The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller

by David Haskell

  “Yeah, I know.” The thief swallowed hard. “It was really stupid,” he said, adding a quick, “I’m so sorry about all this.”

  The hasty apology, a desperate attempt to solve the problem without consequences, served no useful purpose. Fangue had heard it all before. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, “So this is your first time, then?”

  “First time? Absolutely, yeah,” he said, taking Fangue’s prompt, “definitely. I’ve never, ever done anything like this.”

  Fangue shook his head slowly, reaching over the bread to snatch a remote control off the desk. The accused worker gasped involuntarily as he guessed what was about to happen.

  There was no need to even push play. “Okay!” he cracked, “I did it before. A few times. But only some packaged food, it cost a buck or two. Never more than that.”

  The inspector set down the remote, flung open a drawer, and tossed an ominous looking form onto the desk. Employee Reprimand was printed in large type across the top and along the sides. There was a signature line at the bottom, the offender’s name already typed in. “Sign that,” growled the operative, “and you’ll get a warning.”

  The man practically twisted up his own hands in his haste, grabbing for a pen and looking the paper over quickly. His gut-ache easing for the first time since he’d entered the room. Relief flooded through him, evoking the image of a condemned man on a last minute reprieve. Thank God, he mumbled inwardly, signing without hesitation.

  Fangue took the paper, gave it a once-over, then jammed it into a FAX machine behind his chair and punched in some numbers. Most of his colleagues preferred the modern methods, but this way was traceable, not to mention legally binding. The familiar clicks and whines of a FAX transmission filled the room, while Fangue reached over and picked up the phone.

  “This is Hank Fangue down in security. Yeah, could you find me the number of the shoplifting division at precinct seven? I know, I had it here somewhere but I was looking and I guess I misplaced my extensions list. Thanks.”

  The criminal stared, wide-eyed and mouth agape, as he watched Fangue jot down a number and hang up.

  “You’re going to report me?”

  “Well, yeah,” Fangue said, “for a start. Then we’re going to prosecute you.”

  “Oh, Christ.” The man put his head in his hands. “You promised me I’d get a warning. What the hell?”

  “You’ll get your warning. And then, after the suspension, you’ll get fired. Then prosecuted.” A leering grin broke out over Fangue's face, highlighting wrinkles around the edges and a tar-stained mouth.

  “But you said—” The man's expression disintegrated, cautious optimism turning into a composite of outrage and incredulity. He was pissed as well as devastated.

  The security man pointed a finger at his own chest. “I said?”

  “You set me up!”

  “Your word against mine, pal,” Fangue replied, massaging the back of his neck. Then, glancing over at the confession that had worked its way through the machine, he gestured towards it. “My word, and your signature.”

  * * *

  The warehouse was active around the clock, but cubicle farm dwellers and higher typically worked eight to six. In the executive corner, most had already gone home. Since everyone pulled double-duty when the boss was in town, there were always those unfortunates with piles of work left to finish. With any such stragglers back in their own departments playing catch-up, though, the main workspace was eerily quiet.

  The CEO’s door was closed and the lights were dimmed, in keeping with the lateness of the hour. The boss was seated behind an imposing, completely out-of-place for a warehouse, mahogany desk. His security task-force was scattered around the room, a few taking notes while most of them sat around with vaguely disagreeable expressions. He nodded and half-listened, each in turn relating some trivial detail about some boring assignment. He wasn’t interested in such tedium—it was usually summarized in a written brief, and he barely even glanced at that.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Hamm smiled, cutting off another long-winded account, “I surely am impressed with all this. Very nice work. Fine work.” He grinned wider, and made a motion toward the door. Most of them stood to leave immediately. A couple walked over to thank him personally and shake his hand. One of them whipped out a handkerchief to wipe his palm afterward, thinking nobody had noticed. The face was duly noted and the infraction filed away. There would be a time for retribution somewhere along the line, unless the offender was lucky enough to be forgotten.

