Jacqueline
I'm completely at a loss. If I get a job, the salary won't be anywhere near enough. I mean, who the hell is going to pay me $75,000 up front?
My thoughts meander to other options. There was of course the famous show, Breaking Bad, where the guy was diagnosed with lung cancer and couldn't pay for the treatment or to support his family, so he started making and selling methamphetamines.
That would be good, except I'm not very good at chemistry and I have no idea how to even begin to do something like that.
But still, my thoughts continue to wander. My father was a gambler. He played blackjack and poker and he made us lose numerous apartments and cars, but there were other times when he won.
I remember how fun it was being with him when we celebrated. The most he ever won was $50,000 in one night. It was the most money I’d ever seen. When he came home, he was beaming from ear to ear, and it felt like Christmas morning.
He bought my mom a big diamond ring, and he got Michael some sort of Star Wars battleship and a big dollhouse for me.
Would this wok for me?
Could I take the little bit of money that I do have and bring it to the casino and try to win my mom's life?
I bite the inside of my cheek as I consider that option. My mom hates gambling. She always has. She blames it for the demise of their relationship and for my father's disappearance.
She always thought it was better to have one steady job than to live a life on the edge like he did for all of those years, never knowing when you're going to be up and when you're going to be down.
But the thing is that my father wasn't cut out for full-time work. He craved more. He needed the excitement of the nightlife. I was never like that when it came to gambling.
He taught me a little bit and we would play in secret with Michael when Mom was at work. We weren't supposed to tell her that he was teaching us to play because he knew she would never approve of that.
Michael was a lot like our dad.
He loved gambling for gambling’s sake. He would get so excited when he had a good hand, but for me, I never really cared.
It was all logistics.
Could I win?
What are the chances and the likelihood? And if I didn't think that the risk was good, was falling in my favor, then I wouldn't play the hand.
I haven't played in years. Mom made me promise that it's something that I would never take up no matter how desperate I was for money, but what about now?
How do I save her life?
How do I come up with this money without gambling, without doing something elicit?
No, the solution is just to not tell her. This would be my secret. This would be the way that I try to make everything right.
I go back home and find the old books that my dad kept in the back of the closet. Mom wanted me to throw them away, but I never could throw away a memory of him.
I held on to them because, well, I didn't have much else. She threw away a lot of the pictures after he left in order to try to erase all the pain that he had caused her.
What she didn't realize was that she wasn't the only one in that relationship. There were also Michael and me, and we needed him to be around, even if it was just in spirit.
I read through the books while Mom took a nap in the other room. I try to remember what he taught me about the game, and then I go online and read more.
I read everything that I can find and I decide to play on my laptop just to see how it would work out. At first, I play with fictional money and I lose every single hand.
I fold.
It's poker, and after five games in a row, I feel like a fool. Then I make an account, put up fifty bucks, maybe it would work better if the stakes are more real and the money is more immediate.
I play another round.
I play one game and then another, and then another with a computer or some unknown person on the other end. After two hours, I lose it all.
The fifty dollars is gone just like that. It’s gone. I saw the cards, and I couldn't make them work. I bluffed, but no one believed me.
Maybe I don't have the same skills my father did, or maybe I didn't learn enough. It's probably a little bit of both.
What about now?
What the hell do I do now?
I close my laptop and pace around the room. Just a few hours ago, learning how to gamble, making that much money at the casino seemed like an actual plausible business, but, of course, there are lots of people with a lot more experience vying for the same thing.
No, if I can't win online with fifty bucks, I shouldn't try to play for real.
I could get better, of course. Learn the tricks, maybe even take a class, but I don't have time for that.
I owe them the money within a couple of weeks, as soon as they call to schedule Mom to come out, and what then?
What do I do then?
13
Dante
I move my legs swiftly as I cover the ground, one heavy step after another. The rain is falling in sheets.
Seattle is not my favorite city in the world, even though it is one of the most beautiful places in the summer.
But it's not the summer. It's April, and the skies are gray, and the sun hasn't visited this part of the world in months.
Luckily, I don't live here.
I don't live anywhere.
I have a suitcase and a laptop and a tablet and a phone and a storage unit outside of Bangor, Maine, and that's it.
I live my life on the road. The world can be a dark place, but every time it gets a little darker, I get on the plane and fly away.
Not many people survive in my position, doing what I do. They get restless.
They miss their friends and their families. And I've worked this job longer than anyone.
I like the consistency of it, despite the fact that I travel almost every week. I live out of hotel rooms and room service, and the only thing that stays the same are the gyms and the pools in those four and five-star hotels, as well as my daily or almost daily five-mile run.
No matter where I am, I wake up early and hit the pavement in order to ground myself.
