The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller

by David Haskell

  He wouldn't have hung around a bar all night if not for the fact that he couldn't miss his meeting. The contact had all the materials he would need— badges, codes...the works. He was in a strange city and didn't know his way around, he dared not leave and try to find his way back later. Besides, his contact was due any minute. The fact that he got drunk, then, wasn’t entirely his fault, not by his way of thinking at least. It was a simple fact of circumstance, unavoidable, and not at all irresponsible.

  He'd forgotten how hungry he was after drinking a beer, and by the third round he was feeling pretty intoxicated. Intoxication mixed with stress, though, which meant he couldn’t really enjoy the buzz. When his contact showed up an hour and forty-five minutes late, he was beside himself. Snatching the identification and the passcodes without so much as a thank you, Phil dismissed the subordinate. He was about to call it a night himself when a low voice crooned from the far end of the bar.

  “You in town on business, hon?” she asked. He had just enough of a buzz on to keep him from putting his head down and walking away. Instead, he nodded and answered in the affirmative.

  “You work for Sahara, I take it?”

  The question took him by surprise. Had that brief meeting been so obvious? He was sure they hadn’t mentioned the company. He’d hardly let the man get a word in.

  But she was laughing, then pointing to his rear end. He twisted around, trying to get a look. She sounded amused when she said, “Your badge. It's sticking out.”

  What? At first he thought she meant the I.D. badge meant for tomorrow, one that nobody should see until he was in the data center. But no, he’d put all that material into his bag, nobody could possibly have seen it. When he realized what she was referring to, he felt incredible relief—even her eyes on his posterior didn’t bother him anymore. It was the laminate.

  Of all the things he'd passed up on his escape from the office, the laminate had been the one item he didn't want to leave behind. He'd stuck it into his back pocket just before taking off, and he'd been on the move ever since. Lucky I didn't lose it on the train, he thought, reaching back to stuff it down in the hopes that might take the attention off his ass.

  “Got a name?” she asked, getting up and moving closer, holding out her hand.

  Phil shied away, but muttered his name. His hand jerked upward to join hers, and they shook awkwardly.

  “Hi, Phil. I'm Brandi. Nice to meet you. You staying at the Executive?”

  With a flash of panic, he realized that he didn't remember the name of that fleabag motel of his. Afraid she might demand it, he lied, “Yeah, the Executive,”—he turned to look at the exit and pointed, losing his balance so that he had to reach back and steady himself on the bar—“across the way there.”

  She looked over at the door, then back to Phil with a smile, showing him her perfect teeth. “Gonna buy me a drink, Phil?”

  Phil finished his own drink in one long swallow, then nodded to the stranger. She told him what she wanted, winked, then excused herself—off to powder her nose while he ordered ‘something fun’, as per her request. Staring after her as she walked away, Phil lost his balance again while trying to set the glass back on the counter. He went ass over kettle, taking the glass and half the bar with him. Thank heaven his lady friend had already disappeared into the restroom, that would’ve been the end of their relationship.

  Feeling the room spin from the fall, or more likely the booze, he gave himself a minute. Glancing around the filthy floor, he spied the girl’s purse tucked under a stool. He absently picked it up and dusted it off. Then he reached out for a piece of broken glass, but the bartender had already come around and was waving him off.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, feeling his way back to the chair and fondling the purse, which he’d neglected to put back after inspection. With a furtive glance at the bathrooms, he snuck a peek. Her I.D. Was telling in many ways. For one thing, she wasn’t a blond. That wasn’t so surprising, but the name was all wrong too. He could swear it started with a ‘B’, but this was ‘D’, as in Denise. He squinted to make out the last name. Harm. What? No. Hamm? Couldn’t be. A feeling of apprehension hit him right then, and being the final memory of the night it stuck with him even as the rest of the evening faded to black.

