Madison's Avenue

by Mike Brogan

  But in college he began to realize that projecting a friendlier image would help him. He decided to learn how to act more sociable and outgoing. He enrolled in some drama classes and quickly realized that acting sociable worked for him. He learned how to be easygoing and friendly with people, even with people he didn’t like.

  After graduating with honors, he joined the CIA, the perfect venue for expressing his pent-up militaristic, aggressive tendencies. The CIA training was intense and he soon became skilled in using all kinds of weapons, and in hand-to-hand combat. After excelling in the courses at the Agency’s Farm near Williamsburg, Virginia, he was stationed at the U.S. embassy in London.

  There he established valuable contacts at many foreign embassies in London’s posh Belgravia section. For the next seven years, Smith functioned as a CIA covert operative in Europe. He handled sanctioned and non-sanctioned assassinations against terrorists. He worked his contacts, paid them well and usually got good, valuable information in return.

  But sometimes he got lies. Like from Hans Bauer, one of his contacts in Vienna. Smith had paid Bauer fifty thousand Euros for some information that turned out to be a lie. The lie led to the death of an American and a valuable Austrian contact.

  Smith wanted vengeance.

  One night, after gambling away some of the money Smith had given him, Herr Bauer strolled through Vienna’s Volksgarten Park. Smith stepped from behind a hedge and slammed a crowbar down on the bastard’s shoulder blade, dropping him like a slab of granite. Smith could still feel the sweet crunch of bone and the pleasure of cramming the silenced barrel of a .45 Magnum into Bauer’s mouth.

  “Remember the Ten Commandments, Hans?”

  He nodded, grimacing in pain.

  “Remember number eight?”

  “No....”

  “Thou shalt not steal. Remember now?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But thou stole fifty thousand Euros from me, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Because thou lied, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Bauer gagged on the barrel.

  “Do you want forgiveness?”

  “Yes, please....” Tears streamed down his radish-red face. Bauer started to mumble something and Smith pulled the gun barrel part way out of his mouth to hear better.

  “What’d you say?”

  “I needed the money. I have a gambling addiction.”

  “Not anymore!”

  Smith squeezed the trigger.

  Herr Bauer’s brains splattered onto the walkway like a Jackson Pollack painting. A Kodak moment so to speak.

  Smith wrapped Bauer’s fingers around the Magnum and fired again into the night sky, making sure there was sufficient gunpowder residue on his hand. He stuffed a computer-generated suicide note into Bauer’s coat pocket, then drove back to his room at the Grand Hotel.

  Four years later, Smith was offered a promotion back at Langley. He accepted, mainly because he’d become a marked man: several terrorist groups had placed a hefty bounty on his head.

  But in Washington, he soon became bored with headquarters politics, and tired of listening to his co-workers babble on.... And he didn’t like sitting behind a desk. He’d become addicted to action.

  Six months later, he retired from the CIA and set himself up as a freelance operative. The word got around. His CIA bosses gave him several black-ops contracts which he performed flawlessly. Over the years, he evolved into one of the world’s more effective and feared assassins. His hefty fees, plus some wise investments in the stock markets of Europe and Asia, had made him wealthy.

  That allowed him to select only those assignments that were personally as well as financially rewarding.

  Like Madison McKean.

  Thirty Six

  The Executive VP smoothed out her purple Hermes scarf as Harry Burkett, looking more skittish than usual, hurried into her office and sat down opposite her desk. His lips and fingers were red from stuffing pistachios into his mouth. And his squinty ferret eyes shifted from the door to the window and back rapidly, suggesting he’d rather be anywhere else.

  She’d rather he was anywhere else, too. But life’s vicissitudes sometimes required strange bedfellows. And Harry was the poster child for Strange. She pushed a button on her desk. Instantly, the office door clicked shut and her white-noise machine hissed on, preventing others from overhearing them.

  Burkett whispered, “Madison knows her father did not open the Caribe National Bank account.”

  “The banker talked?”

  “Bastard sang like a bird.”

  Even so, she thought, the trail can’t lead to me.

