White Collar Blackmail: White Collar Crime Financial Suspense Thriller

by Peter Ralph

  “I-I don’t know,” Todd said. “I’ll find a way.”

  “You better make damn sure you do. Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do,” Conroy said.

  As Todd stumbled out of the pawn shop, he didn’t look up or notice Max Lustig enjoying a meal at the Chinese restaurant directly opposite.

  Dermott Becker stared into the bathroom mirror. He was still a good-looking man, but the crow’s feet had become condor’s feet and his forehead resembled a cattle grid. Too many late nights and too much sun when I was younger, he thought as he splashed cold water on his face. Nadia, his wife, was twenty-five years his junior and had been pushing him hard to go and see her cosmetic surgeon but, so far, he’d resisted. She had an enormous influence on him, and it was only her persistence that had resulted in him buying the Hamptons house. “Thirty-eight million,” the agent had said, “and don’t miss it. It’s a bargain.”

  He strolled back to his study and looked out of the window at Nadia and her girlfriends playing tennis. She was a joy to behold and still as natural as the day she was born except for the Botox and fillers. He watched and smiled as her sports bra fought a losing battle against the bounce. Long legged, powerful and very fast, she was a fierce competitor. The phone rang, and Becker turned back to his desk overlooking the Atlantic and cursed. It was the Serbian.

  “Dermott, it’s Brock. What have you done about Giovani?”

  It was the fourth time Borchard had called since the last board meeting. “As I’ve told you before, I am attending to it, Brock,” Becker replied.

  “Do you need any help? I can send one of my men. We cannot let anyone con us and make us look like fools. If we let him get away with it, we’ll be seen as easy targets by others.”

  Becker sighed. The Serbian was ignorant on matters of finance. Did he think there was a clique of stockbrokers who sat around saying, how can we fleece Jack Elliot today? Borchard was applying the same principles that he applied to the poor souls who owed him money and didn’t pay. Victims of his loan sharking operation. All Giovani had done was pass on inside information that hadn’t worked out. Becker had given up trying to explain it to the Serbian and knew he would have to take some action. He didn’t want to do it before Todd Hansen was on the hook though because if Giovani was cooperative then he could kill two birds with one stone.

  Chapter 11

  The week seemed like it was taking forever to end and every day Todd waited to hear from Ronny about the additional two hundred. By Friday, he hadn’t heard a word and was incapable of concentrating on anything. He tried to convince himself that no news was good news but didn’t believe it.

  Just before midday his cell rang, and he didn’t recognize the number when he answered.

  “Todd, it’s Ronny Conroy, they said no, and you’re in the hole for five hundred and twenty thousand. When are you going to pay?”

  Todd felt like he was going to puke. “Ronny, Ronny can you ask them again? I know I can win everything back if you give me a chance.”

  There was a long pause. “Ronny, are you still there?”

  “Are you saying you don’t have my money? Christ, I’ve got commitments to these guys. How would you feel if you’d won, and I couldn’t pay you? You’d be pretty pissed off,” Ronny said. “I need that money.”

  “I-I can’t pay. Well, not right away anyhow.”

  “Bullshit? Your mom and dad are rolling in cash. Ask them to help you.”

  “I-I can’t ask th-them. I can’t!”

  Again, there was another long pause. “Todd, I have to have the money by Monday. If I don’t have it by then, I’ll have to take recovery action.”

  “How will you do that?” Todd asked.

  “Not the way your firm recovers the debts owing to it.” Ronny laughed. “If you want to remain healthy, you’ll get my money. I hope, for your sake, that I see you on Monday.”

  Todd was about to respond when he heard dial tone.

  Todd cradled his head in his hands. He wanted to cry. Where am I going to get the money? I don’t have any friends I can ask to lend me that much. Dad won’t lend it to me. Mom might but she won’t without telling Dad, and once he knows he’ll make sure she doesn’t. My brother’s tougher and meaner than Dad. My sister’s my only chance, but she can’t keep a secret. She’ll tell everyone and Dad will tell me that I’m a loser and always have been. No, I can’t ask the family. What am I going to do?

