The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller

by David Haskell

“Anyway,” Ted continued, “I did take money.”

  “You did?”

  He didn’t really mean to let the cat out, but in a way it made him feel better. “Just once,” he admitted, “and it was before you got involved. I haven’t done anything behind your back, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Phil looked downcast. “I wasn’t,” he said quietly, “I never said—

  “I know. I just wanted you to know it’s not like that.”

  “I know,” Phil said. Then his face brightened suddenly. “Hey, here’s a thought. What if we set up a dummy account from ages ago. Convince legal it was just an old program everyone’s forgotten about?”

  Ted felt like a thousand-pound weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He’d have hugged Phil if it wouldn’t have freaked him out. “Buddy, you’re a genius.”

  Phil grinned, pulled the keyboard closer, and launched into a lightning round. In less than a half-hour of intensive coding, he had conjured up not only a long-forgotten mystery-department, but he’d manipulated the text and materials to look like documentation straight out of 1995. Brilliantly outdated, it couldn’t have looked more genuine.

  Ted whistled. “Jeez, man. Nice work. Can’t believe that was just created today!”

  “I know, right?” Phil beamed, looking back and forth between his handiwork and his friend, a puppy with a stick. “And the meta’ll hold up, too. They could even run it through Tech and it wouldn’t fail!”

  “Glad you’re on my side, that’s all I can say,” Ted gave Phil a pat on the shoulder, feeling another pullback, but not such an aggressive one this time. “Okay, let’s figure out how to feed it to legal.”

  * * *

  The dummy program was all it took to get legal off their back. Not only that, it was useful as an outlet going forward as well. Since it already technically existed, it could be used for filtering cash, correspondences, and even requisitions. None of the legal eagles took notice of the sudden change, so their venture became legitimate, a part of the corporate structure, like it’d been there all along.

  One man, far from the legal department, did take notice of what had happened. Hank Fangue never missed a trick. About two seconds from hammering whoever it was screwing around with the records, he got a call from Dennis Hamm, ordering him to back off.

  “You’re sure about that?” He didn’t expect a reversal, he just wanted to have it on the record twice. This time, he pushed the record button beside the phone just in time to catch the CEO’s reply.

  “Of course I’m sure, damn it,” Hamm said, “You think you’re the only one keeping track of the comings and goings in this company? I’ve got my own people on it, so you just drop it like I told you, and worry about your own problems. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Fangue replied, offering no reaction to the emotional outburst of his superior. “Consider it dropped.”

  “Good.” Hamm waited a moment. With no reaction forthcoming, he dismissed his subordinate with a wave.

  Unflappable, Fangue simply nodded and left the room.

  ~ 7 ~

  Meetings

  Ted and Phil went into the city straight from work, leaving the car behind in overnight parking just in case—something of a prophetic move since they were at a loss to recall how they wound up getting home. Someone must have poured them into a cab, though even that much was pure conjecture.

  Neither of them ventured downtown very much, preferring to remain amid their familiar streets and mundane surroundings. The bigger reason was a lack of friends to hang out with, but that was something they usually didn’t admit, even to themselves. Ted did have a record of sociability to lean on, a few upperclassmen semesters back in the day when he wasn’t entirely unpopular. Phil was just happy to have a legitimate companion at all, his college years being no different than any other.

  They started slow, selecting a British pub where they could work up their buzz in a low-stress environment. Over beer and appetizers, with no external pressures to speak of, they began to shed their work-conditioned exteriors, but they still spent the early part of the night talking business. There was just no other point of reference to work from. Offsite company discussion was strongly discouraged by Sahara, but few employees heeded that rule. Even though it wasn’t crowded yet, there was enough of a din to offer a reasonable amount of privacy, so they spoke openly.

  “What’s he like?” Phil asked, reaching for a bowl of unshelled nuts. He eyed the bowl, looking for dirt and contaminants apparently. He gingerly removed a nut and turned it over to examine the other side. Then he split it between his fingers and tossed it into his mouth, gagged, and spit out several shell splinters.

