by Jace Killan
During the second act, Kristin had assumed her position of taking Joaquin’s hand. He slowly moved his thumb back and forth caressing her soft skin. She responded by cuddling into his side and laying her head on his arm.
It didn’t take long before she was crying again. Joaquin made it to Eponine’s solo.
He dipped his head, close to her ear. “Eponine and Gavroche are brother and sister.”
Later, after Gavroche died, and Valjean saved Marius through the sewers, Joaquin said, “So the Thenardiers lost two children on the night of the barricade, but there’s never any mourning. Not even in the book.”
The thought irritated Joaquin. How could a parent care so little about their child to not worry about their safety, or wonder where they had gone. Joaquin could only imagine the pain he put his parents through. He had a chance to make that right with his mother, but not his father. Joaquin had disgraced him, probably humiliated him at his work. But his father had continued to love him. He continued to care, visiting him each Sunday for years. And Joaquin, ignorant, denied his father, right up until he died.
Immense guilt overtook Joaquin’s thoughts. His father would drive each and every Sunday to the penitentiary some three hours away. Then Joaquin, in his righteous pride would turn him away. And still he came. He’d give anything to have the opportunity to see his dad again. He was full of regrets now.
His final memory of his father and their last interaction came when Joaquin had been sentenced and allowed to hug his mother and father goodbye. His dad whispered into his ear, “Nothing you do will ever cause me to not love you.”
Joaquin had hated him for it. He wanted his dad to reciprocate the disappointment and hurt. But his dad had only loved him, unconditionally.
On stage, Fantine returned with Eponine and the two invited Valjean into heaven where the Bishop sang with so many more who had fallen in this life while trying to do what they believed right. Valjean and the rest had found redemption.
Who, Joaquin wondered, would be there when he passed to the next life? Would Brina? Chorch? His Father? Would they call to him and invite him into heaven? Or would they stand against him, knowing his sins? Would their voices condemn him to hell where he belonged?
The cast sang those powerful words of truth, that loving another person was in fact seeing the face of God.
His body shook. The tears flowed. He loved Brina. He loved Chorch and he loved his father and grandfather. Though they were gone he loved them still. And he loved his mother. And he had room to love more. Maybe Kristin. His pathway to redemption became clear. Love. The way was love.
The music ended and the guests were on their feet. Joaquin wanted to join them, but Kristin didn’t stir. She quietly wept into his shoulder.
Jared and Emma stood and cheered.
Joaquin wiped the tears from his face. His nose ran and he wiped that, too. Kristin, brought up a hand to Joaquin’s cheek. He kissed it. She pulled at him and he lowered his head just enough. She turned and kissed the side of his face. Then turning into her more he met her lips and the kissing continued. It continued through the standing ovation. It continued through the cast introduction and the second standing ovation when Valjean and Fantine reentered the stage. It continued until the lights turned on. Then Kristin backed her head away just enough for Joaquin to look into her watery brown eyes.
“Thank you,” she said. “This has been amazing.”
Yes it had. Over her shoulder, stared Emma and Jared, eyes wide and smiles wider. It wasn’t until he followed the group down the aisle to leave that he noticed a couple suited gentleman watching him from a few rows back.
Spencer smiled with an at-a-boy nod. The Hispanic man next to him carried a softer grin. They didn’t act as if they wanted to talk, and Joaquin would be concerned about doing so in such a public place. He half expected Junior to be watching him also.
Joaquin left, replaying the last couple hours in his mind, embarrassed that his kiss had such an audience.
Part 5
Redemption
The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved—loved for ourselves, say rather, in spite of ourselves.
- Victor Hugo, Les Miserables
36
A Hispanic man played classical guitar just outside the restaurant. Joaquin had first seen the man a month or so earlier. But now Joaquin recognized him from a couple nights prior at Les Miserables, sitting next to Spencer. Putting two and two together he realized that this had been Spencer’s way of introducing the man.
