by John Charles
Hillary looked up at me with her doe eyes. They were filling with water, but she was doing her best not to let the dam burst. “You won’t understand unless I tell you the whole story.”
“Then tell me the whole story.”
And she did.
When she finished, I was so angry. I wanted to kick Harold’s teeth in and then play bounce house on his head.
“Isn’t that considered date rape?”
“Well, we weren’t on a date, so…”
“Same thing. You were intoxicated. He took advantage of you and filmed it no less. We need to get our hands on the video. That’s the evidence.”
“It won’t work. I’ve seen the video.”
“Why won’t it work?”
Hillary continued to pick at her fingernail, refusing to look at me.
I was losing her again. “Hillary, why won’t it work?”
“Darby… Last night, was I or was I not an animal in bed?”
“You were wild. I loved it.”
“I get that way whenever I’m in bed.”
“That’s awesome, I—”
And then it dawned on me. She was aggressive in the video and it probably looked like two consenting adults. “I get it. I know it wasn’t your intention. I know you didn’t purposely hook up with Harold. But we do need to get that video destroyed and we need to teach that porky goblin a lesson.”
“Also, I never told him anything about you or what we talked about, just stupid information like we went out this weekend. Nothing he could use. Before we started dating, he just wanted any info about anybody. Only after he found out about us did he press for information about you. I really like you, too, Darby. I don’t know what to do. He has me.”
I gave Hillary a kiss and big hug. “Look, I trust you. You have to keep feeding information. We can use this against him. We can feed him information we want him to know, and then we can control what he is thinking.”
Finally a way to train the donkey.
63
It was Sunday night at The Vic and Tav was floored when I told him about Harold’s blackmailing Hillary with a sex tape.
“Sex tape? Where is said sex tape? I need to see this for authentication purposes.”
“Come on, man. I’m serious. She’s supposed to be digging things up on me and passing them along to him. If she doesn’t, she said he would release the video.”
“How do you know she’s not in on this and that’s the only reason why she’s dating you? I mean, have you seen the sex tape?”
“No…But he knew about the mole.”
“She could have told him that.”
I didn’t know what to say. He was playing devil’s advocate, but that’s only because he’s my best friend. He was looking out for me. “Why would Hillary collaborate with Harold? It’s not like Hillary and I had a history of hating on each other. And no one likes Harold anyway.”
“I’m just saying. Look, it’s obvious you’re really into Hillary. Who wouldn’t be? So I’m just trying to be the voice of reason here. However, I will admit, I can’t see her collaborating with Harold. She gets nothing from screwing you over.”
“You have a point there, Tav. We gotta look at all possibilities and right now Hillary’s innocence is based on the crazy sex tape I haven’t seen yet.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“She said he had a small dick, like an inch and a half hard.”
“Hmm, not sure what to do with that bit of info. But if we really want to be sure Hillary isn’t a double agent, we have to get proof of his size. Harold would never admit that he had a small penis to Hillary. If the angle of his dangle doesn’t dangle much, then she’s telling the truth.”
“How are we supposed to do that?”
Tav tilted his head back and pondered for a sec. “I know! We tail that bastard. We watch his every single move. A loser like Harold always has something to hide.”
I liked Tav’s plan. It made the most sense, especially since we could feed him fake information. I wanted to start immediately, but Tav suggested that we wait until the weekend. That’s when people let loose and lower their guard.
Sure enough, on Saturday morning, the company idiot got into his car at 11:00 a.m. and made a beeline right over to the Lusty Lady at the edge of North Beach.
The Lusty Lady is an old-school peep show. You enter a booth, drop some money, and the metal door raises and you can watch a girl dance naked. You can’t see the other men in their booths, but the booth doors stop about a foot from the floor, so you know whether or not someone is in there.
Look at the lower legs of the men in the booths and 99 percent of them are shaking rigidly toward an explosion. The rule is you don’t touch the walls and if you accidentally drop your money on the floor, leave it.
We shot as many pictures as possible of him entering the place and then we waited. Ten minutes later and he was on his way out. We shot more pictures. But Harold didn’t go back to his car. He headed up the street and got some lunch from a taqueria.
Twenty minutes later, he was heading back into the Lusty. This was too good. My hypothesis that Harold is a chronic masturbator was on the verge of being a proven fact. But I needed better proof, so we headed inside.
It didn’t take long to spot Harold’s rigid legs shaking like a Chihuahua. It was Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo all over again. This was the money shot we had been waiting for. We forced the flimsy door open and Tav let the camera rip. Harold had no idea what was going on. His pants fell to his ankles and his face froze with the most hideous expression.
As far as we both could tell, Hillary was telling the truth.
64
Lufthansa Flight 3902 touched down exactly at 7:01 p.m. The Germans were always on time. The Russian man sitting in seat 1A ran his hand through his brown wavy hair that sported tufts of white near both ears. His mustache was thick, almost covering both lips. He wore a plain blue sweater and gray slacks. His only personal belongings in the overhead bin were a black briefcase and a long black jacket.