  Once the room cleared, only Evans, the security team leader, and one of his operatives, Hank Fangue, remained with the boss. Fangue hadn’t moved, sitting across the room and up against the wall. He paid no attention to his supervisor, directing his gaze over the wide desk and onto Hamm.

  “Hank,” Evans prodded, but Fangue didn’t move. An unpleasant confrontation was waved off by the CEO.

  “That’s fine, you go on ahead,” Hamm said, “I’ve got a little something I want to discuss with your man Fangue here.”

  With a professional nod to the boss, and little indication of concern, he walked out. Fangue got up slowly, and casually walked over to the desk to sit across from his real employer.

  “I hear you’ve been, let’s say effective, lately?”

  “Lately?”

  Hamm laughed. A tiny crumb flew out of his mouth and disappeared, just before he moved a hand up to block his face, too late to be worth the effort. He shook it off and said, “Impressive, my boy. Very impressive.” Fangue didn’t respond, sitting back in his chair and glancing around the room, giving no indication that he was impressed with the surroundings. “I have to say,” Hamm pressed on, “this isn’t a place I’m really comfortable—”

  “Was there something you needed from me?” Fangue interrupted.

  The CEO opened and closed his mouth a few times, taken aback by the bluntness. “Alright then, I’ll get right to the point. I’m going to promote you, Mr. Fangue,” said Hamm, his lips upturning to offer his benefactor smile, scrunching up the five o’clock shadow to reveal patches of grey. Again, no reaction from the security man. No smile, not even a satisfied expression, nothing. A totally blank canvas. This is why he’s so good at his job. Cold as ice, unflappable, the cop shtick personified.

  “But, I need to feel like I have your complete trust,” Hamm said. He walked around to the front of his desk, leaned his ample rear end back onto it, and crossed his arms. Then he leaned forward, close, giving Fangue a whiff of coffee and garlic. “I can trust you. Can’t I?”

  * * *

  Fangue walked back to security with a deliberate stride, more slowly than usual, giving himself time to process this new development. He’d fully expected a promotion—that had been in the works for a while. But leapfrogging to the top in one go? That was surprising. There had to be some ulterior motive at play. And all that talk about trust? Fangue didn’t like games, particularly where his own interests were concerned.

  The assignment to ‘prove himself’ was another oddity. There was no challenge to it. In fact, it was a walk in the park. Below his station, really, particularly his new one. He would’ve assigned it to one of his men if Hamm hadn’t insisted he handle it personally. Ella Jones, a two-bit blogger hardly worth his attention, had become a problem for the company and needed to be dealt with. Fine. He'd deal with her if it'd get Hamm off his back. There seemed to be more to this, though, and he resented being kept in the dark, even by his boss. Especially by this boss.

  Fangue had dealt with his type before. In this line of work, recognizing suspicious behavior went with the territory, and Hamm was as suspicious as they came. His rise to power was atypical in a number of respects, not the least of which being the fact that he always seemed to have the drop on his competition. He was adept at pulling the rug out from under a competitor just when said person was gaining momentum. Rumor had it Hamm was using some unethical means, but nobody ever came forward with proof. However he was pull
ing it off, he wasn’t leaving any traces. If he had people working for him, inside or out, they were loyal. The kind of loyalty you couldn’t buy. It could only be earned.

  Fangue didn’t know how the likes of Hamm could earn such devotion. Friends, maybe. Fraternity promises. It was hard to pinpoint the nature of his advantage, but it went beyond simple savvy or some great luck. He was pulling strings, had to have been doing so to get as far as he had. Family may have played a part too, they almost certainly had to factor in somewhere. But most of them were too prominent to have taken on any sort of nefarious role. And the way they were unceremoniously dumped off the board when he took charge spoke volumes.

  While the nature of Hamm’s network wasn’t yet clear, Fangue would flesh it out. He wasn’t in the habit of underestimating his opponents, and Hamm was no exception. Despite his lack of respect for the man, he knew Hamm had capabilities and resources, even if they weren’t immediately apparent. He would find them, it was only a matter of time.

