return on the Chinese deal, which he had a million dollars invested in. He said in four years he'd gotten back his million and everything from there out was profits. She wanted to make that kind of money and he said he'd ask if there was any room for another investor, but he doubted it.

  “He told her a week later that he'd convinced his buddies to let her buy in. That wasn't a red flag for her. The red flag was from her lawyer, who wondered why he wasn't involved or married already, and told her that any deal that looked too good to be true was generally a scam. The lawyer hired Todd, and Todd found out that Mr. Perfect was using a false name. He discovered the lover's real identity by collecting his fingerprints. Mr. Wonderful was a con artist, with a wife. The Mercedes was leased and his rap sheet was two feet long. Todd set up a sting using Erica and a dummy bank check for half a million dollars and the cops arrested the guy.Erica thought I'd like Todd so she set us up on a blind date. I'd recommend him.”

  “Well, I've got a little problem. You know the girl I said might call about the die- cast?”

  “She hasn't yet.”

  Ward told her about the girl and the missing prototype. Leslie listened without interrupting, until Ward said, “Can you give me his phone number and maybe even tell him I'm a nice guy before I call him?”

  “Of course.” She scribbled down a phone number. “I know he'll be happy to help you out. I've told him about you. I mean what a nice guy you are.”

  Ward hoped Hartman could find the girl and get the model back, because he doubted the police would spend the investigative energy that would be necessary to locate a phantom girl with no contact information to retrieve what amounted to a toy but he figured a private detective would at least make an effort for a fee.

  “Sure thing,” Leslie said. “I'm meeting him for lunch.”

  “That would be great. And thanks.”

  THIRTEEN

  Ward had lunch at the Speedway Club two or three times a week because it was convenient and afforded him an opportunity to keep in touch with clients. Except for the occasional race- related traffic delay it was just five minutes from his office. The food was good, they billed him so he had a record for the IRS, and he was on a first- name basis with most of the staff.

  The hostess was seated at her ornate desk in the circular marble- floored foyer and greeted him with a warm, familiar smile.

  “Mr. McCarty,” she chirped pleasantly. “How's Dr. McCarty?”

  “Hello, Crystal. Natasha is fine,” he said. As he walked through the doors the odor of food hit him like a warm wave.

  The dining room was beginning to fill up with club members and their guests. Gene Duncan was already seated at a table in the lower level at one of the enormous windows that were canted to damper the vibration from the roaring engines, overlooking the one-and-a-half-mile oval track.

  Ward walked down the wide carpeted stairs and made a beeline for his friend, who was charming a middle- aged waitress from Harrisburg. She had three children and two grandchildren, and was sometimes remiss in having her hair dyed blond. Her uniform accented her large breasts and wide hips but she was light on her sensible black shoes.

  Gene Duncan, the end product of a marriage between a Scot and a German (both lawyers— one a superior court judge), and Ward McCarty had been friends since they were in kindergarten. Gene was over six feet tall, weighed two hundred and sixty pounds, and wore his brown hair swept back over the tops of his ears. He had a casual air that seemed in stark contrast to the two- thousand- dollar suits he wore. He looked up at Ward and smiled easily.

  “Sweet tea, Mr. McCarty?” the waitress asked Ward. She poured his glass to the brim before jetting off in search of empty glasses on the nearby tables.

  “Sweeter the better,” he said to her back.

  “How was your trip out west?” Gene asked, opening his briefcase and taking out a notepad, which he studied with furrowed brows.

  Ward knew he'd asked without really caring, so he said, “My plane went down in the Grand Canyon and I had to survive for three days on cactus and rattlesnakes. Luckily the rest of the passengers on board were showgirls. Well, there was Wayne Newton, but his wife was along.”

  “Glad to hear it. Couple of things to go over,” Gene said.