He nodded to the flight attendants as he exited the plane. When he was far enough away from people, he discretely pulled out a photograph of Grigory Orlov for one last reminder and then tucked it away.
Exiting the Jetway, he faced a series of long corridors devoid of any people aside from the arrivals. Up ahead he saw American Passport Control. He queued up in the noncitizen line and patiently waited his turn.
The agent, a stern looking man with deep forehead wrinkles, took his passport. “Welcome to the United States, Mr. Boris Turov. What is your purpose here?”
“Business,” he replied with a smile and a slight tilt of the head.
“How long do you plan on staying?”
“One week.”
The immigration officer stamped the visa in his passport and gave it back to him. “Enjoy your time here.”
Turov smiled and continued.
He picked up a small suitcase and exited the baggage area.
Orlov stood patiently in the waiting area. The flight had already been on the ground for thirty minutes. He was told his contact would find him, so he simply waited for someone to approach him.
As another wave of passengers entered the waiting area, Orlov looked up and searched the crowd. Of course, a Russian can always pick out another Russian. But nobody jumped out at him, so he went back to picking at his fingernails.
A few seconds later, Orlov looked up to see a man standing in front of him.
“Grigory Orlov?” the stranger asked.
Orlov was caught off guard; the man looked nothing like he had expected. The gray hair, the thick mustache—it was all wrong. He looked French and Armenian, sort of.
“Yes, I’m Orlov,” he said and extended his hand.
The man shook it. “Boris Turov. I’m tired. Can we go now?”
Orlov picked up Turov’s suitcase and led the way to his car. This certainly wasn’t the sort of muscle he had been expecting. He had envisioned a
young, strapping Russian. This man appeared to be in his forties.
Turov seemed to carry some bulk, but it was difficult to tell with the jacket and the horrendous sweater. He had height though, about six feet. He could have been muscle in his younger days. It didn’t matter, though. Orlov was sick of Ivan.
Rather than organize the gang, how about we reorganize?
65
I spent most of Monday morning funneling new orders from my client, Tsilevich Imports. They were a distributor of Russian goods located in the Inner Richmond area. They were also the business front I had set up to handle the orders for the Odessa Mafiya.
It worked the exact same way that LC Toys, Inc. did for the Fan Gang in Hong Kong. The company handled all orders, even shipments and processing. Tav lent a hand every now and then by keeping the books. If you went to the actual physical address, it was just a small, one room office with a reception desk. A sign said, “Be back soon.” Same with the phones. “Leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”
I’d had the Odessa Mafiya as a client for almost three months now. There were a couple of months left on the contract. I extended it because of how slow they were to get up to speed.
Theoretically, by end date, they shouldn’t really need my help except for the yearly overview. Unless something dramatic happened in their business, they could continue to order the products they needed online. I would continue to generate commissions from any future orders they placed; I just wouldn’t be taking my weekly cut from their profits.
I had generated a lot of money from the weekly commissions with the Fan Gang. Unfortunately most of that side money went toward purchasing all of their initial equipment. For the Russians, I had to front $75,000. But that’s part of the deal. I provided all start-up equipment.
I was still taking a commission on the order from Teleco, so that helped to offset my costs. But the real money was supposed to be all the tax-free shit on the side. A lot of money was coming in, but a lot of it was going out. Don’t get me wrong, I’m living a better life financially and I’m a heavy-hitter at work, but I might need to make a few adjustments to ensure that more of this money stays with me.
Actually, part of the problem was that I forecasted larger profits over the course of my consultation based on how much money the last gang generated. Unfortunately, I was having a hard time convincing the Russians to use more products, even though it was at no cost to them. The result? The gang’s profits weren’t as high as I expected, so neither was my percentage. Had I known this was going to happen, I might have kept a little of that money that I gave to Tatiana’s family.
I knew Harold was watching my numbers closely. There was a big possibility I could lose my heavy-hitter status unless things turned around. I could just order the product, but unless the gang implemented the program and made money, I’d just be putting myself in deeper debt. I should be clearing enough to cover my debts and my consulting easily. Who would have thought the Russians would be so conservative?
Either way, I knew that at some point the money I made from various Teleco commissions would add up from the various clients and catch up. Then I’d be really living the high life. It’s how all the other heavies lived: richly.
At least I could afford to move to a new place. That made a difference.
I opened my MacBook Pro. The only time I ever touched a Teleco computer was if it involved company related work.
I was supposed to meet Tav for lunch so we could brainstorm ways of using the picture we had taken against Harold. So far we had nothing. Even though we had pictures of him burping the worm at a peep show, I wasn’t sure if it was enough to counteract his two accusations, one of which I still had to confirm. We thought of leaving copies around the office, but figured HR would zero in on us like a drone. The only good those pictures did was prove to us that Hillary had slept with him and he was a small man. Maybe it was enough to get him to hand over the home movie. The bigger problem was the newspaper article.