  Burkett leaned forward. “Eugene’s gonna handle the banker before the son-of-a-bitch tells her the e-mail address for the account.”

  She nodded approval. “What about Madison and Kevin?”

  “Eugene’s handlin’ them, too.”

  Kevin Jordan, she thought. Most unfortunate that he’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. And while she respected him as a highly-gifted creative director, Kevin had flaws. He was a team player in a business that rewarded the ego-driven. He practiced Stephan Covey’s goody-goody Seven Habits to Success even though any fool knew they didn’t work when you swim with corporate sharks. Kevin even wasted time in soup kitchens helping drunks.

  Helping Madison would, sadly, cost him his life.

  “It has to look like an accident,” she said.

  “This accident happens all the time down there.”

  “And people die from it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What about Linda Langstrom at National Media?” she asked.

  “What about her?”

  “Did she give Madison any more information on the MensaPlan fee she uncovered?”

  Burkett appeared to search his memory. “Uh ... Eugene didn’t say nothin’ more about that.”

  “Tell our friend at National Media to find out what Langstrom knows. Fast.”

  “Right.”

  She picked up her newspaper to let Burkett know he was dismissed. He bolted from the room.

  Watching him walk away, she couldn’t help but think: dead man walking. Harry Burkett was a risk. Too nervous, too weak, and too likely to cave in to save himself under police questioning. And when the police discovered Burkett regularly engaged in criminal sexual conduct with underage girls, they’d come down very hard on him. Hard enough for him to give me up in a plea bargain. Won’t happen, Harry.

  Turning back to her desk, she noticed a pink message slip from another nervous man: Peter Gunther. She thought back to when Gunther, ComGlobe’s Director of Mergers and Acquisitions, phoned her a few weeks ago in a panic. Gunther, whose career hinged on consummating the ComGlobe-Turner merger, had learned to his horror that Mark McKean planned to vote against the merger and thereby defeat it.

  “You have to change McKean’s mind!” Gunther had said.

  “We tried.”

  “And...?”

  “He refuses to change it.”

  “Why?”

  “He won’t resign our long-standing clients who have product conflicts with ComGlobe clients.”

  “Even though he’d make forty-five million dollars or more?”

  “Even though, Gunther.”

  “He’s nuts! Nothing can stop the consolidation of the ad industry. And ComGlobe will increase Turner’s business ... and media buying clout ... and international resources! For chrissakes, the money will roll in!”

  “It’s not about money for him.”

  “It’s always about money!”

  She decided to let Peter Gunther rant a bit.

  “What would change his vote?” Gunther sounded like what he was – a man clinging to his job by his fingernails.

  “I’d have to think about it.” Actually, she had thought about it, and knew exactly what would nullify McKean’s vote. But she wasn’t about to tell a loose-lipped bozo like Peter Gunther.

  “You know,” Gunther whispered,
“we’ll make it very much worth your while if you persuade McKean to vote for the merger.”

  Finally, he coughs up the bribe, she realized. “How much worth my while, Peter?”

  Long pause. “How does six million in a numbered Swiss bank account sound?”

  “About four million short.”

  Gunther sputtered and cleared his throat. “Jesus Christ! Ten million is absolutely impossible! Maybe ... seven!”

  “Gunther?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Ten, or the price goes to twelve million next week.”

  She heard him harrumph, and rattle his papers like Rush Limbaugh.

  “All right, goddammit, ten! But you better deliver!”

  “Like the U.S. Mail.”

  “How will you change his vote?”

  “It’s better if you don’t know.”

  He paused. “What are you plan – ”

  “Good bye, Gunther,” she said, hanging up.

  And now, almost a month later, as she looked out at the sunny Manhattan skyline, she realized her ten million dollar merger bonus was just days away.

  And she’d earned it, after all she’d put up with in life. She glanced at the photo of her parents, and remembered the day they died in a fatal car accident. She was six. She remembered the two abusive foster families, the rape by Merle Lee, her rejection by T. Remus Burdine and other harsh events that had molded her, perhaps damaged her in ways. But these events, she knew, also had made her stronger.