  The next call that Ronny Conroy made was to Jack Elliot who was elated. It had taken longer than his boss, Dermott Becker, had thought, but they finally had the accountant in the bag. Becker arranged for Elliot to pick up a briefcase containing five hundred and twenty thousand, together with an assignment of debt form. Becker knew enough about Todd Hansen to know that he wouldn’t be able to pay.

  Todd had had little social contact since his obsession had taken over. Now, on a bleak New York night, he wished he had a girlfriend or best friend with whom he could share his misery. He had many friends but no one close. He briefly thought of calling Vanessa Hodge but quickly changed his mind. He’d just be confessing that he was a loser. He couldn’t believe that his life had come to this, and he wondered and worried about what Ronny would do on Monday.

  Will he send thugs to break my legs? What would be the point of that? He’d never get his money.

  Depressed, scared and sick Todd forced himself to make a toasted ham and tomato sandwich but then couldn’t eat it. He had to do something to get rid of the black dog, so he flicked the television on. He heard the newsreader say that mob boss and murderer, Frankie Arturo, had been sentenced to two life terms in Castlebrough Penitentiary. The last thing he needed was bad news, so he turned the television off and settled down on the sofa to input the results of today’s races. He then inputted the fields for tomorrow’s races just as if it was a typical weekend. His scan produced two forecast winners ranking 97 and 98.

  When Todd woke up the following morning for the first time in his life, he contemplated suicide. It wasn’t the fear or the money he owed but the shame and dread of how his family would react when they found out. The minute he’d refused to study medicine his family had virtually disowned him. The thought of his father saying I always told you, you were a deadbeat was crushing.

  To add to Todd’s misery, the two horses that his system threw up both won at the very juicy odds of three to one and of six to one. If only Ronny had provided him with an additional two hundred thousand, he would’ve won enough to pay off his debt and be left with nearly three hundred thousand.

  On Sunday, Todd moped around his apartment that he could no longer afford and wondered what was going to become of him. In the space of three short weeks, his life had fallen apart. He went to bed early but fought with the blankets and sheets until 5 A.M. before collapsing into a deep sleep. Two hours later he pulled the pillow over his head in a futile attempt to block out the clock radio.

  On the short walk from his apartment to the office, Todd found himself continually looking over his shoulder. Ronny hadn’t specifically said how he collected debts, but his inference had been unpleasant. Todd breathed a sigh of relief as he entered the elevator. He was safe. Well at least for the rest of the day because he had no intention of leaving the office. He didn’t know how he was going to get any work done. He wanted to remain at work until midnight but didn’t want to walk home in the dark. Todd didn’t do much but, for once, the day flew when he wanted it to drag. It was still daylight when he left the office at 4:55 and he half ran half walked the short distance to his apartment. He opened the door and quickly closed it behind him, carefully locking it. He rested his forehead up against the door and let out an audible sigh of relief. God, I can’t live like this.

  When Todd heard the voice behind him, he jumped and nearly screamed.

  “Hello, Todd, it’s nice of you to come home early. We thought we might have to wait all night.”

  “How di-did you get in? Wh-what do you wa-want?” Todd said, eyeing the young man. He
was thickset with narrow eyes and a shaven head.

  “I think you know what we want.” The man grinned through compressed, thin lips.

  It was then that Todd noticed the other man sitting on the couch. He was wiry with sunken cheeks, neatly combed gray hair and looked to be about fifteen years older than his partner. He’d helped himself to coffee. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Ferguson,” the young man said, “and he’s Fraser. We’re facilitators.”

  “Facilitators?”

  “Yeah, we smooth out our clients’ problems,” Fraser said. “Ronny Conroy’s one of our clients and your failure to pay put him under a lot of pressure, so we organized to have your debt paid. You’ll be pleased to know you don’t owe Ronny anything, and if you don’t want to, you never have to talk to him again.”

