by Brian Haig
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” Eva asked, looking more closely at the woman.
“I am, and you can stop now, Eva. The room is loaded with ridiculously famous people. I get it. Any moment they’ll notice I don’t belong here, and I’ll be forced to start waiting tables.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jack smiled. “Are you supposed to hustle me all night or can we have fun?”
Rather than pretend embarrassment, Eva laughed. “Am I that obvious?”
“I had you at hello.”
“I’m wounded,” she said, smiling coyly, apparently relieved to surrender her duties.
Suddenly the president and First Lady, accompanied by another couple, entered; the military band in the corner launched into a gusty version of “Hail to the Chief” and the roomful of powerful people began filtering dutifully in the direction of a reception line. Jack overheard somebody mention that accompanying the president and First Lady were the king and queen of a country he had failed to catch the name of, but where apparently everybody was tall, cadaverously thin, and had terrible complexions.
The royals stood shuffling their feet, making no effort to disguise that they were already bored out of their minds.
Eva grabbed Jack’s arm and nearly dragged him to the line. They found themselves crushed between a famous movie producer and a handsome, scowling senator who had run against the president and got creamed. The campaign had been long and nasty, an ugly mudfest. Together, they had polled the lowest voter turnout in history. It was the most expensive, and by general agreement, least inspiring campaign in history.
There was only one conceivable reason the senator was invited here tonight: “Hey, you sorry, loudmouthed loser, how do you like my digs?” they could picture the president asking him with a spiteful grin.
And the rampant rumors about the senator’s love life appeared to be accurate. He quietly ignored everything and everybody—that is, everything but Eva’s long legs and admirable fanny. The movie producer, on the other hand, launched into a long, simmering diatribe about the appalling situation in Swaziland. An obscure tribe of pygmies was apparently at risk of extinction from an equally indistinct disease the director pronounced differently each time he mentioned it. If only Americans didn’t care so little about the world, he moaned with a light flip of his hand, a miracle cure could be found. But for American indifference and stinginess, the tribe could be saved. Indeed, the only reason he had deigned to come here tonight, he confided loudly enough to be heard by everybody in the line, was to bring this abominable issue to the attention of Washington.
“A whole tribe? How awful,” Eva remarked, pinching Jack’s arm.
“Isn’t it?” the by now red-faced director snorted. “A whole line of DNA lost forever. What a terrible, terrible waste.”
“Maybe you should make a movie to bring it to the world’s attention,” Jack suggested, trying not to laugh.
The famous director’s face instantly shrank into a wrinkled scowl. “Yes… well, unfortunately, there’s no money in it.”
“How sad,” Jack said and he meant it.
The movie director was politely but firmly pushed and shoved through the handshakes before he could get out a half-strangled sentence about this poor ignored tribe and the poisonous microbe—like that, an entire tribe doomed to the dustbin of history.
Eva went next: nobody shoved or hurried her through. In fact, the president awarded her an extra ten or twenty hardfisted pumps with a smile that nearly broke his jaw.
Then it was Jack shaking the most powerful hand in the world. “Nice to meet you,” the president said, gripping and grinning with vigor.
“My pleasure, sir,” Jack replied, trying gracefully to ease out of his clasp and move on.
The president wouldn’t let go. He bent forward. “Hey, ain’t you the fella with that miracle goop I been hearing about?”
“Actually, it’s—”
“Jack, our boys are dyin’ like cattle over there.”
“Yes sir, I know.”
“Oughta get that stuff over there soon as possible.”
“I believe it might—”
“You know, you couldn’t do better than the Capitol Group.” The president’s free hand landed on Jack’s shoulder and squeezed. The smile widened and the grip tightened.
“I’ll definitely think about it, sir.”
“Do that, Jack,” he said, suddenly quite serious, before he flashed his trademark silly, lopsided, dismissive grin. “Anything I can do, be sure to let me know.”
