Dead Anyway

by Chris Knopf

  “I let down my guard,” I said. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Because this had to be. It wasn’t up to you.”

  I had spent my life in the pursuit of empirical, quantifiable, verifiable truths. There was never room for mysticism or spirituality. Random occurrences, yes. Mathematics would be nonfunctional if happenstance wasn’t factored into the equations. Yet even math was ruled by probabilities, and repeatable results. The only hand that guided the outcome was the blind hand of inexorable logic and reason.

  Yet as you feel the certainties upon which your life has been anchored shift like tectonic plates, never to be returned to their original state, logic and reason can seem entirely inadequate adjudicators of reality.

  I sat all the way up, took her face between my hands and kissed her full on the lips. She didn’t resist.

  IT WASN’T until later that day, when I got home from my food truck run, that we returned to the subject of embezzlement.

  “It’s called skimming and lapping,” I said. “A classic scam where you essentially divert a modest percentage from a revenue stream, covering the shortfall as you go with new revenue as it comes in. If you don’t get greedy and over-skim, and if nothing happens to call attention to the irregularities, it can go on for a very long time. Forever, if you’re the one who controls all the information and manages oversight.”

  “So who was that in Florencia’s agency?”

  “Florencia.”

  Natsumi looked at me intently.

  “It was?”

  “No one else could have done it. She had full control over the premium trust account. She was the only one authorized to make withdrawals, directing the payments to the appropriate carriers. She did the monthly reconciliations, manipulating the numbers to stay below the auditor’s radar. She set up a shell company made to look like one of the agency’s carriers. She established a lockbox account to clear the checks that ran through the shell, then established that numbered account in the Cayman Islands to hide the money.”

  “Why siphon money off your own company?” Natsumi asked, a question that was large enough in my mind to become a physical thing.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I do know that payments to the fake carrier stopped the month she was killed. Anyone taking over the books would find everything in proper order. The only way the scam would be revealed is if a client needed to make a claim, but the policy had lapsed for failure to pay the full premium. Essentially, caught in the middle of the float, because Florencia wasn’t there to skim fresh revenue. But that obviously didn’t happen. The only other way would be to confirm the legitimacy of every carrier the agency ever engaged with. There are hundreds of them; many are specialty underwriters brought in to cover a unique exposure. Most are now dormant. There’s no good reason to check.”

  “What does this mean?” she asked.

  “That’s a question I want to ask Austin Ott.”

  LITTLE BOY Boyanov called me again in the food truck on our private cell connection.

  “You’re gonna like this,” he said, when I answered.

  “Okay.”

  “Guess who I sell my gold to?”

  “The Pope?”

  “Austin Ott,” he said.

  “Get out of here.”

  “Not him directly, of course, but to some flunky who comes to see me after I put the word out I want to speak to his boss. They don’t usually work this fast, so I’m thinking you made a big impression.”

  “What’s next?” I asked.

  “The flunky’s called Jenkins. He wants a sit-down with you, one-on-one. I don’t suggest this. Too dangerous. Even if you’re only wearing towels.”

  “What do you suggest?” I asked.

  “You make the arrangements, but we’re the ones who show up. Then we all take Jenkins for a ride in the van.”

  “Ott probably won’t like that.”

  “It’s just a protection. He’ll understand.”

  “And you protect your investment,” I said.

  “Nah, we just like having you around, Mr. G.”

  He gave me the name of a diner on the Berlin Turnpike, a classic four-lane commercial strip that had been the area’s north-south highway before they built the interstates. Though showing signs of revitalization, it was still the favorite home of cheap motels, gun shops and the sex trade. Little Boy designated the time of the meet and the booth Jenkins should sit in, the one next to the swinging kitchen door, with a guarantee it would be empty and waiting.

  I accepted his plan as proposed, since I had none better, and though the same hazards were there, so were the reasons for trust. Anyway, I’d long ago learned the folly of second-guessing people with obvious professional expertise.

  Before hanging up, Little Boy gave me Jenkins’ cell number.

  A silky young male voice answered the phone, “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “Jenkins?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Mr. Boyanov asked me to give you a call.”

  “Indeed. We have some mutual interests to discuss.”

  “We do,” I said. “Though I’m only interested if a certain party, name unsaid, will be involved.”

  “That depends on how beneficial any arrangements will be to this party we aren’t naming.”

  “He knows the potential. I’m guessing he’s looking at it right now.”

  “Guessing is not advised, brother. We need to talk.”

  “How safe is your phone?”

  “Don’t go insulting me.”

  “Though we’re not naming names.”

  “That’s what sit-downs are for,” he said.

  I gave him Little Boy’s explicit instructions, saying I’d only approach him after he was comfortably seated for at least ten minutes.

  “That’s cool,” he said. “I’d be afraid of me, too.”

  When I got home, I filled in Natsumi.

  “You’re making progress,” she said.

  “I am. Someday I’d like you to meet Little Boy Boyanov. We could have him and his wife over for dinner.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “No. But I trust his self-interest.”

  “And I trust you,” she said.

  “I’m glad, because I’m trying hard to keep you informed of everything,” I said. “Though I left something out.”

