"Sure," Kathy said. "That's a fair question. Frank?" She looked at him and nodded.
"I had a business-oriented law practice," Frank said. "It became more and more focused on documenting the agreements between high-tech startups and angel investors. Over time, I recognized some common threads, unmet needs, if you will, on the part of both the entrepreneurs and the investors. In a lot of cases, both parties were flying by the seat of their pants. Unlike in the investment banking world, the angel investors were mostly successful entrepreneurs themselves, and they weren't particularly methodical in their decisions." He paused and looked at Kathy.
"Early stage startups tend to run on emotion rather than analysis," she said. "Unlike the slightly more established companies that the investment bankers and venture capitalists focus on, the businesses Frank was working with were often dealing with ideas and opportunities that defied traditional tools for market analysis and risk evaluation."
"That's where Kathy came in," Frank said. "I'd read some of her papers when I was trying to get a grip on the problem of defining the business some of my clients were in, and I saw that she and I, working together, might be able to meet a market need that nobody was addressing. She pioneered the concept of macrotrend analytic filtering. In fact, it's such a new discipline that we've trademarked the term. She's written some proprietary software that we call Mactren. It's over my head, so I'll let her tell you about it."
"It's tough to simplify it," Kathy said. "Mactren merges techniques from the fields of quantum mechanics and non-relativistic interval statistics. It's entirely predictive, and it correlates a broad range of seemingly unrelated data. But what you need to know about it is that it produces a percentile score that correlates to a high degree with the likelihood that a given startup will define a previously unknown market."
"I see your eyes glazing over," Frank said. "I can absolutely relate. Let me cut to the chase here. Think Microsoft, Apple, Facebook, just for example. Until they took off, who would have even thought there could be such businesses?" He paused. "With me?"
"I'm not sure, but go ahead," Paul said.
Connie nodded.
"Kathy did a retrograde analysis of every company that defined a new market or industry during the last 50 years, and Mactren is one hundred percent predictive. One hundred percent! That's huge. It just doesn't get better than One. Hundred. Percent!" Frank lifted his glass and took a sip of wine, smiling and nodding.
"That's it, in a nutshell," Kathy said. "Mactren picks a winner a hundred percent of the time." She picked up her glass and touched it to Frank's.
"To Mactren," they said, in chorus.
"So you use Kathy's proprietary software to pick winning investments for your clients. Is that a fair statement of your business?" Connie asked.
"Yes. We take a modest fee, a percentage, and guarantee a net return of over 15 percent per annum," Frank said. "Our track record is actually over 37 percent for the last three years, so our guarantee is conservative, based on the results."
"Okay," Paul said. "Where do we fit into this?"
Frank nodded and set his glass on the table, folding his hands. "Kathy and I have our hands full; we aren't able to accommodate any more investors right now, because we're just too busy. We're planning to build a cadre of people, Global Regional Directors, we're thinking of calling them. GRDs for short. They'll have the opportunity to buy in, with a minimum investment of, say $3 million to $5 million, and we'll actually guarantee them the full 37 percent return. We think that several of our existing investors will want in on this. They get first pick, but we'll then open it up after they've had an opportunity."
"So some of them have that kind of money?" Connie asked.
"Well, our privacy policy precludes me from answering that directly, but possibly so. If not, they'll have the option of syndicating their investment," Frank said. "I'm still working out the infrastructure, but the GRDs would have some flexibility in allocating the returns within their individual syndicates, as long as they guaranteed each of their investors at least a 15 percent return. We don't want them to get too greedy. The goal is for everybody to get rich. That's the only way Kathy and I are willing to expand this."
"And where do we fit in?" Paul asked, again.
"Good question, and a great lead-in," Frank said. "We're planning to run a series of seminars for prospective GRDs at resorts down here in the islands. We want to scout for potential seminar locations, and possibly entertain some key people along the way. Think you can help us?"
"We can certainly show you around and let you get a feel for the different islands," Connie said.
"And hosting cocktail parties or dinners for small groups isn't a problem," Paul said. "That's what you're paying us for."
"Great!" Kathy said. "So where do you think we should start?"
"The islands are strung out over a few hundred miles," Connie said. "They each have some unique qualities. You shouldn't overlook Grenada; it's a favorite of ours."
"You mean here?" Frank asked.
"Yes," Connie said.