I needed a plan of attack that didn’t involve Hillary or Tav—something that wouldn’t raise caution with Harold. I had to flank him when he least expected it.
Then there was a knock on my door. Peeking inside was my secret weapon.
“Izzy, come in. How are things?”
“Things are good.”
Izzy Weber was the statuesque blond that worked in operations. This surfer girl was fond of rolling into the office in skinny jeans and hoodies. It was her style, but lately I had noticed a change. Her skinny jeans turned into mini-skirts and her hoodies turned into blouses and dresses. When I asked her what was up, she said it was pressure from the man. I for sure didn’t mind because every once in a while, Izzy would forget she was wearing a skirt and not jeans.
We became friends not long after my beat down in North Beach. As far as everyone else knew, I took a couple of shots while helping a lady who was getting mugged. Only Tav and Izzy knew the truth: I had a run-in with Fat Sal. Izzy felt bad since she had invited me out there in the first place. We started off as vending machine buddies and now we IMed each other all the time.
“You said you needed to talk, but in person.”
“I do. I need your help.”
“With what?”
The big advantage to being friends with Izzy: she was in operations. These people were tasked to be all up in everybody’s business. They made sure the inner workings of the company flowed smoothly. They were clog eliminators. But the thing that impressed me most and what I found could be extremely helpful to my cause, was that they had access to everyone, including Harold the malcontent. It was her job to know what Harold was working on, where he was with his projects and whatnot. That was helpful, but that’s not why I needed Izzy’s help.
“This is big.”
“What do you mean, ‘big’?” Izzy’s phone buzzed and she took a peek. “Shoot. I have to go. What is it you wanted to tell me?”
“Not now. Swing by the house tonight. Tav and I are officially breaking in the hot tub.”
“Sweet. I’ll see you guys later.”
“Don’t forget your swimsuit,” I said as she hurried out.
I want you relaxed and vulnerable when I ask you to do the impossible.
66
Izzy showed up at The Vic around eight that night. She looked tired and irritated.
“What’s wrong?” I asked when I let her in.
“Sorry I’m late. A shitstorm broke out at 5:00 p.m.”
“Didn’t that happen after lunch?”
“No, that was a clusterfuck, plus I had to go home and get a swimsuit.”
“Oh, I should have mentioned earlier. This hot tub is clothing optional.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it is. Can I use your bathroom to change?”
“There’s one down the hall.”
Izzy made a beeline to the guest bathroom.
“There’s pizza in the kitchen. Come out back when you’re done!” I shouted.
I eased myself back into the hot tub. The warmth felt good. So did the bubbles. Nothing like warm bubbly massages all over. I motioned for Tav to grab me a beer from the cooler.
“Was that Izzy?” he asked.
“Yeah. She’s changing.”
“Nice.”
“I thought she was just a friend to you?”
“She is, but she looks great in a bikini.” He grinned.
“How do you know?”
“We went surfing once.”
“Surfing? You?”
“The waves were small. Shhh…here she comes.”
I looked back over my shoulder and sure enough, Tav was right. Izzy was sporting a black two-piece. It was strapless with bottom ties that were tempting to pull. Her body was tight and toned. She wasn’t big on top, but her legs made up for it. The jury was still out on what her half-naked butt looked like.
Izzy slipped into the tub while munching on a slice of sausage and mushroom.
Tav passed her a beer. “Glad you could make it, Izzy. What d
o you think?”
“This is so awesome. Just what I needed after a day at the factory.”
For the next ten minutes or so, we all sat quietly, enjoying the magic fingers of the hot tub. Pure bliss.
When I opened my eyes, Izzy was staring at me. She quickly turned away and took a sip of her beer. Was she checking me out? Nah, can’t be. I’m out of her league. Heavy-hitters never impressed her. I didn’t give it much thought; she was probably zoning.
“So what’s so important that you couldn’t tell me in the office, but only in a hot tub?” she asked, eyes on the stars.
I wanted Izzy to pump Harold for information on his trip, but I had to be careful about the why part. I still didn’t want anyone besides Tav to know anything about my consultancy. I hoped my friendship with Izzy was strong enough, because I was asking her to do me a favor for which she could not ask me why or for what I needed the information.
When I first told her of my plan, she of course threw up in her mouth a little bit. I explained the situation that Hillary and I were in and she completely understood and was willing to take one for the team. She seemed to think the trip was some how connected to Harold blackmailing Hillary.
Izzy Weber would officially be my company mole. Her mission? Mine Harold for information.
67
A few days later, Izzy showed up in my office, ready to give her first report from Operation Little Head. She was still in costume, wearing a skirt that didn’t cover very much of her legs. That was the entire point. Those legs were our weapons of mass distraction. Today was her first run thru. Her plan:
Step One: Infiltrate the lethargic man’s office.
Step Two: Hit him with the leg cross.
Step Three: Feed the pig.
“Tell me Agent Weber, how did it go?”
“First off, you owe me big time. He ogled my legs.”