  * * *

  The last thing Judy Schott expected was a call from one of Hamm’s contacts. He’d told her he was working with other people, but as far as she knew none of them were supposed to be dealing directly with her. Apparently this one never got the memo. “Judith Schott? This is Brandi, Denny Hamm’s friend from Portland?”—she seemed amused when she landed on the word ‘friend’—“I’m calling to let you know I got him.”

  “I’m sorry, you got him?” Judy replied, not at all sure what the caller was talking about. “Got who?”

  “Phil Caldorian. I got him. So what should I do with him?”

  Judy was vaguely aware that this might be part of Hamm’s plan. There were contingencies for dealing with Caldorian, this was probably just one of them.

  That still didn’t explain what Judy was supposed to do about it, though, so she attempted to confirm. “You’re with Caldorian now?”

  There was a pause on the other end. “Kind of,” Brandi sounded hesitant now, “he’s in my trunk.”

  Judy was stunned. She had no idea that the CEO would go to such extremes. “Hamm told you to kidnap Phil Caldorian?”

  “Well, I was more supposed to rob him, that was Denny’s suggestion for keeping him away. But it didn’t exactly work out that way, so now he’s in my trunk. Should I hand him over to one of the guys here, or—

  “Wait!” Judy felt compelled to intervene. “No, don’t involve anyone else. Does anyone else know he’s in there?”

  “Naw, I did it myself. He’s out like a light. I roofied him on top of a bunch of booze, he won’t wake up til Christmas.”

  Drugged and robbed. This was fast heading down the road to San Quentin.

  “Okay, that’s it then. You’re done. Put him back where you found him, then call back about the payment.”

  “What’d ya mean, where I found him? I found him in a bar. You want me to put him back there?”

  “No.” She thought for a minute. “Are you near the car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Empty his pockets, see if he’s got car keys or room keys or anything.”

  There was a long pause. Judy heard the distant slam of a trunk, then Brandi the Kidnapper was back. “Yeah, he’s got a hotel key. Bad neighborhood, wow.”

  “Bring him back there, and put him in the room.”

  “This is kind of a pain in the ass, lady, you know that right?”

  “Just do it,” she ordered. Then she thought better of her demanding tone, adding, “I’ll make sure you get compensated for the extra work.”

  A staccato snap hit Judy’s ear. It took a moment for her to realize it must be gum. “Okay, that works,” Brandi said, smacking her lips, “but if Denny gets pissed it’s on you. Right?”

  “Yes,” Judy promised, “it’s on me.”

  Hamm keeps ramping things up, she said to herself, how much is this lunatic capable of? It wasn’t the first time she’d questioned his sanity. Given the fact that he’d changed plans on Hank at the last minute as well, it was becoming increasingly difficult to read his intentions. If there was some ulterior motive there, it would behoove her to find out what it was. Add it to the list, she reminded herself, thinking through the numerous tasks she needed to handle tomorrow.

  ~ 36 ~

  Conditions

  Sahara Day began with an official call on the warehouse to relieve the night crew. Rather than the usual change of shift, in this case the night crew was marched to the fair grounds, accompanied by a drum and bugle corps, where they could partake in the early events in time for them to get back home at a decent hour. They, too, had the shift off, but that would be later on tonight when nothing would be going on for them to enjoy. Every associate has the day off on Saha
ra Day! Management was so fond of repeating that, the rank and file drones had grown sick of hearing it.

  The day came with fine weather and the mood was appropriately festive. Not too many of the norm-shifters had staggered in just yet, given that most of them had spent the previous night getting plastered. Only the executives were in for the long haul, their VIP tent about to be filled to overflowing with local celebrities. For them it was all hands on deck, and execs from alternate regions had been flown in just to provide relief. Of all the Sahara personnel, these were the only ones who were discouraged from inviting family. Not that they wouldn’t have enjoyed seeing them, but their function today was geared toward adult sorts of entertainment in the tent. Children would only get underfoot, and interfere with the flirting and the drinking. So that was one rule they passed along to each other and followed carefully. Wives might show up late in the day, but only after babysitting had been arranged.