  “Really.”

  “Wait here.”

  I went into my bedroom and retrieved a selection from the nice casual wear I’d purchased from Preston Nestor—a pair of tan silk pants, a cashmere blazer and a blue-and-white striped pima cotton shirt.

  “You’re a closet fop?” Natsumi asked.

  “It’s part of a longer-term plan. I wasn’t trying to conceal, I just hadn’t figured out which direction things were heading.”

  I told her what I was thinking to make happen. Natsumi was skilled in controlling her facial expressions, but something akin to wonder, or more likely incredulity, lit up her eyes.

  “In other words, you’re going to put everything you’ve done since coming out of the coma in reverse,” she said.

  “More or less, yes. I know very little about Austin Ott, but I have my theories. He has a model that is working for him. At its heart is personal anonymity. He won’t deviate, no matter how enticing the opportunity. However, he will find ways to engage via higher level intermediaries if he’s convinced it’s worth it. But I can’t afford a lengthy process. With every passing day, I leave behind little scraps of vulnerability. These will build on each other over time, increasing the probability of a bad breach. I need to speed up the process, but it’s difficult to operate aggressively without putting my own anonymity at even greater risk.”

  “It’s a conundrum,” said Natsumi.

  “I need to reconfigure the operating strategy, both strategically and geographically. Shelly Gross told me he’s no better than any other ruthless thug, so why the fancy name, why the affectations, why the affinity for Fairfield County? Because he’s Jay Gatsby. A
big-time criminal who’s irresistibly attracted to the blue-blood elite, the socially refined and exclusive. Not for love, like Gatsby, but for the status it conveys. At least in his own mind.”

  “So you want to take the battle to him, on his own turf,” she said.

  “It’s time to move Mohammed to the foot of the mountain.”

  “I thought you were a Buddhist.”

  While Natsumi made our evening meal, I changed into the nice clothes and spent some time researching on the computer. As was often the case, the subject was something with which I had only glancing familiarity, so most of the time was spent learning the basics.

  “Wow, I’m feeling underdressed,” said Natsumi, after calling me to the table.

  “After we eat, you can help me with the wig.”

  As suspected, Natsumi had an artistic bent that did much to enhance my nascent cosmetic skills. She selected a light brown wig with distinguished white patches at the temples. Then, with the careful application of a skin toner, gave me a subtle tan, as if I’d recently returned from a golf holiday in Arizona.

  I mentioned that when I looked in the mirror.

  “Next time, take me with you,” said Natsumi.

  “We’ll need new names. I have the Social Security number for a dead guy named Henri Grenouille. It works with Mr. G., the name Little Boy used in front of Jenkins, based on how I signed my note—Auric G. Henri isn’t Auric, but it’s close enough.”

  “Did you know Grenouille means frog?”

  “No offense intended.”

  Before I left, I showed her what I was doing on the computer, and asked if she could keep up the search for a while.

  “Does that mean I can pick what I want?”

  “Absolutely. Think big.”

  I CALLED ahead on the way to meet Little Boy and his coterie.

  “I won’t look the same,” I told him. “Don’t act surprised. I’m doing it for Jenkins’ sake.”

  “I hear you,” said Little Boy. “We’re getting ready for the snatch.”

  He reminded me of the van’s location, which I would reach well in advance. He said he’d brief the guy waiting there on my appearance.

  “Otherwise, he’s liable to shoot you, which would really put a foot up the ass of the plan.”

  The van was waiting where promised, the parking lot of a strip club and motel complex on the Berlin Turnpike a few miles north of the diner. I knocked on the door and one of Little Boy’s taciturn Bosniaks let me in.

  “Nice threads,” he said, sitting back down in one of the leather seats and returning his attention to a copy of Elle magazine.

  We waited in silence for the rest of the gang.

  JENKINS, WHO was the first to enter the van, looked to be in his early thirties, though some hard lines had already formed around his eyes. African-American, with long, loose limbs and a toothpick in his mouth, he seemed perfectly at ease with the situation. He fist bumped my babysitter and plopped down on the couch. Little Boy and a third Bosniak joined him.

  “Sorry about the switch-up,” I said to Jenkins. “Just a precaution.”

  “I know about that shit,” he said. “First meet and all that.”

  “He laughs when we come out of the kitchen,” said Little Boy. “Knew right away. Smart guy, Jenkins.”

  “That’s right. Smart like your boys here who know any serious fucking with me will bring an avalanche of serious shit down on your heads.”

  Little Boy looked slightly offended.

  “No reason for any serious shit,” he said. “We’re all adults here.”

  “We are,” I said, capturing the group’s attention. “Here’s the scenario. I have the means of acquiring a vast amount of precious metals at incomparable prices. Namely, for free. This allows me to offer it to committed buyers at ridiculously discounted rates. I am interested in stable, ongoing relationships, and so will happily forego greater potential margins in return for the consistency and security these will provide.”

  “Little Boy here explained all that,” said Jenkins. “Tell me more about the product.”

  “I have gold, of course, and silver, but also platinum, palladium, iridium, rhodium, osmium and ruthenium.”