The ambassadorship to the Court of St. James’s would fit the bill rather nicely, Jack was tempted to say, but a well-practiced shove from the president’s shoulder hand interceded and Jack found himself walking beside Eva to their dinner table.
“That was amazing,” Eva announced, shaking her head, leaving it unclear whether she meant meeting the president or the arm-twisting over CG.
Actually, it wasn’t at all unclear. “Absolutely amazing,” Jack agreed. The president of the United States had just hawked the Capitol Group. How much did that cost? he wondered.
“He’s right, you know.”
“That might be a first,” Jack replied. “Hasn’t been right about much so far.”
“I promise I won’t say another word after this,” Eva told him, placing her hand on his arm as they walked. “CG has the strength and resources to make your dreams come true, Jack.”
“I’ll take you up on that.”
“You’ll sign with CG?”
“Don’t say another word. More champagne?”
The dinner was lovely and delicious, the speeches predictably horrible, with the president mangling the names of the pimply king and queen, and they danced till eleven before Jack reminded Feist of his promise to have him home by midnight.
Eva offered to fly back up with him, Jack politely and regretfully declined, said his thanks to Feist, and by twelve-thirty was sleeping peacefully in his bed.
5
For seven long days and even longer nights, they did not hear a word from Jack Wiley. He ignored them completely.
But he was anything but ignored by them.
On day four, the gang at TFAC, CG’s contract security outfit, eavesdropped on an incoming call to Jack’s house phone. The call came at eight in the evening. The caller vaguely identified himself as Tom. No last name, just Tom.
There was a moment of empty pleasantries before Tom came to the point. “I just want to clarify our offer,” he told Jack, never quite identifying what firm he represented. “We’d really like to get a deal nailed down.”
“Make it better than what I heard this morning and we might,” Jack answered a little coolly. “Three of your competitors are offering more. Considerably more,” he emphasized, sounding like a man who was holding more offers than he could count. “You’re the bottom of the barrel, Tom. Step it up a notch, or this is a farewell call.”
A long, awkward pause. “How did you enjoy Bermuda?”
“It was nice, thanks.”
“Nice, Jack? Jesus, that was our five-star treatment. The private jet, that glorious estate on the beach, the boat, the big party.”
“I told you, it was nice.”
“We spared no expense, Jack. The CEO and half the board flew in to meet you. You looked like you were having a ball.”
“Okay, Tom, it was very nice.”
A brief pause, then trying to sound more upbeat, “I spoke with the CEO and board this morning. They want this deal.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“They want it very badly, Jack,” Tom said. “They like you, and they love the product. I’ve never seen them this excited.”
“Good. Now remind them how to spell ‘excited’—twenty percent ownership for me. Not a percent less.”
“Jack, Jack, don’t be greedy or nearsighted. Focus on how quickly we can bring the product to market. How much we can sell. How many doors we can kick open. We’re big
and powerful, and we’re prepared to make you a very rich man.”
“I’d rather be greedy, Tom. In fact, it’s fun.”
“Then focus on our resources and reach. We didn’t get this big by thinking small.”
“Give it a break. A firm of idiots will have the polymer on the market inside a month. You know that, and so do I. The product sells itself. I’ll say it again: twenty percent. Are you listening, Tom?”
“Look, Jack, you’re putting me between the rock and hard place. Left up to me… hell, you’d have it, the full twenty percent.”
“But… ?”
“Well, sadly, the board just doesn’t believe your part’s worth that much.”
“So now we’re down to good cop, bad cop. Don’t patronize me, Tom.”
“Look, it’s—”
“No, you look. My role’s worth whatever I say it is. I’ll make some other company a boatload of money, and you’ll stand on the sideline and watch.”
“All right, all right.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Give me time to canvass them again.”
“Fine. Call me at ten tomorrow morning, at the office. Unless your board doesn’t meet my demands, then don’t bother.”
“Jesus, Jack, that’s impossible. It’s after eight. There are twelve board members, mostly old men. They need their sleep.”