  For the regular employees, there were no ready alcohol sources, and flirting was highly risky with all the families around. The day was far more a social obligation than anything else. Their kids had fun. They themselves just tried to make the most of it, and hope they didn’t have to interact with their bosses too much. They indulged in games for the kids and ate lukewarm carnival fare, spending too much money in the process—although Sahara policy used to provide for refreshments, recent economic slumps had led to cutbacks that even Sahara Day couldn’t escape. Nothing was free.

  Marge Klein was one of the first of the regulars to show up. Having decided to leave Sahara and pursue the good life full time, this was perhaps the last chance she’d have to see some of her old workmates before she dropped out. Not that she cared much about them one way or the other, but she felt compelled to show her face. Now that she was out of the club, hardly seeing anyone anymore, she knew the rumors had been flying. This was one way to stamp them out.

  “Hey Marge,” Joan said upon arrival, “it’s great to see you!”

  Marge smiled, feigning affection. “Joan, you’re looking well. I was hoping to run into you.”

  Joan lowered her voice, “A lot of the girls have been asking about you. They want to know if you’re okay. Since you’ve been gone, you know.”

  Marge nodded. “I’m fine. Tell them that, will you?”—she looked around the fairgrounds, acknowledging the few familiar faces she could see with waves—“Or I will, if I can catch up with everyone. Have you seen the boys?”

  There were so few men involved in the club, Ted and Phil had become easily identifiable as ‘the boys’, though neither of them much cared for the term.

  “You didn’t know?” she said, sounding surprised. “Oh, right. How could you? They’re out of town on business, actually. Or at least that’s what they claimed. You know how those two can be.”

  Marge felt shoulders drop into a more relaxed posture. She was surprised, but at the same time relieved at the burden being lifted. “Out of town? On Sahara Day?”

  “I know. They’ve been planning it for days, all hush-hush about what they’re up to as usual. We hear things though.”

  I’ll bet you do. “Well, Joan, it’s lovely to see you. I’m going this way”—she pointed behind herself—“and mingle. See you later?”

  Joan was already looking elsewhere, having spotted a friend closer to her age. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Talk to you in a bit, Marge!”

  * * *

  Phil was awakened by pounding. Pounding on the door, a shrill voice yelling ‘Housekeeping!’ until he staggered over to ask for five more minutes. Pounding in his skull, from the mistakes of the night before. Pounding in his chest, asynchronous with his head, setting off a hypochondriacal reaction on top of it all. The panic-enhanced racing of his heart was the most frightening, and had to be dealt with straight away. He lay back in the bed and thought through everything that had happened, willing his system to calm down.

  He remembered the bar. The contact. The girl. Drinking and talking, and...now. That was all he had, followed by a huge gap. It hardly seemed fitting given the amount he’d had to drink. He’d been tipsy, sure, but not that drunk. And how had he gotten back to the hotel, anyway. He needed more information.

  Gently, slowly he raised himself up, sat for a minute, then began to assess the room. He realized with another heart pounding start that his room key was missing, so he started for the door, flung it open only to find the key stuck in the keyhole outside. The bright light was blinding, and he covered his eyes as the diminutive housekeeper glared at him behind her cart in front of the next room. As he removed the key, he noticed a pattern of scuff marks on the outside walkway leading up to the door. They hadn’t been there the day before, he was certain of that. The same dirt and smears were in place that he’d disapproved of upon arrival, but the marks were entirely new.

  A flash of images flooded in suddenly, of...peculiar happenings. The way he got drunk so thoroughly, and so fast. The woman. Falling down. Feeling trapped. Getting dragged. All those images played out in rapid succession, then vanished as they fell victim to a fresh throb of his abused skull. Thinking hurt too much.