  Ward looked out the window to his right and spotted a film crew gathered near turn one, probably making a commercial. Ward recognized the car as being Jeff Gordon's. Gordon, recognizable by the race suit, stood against the car. He was a fearless, extremely talented driver, and also a clean, classy, and intelligent man with a sense of humor, possessing the handsome boyish looks of a male model. He was everything brusque billionaire Bruton Smith, the track's owner, could want for NASCAR's image. Recently Smith had threatened to move the track, lock, stock cars, and barrel, because he had started building a huge drag strip on the property and the Concord City Council had mentioned he'd need a building permit. Approval of the council was required since the constant noise of dragsters thundering down the quarter- mile asphalt might annoy homeowners near the raceway Having NASCAR races twice a year for a few days and nights was one thing, but this new drag strip?

  Bruton Smith was not one to ask permission from any council. Once he had cut down one hundred old protected oak trees to add spaces to one of his parking lots. He'd had them cleared late at night and paid the fine instead of seeking permission.

  The drag strip fight had been public and, after Smith threatened to move, the city ended up waging a very public and humiliating ass- kissing from the politicians to save the seventy million dollars the races put into the local economy annually. The campaign included small airplanes pulling WE LOVE YOU BRUTON and PLEASE DON T GO BRUTON banners, renaming a main street for him, offering tens of millions in infrastructure improvements to be paid for using tax dollars, and more. Natasha had said, only half in jest, that they should watch the “ grovel- to- grovel” coverage of those city council meetings on cable TV

  Ward leaned back in his chair, waiting.

  “Flash Dibble has fattened his offer.”

  “Why would he do that, or better still, why do you keep listening to them and bringing them to me?”

  “Because everything is for sale.”

  “I am familiar with the adage, but RGI is the sole exception in the known universe.”

  “This whole NASCAR thing has been phenomenal for the past few years, but once the yuppies get bored with the smell of gas fumes and burned rubber, it will suffer the same fate as disco music. Jeff Gordon will rank right up there with the Bee Gees. As gas prices and ticket prices rise, profits will continue to go down for speedways. Smell the times, old buddy. Look, Flash says you can run the company just like now, if you want to, and he's offering a million five more as added incentive, plus the thirteen million he already offered for your stock, and he'll pay your uncle seven point five for his,” Gene said. “That's twenty- two million dollars cash!”

  “Before taxes,” Ward said, smiling.

  “So, it's still a frigging fortune. That's serious fuck- you money any way you look at it. You should seriously consider it. Fourteen and a half million dollars ain't a bad payday. You can retire at thirty- five. And I think he might agree to pay you a percentage of profits for maybe five years. I know …” Gene raised his hands, palms out.“…He could stack expenses and lower the profits, bu
t we can make that a percentage of gross before expenses. Hell, you could draw your pictures till your fingers bleed and put them in your own gallery and only let your friends in to see them, or just buxom blondes.”

  The idea of selling his company and sitting around his house with nowhere to go filled Ward with anxiety. And the idea of selling to Flash Dibble—it would never happen. “And I don't want to throw money into the air and see how much of the floor I can cover. Or drive a Bentley Or play golf.” Leaning in, Ward said, “And what about the video game?”

  “He doesn't know about that. We can negotiate that when the time comes. That's if it ever gets past the designing stage.”

  “I saw the beta in Vegas. Paul assures me it will be finished, bugs out, within the next six months. It is so cool.”

  “Christ, Ward. You just repay the money RGI put up for the development, and you'll have nothing to worry about.”

  “That game should be part of RGI, and our employees should be rewarded. I still intend to do the profit- sharing thing, and after it's released would be the time to institute that.”

  “Your father would spin in his grave,” Gene said, looking down as he said it. The mention of grave brought the same unpleasantness into both their minds. “Like I said. Just think it over.”

  “What's to think over? You think Flash Dibble would share profits with our employees?”

  “Aside from that. Talk to Natasha. Mark has been there from the start, and he'll sell if he can.”

  “You've run the new offer by Unk?” Ward asked, blindsided and suddenly annoyed. “When?”