I run before I get into the shower and get to work. I run before I sit in long, oversized conference rooms with floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out onto the skyscrapers and listen to pitch after pitch of why my company should invest in their risky venture.
I've skipped a couple of days of running, due to jet lag, and it shows. My muscles ache and my lungs burn, and I push through until I get back to the hotel.
After a quick shower and a breakfast of black coffee and a vegetarian omelet, I head over to the office and ride all the way up the elevator to the 30th floor.
A friendly receptionist waves me in and shows me to the head of the table. Another conference room, expansive, full of mahogany, with walls covered in textured and impressive designs, modern and sleek, and undoubtedly very expensive.
Dillard Vasko, the CEO, comes in soon after, a little bit flustered and out of control. He's nervous. He has tried to get this funding a number of times before, trying to set up an appointment with me without much success.
He's a little bit older than I am, and definitely someone who works many hours for a living. The wedding band glistens under the warm glow of the lights, but when I shake his hand, it's clammy and a little too wet.
"Thank you so much for meeting with me, Mr. Langston. I really appreciate your time."
"Yes, of course.” I nod. " Should we get to it?"
"I was actually going to wait for my numbers guy to join us."
My face falls, and he registers that as disapproval.
“Okay, let's get started. I know you're a very busy man,” he quickly adds.
I smile.
I'm not trying to put him through the hoops or make him work particularly hard, but people wait for these appointments for months.
My firm represents over 50,000 angel investors who trust me and a few other people in
the company to make decisions about where to put their money.
To approve of the venture typically requires me to travel to the city where the company operates, looking at the expenses and the net worth, as well as a bunch of other numbers and then talking to the CEO about projections and plans for the future.
I'm here to analyze whether he's a worthy investment. Dillard Vasko knows this, and he's nervous.
He needs the money.
They all do, but I wonder if he needs it a little bit too much.
"Tell me about your profit-loss statement,” I initiate the conversation.
Suddenly, Vasko gets very nervous again and gets on this phone to text the numbers guy, who's running late.
I have a feeling that person, the accountant, perhaps, or maybe the Chief Financial Officer, won't be employed in this position for too much longer.
"I'm sorry. I really have no idea where he is," Vasko mumbles, cracking his knuckles.
"That's okay. Why don't you just have a seat and tell me about your business, then? How's everything going?” I try a more casual approach.
"Okay, well, the microprocessors are selling well, and we're thinking of expanding into five additional markets. But that's where the financing comes in."
"And how much are you making a month?" I ask.
"About ten million."
"And how much is it costing you?"
"About fifteen. But you know, we're still setting up all of the infrastructure. We have a lot of expenses associated with the factories, and we're just expanding our marketing and advertising budget."
"Okay.” I nod.
It's not the most healthy profit loss statement that I have encountered, but the thing about tech companies is that they often lose money until they don't. I'm not going to hold that particularly against him.
"And what are your plans for expansion?"
"Well, we see a lot of potential in Europe and Asia."
"Any specific countries in particular?" I ask.
"Norway, Sweden, Finland."
"Are you aware of the fact that they have at least five other large microprocessor companies that focus not only on that but on other features, as well, just in the Scandinavian countries alone?” I point out. “What are your plans to compete with that competition and to stand out against them?"
"Well, we're going to spend a lot more on advertising and marketing," Vasko says, fumbling along.
I wonder if this is the first time in a long time that he has ever actually had to convince anyone of his competence, or if he's just incredibly lazy.
I ask him a few more questions, and he stumbles over the responses to those, as well.
"You realize, of course, that just advertising is not going to be the most successful thing to do to reach the Scandinavian market? They're very proactive supporting their own businesses and protecting their own companies, even if you were to come in and give them a substantial discount. And it would have to be very substantial for them to even consider doing business with you, over a fellow Nordic country."
"No, I didn't realize that," Vasko says.
The silence in the room becomes deafening.
A few moments later, someone knocks on the door and comes in. He is uncomfortably tall and dressed in a well-tailored suit.
"Mr. Langston, this is Zach Blasse, our Chief Financial Officer.” Vasko makes the introduction to the man grasping onto his iPad. “He’ll provide you with all of the financial information and answer all of your questions."
"Actually, that won't be necessary," I say, standing up and shaking his hand.
"What do you mean?" Vasko asks.
"Well, I think I have a clear picture of what's going on here, and someone from my office will be in touch later. It was a pleasure to meet you."
I'm trying to make the exit as swift as possible, but Vasko won't let me. He follows me out of the conference room and over to the rows of elevators.
I press the down button and none of them swing open, saving me from furthering this conversation.
"What's going on? Are you pulling out?" Vasko asks, looking flustered.
Suddenly, the smooth hair that was previously lacquered to his head looks tossed and uneven. His face flushes red as his cheeks fill up with blood, creating a mosaic on his pale skin.