The guitar caught Joaquin’s eye next. His father had one just like it, a Di Giorgio, made in Brazil. When Joaquin and Chorch were younger, they’d listen to their father play it while they fell asleep. He’d sing them songs, mostly Peter, Paul, and Mary stuff. He sang one song in particular named One Tin Soldier, but apart from that, Joaquin hadn’t ever heard the song on the radio or anywhere else. Not until now.
The Hispanic man, dressed as a street performer, played with a familiar rhythm, his strumming echoed that of Joaquin’s father.
Joaquin approached, listening to the lyrics from his childhood. He left a twenty in the open guitar case alongside some coins and a few dollars.
After the song, the man met Joaquin’s eyes. “Gracias.”
“No, thank you. It was beautiful.”
“Did you like that song?” the man asked, smiling wide. He had a scar along the side of his face, and lacked a couple of teeth.
Had Joaquin not seen him with Spencer, he’d never have guessed that this man was FBI.
“Yes I did,” Joaquin said. “My father used to sing it to me when I was a child.”
“I know.” The man strummed his guitar. “Mine too.”
Before Joaquin could ask a follow up question the man extended his hand. “My name is Marco.”
“Joaquin.” They clasped in a firm grip.
“Would you like to play it, Jaqui?” Marco held out the guitar.
Joaquin took it, looping the strap over his shoulder. It had been awhile since he’d played—before prison. The classical guitar had nylon strings, much easier to press than a steel string guitar, the sound deeper, not so twangy, resonating more Latino than country.
“Here’s the pick.”
Joaquin took it wondering why the man would play a classical guitar with a pick. But it wasn’t a pick, instead a small folded up piece of paper. It all made sense. This man knew Spencer, and apparently had known Joaquin’s father. This is how they’d communicate. Joaquin had waited for months for something.
He strummed, not using the paper pick at all. He handed the guitar back to Marco.
“You can keep the pick. I’ve got lots.”
“Thank you. And thank you for the song. It brought back a lot of memories.”
Marco smiled and nodded. Then he completely ignored Joaquin while launching into a rendition of La Bamba.
Though late, eleven or so in the evening, Mayhew still sat at his desk, watching an old Seinfeld episode while he checked the company’s books. A distraction, like Seinfeld, helped Mayhew get through monotonous tasks.
He had lost his dignity, his pride, his lover, and control of his organization. All he had now was a sham marriage and the money. But he had even lost some control of that. For any draws above his normal salary, he had to get approval from the cartel. His cartel-liaisons included a large bald Hispanic man named Junior who didn’t say much, and a nice scrawny kid, Joaquin, that didn’t seem to know much.
Meyhew thought about going to the cops. He’d do some time. He’d lose his family, his career, his business. Maybe that would all be worth it though, to have his conscious back. Maybe he could make a deal. Or maybe it would all blow over in a couple years, and the authorities would be none the wiser. He could go along with his life and continue to make a lot of money.
He deserved a distribution. It would be a sizeable one, $50,000 or more, given the amount of fees collected this month. But Mayhew didn’t look forward to making the re
quest. The last distribution brought too much resistance from Junior.
A bunch of B.S. Northern belonged to Mayhew. He had built it from the ground. At least two-thirds of the money would have been his if he’d never met the cartel and screwed the pooch so to speak.
He unlocked the small hidden drawer of his credenza, just deep enough to hold the glock pistol and a folded piece of paper. He took the paper and unfolded it, revealing a fuzzy black and white photo of his unborn child. She’d almost be a year old, now.
Mayhew’s office door opened and he quickly returned the sheet to the drawer.
“Hey, got a second?” Jared had been working late as well.
“Sure. What’s up?” Mayhew locked the secret drawer.
Jared shut the door behind him and took a seat. He carried a brown satchel, holding his laptop and some paperwork. He withdrew the laptop and opened it.