  When he got back he headed straight for his computer, speaking to no one. He typed in his password and initiated a trace on Hamm’s portfolio, in order to compile a list of associates. Once he had names, he could begin looking into unusual activities on behalf of the CEO. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Evans packing up his office, the one with the sliding windows overlooking the workfloor. He was shoving awards, pictures and other personal items into a cardboard box on the desk, which meant he had no intention of returning tomorrow. Fangue would measure the drapes soon enough, but there was no need for a confrontation. He didn't hate Evans. The guy was competent, if a little on the procedural side for Fangue’s taste. And now he was irrelevant. Whether by transfer or outright termination, he was no longer an obstacle. Fangue could afford to be magnanimous. He'd shake hands and wish him well, if Evans felt like approaching him to say goodbye. He figured the odds were around fifty-fifty.

  ~ 4 ~

  Plans

  Ted stared in wonder at the massive stream of data pouring down the screen. “We’ve got our hands on the motherlode here,”—he shook his head—“isn’t it incredible?”

  “Not really,” Phil replied, glancing around as though they were being watched, “this isn’t anything new. You just have to know where to look.” He coughed nervously, knocking his greasy glasses halfway down his nose. He looked momentarily disoriented, then pushed them back into place with an indelicate finger to the center frame.

  No wonder they’re greasy. “New to me,” Ted muttered, feeling disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm. He returned his attention to the screen, clicking furiously through the directories—an executive evaluation here, an entertainment expense account there—it was like Christmas. “Can’t you just imagine what someone could do with all this?”

  “I don’t like imagining at work,” replied Phil, scratching his head, “I prefer to actually work.”

  Ted resisted the desire to shoot him a dirty look. What was this guy’s problem?

  “Okay, now,” Phil urged, still scratching, “you’ve been through it all. Can we close out please?”

  “What’s wrong?” Ted goaded, “afraid your Infotech buddies’ll catch on?”

  “No, but you should be. You’re lucky I helped you when I did, you were clomping around in there like a bull in a cellphone shop.”—he guffawed for several seconds, ending with a kind of a snuffle-snort—“You’d better listen to me after this, or they will catch you.”

  But Ted had stopped listening. “Just imagine...” he said in a far-away tone. He swiveled absently, pushing off one foot then the other to change direction. “You know, Phil, I had this vartist the other day complaining about how shabby Sahara treated her. The system is rigged, everything’s designed to make the rich folks richer. That’s how she put it.”

  “How’d she find out?”

  The matter-of-fact comment threw Ted for a loop. “Wait, you mean it’s true?”

  “Sure it’s true.” He said it like the whole thing was just common sense. “Infotech gets those kinds of instructions all the time. You don’t think we’d leave anything that important up to chance, do you?”

  “Jesus, Phil,” Ted’s eyes widened, “do you realize what you’re saying? If the media got wind of this—

  “Why would they?” he replied, “Infotech’s the only ones who know about it. Well, them and you too now, I guess.”

  “Jesus.”

  “It’s all right there,”—Phil gestured at the computer, then touched it with affection—“you just have to know where to look.”

  Ted gave Phil a long, contemplative stare. “Show me.”

  * * *

  Phil demonstrated the sort of tweaks he was capable of, bouncing Lucinda Littleton from the sunken depths of obscurity all the way up into the top ten. He was about to drop her back down when Ted put up a hand. “Hang on. Just—” Ted called up a different set of variables, checking her actual sales. Still as meager as before. Organic growth might’ve begun to creep in after a while, if they left it up long enough, but that could take forever. Sahara algorithms did the job so much more efficiently. “All you did was change her rank, the sales aren’t in line anymore.”

  “Sure, but we can change that just as easy.” He demonstrated, clacking for a few seconds in complicated syntax Ted wasn’t entirely familiar with. In a blink, Lucinda Littleton had ‘sold’ seven hundred units.

  “We’re going to have to pay her,” Ted warned.

  Phil shook his head. “It’s not live. You think I’d be stupid enough to demo a live version?” He emitted another snuffle-snort, reaching for the keyboard.