“What makes you think I care? This is what you pay them for. After ten, I won’t be taking calls from you.”
Bellweather and Walters listened to the tape with growing horror. By the sound of it, Wiley was rolling in offers, pitting at least four companies against one another and having a ball. A bidding war, and a rather brutal one, plain and simple. And Jack, holding all the cards, was clearly going for the kneecaps.
“Why hasn’t he called us back?” Walters groaned. The past week he had been miserable to live with. His mood alternated between despair and rage, favoring the latter. He banged around the office bullying everyone in range. He’d fired an assistant, screamed at the head of the LBO section, and broken two phones after flinging them against a wall.
None of it made him feel the least bit better.
“Settle down, Mitch. He’ll call,” Bellweather, the older sage, assured him. It wasn’t his tail on the line, after all; he could afford to stay cool and unruffled.
“What’s he waiting for?”
“What would you do in his shoes?”
“I don’t know. I’d want to have the best offer in my pocket, I guess.”
“So there’s your answer.”
Walters loosened his tie and fell back in his chair. “He’s a real smart boy.”
“We already knew that.”
“Yeah, but it’s not nice to see it in action.”
Bellweather moved across the office and leaned casually against his old desk, the same desk shaped like an aircraft carrier, now manned by Walters’s rather ample rear end. “Give him two more days,” the old man said, looking and sounding quite sure of himself.
“And then?”
“Then we’ll make him call. Then we’ll order our friends over at TFAC pull out the stops and turn up the heat. What is it this time?”
“Five pounds of marijuana, planted in his garage.”
“Nice.”
“We debated whether to use the dope scheme or the child porno scam. I opted for the dope. Fits his profile better, I think.”
Bellweather grinned his approval. “So in another two days he gets a nasty little visit by our friends at TFAC. The usual routine.”
Walters bit back a smile and nodded: the “routine” nearly always worked like a charm. Four of five times, the targets had collapsed like bowling pins. The more they had to lose, the faster they dropped—and Jack had a great deal to lose. Oh yes, it was a perfect little trap.
They avoided each other’s eyes a moment, and both dreamed of how it would go down.
As easily with Jack as it had with the others, both men were sure. A few of the TFAC boys would arrive at Jack’s doorstep, late at night, unannounced and unexpected. Out would come the authentic-looking search warrant and genuine DEA identifications. They would show up dressed as undercover cowboys: unmarked cars, shabby clothes, cute ponytails, earrings, tattoos, the whole nine yards. Before Jack could stop them or call his lawyer, they would push their way inside, he would be shoved up against the wall, patted down, and slapped in cuffs. Next a hurried search that would finish up, inevitably, in Jack’s garage. “Hey, looky-looky what I found,” one of the phony agents would declare, gleefully holding up five pounds of high-octane Mary Jane. “My goodness, Jack here’s been a naughty boy.”
Jack would be understandably shocked; he would rail and scream, protest his innocence, the whole act—that he was legitimately innocent would only add to the fun. But he would eventually grow tired of being ignored, shut up, and insist on a lawyer.
Once Jack brought the “lawyer” word into the discussion the TFAC boys would retreat into a quick whispering huddle. Eventually, one would approach him and, with a knowing grin, initiate a hard-edged, intimate conversation. From a “tip” they knew Jack was a big-time peddler, a two-bit pusher in a fancy suit. All that money, and yet, for whatever perverse reason—perhaps thrills, perhaps to act young and hip—he had chosen an unhealthy little sideline.
And five pounds of marijuana shoved him clearly beyond the legally mild user gallery, into the far more dangerous territory of big-time distributor.
Ten years was the max. Five was the usual, especially for first-timers, but who knew how the judge or jury felt that day. Rich boys don’t elicit much sympathy or mercy.