  “We spoke Sunday afternoon at the country club. You were still out of town, and I didn't think you'd mind. Do you?”

  “I guess not,” Ward lied.

  “He'd be a fool not to consider it. Mark's not getting any younger, and his skin is going to get blue from the Viagra he's got to be taking to keep Bunny happy.”

  Normally the friendly dig might have made Ward chuckle. “Well, I don't intend to sell the company. Unk can't sell his stock to anyone but me. What else?”

  “But—”

  “What else?” Ward locked his hands tightly together and frowned. His old friend knew when that was exactly that.

  Gene flipped a page and looked at the sheet like whatever was written there was, before that moment, unknown to him. “Lander Electric's insurance company's attorneys want a meeting,” Gene said. “They want to settle. I think it's the smart move. Ward, you need to get this behind you. Natasha agrees.”

  “Natasha told you she'd sign a confidentiality agreement? Jesus, Gene, how many meetings are you having behind my back?”

  “She called me, Ward.”

  “She said she'd sign?” he asked, not believing what he was hearing. She knew how strongly Ward felt about that. If Lander wanted to settle, they'd have to let the world know what they did.

  “A trial would be hard on both of you.”

  “They put in a regular outlet instead of a GFI to cut maybe eight bucks and add it to their bottom line, and it killed my son,” Ward said, feeling the familiar anger boiling up inside him. He punched the table with his trigger finger. “I want everybody they ever wire a home for to be watching over their shoulders and making sure their cost- cutting can't kill anyone else. Not negotiable. End of discussion.”

  “There's the expense of a trial and no guarantee that you'll win the suit. Look, let's just hear their offer. They're looking at a lot of bad publicity and they don't want to admit wrongdoing.”

  “A confidentiality agreement is a deal- breaker,” Ward told him. He wasn't going to let that company cover up what their cost- cutting did to his son, to him, to Natasha, to people who loved Barney or would have in the years to come. “If you feel real strongly about it, I can find another lawyer to handle it and you can bill me for your time and your out- of- pocket to date.”

  Gene threw up his hands in real exasperation. “You're the boss, Mr. Bullhead,” he said. “I'll tell them, but as I've said a hundred and two times, they can drag this out for decades.”

  “I plan to live a very long time,” Ward said. “Now, I'd like to eat and get back to work.”

  “Okay, one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  Gene put the pad away and closed his briefcase. He leaned across the table and fixed Ward with his dark blue eyes. “You'll tell me all about those showgirls you were stranded in the Grand Canyon with.”

  Ward laughed out loud and felt a wave of relief sweep over him. Gene smiled; then his eyes focused behind Ward, and he said in a low voice, “Trey Dibble at twelve o'clock and closing.”

  The scent of Trey Dibble's cologne ran ahead of the man like a wind- driven, toxic cloud. Ward braced himself and stared at the white linen tablecloth, clinging to the bright blue cloth napkin.

  “Gene Duncan,” the confident voice boomed from behind Ward. “They'll let anybody eat here. You know what they call a hundred lawyers drowning in the ocean? A good start.”

  “I've never heard that one before, Trey,” Gene said, trying his best to hold on to his smile.

  “You know the difference between a lawyer and a turd?”

  “No,” Gene said.

  “Neither does anybody else,” Trey said, snickering.

  “Another good one,” Gene said.

  “Just kidding, Gene.” Trey Dibble moved to the side of the table within Ward's view to shake Gene's hand.

  “You know I'm crazy about you,” Trey said.

  Trey looked down at Ward and smiled as though he was surprised to see him there. Since Ward's company had a long- term contract for Flash Dibble's race team memorabilia, Ward looked up and forced himself to smile. He didn't personally care for all of his clients, but he was always polite to them. DME, or Dibble Motorsport Enterprises, ran a lot of money through RGI for the products they needed to sell to fans to promote their racing team.