  “I don’t understand,” Todd said.

  Fraser got up from the sofa and handed Todd a single page document. It was a discharge of debt form that had been signed by Ronny Conroy and witnessed. “Does this make it clear?”

  Todd glanced at the document. “But why?”

  “We have another client, and it took an assignment of your debt from Ronny. It’s a corporation, and you might be tempted to find out who owns it. You’ll be wasting your time. All you’ll do is find other corporations and a huge loop that takes you nowhere. Here’s a copy of the assignment.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “We don’t know,” Fraser said, “other than one of the corporation’s managers knows you and wanted to help.”

  “Who?” Todd asked.

  “Mr. Elliot,” Ferguson said.

  “Who?”

  “Jack Elliot.”

  “Why? I hardly know him,” Todd said.

  “We don’t know. He did say to tell you not to worry about anything and that he’s sure something can be worked out,” Fraser said, joining Ferguson at the door. “Unless Mr. Elliot wants us to remain involved, our job is over.”

  As Todd was opening the door, Ferguson said, “Oh, and don’t forget interest at ten percent is running on the debt.”

  “I never agreed to pay interest,” Todd said. “Besides ten percent is outrageous. Six percent’s the going rate.”

  Ferguson was in the corridor when he turned around and smirked. “Ten percent per month,” he said. “You’re playing in the big league now, kid.”

  Chapter 12

  Devlin Cooper woke up sitting on a bench seat in a park. He shielded his eyes against the weak sun and took a few minutes to get his bearings before realizing he was less than a mile from home. He reached around for his cell phone but only found the one that the thugs had put in his jacket pocket. Why would they have stolen my cell phone? He checked his wallet. His cash and credit cards were intact. His Rolex was still on his wrist, and it was 12:20, five hours since his kidnapping. He needed to get to a phone and make contact with the club.

  He took his time on the short walk, cursing himself. On reflection, it was easy to work out what had happened. It had been that sleazy, little weasel ogling the Playboy centerfold who’d set him up. He’d had a bad feeling about the sleazebag the minute he saw him and should’ve just walked out and found another place, but it was too late now. Complacency and lust had him on the rack, and he had no idea what he was going to do.

  He and Karen had always been attracted to each other but never in his wildest dreams had he ever thought that he would end up in bed with her. The day that changed his life had started innocently enough. It was the offseason, late in the afternoon, and he’d finished doing some shopping and was enjoying a latte in a small coffee shop. She had walked in, saw him sitting in the corner and joined him. Perfectly natural, perfectly innocent. It was fun, and they were joking around. They ordered a second round and continued with the harmless banter. He’d said to Karen that he had to phone for a limo, but she had insisted on driving him home. By the time they left the coffee shop, it was dusk, and the weather had turned decidedly chilly.

  He still didn’t know who had made the first move. One minute they were sitting in front of his house with the engine still running and the next minute they’d been tearing at each other’s clothes. They could’ve gone into his home and started that night, but they didn’t. Sanity had prevailed before any real damage was done. The following day, Karen called to apologize and say she didn’t know what had gotten into her, and it would never happen again. Devlin said that it was all his fault and that he was sorry. Deep down they both knew their lust was overwhelming and that it would only be a matter of time.

  Three months later, the season was in full swing. It was Friday, the easiest training day of the week, and Devlin had an early morning dental appointment when Coach Deacon called. In his rush to get to training, the coach had forgotten some plans and asked Devlin to swing past his home and pick them up. Karen could have had them in her hand when he knocked at the door, but she didn’t. Instead, she invited him in and within five minutes they were half-undressed and on the carpet of the living room floor. Devlin had had sex with young girls before but had never been with anyone who was into it more than him. It was different and exciting, almost as if it was his first sexual experience, and he couldn’t get enough. They were both embarrassed after it was over and hurriedly put their clothes back on. Karen said she was sorry, that it was her fault, and that it must never happen again. Devlin was equally remorseful and insisted that he’d made the first move, but they both knew it had been spontaneous combustion. What they didn’t say was that the sex had been spectacular, and they were both already lusting for their next encounter. Devlin’s head was spinning when he climbed back into the limo, and he hoped that his driver, John, wouldn’t notice the change in his demeanor.

