Cup of Evil: Corruption, Blackmail and Bodies Come to Light When a Sadistic Tycoon is Murdered

by E. Groat

  By the time she left Ms. Stone, Zoe was feeling very good about herself, knowing the outcome of this meeting would be very positive. Ms. Stone was never one to back down from a challenge. Hell, she consistently chased them. Illiteracy and ignorance were the enemies, and she was Genghis Khan.

  Ms. Stone was alone. She had been alone as long as Zoe could remember, but she knew there was more to this beautiful, gruffly charming lady. Somewhere down the line, Zoe fancied a great love story gone awry, from which Ms. Stone never recovered. Zoe hailed a cab, pondering love denied. Perplexed, she reasoned that lost love was better left to poets.

  She directed the cabbie home to her own true love, anxious to tell him of her productive day, unaware of the outcome of Garth’s meeting with the new mayor.

  Chapter 7

  Garth had returned to the office and spent the day going over estimates, drawings, and projections. Over and above his own guys, he contacted all the subcontractors involved, and plotted his course to match the money in escrow. He had no cash flow from other projects, as this one had eaten him up for the past three years. His men were cleaning up odds and ends from previous contracts, but he had taken on no new projects. So if this did not get started soon, he would have to lay off the crews.

  He had been so sure they had the green light on this thing. That nagging uneasiness he felt after Mayor Hanks died had turned into a prophetic note. He knew it was wrong never to heed that small voice that whispered in his ear. The bank had gone the limit, while his private money and Zoe’s were tied up. The million-dollar insurance policy Warren had left him — though small by industry standards — was his life raft. This he would not touch, even should everything else go belly up.

  There was no foreseeable income from this downtown project for the next two years, and the renovation itself would take a year to complete. The figures just didn’t work. Ten million, give or take, was his guesstimate, plus the price of the monkey wrench Harris was about to sell him. Enough! He was used up. Leaving his desk in turmoil, he gave a hasty goodnight to Ms. Potter, his assistant of ten years, and headed home to the security of Zoe’s arms. They would figure something out.

  * * *

  It looked like a mini-United Nations meeting, but in fact was a coalition of businessmen Warren and Garth had solicited for this project. The group included: a Bavarian chocolatier named Klaus; Moshe, a poor man’s Ralph Lauren from Tel Aviv; Ravierez, a Cuban whose family had once owned a tannery specializing in fine leather goods, saddles and bridles; and an African-American businessman named Murphy, who operated two highly profitable specialty wine-and-cheese shops in upper Manhattan.

  Murphy had learned his craft by working his way up in the California vineyards. When he returned to New York, he worked in a wine-import shop. Warren met him there, was impressed with his knowledge of wine, and helped him launch his own business several years later. Warren had given a lot of people a leg up. Everyone in the meeting had been touched by him somehow, and they were all counting on the success of this endeavor. A jeweler of Turkish descent, a German machinist, a Frenchman who was a small bottler of spring water and looking to set up shop there…and the list went on. There was Damon, a Greek importer. Hwang Ho, a whiz with computers whose forte was selling, repair, and trade. An attorney named Lou was seated next to Dr. Alverez, a young physician Warren had met in Mexico when he twisted an ankle on a fishing excursion.

  Garth smiled to himself, thinking it must be a universal conundrum that doctors and lawyers seemed to seek each other out. The amusing thought left as quickly as it arrived. All in all, there were thirty people there. Garth had called them together to give them a progress report. It was nine on Thursday morning, and Ms. Potter had spent Tuesday and Wednesday tracking down everyone to schedule this meeting. She did very well, and had managed to corral thirty of the thirty-five people to whom Garth had wanted to reveal the progress of their project. The missing five included interior designer Erica Johnson, a furniture manufacturer from Spain named Ortega, dentist John Holliman, dry cleaner Murray Landsing, and the Kuwaiti minister.