  Today, she could handle adversity and stress that would crush most people. She also could focus her determination like a laser to get what she wanted.

  Life’s brutal lessons had been her ladder to success.

  A ladder Madison McKean, Daddy’s Little Pampered Princess, never had to climb. What had Madison done to deserve her silver-spoon life? Her CEO title? Nothing.

  The EVP thought back to when Mark McKean told her he would vote against the merger. She knew his mind was made up. Which meant there was really only one solution: force him to resign. So she sent Harry Burkett, posing as Mark McKean, to deposit her 8.7 million dollars in the Caribe National Bank. Then she drafted the anonymous e-mail memo accusing McKean of misappropriating the money from Turner Advertising and demanding his resignation.

  But McKean had refused to resign.

  And now he’s dead.

  And even though Madison succeeded him as CEO, she’s being dethroned far away on the island of St. Kitts.

  Thirty Seven

  Bradford Tipleton eased his chunky Lincoln Navigator out of the Caribe National Bank parking lot and appeared to head home for the evening.

  Eugene P. Smith followed in his rented Mazda, a scuzzy, unnoticeable klinker with red vinyl seats and a Daffy Duck air freshener. Three minutes later, Smith couldn’t help but smile when Tipleton parked, squeezed out of the seat and trundled into a bakery called La Dolce Doughnut.

  Smith watched Tipleton nod to a skinny woman behind the counter. The woman immediately placed eight large chocolate eclairs oozing white cream into a pastry box.

  Clutching the box, Tipleton walked outside and drove off. Within seconds, the banker had stuffed an eclair into his mouth. At the next stop sign he crammed down another, puffing his cheeks out like a blowfish.

  Amazed, Smith shook his head, then followed Tipleton past the Horatio Nelson Museum. Soon traffic slowed beside an ancient one-story building. A plaque said it was the first synagogue in the Caribbean, built in 1688 by Sephardic Jews from Brazil. Smith remembered reading that Alexander Hamilton was born in Nevis and that his mother was most likely Jewish.

  Minutes later, Smith followed the banker to a gray, three-story stone house overlooking the sea. Tipleton parked and walked inside with his pastry box.

  Through his binoculars, Smith watched him plop down on a sofa, turn on the television and begin sucking the sugar cream from yet another eclair. Watching the banker gorge himself reminded Smith that he’d soon be having dinner with his two new best friends, Madison and Kevin, back in St. Kitts.

  Smith grabbed his briefcase, walked up and tapped Tipleton’s dollar sign door knocker.

  Tipleton opened the door with an expression that suggested he rarely had visitors. “Yes...?”

  “Mr. Tipleton, My name is Eugene P. Smith. My friend at Jarvis & Chamberlain Investments in Manhattan recommended you. He said my money would be very well protected with you and your bank.”

  Tipleton looked at him, then down at his briefcase. “That’s true, but perhaps tomorrow during banking hours -”

  “Unfortunately, I must leave Nevis tonight. And I’d prefer no one saw me deposit this money at your bank, if you catch my drift.”

  Tipleton appeared to catch his drift.

  “Might I inquire as to how much we might be talking about?”

  “A modest deposit to start with.”

  “How modest?”

  “Only six million U.S.”

  Tipleton snorted like an eclair had backed up into his throat.

  “But next Thursday I’ll deposit eleven million Euros.”

  “Please come in, Mr. Smith.”

  Grinning like the Cheshire cat, Tipleton led Smith inside to a large living room with a beige sofa and matching chairs arranged around a five-foot by three-foot monster television tuned to Chef Emeril preparing stuffed pork chops.

  “Would you care for something to drink or eat, Mr. Smith?”

  “Sounds great.”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, Smith watched Bradford Tipleton’s enormous body slump to the floor and flail about, his eyes bulging big and white, as life drained from them.

  Amazing, Smith thought, how the graceful sea wasp and its delightful chironex fleckeri toxin create such a violent reaction in man. Even a man as obese as Tipleton....