  “He who?” Ted knew, but the question came out anyway.

  “You know,” Phil said, “Dennis Hamm. The big kahuna. What’s he like in person?”

  Ted thought about it. “I dunno. Kind of boisterous, I guess. Confident. But friendly enough. He’s not so imposing, really.”

  The last part was a lie. Ted was extremely intimidated by the man. Just the memory of their meeting threw him into an anxiety spiral.

  “Oh, really? I’d like to meet him sometime.”

  Phil was trying to sound engaged, which took some effort. Ted could appreciate his struggle, just watching it was painful enough.

  After a few rounds, they elected to switch up ‘to give our asses a stretch’ as Ted so delicately phrased it. Phil came up with a mildly witty crack about how gay that sounded, but he screwed up the timing completely. Then he added ‘sounds fine’, his attempt to smooth over the awkwardness. Finding another joint not too far away, this one a psychedelic club of some variety, the sound system was belting out a heavy bottom sound but conversation was still an option, so they slid up to the bar and ordered beers again. Peaceful though it had seemed when they entered, the place quickly filled up with an eclectic crowd. Before long, there was noise and energy and the possibility of interactions. This made Phil drink faster, wanting to ensure a quick escape, but at the same time he had to inspect the glass between each sip for germs.

  Ted chuckled but said nothing. He was beginning to feel the booze. Looking around for an excuse to use his liquid courage, Ted spotted a goth girl a couple stools down and shouted, “You come here often?” He winced at his own idiocy, wishing he could take back the lame line.

  “What?” she yelled. Lucky break, he thought, trying to think of something better to say. Looking around for ideas, he spied a stage in the corner with a guitar and stool set up. Now that it caught his attention, he realized that people were gravitating that way, waiting for something.

  “You here to see the band?” he yelled back, still feeling self-conscious, but marginally happier with the line.

  “The band?” she hollered back, “Til Nune, you mean?”

  “Noon?” he glanced at his watch, shaking his head negative. “It’s almost quarter to eight!”

  She shook her head and shouted “Nune! N.U.N.E.! Til Nune, we came to see her!”

  He shook his head once again, catching little of the shout aside from the odd spelling of whatever group these weirdos were so excited about. He raised a glass. She lit a cigarette and rolled her eyes. Good enough, he thought, turning back to his companion. Phil didn’t look so good. Between the excitement and the booze he was on the verge of hyperventilating. Ted tried to reassure him. “No worries! We’ll go as soon as we finish!”

  Phil looked at him with a panicked expression of non-comprehension, but when Ted raised his glass and nodded, he seemed to get the hint, settling back into his seat and burying his gaze in the tall mug lest anyone else make eye contact.

  With a roar, the crowd rushed the stage. It was impossible to see who or what was causing the commotion in the crunch of bodies, but Ted was surprised by the mellow, earthy sounds that emanated from the stage. A hypnotic hush fell across the room.

  Even though the view was blocked, Ted was impressed with the level of presence coming off that small stage. The singer produced m
ore in the way of raw energy than all her screaming fans combined. She’s a pro. She worked the room, keeping them under her spell, keeping them fixated on the center stage—every movement, every sound lifting the collective vibe higher and higher, up and into a climax that stretched on into the very last chord.

  Focused on the music, Ted felt a twinge of annoyance at the sudden tug on his sleeve, forcing his attention away from the girl on the stage. He glared at Phil, who looked horrified by the spectacle while motioning furiously at the door. Ted shook it off, holding up his half-filled beer mug as an excuse to stay. Turning his attention back to the feelings that girl was drawing out from deep inside him, he closed his eyes to block out his surroundings, taking it all in. He knew Phil was probably getting more upset by the minute, but he couldn’t have cared less. Her captivating voice was the only thing holding his attention now.