"Listen, thank you so much for meeting with me, and I'll be in touch, as I said."
I take out my phone and try to force this conversation to a close as quickly as possible.
"Dante, what is going on?" Vasko snaps.
I shoot my eyes up at him.
Who does he think he is, calling me by my first name?
"Look, your boss made promises. He said that if you come over, I would give you a presentation. Everything will be fine. The financing will be secure."
"My boss is in no position to say that. I represent thousands of angel investors, and every company that I recommend for them has to go through a rigorous approval process, which, frankly, you have not passed."
Usually, I'm not so terse or rude, but the only way to deal with rudeness is to throw it back in someone's face.
"No, that's impossible."
The elevator door finally opens, and I go inside.
"Of course it's possible," I say. "It happens every day. Do you know how few people we actually invest with?"
"But I'm not a normal applicant. I talked to Cedar and he told me that we have a deal."
"I don't care what Cedar told you.” I shake my head. "The decision is up to me and you don't have a deal. Your company is barely making ends meet. You have no idea. You don't know anything about the market that you want to go into. And frankly, if you can't make your business work here, you have no business in expanding to all of these other territories."
"Look, I didn't know that he was going to be late; is that what this is about? You just can't handle if someone has an actual problem and can't make a meeting?” Vasko asks, his nostrils flaring out.
"No, this has nothing to do with that. That's why we had a meeting before your CFO even made an appearance. I asked you questions, you answered them…however, badly. You didn't know very much about your plans."
"Look," he snaps, pointing his finger in my face, when I let out a sigh I can almost see it collide with his skin. "Cedar made me a promise. I'm going to talk to him. You're going to regret doing any of this."
I shake my head no.
"Okay, let's just- ..."
"Listen, I gave you my decision," I say, broadening my shoulders, but not taking a step back.
We finally reach the ground floor and the elevator doors start to open back up again.
"I made my decision and that's it. There's nothing you can do."
"I'm going to appeal."
"There is no appeal process,” I say sternly. “This is my job, okay? I go around, I visit companies who need investment, some of them need it because they want to expand and they can't go the regular banking way. Others, like yours, I suspect are losing money. They're bleeding from the inside out. And you want my investors to plug up some of those holes and put a Band-Aid on it. But what you don't realize is your company is going to be defunct in two years, if that, and my investors will be on the hook for all of that money."
"No, I am very good at what I do and I'm very good at protecting their money and that's why they continue to put their trust in me,” Vasko says. His voice goes up and he’s pleading now, which makes me even more solid in my decision.
"We're not investing in your business."
I take a step forward when he snaps his arm in front of me to try to prevent me from walking out.
“You better move or I’ll move it for you,” I threaten and wait.
It's a standoff.
His eyes peer into mine.
I look straight ahead, keeping my face completely emotionless.
A moment later, he finally caves and retreats.
14
Dante
That was the closest that I have ever gotten to
getting into an actual fistfight on my job.
You'd think that men in suits that costs thousands of dollars and watches that cost over ten would be able to keep their composure, but they're actually a lot more volatile than anyone else.
Vasko is desperate. He has reached out to Apex Financial because he had nowhere else to go.
Everything I said to him about his company is true, and I make a note in my phone to check on the status of this organization two years from now and see if they're still kicking around.
Being successful is out of the question. There's no way that they're getting anywhere unless they get rid of that CEO promptly.
I get back to the hotel room, take off my suit and tie and quickly change into my favorite pair of sweats. This is how I unwind.
I don't wear my suit or even my dress shirts any longer than I absolutely have to. The joggers are soft, and a little bit more of a slim cut than I'd prefer and my T-shirt fits well over my tight muscles.
I've been bench pressing a lot more than usual, using heavier weights each time and it is showing.
My shoulders are getting broader. I’ve put on some weight, the good kind, nothing flabby around the stomach, adding girth to my biceps.
Tonight, I'm going to go to Redemption.
When I flip on the television, my mom calls.
I'm tempted to let it go to voice mail, but I know that she'll just keep calling, so I might as well chat now.
As soon as I answer, she flips onto video chat, a pet peeve of mine. I feel like you should ask for permission before you go from a phone call to video chat, but Mom is never one to follow the rules.
Mom and I have always been close. She had my brother and me late in life when her career was already established. In fact, she has gone through several.
When I answer the call, I find her sitting in front of a twelve-foot oil painting of herself from her younger days as a New York City socialite in the 60s. I guess there are still socialites in the city, but not the way that there used to be back in the day.
That was an occupation for her, going out on the town, being photographed by famous photographers, having her picture show up in Vogue and Cosmopolitan and all of the most exclusive gossip magazines.
Dark Intentions, #1 Page 6