  Jenkins fished a pen and a small notebook out of his jacket.

  “You’re gonna have to run that by me again. I got the ‘ium’ part. Spell out the rest of it.”

  After doing that, I said, “The distribution of these metals at the quantities I’m contemplating requires an operation with an international footprint. I’m obviously thinking of Asia and Latin America. Growth economies with a hungry industrial base.”

  “That’s right,” said Little Boy. “Our footprint is basically between New York and Boston. Otherwise, we’d be snatching up all the ’ridiums we could get our hands on.”

  Jenkins looked at him sideways, then went back to jotting down notes.

  “I understand Mr. Ott’s desire for anonymity,” I said. “I desire the same for myself. But I need assurances that I’m engaging with his organization and not a group of poseurs.”

  “We be the real deal, man,” said Jenkins. “Nobody posin’.”

  “With all due respect, I need more than that. A gesture of good faith. I’ll let Mr. Ott decide what’s appropriate.”

  We concluded the meet soon after that. Jenkins already had one of my cell numbers from our earlier call, so the link was there. I told him the next move was theirs, but I sincerely hoped we could quickly come to a satisfactory arrangement.

  “I prefer to only deal with the best of breed,” I said, as we shook hands. “As evidenced by my association with Mr. Boyanov. Please convey that to Mr. Ott.”

  One of Little Boy’s men drove Jenkins back to the diner so we could recap the meeting.

  “I like that thing about best of breed,” said Little Boy. “No matter we’re the only Bosnian breed in town.”

  “There’s another $100K’s worth of gold coming your way,” I said. “With a fat overage. You earned it.”

  “Then maybe I can afford the new dress code.”

  NATSUMI HAD a bottle of Jim Beam and a beer waiting when I got back to the apartment. She was wearing the skirt from her casino uniform and a lamb’s wool sweater. Burning candles stuck with paraffin to small plates and saucers were placed around the living room. The radio was tuned to a college station playing jazz.

  “It’s the best I could do on short notice,” she said, kicking off her heels and sitting on the couch with her feet pulled up beneath her.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “I finished my paper.”

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  “It belongs to this apartment. It felt wrong to bring to another place. It was the right time.”

  “You’re going to have me believing in cosmic confluences.”

  “To be honest, I was getting pretty sick of the whole thing. How much does an undergrad need to know about Münchausen syndrome by proxy?”

  “A lot less than you do,” I said.

  “And how was your evening, dear?” she asked. “How’re your Balkan criminals?”

  “I’ll know in a few days. But no matter how the meeting turns out, we’re making the move.”

  “That’s good, because I think I found the perfect thing. To die for,” she added, with a studied upper-crust inflection. She put her shoes back on and went into her bedroom. She came back with her laptop, which she handed to me.

  On the screen was a photograph of a furnished, 10,500 square foot, limestone mansion on thirteen landscaped acres in Greenwich, Connecticut, built in 1928 by an investor who didn’t know a year later he’d be broke. A fate shared by the current owner, a descendent of John D. Rockefeller, who’d had the considerable misfortune to put much of his financial fate in the hands of a guy named Madoff. The offer was rent with an option to buy.

  “You specified Gatsbyesque,” she said.

  “I like it.”

  We committed the rest of the evening to eating finger foo
d and planning the next few days’ activities. In the process, Natsumi put a large dent in the Jim Beam with no apparent effect, and I went hog wild and had two whole beers. The second one having the impact of pre-operative sedation.

  “You look like you’re falling asleep,” said Natsumi.

  “Because I am. I haven’t your experience drinking motorcycle gangs under the table.”

  After saying our goodnights, I carefully dealt with all the cashmere and silk I was wearing and fell into bed as if pulled there by a whipcord. I turned off the bedside light and was about to roll over and pass out, when the door opened and Natsumi came into the room. She swatted me and said to give her some room. The bed was a double, so there was just enough to give.

  She slid under the covers. I felt bare legs, panties and a T-shirt.

  “Only to sleep,” she said.

  Which we did, until later that night, when I swam up from the deep well of sleep and into her arms, clothes gone and futures irrevocably altered, a cosmic confluence, a consummation realized, not only devoutly to be wished.

  CHAPTER 19

  I promised my landlady Señora Colon-Cordero a thirty percent commission on the sale of my food truck. I suggested she call Billy Romano, in the event he’d had second thoughts about that retirement in Florida.

  “That’s a very big commission,” she said. “I want you motivated.”

  “Maybe I buy it myself.”

  I thought that was a great idea.

  “Only I can’t break you in like Billy did for me. I have pressing business elsewhere. With the deal I give you, you can afford to fly him back north to consult.”

  “So the food truck business not turn out like you hoped,” she said.

  “Frankly, I liked it. But it’s not my destiny. I think you’ll find, however, that I’ve left the route in good order.”

  I didn’t tell her about Leo Dunlop’s simulated heart attack following a slurp of my iced coffee.

  IT ONLY took a few hours to clear our belongings out of the apartment and pack up the Outback. I also used the time to contact the real estate agent for the big house and make arrangements for a viewing.