  But Ted wasn’t entirely in the dark when it came to hacking. Beating Phil to the punch, he typed in a few hasty lines of his own on top of the existing code. Phil cried out; ‘Wait!’ a beat too late to matter—the woman’s data was already coursing through the system.

  “Ted!” Phil screamed, wide-eyed. “Why’d you do that? For God’s sake, don’t you know? That’s going straight to accounts payable now!”

  Ted leaned back and rested his head in his arms.

  “This is serious, Ted!”

  Phil’s face went red. He attempted a head-fake move for the console, but Ted snatched it away just ahead of Phil’s outstretched fingers, moving it out of reach. Phil grunted as he strained for it, but Ted had the upper hand.

  “Come on!” Phil whined, his expression turning pained. “Give it back! Give it here, Ted. I need to clean up your mess! I’d like to get out of here sometime today if you don’t mind!”

  Ted’s arm remained outstretched. He laughed involuntarily at Phil’s effort to overpower him, giving him a flashback to grade school. The sudden realization that he was stressing this man to the breaking point froze him in mid-chortle. As if to add to the melodrama, Phil’s lip started to quiver. He actually looked as though he might cry, though he was scrunching up his eyes and fighting against it while still trying to grab the elusive keyboard.

  Feeling like a bully all of a sudden, Ted muttered a quick apology and handed back the keyboard. Phil snatched it with a grunt, turned his back on Ted, and zoned into the code. In under a minute Ted’s alterations were history.

  Embarrassed over the situation, Ted tried apologizing a second time, but Phil continued to ignore him. “She is going to be disappointed, though,” Ted hinted, gauging Phil’s reaction with care, “when she finds out what happened. More than disappointed. She’ll probably be pretty devastated...”

  His expression softened for a moment, but then he shook his head. “She’ll just think it’s a glitch.”

  “Seven hundred sales is an awfully big glitch. What if I could figure out a way to pay her? That’d be a win-win, wouldn’t it?”

  * * *

  Phil gave Ted a critical glance, like he was sizing up a piece of defective hardware. “You call this a victimless crime?”

  Ted’s eyes darted around. He shhhhhush’ed at Phil and gave him the ‘stifle it’ hand signal at the same time. “It’s not a crim
e at all. Think of it like a public service. And yes it is victimless. Think about it, who’s getting hurt?”

  “How about Sahara?” Phil challenged.

  “You don’t think they benefit from the additional sales revenue? Plus having more vartists moving up the charts means more exposure, which is all good for the brand. See?”

  Phil nodded ‘yes’, then switched to a vehement ‘no’ in mid-shake. “It’s not right. We can’t do it.”

  Ted nodded ‘yes’ back at him, trying to confuse Phil back into agreement. They bobbed and shook at each other for a minute, getting nowhere. “Look, if we don’t help these people, nobody will. You know this. And the ones at the top don’t need any help. Hell, they don’t even need Sahara.”

  Phil was still shaking ‘no’, but Ted was detecting the tiniest hint of softening. Time to move in and finish it.

  “If someone had helped you when you were just starting out, would you have been okay with that?”

  “Well, yeah. I guess—”

  “So imagine if they could’ve helped you,” Ted steamrolled, “but chose not to instead? Would that have ticked you off?”

  “Maybe,” Phil admitted. “Yeah, it would, actually.”

  “Right! So imagine how disappointed these poor, hardworking vartists are going to be, knowing that a guy like you, with power and influence to spare, just left ‘em out to dry. Didn’t even lift a finger to help.”

  Phil thought about it, his face crumbling and his lip starting to quiver. “I don’t want anybody to think that!”

  “Damned right you don’t!” Ted exclaimed, playing cheerleader to the hilt, “I don’t blame you one bit. So what’s it gonna be, buddy?”

  He paused, cocked his head and stared up at the ceiling, deep in thought. Finally he said, measuring his words with care, “If there was just some way to do it the right way, make it completely fair for everyone...”

  Breaking into a wide smile, Ted simply said, “I’m listening.”

  * * *

  In the end, it came down to Phil’s desire to be philanthropic. Spread the wealth was his argument in a nutshell.