  After what seemed a long time in no time at all, the way a captivating performance can bend time itself, Til Nune was gone, leaving Ted to stare at an empty stage. Despite the cajoling crowd, she didn’t go back up there, but they piped down and disbursed quickly enough, so it seemed encores were a rarity. Ted turned his attention back to his neglected beer and forsaken friend, but Phil was in no mood to talk. He looked just short of enraged. Ted felt badly enough to order up another drink on his own tab, but the gesture didn’t help one bit. Giving up, he shrugged and looked back to the stage where the girl, visible at last, was signing autographs and chatting up her fans.

  She was no knockout, but had a pretty enough face with a slender, sexy looking body played up to the hilt in a tight t-shirt and daisy duke jeans. She wore little makeup, just enough to fend off the glare of footlights, and her hair was tied back in a bouncy ponytail that moved enticingly as she nodded, listened and signed things for the lingerers. Ted waited long enough for most of them to disburse before plucking up the courage to order a drink for the lady and make his own way over to the stage.

  “Nice set!” he said, his attempt at enthusiasm an embarrassment to his own ears. “Nice show, I mean,” he tried again. It hardly came out better, but at least the double entendre was gone. He tried a smile, managing only a painful grimace.

  She wasn’t paying his expression or his comments much attention anyway, which made him feel optimistic about his chances. The ones that paid attention were the ones who noticed something negative right off the bat. “Thanks,” she drolled in an absent way. She was too busy counting up the cash that sprinkled the bottom of her guitar case, the sum total of tips and homemade CD sales. A large, unsold stack of them teetered beside the case. Her fans, while enthusiastic, were hardly the wealthy sort. Besides, most of them had probably already bought their copy. The singer certainly seemed local enough to have saturated the neighborhood market by now.

  Ted decided to try once more to get her attention, and if that didn’t work he would get back to Phil. But he never got the chance—Phil opted to intrude on their conversation instead. “Okay, Ted,” he blurted, hardly looking at the girl, “you had your drink, let’s get out before this place gets noisy again, okay?”

  The girl found that amusing enough to abandon her counting, stuffing the cash into her pockets with effort before sticking her hand out. “Til Nune. Nice to meet you.”

  Taken aback, Phil returned the handshake and averted his eyes, unsure of what came next. Ted stepped in and stuck his own hand into the mix, “that’s Phil, my buddy from work, and I’m Ted. Ted Ward.”

  She returned the handshake with a smile. Her palm was slightly sweaty from handling the guitar and the money, which didn’t go unnoticed by Phil. He’d already pulled out a handkerchief and was wiping his hands in what he thought was an unobtrusive way. Keeping up the subterfuge, he pulled off his glasses and wiped them, too, eliciting another smile from the girl.

  Trying to redirect her attention from Phil, Ted dipped his head down to force eye contact and said, “You’re really great. I loved that last tune you played.”

  “Oh, ‘Mercy Have Mercy’? You like it?”

  Ted made a mental note of the title for later, and said, “Oh, yeah. It’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks. It’s my one and only chart topper. Got all the way up to the top 100 free tunes on Sahara last month.”

  “Wow, you don’t say! We work at Sahara, actually.”

  Ignoring the mention, Phil gave up and plunked himself down at an empty table, anxiously waiting out this latest disruption. Ted half-wondered if he might actually leave, but realized at the same time he didn’t care one way or the other.

  “Wow, Sahara, huh?” Til was saying.

  He directed his focus back where it belonged, “Yes. In fact, I think I saw your song up there last month when it broke in,” he lied, “I’d like to buy a CD from you, in fact. We both do.”

  Phil looked up, recognizing the fact he’d been unwillingly committed. “No I don’t.”

  Ted shot him a warning stare, but the singer laughed.

  Reaching around for his wallet, Ted casually said, “How much?”

  “Twenty-nine ninety-five.”

  “Ouch!” Phil said.

  “Sounds great! I’ll take two,” he said enthusiastically, putting away the fifty he’d withdrawn and removing a trio of twenties instead. He handed them over and she snatched two CD’s from the pile, which wobbled jenga-style before settling. They swapped valuables and she crammed the three bills into her skin-tight pocket, drawing attention to her eye-popping short pants. Smiling and huffing a bit, she finally got them put away.

  “You owe him a dime,” Phil chimed in.