  This worked out well for Garth’s purposes; he wanted a meeting with the minister alone. Garth had forged a relationship with Riza Kamal Pahlevi after the Gulf War, when Warren was awarded contracts for rebuilding many of the ravaged palaces and other government offices. Warren’s affiliation with the Kuwaitis actually began with his own father, an engineer who worked for Aramco — one of the world’s most valuable companies at that time. Aramco was based in Dharan, and young Warren was brought up in the heady ways and days of oil riggers, gushers, and an occasional marauding tribe. He became a proficient horseman and would ride his grey-roan Arabian from Dharan to the coast. He was like a preferred child to Emir Sabah al-Ahmad, and Warren grew to manhood respecting the way of the Arabs.

  They left Dharan when the Brits pulled out in 1961. Kuwait had been a British protectorate since the previous century. Fear of a Turkish takeover was the driving force behind Kuwait’s need for English intervention, but by the Sixties Kuwait had no need of outside protection. After his father’s death in 1964, Warren continued his relationship with the Kuwaitis, both in the oil fields there and with development in the U.S. Indeed, many of Warren’s projects were accomplished because of Kuwaiti investment. Garth had traveled with him to Dharan on several occasions and learned the art of the oil business—from taking it from the Earth on good terms with Mother Nature, to quenching the explosions and fires when she was in a bad mood. A gold pocket watch presented to Warren’s father by Sabah al-Ahmad now sat in a teakwood box on Garth’s desk, as a reminder of the bond they shared. Warren had placed a high value on that watch, and had given it to Garth shortly before his death. Garth knew then that he loved that man.

  Garth tuned out these thoughts, and turned his concentration to the meeting before him. He asked Ms. Potter to schedule an appointment with the minister at his convenience, and schedule the other four early next week if possible. Greeting everyone effusively, he assured them this meeting would not take long. Garth updated them on the progress that had been made in building, funding, security, insurance, and rent structures. He told them groundbreaking was set for spring, but that there were a few setbacks and dollar shortages might take a bit more time to resolve. He felt this was information enough. Going into detail at this time would only distress them, and raise a lot of questions he could not answer.

  Garth was brief, and to the point, voicing only positive notes. After a few quick questions and Garth’s “Thank you all for coming,” the businessmen trailed out of the boardroom in a sea of handshakes and smiles. If nothing else, there was a unity of purpose. Klaus was the last to leave. Before he found his way to the outer door, he stopped at Ms. Potter’s desk and withdrew a small box from his great overcoat. For all the world, with his ice-blue twinkling eyes and great mane of white hair, he looked like Sgt. Schultz from the old Hogan’s Heroes series. The box contained his finest chocolates, filled with liqueurs. “Sweets for the sweet,” he said timidly, then tipped his hat, bowed slightly, and almost flew through the door. His old-world mannerisms and courtly charm took Ms. Potter by surprise, bringing a pink glow to her cheeks.

  “Why Ms. Potter,” Garth cooed. “I didn’t know.”

  “I’ll forget you said that, pup,” she said as she followed him back into the boardroom. “I was able to get in touch with the minister...”

  She was momentarily taken aback when she surveyed the empty coffee cups, half-eaten Danish, and napkins strewn about. Informal meeting to be sure! She continued where she left off. “He will only be remaining here for three more days, and said he would be happy to see you this afternoon if you can find the time. He is at the Ritz till four.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Potter, I’ll be there,” Garth said. “Oh, and check with Norm to see how he is coming along with the final touches on the Brewster contract. I doubt if I’ll be in the rest of the day; hold the fort down for me.”

  He grabbed his coat and scarf, gave her a pe
ck on the cheek, and was gone. Garth made another fruitless trip to the bank where he and Warren had borrowed so many millions over the years, clutching to the hope that his and Zoe’s assets and credit would be enough for the shortages and price-escalating permits he was forced to face. He was not optimistic, but it did not show as he shook the hand of banker John Pierce. Maybe the visit to Riza could be purely social; Garth would hate to put the bite on him again. Sadly, Garth left the bank with the answers he was expecting. Frustration and rejection walked hand and hand this past year. They came to be expected, and needed to be overcome.