  Thirty Eight

  Madison and Kevin hurried past Caines’ Rent A Car on Princes Street in Basseterre. They were running late for their seven o’clock dinner with Kevin’s banker friend, Craig Borden. She hoped Borden could shed more light on the mysterious 8.7 million dollars transferred to Tradewinds Investments.

  She looked down at her town map. “Stonewalls is only a block ahead.”

  “Impossible!”

  She looked up and saw Kevin leaning against Stonewalls’ entrance.

  “Gee, they moved it,” she said, smiling.

  They stepped inside the Caribbean restaurant. They found themselves surrounded by tourists, locals and a skiddle-drum band bonging out Bob Marley’s “One Love.” Businessmen were hunched over their drinks at a large wooden bar that reminded her of the monkeypod wooden bar in Pub 222, a terrific bar in St. Charles, Illinois. Madison had spent a couple of Thanksgiving breaks with Linda Langstrom’s family in the charming town near Chicago.

  “May I help you?” asked a stunning young woman with skin like polished ebony and a silk blouse as red as her lipstick.

  “Reservation for McKean. Sorry we’re a little late.”

  “Not to worry.”

  She led them through the crowded restaurant to a breezy outdoor garden with banana trees, bamboo and purple-flowered bougainvillea. As they sat down, a waitress in a short mini skirt that showcased her long, shapely legs sashayed up to the table. “Fancy a drink to start?”

  Madison pointed to a wall poster. “What’s in that Stone drink?”

  “Dark cavalier rum, Amaretto, coconut rum, triple sec, pineapple, orange juice, grenadine and a dead iguana....” She winked.

  “Sounds nutritious. I’ll have one.”

  “I’ll have two,” Kevin said.

  The waitress arched her eyebrows at Kevin.

  “One’s for my pal who’s arriving any minute.”

  The waitress nodded, then weaved her way through a group of men who parted for her like the Red Sea opened for Charlton Heston.

  “Where did you meet Craig?”

  “High school football. In college we were roommates. Now, we’re guardians of each other’s spiritual gr
owth.”

  “Poor Craig....”

  Kevin laughed.

  She liked how he laughed, and how his relaxed banter always seemed to calm her. When she was with Kevin, she worried less about corporate machinations, secretive banks and the tall psychopath trying to kill her. Which reminded her. She looked around to scan the restaurant, but saw no one who even remotely resembled her attacker.

  The waitress placed three Stone drinks on the table.

  “Here’s to loose-lipped bankers!” Kevin said, grabbing his Stone.

  They clinked glasses and sipped some.

  The potent rums hit her stomach like a line drive. Chills actually fingered down her back.

  Kevin blinked and coughed. “This drink has a different name in Manhattan.”

  “What?”

  “Drano.”

  Suddenly, Kevin jumped up and hugged a tall, handsome man in a gray Italian-cut suit. Craig Borden had the powerful shoulders of an athlete: six-four, dark brown hair, blue eyes, and teeth worthy of a Crest commercial. He looked like he could charm or muscle his way through just about any situation.

  “Meet Craig Borden, banker extraodinaire.”

  “Hi, Craig.” She shook his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Madison.”

  “That’s your libation,” Kevin said, pointing to Craig’s drink.

  “Ah, yes ... the Stone. I had one last month. Fortunately, I’m next on the transplant list.”

  They laughed, clinked their glasses and sipped their drinks. Moments later, the waitress came by and took their dinner orders.

  “So, Madison, tell me about this incredible bank account.”

  Madison explained everything and Craig listened, jotting down the account number and other specifics.

  When she finished, he said, “I checked around and learned that our affiliate bank in the Caymans sometimes works with Tradewinds Investments. Tomorrow I’ll have our manager see if he can learn anything about this account.”

  “Think he can?” Madison asked.

  Craig shrugged and raked his fingers through his hair. “It could prove very difficult. These offshore banks are cloaked in secrecy. The more secret the better. But they’re also susceptible to pressure from their governments and from their Caribbean banking regulators, and to some extent from our Senate Banking Committee.”