  Bracing himself, Ward shook the clammy hand belonging to the most unpleasant human being he knew.

  Trey Dibble was a poster boy for the spoiled only son of a man who had worked both tirelessly and brilliantly most of his life to build a billion- dollar empire. Flash employed a lot of people, and appreciated—even if he didn't show it—people who had the ability to help build his holdings. So, on one hand, Ward had a lot of respect for what that man had accomplished and the good he'd done. Trey, on the other hand, had a reputation for doing damage without any positive results.

  Without lifts, Trey was five five, weighed a good two hundred pounds, wore his inch- long black hair heavily oiled, and had bushy sideburns and a thin mustache that gave him the look of a local-cable- channel evan gelist. His shirt was opened to show off a gold chain the size of a ski rope that supported a gold medallion with the letters TD spelled in diamonds within a field of rubies. The face of the gold Rolex precisely mirrored the medallion's design, and several thick gold bracelets wrapped his other wrist like overfed snakes.

  “Ward, how the hell are you?” he asked, with the sincerity of a snake-oil salesman.

  “Fine,” Ward said. “And you?”

  “Good as a man can feel with his clothes on. Speaking of which, this beautiful young thing is Tami with an i Waterman. Not terribly long ago she was featured in an issue of none other than Playboy magazine.”

  A woman in her late thirties, with overlarge lips, tight facial skin, and a sculpted nose, stepped into Ward's view. She was chewing enthusiastically on a piece of gum.

  “Waterman like the pen. It's a French name. She's not Jewish,” he said, smiling.

  “I'm a Sagittarius,” she said in a high- pitched voice that brought to mind a cartoon chicken character.

  Trey guffawed and slapped Ward on the shoulder. “She's not Jewish, she's a Sagittarius! Tami, honey, this is Ward McCarty You've heard me talk about him.”

  Tami Waterman's tight gold pantsuit coated her contours like latex, showing off her narrow waist and muscular legs. Her enormous breasts were like twin racing blimps, running neck a
nd neck, and she wore enough jewelry to decorate a Christmas tree. She offered her hand to Ward as though she expected him to kiss it. He took her hand and shook it once, wondering if her inch- long nails were glued on.

  “He inherited that little toy company you're buying, right?” she gushed. “I love toys.”

  “We're still talking it over,” Trey said with a straight face. “Ne-go-see-ate-ting. Ward here is holding out … for a bigger payoff.”

  Ward ignored that, tried hard to keep the smile from falling from his face to the floor.

  “Not toys. NASCAR memorabilia,” Gene told her. “Everything the race fan desires.”

  “You don't sell those little toy cars?”

  “They do,” Trey said. “And a lot of other things.”

  Using her tongue, Tami moved her gum to one side. “Well, did you ever think about making calendars featuring drivers with their shirts off, maybe in BVDs. Female fans would buy them by the thousands, I bet. And what about a line of fragrances or charm bracelets with itsy-bitsy cars on—”

  “Whoa, Tami!” Trey interrupted. “Don't give away your money- making ideas for free.” He narrowed his eyes. “Man, I tell you, Ward. She has got a million of them.”

  Tami's smile wavered, and she looked at Trey before meeting Ward's eyes again. “You wouldn't steal my ideas, would you?”

  “Of course not,” Gene assured her. “New product ideas have never been a problem for Ward.”

  “Gene here tell you the good news?” Trey asked, changing the subject.

  Ward turned his eyes to Gene, and despite their friendship, wondered if this meeting was a chance encounter after all. Try to read a lawyer's eyes sometime.

  “He was just telling me about your father's latest offer,” Ward told him.

  “Trey running a toy company,” Tami said. “Can you just imagine it? His toys are mostly big expensive ones. Have you seen his new Viper? Oh, my god! Cherry red with those little sparkle flakes and heavenly yellow leather interior. And my lord, is it ever fast.”

  “I bought it because it matches her lipstick and hair,” Trey said.