“About a year ago we shorted Roxie Farms and the same night we purchased puts on Good Food. Within a couple months, both stocks tanked when reports of E. coli hit the news stemming from Pete’s Burgers owned by, you guessed it, Good Food. Turns out it was the lettuce, so Roxie Farms also bombed. The firm made just under five million between the two deals when all the dust settled.”
Mayhew knew this of course and Jared knew that Mayhew knew this. But Jared had to be overly thorough. He liked to give sufficient background before he announced a conclusion. Mayhew on the other hand liked bullet points, not stories. Especially this late at night with so much to do. Mayhew killed the Seinfeld episode so he could better focus on Jared.
“Also around that time we shorted Euro futures,” Jared said.
“I remember you had concerns then, but if I remember right it turned out fine.”
“Fine?” Jared laughed. “We made twenty-four million dollars.”
Jared pursed his lips and breathed deep. “The Euro tanked because of the terrorist attacks across Brussels and France and Germany, about eight months ago.”
“Our speculation paid off.”
Jared narrowed unbelieving eyes. “That’s one way to say it.”
“What are you suggesting exactly, Jared? Do you think I have some crystal ball that looks into the future? Maybe I’m from the future and came back in time so I could make a ton of money off the mishaps of others?”
“Nothing so ridiculous,” Jared said.
“Then what? Do you think I planned the attacks so that the Euro would fall? Cause that seems pretty ridiculous if you ask me.”
“Maybe,” he said with complete seriousness. “I just don’t know who we’re in bed with.”
“In bed with?” Jared was too smart for his own good. It would get him into trouble if he weren’t careful. What if the cartel had his office bugged?
“There’s more.” Jared laid some papers on the desk. “We’ve made four hundred million over the past year from market speculation. There’s the cruise line, the auto company, the defense company, that bank. And then there’s the cost of oil. We sold all oil stocks and even shorted a few. Then sold oil futures on margin, making a grundle. Because the price of oil dropped, the company stocks have fallen and we’re buying them back to cover the short, making I don’t even know how much, and of course, we get to keep the money from the futures we sold.”
Sharp. But Mayhew couldn’t have him stirring up dust. It wouldn’t be good for anyone. “So, let me just get this straight? We’ve made close to half a billion dollars for our clients, making an extra five million in fees and you’re complaining because why?”
“It’s unnatural.” Jared returned the papers to his satchel. This had been a test to see where Mayhew stood. And now Jared knew. “It’ll get us in trouble.”
“With who? The SEC? What are they going to do, charge us with insider trading because the middle-east thought it’d be good to open the floodgates with foreign oil supply?”
Those trades still baffled Mayhew. How’d the cartel know about the riots and barrel price fluctuations. He’d expressed ample concern to Joaquin and Junior, but it’d fallen on deaf ears. And then it had paid off enormously.
“And listen,” Mayhew took another tact, “these are just a few trades. We’ve placed hundreds, thousands even. And most of them have been good. We’re good at what we do. You’re drawing some pretty specific conclusions from casting a really broad net.”
“I’m just going to say it. Joaquin’s group, whoever they are, is it possible that they have ties to Islamic radicals?”
Mayhew laughed, trying to mask his nervousness. How should he know? He’d thought it just the cartel, but there’s no denying that the oil trades were amply affected by Middle East oil production. It made for one hell of a conspiracy theory. Joaquin represented the cartel, but sure, Mayhew supposed it possible that the cartel had ties to Islamic radicals. But probably not.
“Okay, Jared, say for one minute you’re right. And somehow, our clients are actually a front for Islam, they’d have to be a pretty powerful group to control the Saudis and the Iranians and the other countries supplying oil to the world. But what does that have to do with E. coli? Or the car company? Or the cruise line?” Mayhew leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “No, your theory about me having a crystal ball is much more believable. What if I told you, it’s been sheer luck? We’ve taken a lot of risk. Found the alpha and it’s paid off. We should enjoy it, Jared, not question it.”
Jared shrugged. “You’re probably right. My head gets going sometimes...”