  * * *

  Garth was greeted with an open-armed embrace from Riza Kamal. His friend’s infectious laugh and grand smile immediately made Garth feel better, almost euphoric. He watched as Riza crossed the room in his flowing white aba and his kufiyah trimmed with the gotra. Truly, he was a handsome and exotic figure. His dark eyes invited Garth to be seated at a table filled with edible luxuries, steaming pots of tea, and thick black coffee. Garth appreciated it; he had not eaten since the hasty danish at the morning meeting.

  Garth’s worries evaporated. He had felt genuinely close to Riza ever since their first meeting, on one of Warren’s frequent visits to Kuwait. When the emir summoned them for counsel or contracting, Garth was sent to supervise while Warren stayed back in the States working on his downtown project. Riza and Garth had spent many long hours in 100-degree heat. They had developed a respect for each other, and a camaraderie that was difficult to come by. The afternoon pleasantries wore on, and Garth found himself raising his hand in protest.

  “No more, no more, I cannot eat more,” Garth said, and belched a complimentary thank you.

  Throughout the meal, while speaking of many things, Garth revealed his plight to Riza. He explained the problems he might encounter with the mayor and the fate of the project. Riza had always made him feel welcome and comfortable in uncomfortable circumstances.

  The companions, onlookers, and guardians were constants around Riza, and Garth had gotten used to them. With Riza’s soft and melodic voice, the urgency of the dilemma did not seem so pressing that afternoon. The minister talked to him as a brother, assuring Garth that everything would work out with this mayor problem. He had come too far and worked too hard to even consider this an obstacle.

  In the event that more financing was needed, “Allah will provide,” Riza said with a smile. “Now my friend, I must go.”

  Garth looked at the clock, and saw it was well past five. Ms. Potter had said Riza would be there until four. The afternoon had melted away, and Garth did not feel any of the apprehension or frustration he experienced earlier in the day. He apologized for keeping Riza so late. The response to this was a warm embrace of farewell and a promise that, upon his return, he would contact Garth for a progress report on his investment. With that, Garth took his leave, humming “The Sheik of Araby” in low tones as he left, an annoying habit he could not seem to overcome since first meeting his friend many years ago. Riza had heard him many times, and accepted it as good-natured. Garth hit the streets, practically singing out loud.

  The minister’s dark eyes narrowed as he watched his friend depart. He had dealt with this kind of problem before, this type of person, and this type of extortion. Money was not the answer, not with dishonorable men like the mayor. Riza knew that Garth Avery was truly a guileless man. Riza Kamal Pahlevi was not.

  Chapter 8

  In the black quiet of the night, Garth reached out for her. Zoe, in turn, responded by cradling his head in her arms. They laid there, quietly listening to the haunting strings of Pablo Casals and scattering terms of endearment in soft, low whispers. He held the curve of her thigh, unable to fully understand the depth of this love. Verses his mother read to him from the Book of Solomon came tumbling to his thoughts, and at this moment the beauty of the words and Zoe’s being overpowered every wanton emotion he had ever experienced.

  “The hair of thine head like purple, how fair and how pleasant art thou, o love for delights,” he recited. “Thou are all fair my love, there is no spot in thee. Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm, for love is strong as death. Or something like that.” He squeezed her tightly, sleepily murmuring his feeling.

  “Garth, are you okay?”

  “You bet. Never felt better in my life, and I’ve never been more in love with you than this night. Don’t know why I’m thinking in biblical terms; maybe I need the wisdom of a Solomon at this stage of our lives. Just trying to say things to you I don’t often say.”

  “Solomon, huh. I’d forgotten how beautiful those psalms were. Let me see...” Into the blackness, cascading from her lips, verses from Solomon swallowed him up. He lay there in awe and astonishment as he listened.