"I'm not ready to go to work yet," Kathy said. "I could stand to kick back for a few days. What if we go sailing and do the other islands first, then plan on ending up back here? We could kind of get oriented, that way."
"Diamantista II is at your disposal," Connie said. "We could head north to Antigua, say, or St. Martin, even, and work our way back south. The islands are roughly a day apart. We could end up back here, if that's what you want."
"That sounds great," Kathy said. "Okay with you, Frank?"
"Sure. I've always heard of St. Martin. Antigua, too. How long would it take to get there?"
"It's a little under 400 miles to St. Martin, as the crow flies," Connie said. "Three or four days, depending on the wind, if we sail straight through."
"Straight through?" Kathy asked. "You mean without stopping?"
"That's right," Connie said.
"Can we do that?" Frank asked, frowning. "Sail at night?"
"Sure. Paul and I have done the trip straight through to St. Martin from here many times. It's a beautiful sail, out of sight of land for a lot of the way. If that appeals, I think you'd find it pretty relaxing -- no distractions -- glorious, sunny days with the trade winds to keep you cool, and the most beautiful starlit skies you'll ever see."
"I'm sold," Kathy said. "When can we leave? Tonight?"
"We need to clear out with the authorities," Connie said. "How about after breakfast tomorrow?"
"That'll be great," Frank said.
Chapter 4
"Tired?" Connie whispered, her head on Paul's shoulder.
"Not too. Why? What's up?"
"Quantum mechanics and non-linear relativistic interval statistics," Connie said.
"How did you even remember she said that?"
"I ran across the terms back when I thought I wanted an MBA. I'd forgotten, but it clicked when she mentioned them."
"I didn't know you went to grad school."
"I didn't -- not for very long. I wasn't getting anything useful out of it, and I figured there was a better payoff in putting the energy into productive work."
"That's my lady. I'm impressed that you can even remember phrases like that."
"Well, they aren't the things that are foremost in my mind, but when she rattled them off, it refreshed my dim recollection. I can't remember anything about them, though. Just the words."
"So those really are things?" Paul asked. "I mean, I know there's such a thing as quantum mechanics, but non-interval relatives whatever? I thought she was feeding us bullshit."
"You're not wrong, but it's heavy-duty, codified bullshit, at the very least."
"So was she using the terms in the right context?"
"I have no idea, Paul. Why?"
"She and Frank kind of set off my BS detector."
"Because she used terminology you weren't familiar with?" Connie asked.
"Not just that," Paul said. "It was the way they rattled off
that whole choreographed speech, more than anything. Like they'd done it a hundred times, and never varied the delivery. You didn't notice?"
"I noticed, but I just thought they were polished presenters."
"Polished presenters? It didn't make you suspicious, the way they swapped back and forth? They had all these little non-verbal cues, too."
"It's no doubt their sales pitch, Paul. For potential investors. They probably have done it a hundred times, or more. That's the way you do that kind of thing."
"It came across as rehearsed," Paul said.
"Of course it did," Connie said. "When we were looking for investors for that diet clinic I was involved in, we rehearsed a pitch like that for days. I could probably still deliver it. Want to hear it?"
"No thanks. I don't need any reminders of that part of your life. I'm glad you got out of it intact."
"Me, too. Sorry to bring up a sore topic."
"That's okay. It's part of the woman I'm lucky enough to have married. I just don't like to dwell on it."
"Me either, you sweet man. That phone call from my cousin put me in a reflective frame of mind, I guess. I've been digging back through my memories, trying to make a connection to him. I've stumbled across a lot of things I wish I hadn't done."
"We all have those. Don't beat yourself up. Even if I could, I wouldn't change the way you are. There's no percentage in worrying about things you can't change." He squeezed her as she lay in the curve of his arm. "Let's go to sleep. We've got a 72-hour sail coming up in the morning."
****
"What's up, Joe? You need more shit already? You done already sold all that last shipment?" The man stuck his head in the passenger-side window of Joe Torres's car and grinned at him. His forearms were crossed, resting on the lower edge of the window opening.
Torres leaned toward the center of the car so that he could look the man in the eye. "Not here, Mack," Joe said. "We gotta go for a ride, make sure we got some privacy. Get in."
Mack laughed and hung his head, shaking it from side to side, the muscles in his forearms rippling, bringing his tattoos to an eerie semblance of life in the dim light. He looked up at Joe, locking eyes with him. "I don't know you that well, yet, amigo. You drive off and me and the boys'll follow wherever you wanna go."