  He turned back into the room with the frightening thought that things were much worse than he realized. His bag, the one he’d used to carry his resources for the day—missing. Reaching into his pockets, his hands slid all the way down. No money, no phone, no identification. He patted around to the back, where his hand landed on something thin and flexible. He knew from feel alone it was the laminate. At least that hadn’t been stolen. His overnight bag was still there, on the chair by the window, so he had a change of clothes. But that was it. Everything else was missing.

  The housekeeper was back in the doorway. “You check out? You need to pay another night, you wanna stay. It’s already checkout time ten minutes before.” She tapped her wrist to indicate his lateness.

  Late? What time was it? Turning quickly enough to produce a fresh head-throb, he noticed the nightstand clock for the first time since awakening: 11:09am.

  * * *

  As the day wore on, Marge grew increasingly concerned. She’d tried to reach Phil three times in as many hours. It wasn’t like him to be out of touch like this, and she confirmed that his train had arrived on time. He wasn’t in transit. Even with his recent penchant for shutting off his computers once a day, he would never allow himself to be out of touch for more than an hour.

  Reluctantly, she dialed Ted’s number. She didn’t want to speak with him, but worry overrode her pique in this instance. But Ted didn’t answer either. This situation struck her as extremely strange, and for the first time she started thinking about what kind of a mess they might have gotten themselves into. She was aware of the fact that they were planning to kill the club, that much had made the rounds quicker than most rumors, and for the most part she was all for it. But if they screwed it up somehow, got themselves in with the wrong crowd as they tried to extract themselves, well...she didn’t want to think about those sorts of scenarios. Angry though she was over the whole thing, she was still fond of Ted, and she loved Phil to pieces. She wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if something happened to them. She ducked out and headed back to her car to do a little digging.

  Asking the driver to step out for a while, Marge commandeered the back of the car and turned on her laptop. She tried reaching Phil by email. No dice. She checked the company database for any unusual activity related to the club. The hits, aside from the two boys, all revolved around Judy Schott. It was time to finally learn a little something about her longtime adversary.

  Initial, cursory searches yielded no specifics, in fact the lack of information just added to the mysterious background of Ms. Schott. Only one family by that name came up in the tri-state area, and a troubled one at that. According to public records and newspaper clippings, culled from around the time Judy would’ve been nearing adulthood, the family had been through domestic violence issues. There was also a fairly high-profile runaway case, complete with parental pleas for help, featured in a
number of larger papers, with no resolution that Marge could find. But nothing specific on Judy herself, assuming this was even her family to begin with.

  The college registers gave several leads, though, as she finally found traces of this woman she’d been working with side by side for so long. It was an extremely interesting read. Double major in criminal justice and robotics, of all things. How did that land her a job at Sahara, pushing papers around no less? She could’ve become a detective, or a computer specialist somewhere. Even Sahara would’ve hired her into the Infotech Robotics division if she’d applied there, not to mention...security.

  It was so obvious once she’d pieced it together that Marge temporarily lost it, screaming out the frustration at the top of her lungs. When she finished, she peeked out the tinted glass to see if anyone had noticed, but the town car must have been pretty well sealed. None of the families strolling by on the way to the fairgrounds so much as looked in her direction. She smoothed out her skirt and checked her hair in the mirror, then went back to her digging. This time, she was looking straight at Sahara security.

  * * *

  He caught a break around the three-quarter mark, a soccer dad driving a mini-van, about as non-threatening as humanly possible. Phil had stuck out his thumb a few times previously on the merits of the make and model approaching him, but had hurriedly removed the signal and averted his eyes each time. He resisted the urge to do the same thing all over again, and allowed the good samaritan to pick him up.

  It only saved him a couple of miles, but the time off his feet did him good. The stranger was also familiar with Sahara, having worked for a delivery service in town, and was able to provide some much needed perspective. He wasn’t going to be able to waltz in the front door, as the driver made perfectly obvious, but he might have better luck with the service entrance. Just knowing that the computer building had such an alternative was huge, and the friendly driver gave him specifications and a precise location to boot.