  Ted quickly said, “don’t worry about it,” holding up his new possessions and smiling again. “I really appreciate it. Can’t wait to get home and give them a listen.” He noticed an email address on the back, along with a hairline crack across one of the cases. He noted the first, ignoring the second.

  “Hey!” Phil just didn’t know when to shut up. “One of them’s damaged!”

  “Oh, geez, I’m sorry,” Til said, moving in for a closer look.

  “It’s fine, it’s just the case. I’ve got a bunch of extras at home,” Ted lied.

  “You do? Good.”

  Ted was relieved that she didn’t go back to the stack, imagining how awkward it would have been to help her pick them up off the floor. Then again, it might have seemed chivalrous. Oh well.

  “Hey, if you can wait a half hour or so,” she offered, “I have one more set tonight. That way you wouldn’t have to listen at home.”

  Phil groaned openly, anticipating yet another auditory assault. But Ted, surprising even himself, chose to beg off. It wasn’t for the sake of his friend, really, but because he was terrible at small talk. Things had gone so smoothly, which was a rarity, that he figured leaving well enough alone was the best course of action.

  “We’d love to, but we’re supposed to meet some other people over on Main Street.”

  “We are?” Phil blurted out. Ted shot him a withering stare. “Oh. Right. Those people.”

  “Yeah, those people.”

  “Oh,”—she sounded disappointed, though he took it as just part of the show—“okay then. Maybe I’ll see you guys around the bar sometime?”

  “Yeah, maybe so,” Ted said while Phil was shaking his head ‘no’.

  Definitely, Ted thought, backing away and waving the undamaged CD in her direction. She waved back, but her attention was back on the guitar case, feeling around the corners for loose change.

  Out on the sidewalk, with patches of streetlights flickering to life above them, Ted realized with a start that it was barely nine o’clock. It’d seemed much later in the haze of the club. He decided to goad his friend into staying out a little while longer, though Phil was all fume and sulk at this point, and clearly ready to pack it in. He reluctantly agreed to ‘just one more round’, so long as it was someplace quiet. Just a few minutes earlier Ted would’ve told him to take his sullen ass home for all he cared, but he was feeling drained after his heady e
ncounter with that girl. He needed easy companionship from a fellow introvert, and Phil was at hand.

  They hopped a cab and got a recommendation from the driver, who promised ‘Yeah, it’s quiet, place is damned near dead most nights’. This suited Phil, and Ted didn’t care either way. His head was really swimming. Through the drunken haze he vaguely remembered being impressed with how much of a hollow leg Phil had. There was an argument on the sidewalk over how much to tip before one of them—Ted couldn’t remember who—slammed the cab door much too hard. That noise was Ted’s last memory of the evening.

  ~ 8 ~

  Victories

  “I was thinking of calling it the gold club,” Ted said, trying to sound casual. He was enthusiastic about the name to a fault, actually, despite the similarities he found on the internet to certain elements of the black market, Gentlemen’s clubs, and worse. He worried about what might happen if any of the clients tried to do a search on the name. Who knows what they might drum up, or what they might find themselves associating the name with. But he hoped that might not occur to Phil, at least not before he had a chance to roll it over in his head and get used to it.

  “Gold Club?” Looking up, eyes wide, he made Ted feel like he’d said something stupid. A sudden churning, sinking sensation came over him as Phil continued on, “Seriously? You don’t think that kinda sounds like a porno or something?” Screwing up his face into an expression of distaste, like he was sucking on lemons, Phil wasn’t even trying to hide his opinion. There it is, then.

  “I don’t know, maybe you’re right,” Ted replied, looking back at his partner as his sense of pride quickly deflated, “Maybe it does sound like that.” He’d honestly tried to convince himself it wasn’t all that painfully obvious. “I kinda liked it, though,” he finished, almost whispering.

  Phil’s expression changed, like he’d suddenly resolved to take pity on Ted. Or else he was afraid of being offensive all of a sudden. “We can stick with it until you figure something better out, I guess,” he said. He sounded like an unconvinced man trying to feign support.