  Coach Deacon was forty-two, five years older than Karen and had been like a second father to Devlin. Devlin was racked with guilt when he handed the plans to the coach, who noticed the change in Devlin’s manner and asked if anything was wrong. Devlin had mumbled something about the dental injection and Coach Deacon had laughed and told him to toughen up. That had been a year ago and as time went by and Devlin was more frequently with Karen his conscience went on vacation.

  Now it had returned along with a healthy dose of fear. He’d never expected their clandestine affair to last so long and in most of the novels he’d read, affairs were usually over after six months. That wasn’t the case with him, and he thought about having sex with Karen nearly every waking moment. He’d arrived at training a few times unable to get out of the limo and had had to chat with John until his lust became less visible. As he reached his front door, the last thing he was thinking about was having sex with Karen, and there was no visible sign of arousal. The figurative cold spoon that had hit his manhood on the knob had removed all lustful thoughts. Last night, had he been asked, he would have said that lust was a far more powerful emotion than fear. He now knew that answer was wrong.

  What would he do if the CD was shown to the public? His mother would die of shame. His dad loved to boast about his famous son. What would he think? What would his sisters and brothers think? What would his fans think, particularly the younger ones? What would Coach Deacon do? How would it impact on the Deacons’ three children? Would the Cougars keep him as their quarterback? Most likely not. Would any other NFL team pick him up? No.

  Fuck! Why didn’t I keep my dick in my pants?

  Devlin racked his brain to come up with someone who he could talk to. The only person who came to mind was Karen.

  Dermott Becker hadn’t seen or heard from Harry O’Brien since the last board meeting and presumed that the Transport Employees Union’s assisted sabotage of Webb Transport’s fleet was continuing as planned. When Becker picked up the phone, O’Brien could barely contain himself. “Dermott, how would you like to own Webb Transport rather than just stealing a milk contract from them?”

  “Go on.”

  “Lou Gerrard, the president of the Transport Employees Union, called me last night and said that h
e’s prepared to call a general strike and take all Webb’s drivers out. It’ll just about break them and make them ripe to be taken over. It would’ve cost close to a billion to buy them a year ago. I reckon we might be able to pick them up for two hundred mil. It’s the deal of the century,” O’Brien gushed.

  “How much does Gerrard want?”

  “Ten million paid into a Liechtenstein bank account. He also wants a guarantee that the payment will be untraceable.”

  “I’m not sure we want to do this deal. If we do, we can’t give him a guarantee. Christ, how does he expect us to document a bribe to commit an illegal act? You can tell him that he can nominate the country from where he wants the payment to emanate. Hong Kong, Switzerland, Ireland, the Caymans, even Timbuctoo if he’d like. No one, not the IRS, not the SEC and not the Justice Department is ever going to trace the payment.”

  “I thought you’d be jumping to do the deal. I don’t understand. What’s wrong?”

  “Webb’s been losing contracts because their customers don’t like this rolling industrial action. That prick, Max Lustig, has been knocking off their contracts, and I don’t want to go up against him. It’s only a good deal if there’s still some meat on the bones. Christ, I don’t want to buy them and find there are no cartage contracts. If you can buy them within five days of the drivers going out on strike, it’s probably a deal. Any longer and they won’t be worth buying.”

  “You’re not interested,” O’Brien whined.

  “I didn’t say that. Here’s the deal you put to Lou Gerrard. We’ll pay him his ten mil conditional on Webb accepting our offer for two hundred million within five days of the drivers going out on strike. Force Lou to work for his money. If he wants it, he’ll make sure the deal gets done on our terms.”