The case was ironclad—two reliable informers had fingered him. Both swore they had bought from him on multiple occasions. They testified to the quality of his “supremo shit”—the Juan Valdez of the dope business, they called him. They identified him by name, knew his address, and described him and his house to a tee.
Plus, DEA now had the goods. Incontrovertible evidence. Five pounds of it, high-grade stuff packed in a nice big sack located in his garage. Oh, you’re going down hard, Jack.
We can and will gladly nail you on a golden cross, he would be warned with a solemn shrug. Big Wall Street guy in a lavish house in a fancy neighborhood in a plush little town filled with celebrities and the hyper-rich. Wow, don’t Springsteen and Bon Jovi live around here? You see, Jack, you have a lot to lose. Go ahead, call the lawyer; then we call the local cops. Won’t the neighbors be happy when your driveway floods with flashing blue lights? How many will peek out their windows and gawk at the spectacle as you are dragged out your front door in cuffs and stuffed in the back of one of those cars?
And how will your Wall Street chums and bosses react the next morning when the DEA crashes into your office, flashing another warrant and poking around for more evidence? Imagine the horrified looks on their rich, stuffy faces. What’s the matter, guys, didn’t you know your partner was a pusher? Wouldn’t that do wonders for business? The clients would love it.
DEA just adores guys like you. A Wall Street hotshot, a big-deal millionaire taking a careless stroll through the gutter. Maybe not page one news. But an honorable mention in the Wall Street Journal is the least you can expect, and the last thing you can afford. They will do their best to smear you across every rag on the East Coast and make you the toast of New York.
DEA has you by the balls, Jack would be assured once again with a confident sneer. If you wish to call your lawyer—okay, fine, it’s your constitutional right, go ahead. Be sure, though, to tell him to meet you at the local police station after you’re already booked and charged with possession with intent to distribute, and the reporters are already jockeying in an unruly mob outside the station waiting to get a nice photo of the celebrity pusher.
So what will it be, Jack? Your lawyer or us? A noisy mouthpiece who can’t lift a finger as you’re publicly flayed and disgraced, you’re fired from your job, and have to sneak in and out of your own home—or will you be
an upright citizen and work with us, Jack? We want the pusher you bought this from: the big-time guy at the top of the dope chain. And the names of every one of your customers sure would be nice. A big fish or two would really hit the sweet spot.
No rush, Jack, relax, take a day or two, think about it. Then we’ll be back.
They would let Jack suffer and stew for a day or so—let him lock himself into his house, blow off work, imagine the terrifying possibilities, and scream at the walls about the injustice of it all.
Then would come the surprise visit from smiling Bill Feist, world-class fixer, all jokey and amiable as ever. Just dropped in to see how you’re doing, he would inform Jack. Hey, he would add with thinly feigned innocence, an old buddy in the DEA mentioned that you got your tit in a wringer. Sounds serious, Jack. Five pounds, huh? Those fellas don’t mess around, but maybe I can help. Pull a few strings, call one of my many old White House chums, you know, make this whole mess disappear.
At CG we value our friends: of course, it’s a two-way street.
It was crude and brusque, but it would work; Jack had far too much to lose for it not to. The house, the job, the all-American reputation—best of all, as Jack would eventually figure out, this sweet deal he was flashing around would go out the window. As a felon, he would lose his broker’s license and certainly be barred from directorship of a public company.
He would know he was being framed and blackmailed, and be understandably outraged. But so what? What choice did he have?
It had worked like magic four out of five times. It hadn’t exactly failed the fifth time, it had simply worked in a way nobody anticipated. In that case, the CEO of a large rubber company CG was interested in, a proud, stubborn, and resistant man who had just been informed by the ersatz agents of TFAC of the stiff punishment for being caught red-handed with kiddie porn on his computer hard drive, had sneaked into the dark shed behind his house, tossed a rope over a rafter, and hanged himself.
Maybe he had a guilty conscience.
Too bad.
Fortunately the amenable man who succeeded him the next day promptly accepted CG’s offer.