Mayhew didn’t buy Jared’s change of mind for a second. “It’s late amigo. Go get some rest. Let’s talk again tomorrow when we’re both thinking clear.”
Jared smiled and nodded. He gathered his things and started for the door.
“Hey.” Mayhew thought it a good time as any to give Jared his bonus.
Jared turned.
Mayhew retrieved a manila folder from the credenza and handed it to Jared. “I meant to show you this earlier, and it...well, it slipped my mind, honestly.”
Jared opened the folder. His face darkened when he saw the stock certificates.
“I picked them up at auction,” Mayhew said. “They were super cheap. Those dicks you worked for only put up five thousand. I think they didn’t expect anyone else to bid on them. And they had to pay cash right there. So, well, I got them for you.”
Jared appeared dumfounded. “What do I owe you?”
Mayhew shook his head. “You kidding? You kill yourself around here. You’ve really helped the firm. Best thing I ever did for us was to hire you. I hope it’s been good for you, too.”
Jared looked like he would cry. He opened his mouth a few times, wanting to speak, then finally let out a muffled, “Thank you.”
“No. Thank you.”
Jared left. Mayhew wrapped up, too. He’d grown tired now and needed sleep. He headed across the street to the apartment. He’d been staying most weeknights there though he hated it. Each time he entered, it reminded him of Nadia. He loved her. He tried to tell himself that he had done nothing wrong. That she hadn’t either, forced into her part of the blackmail. Surely she loved him and missed him, too. She’d be of age now and raising his child—their child. He fantasized of taking the millions he’d earned and fleeing to Dubai or Antigua or anywhere really. He’d start a new family with her and they’d try and spend his fortune.
His thoughts faded when he found Junior standing in front of Mayhew’s door, texting on a cell phone.
Mayhew opened the door and invited the large man inside. “Don’t you ever sleep? It’s like midnight.”
“Jared’s a problem.”
The cartel did have a bug in the office. “Jared?” Surely they had just heard the entire conversation. “Let me handle Jared. He’ll be fine.”
“He needs to go.”
“If I fire him now, that will only confirm his suspicions.” Mayhew placed his stuff on the kitchen counter. “Listen, Junior. I’ve known Jared a long time and he gets like this sometimes. All it is, is a little
CYA. He wants to cover his own ass if something were to ever go down. That’s all. He’s fine. I promise.”
Junior’s phone buzzed. He looked at it, rose, and left without a word. Mayhew suspected the damn cartel probably had his apartment bugged, too.
37
Jared couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t arrived home until almost 2:00 AM. Then he’d lain in bed another hour trying to turn off his brain. There was something going on and he had to get to the bottom of it.
It might’ve been a huge mistake confronting Mayhew. But Mayhew was a tool, greedy and selfish, not the mastermind behind such a far-reaching scheme. Jared needed to know where his boss stood—how involved and complicit Mayhew had been in the scheme. Getting Jared the old company stock surprised him. And the kind gesture deepened Jared’s confusion.
Joaquin seemed too innocent to be involved at a deep level and too naïve to have authored such fraud. But the kid had a past. He’d served time, that much Jared knew. At one time, he had a meth problem. Maybe that problem landed him in hot water with some high rollers.
Jared couldn’t figure out how everything connected. On the one hand he saw stock manipulation through acts of sabotage written off as corporate negligence. On the other hand he saw ties to the Middle East.
Mayhew and Joaquin were pawns in this game. Someone pulled their strings. But who? Organized crime with Islamic ties?
Jared knew that his assertion sounded insane. But what other rationale could explain such gains in their fund from trades so bizarre and specific? There had to be a connection.
What if there were terrorist cells, scattered across the US? And members of those cells contaminated the lettuce and others sabotaged the cruise line and others hacked the oil company while other cells in other countries launched a series of terrorist attacks across Europe? Individually the incidents were nothing but quick headlines, already forgotten. But together, there existed a conspiracy of all conspiracies.