  “My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand. His head is as the fine gold, his locks are bushy and black as a raven. His eyes are as the eyes of doves, by the rivers of waters, washed with milk and fitly set. His lips like lilies, dropping sweet-smelling myrrh. His hands are as gold rings set with beryl, his belly is as bright ivory overlaid with sapphires. His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold, his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars. His mouth is most sweet, yea he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend...Or something close to that,” she giggled.

  He buried his face into her breasts and kissed them reverently.

  “Garth, do you think you’re the only one who has these feelings?” Zoe slid down beside him, belly to belly and heart to heart, and they kissed and caressed until the ache of desire washed over them. He mounted her arched torso, and they both found the heavens.

  Chapter 9

  Harry inched his way into the bowels of the beer-and-urine-soaked gathering place known as Rudies. The music and sleazy surroundings repulsed him, but he continued his search for Tommy. Harry found him at the bar, encircled in smoke. The associates he was conversing with departed as quickly as the neon-blue smoke as Harry approached and found a stool next to Tommy. He ordered a Jack Daniels straight up, but did not drink.

  Tommy was a tall, lanky sort with horse-like features and a military-like buzz cut. He half smiled and half sneered as Harry approached, and dispensed with any hellos; he knew Harry was not here for a social call. Harry was brief, and the atmosphere was stifling.

  “I need your help, Tommy,” Harry began. “It’s worth ten grand. I need names, uptown names, political, high city. No rumor, proof.” The words shot out in quick, rat-a-tat fashion, and Tommy knew right away that Harry must have gotten wind of Mayor Harris’s rumored extracurricular activities. Mayor Harris was a relatively new customer around town, and had dealt with a broker who called himself Louis, but Tommy always made it his business to know exactly who he was dealing with. It always paid off, and it looked like his new association with the mayor through Louis was going to be a lucrative one.

  “It’ll cost you $15,000,” he replied. Price of my merchandise has gone up. Health insurance. All my boys and girls have got to have a certificate and a guarantee they’re clean, for uptown clientele.”

  Harry agreed, and threw in an extra $5,000 if he could get it for him within the week.

  “Pictures, Tommy. Recordings. Even an article of clothing, cuff link, or jewelry. Something to make it stick.”

  Tommy understood. He had done this before—not so often as to damage his reputation, but enough when stakes were high. Time for a party, he mused. Tommy threw parties for his merchandise the way Iowa housewives threw celebrations for Tupperware. This one might even interest Lord Beckman. Although Beckman did not do drugs, and he was very discriminating and careful, he was still a high roller who could be induced if the prize was sweet enough. Beckman was also vicious, so much so that most of the boys refused to go back, but Tommy had the right bait this time.

  “Hey Tommy.” Harry stirred Tommy out of his musings. He issued a short salute, turned, and hastily said he would be in touch.

  Tomm
y returned to his party-planning revelry. What divine coincidence. Sweet profitable Columbian Gold for His Honor Mayor Harris, and two new imports ripe for Nelson R. Beckman’s pleasure.

  Business concluded, bar bill paid, and so longs noted, Harry gratefully wormed his way to the outside stench of the streets. He passed two obviously infatuated green-haired gents squeezing each other’s buttocks and kissing each other feverishly on the dance floor. “Oh jeez,” Harry thought. Harry was not a prude; he was just old. There were things he could just never get used to. Male, female, whatever—in his mind, some things just were not meant for public display.

  Harry almost fought his way through the final door to the outside world. He breathed deeply, and felt the need to walk two or three blocks just to get things into perspective. Deep down, he knew the world was not always as he perceived it. It just seemed so futile for some. God help those green-haired young people, he thought, drowning in a sea of welfare checks, drugs, and degradation. America’s melting pot, filled with nuances of ethnic bouquet and spices, had turned to gruel. Unfortunately, they didn’t know it, and no one took the time to tell them there was a sunrise. Anyway, who was he to talk? Ultimately, Harry always managed to end up swimming with the fishes in the same sewer. He made his way through the downtown squalor, whistled for a taxi, and went home. He hoped he wasn’t too late to catch the Rush Limbaugh show.

  Chapter 10