"Go with it, Joe." Torres heard Horton's voice coming through the tiny earpiece in his left ear. "Lead him to where we told you. We've got it covered."
Torres shrugged. "Whatever." He touched the button on his left armrest, raising the passenger-side window. Mack, startled, jerked upright and bumped his head on the window opening as he stepped back.
Torres put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb without looking at Mack again. He drove at a moderate speed, watching their headlights in his rearview mirror to be sure he didn't lose them. He took a circuitous route to the warehouse out on the edge of the Everglades.
Before he turned off into the gravel parking lot, he checked the mirror again, making sure there was only one car behind him. He drove across the noisy gravel at a walking pace, pulling around to the back side of the decrepit building. He shut off the car and got out, closing the door. Leaning casually against his Mercedes, he watched as the car carrying Mack crunched around the corner.
As the other car came to a stop a few feet away, the driver's side of the windshield shattered and the man at the wheel was slammed back into the seat, his head exploding from the impact of a bullet from a silenced short-barreled rifle. Before the other two occupants could react, a second shot killed the man in the passenger seat.
"You in the back seat," barked a voice from the darkened warehouse. "Roll down your window and hang both arms outside the car."
Torres watched as Mack followed the instructions. In seconds, a burly man stepped out of the shadows and grabbed Mack's wrists, dragging him out through the window and dropping him on the gravel. Careful to stay out of the line of fire, the newcomer crouched and patted Mack down. Finding him unarmed, the big man looked up and nodded.
"On your feet, Mack," Torres said, repeating the instructions that he heard through the earpiece. "Follow me." He led the way through a rusty steel door into the darkened warehouse, Mack following a few steps behind him. The burly man brought up the rear, shoving Mack every couple of steps.
When the three of them were inside, the door slammed behind them. A moment later, they were dazzled when someone turned on fluorescent lights. Torres looked around, blinking. They were in a room that might have once been an office for the warehouse manager, but tonight, it didn't look like an office. Three men sat at a battered card table in the corner, studying the visitors. In the opposite corner stood an old-fashioned barber's chair. Torres nodded to Horton and Kilgore, but it took him a second to recognize the third man at the table.
The elderly man was small, slender, and well-groomed. His thick gray hair was neatly trimmed, his ancient face, smooth-shaven. "Hello, Joe," he said, his eyes clear and bright. "It's been a while since I've seen you."
Joe nodded and tried to work up enough moisture in his mouth to speak. After a few seconds, he swallowed and said, "Sam. Uh, I heard you'd retired."
Sam smiled, his eyes flashing. "I still do favors for friends, Joe. And friends of friends, like your pal, here. Introduce me."
Joe nodded. "S-Sam, meet Mack Collins."
The old man stood up and extended his small, blue-veined hand toward Mack, who spat at Sam's feet. Sam shrugged.
"Ah, well," Sam said. "Some people take a while to warm up to new friends, Mack. I understand. That's okay. An old man like me, I've learned to be real patient. You take your time getting to know me. We'll be good friends before the evening's over." Sam approached Mack, stopping at arm's distance, peering up at him. He studied Mack's face for several seconds while Mack glared at him. "You look like you probably use an electric razor, Mack. That so?"
Mack shrugged. "Fuck you, old man."
Sam chuckled. "You ever had an old-fashioned shave from a real barber, Mack? With hot towels and a razor that's honed sharp enough to split hair?"
Mack glared at the old man. The burly man who had searched Mack in the parking lot stepped forward and drove a fist into Mack's midsection, catching him as he collapsed. After supporting Mack while he retched for a few seconds, he lifted him like a baby and set him in the barber's chair.
"I'd answer Sam, if I was you. But that's between you and him now." The big man took a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket and secured Mack's wrists and ankles to the heavy chair. "He's all yours, Sam. If y'all will excuse me, I gotta go feed the garbage he brought with him to the gators. Call me when you're done with this piece of trash. Don't want what's left of him cluttering up my warehouse."
Sam walked over to the chair and started to strop a razor that had appeared in his hand like he'd plucked it from thin air. He hummed softly to himself as he worked. After several seconds, he put his left hand on Mack's forehead, forcing his head back against the headrest with surprising strength. "Maybe before I start, you want to tell my friends who you're working for," Sam said.
"Fuck off," Mack said.
Sam smiled and shrugged. "The longer you wait to talk, the more skin you're gonna have in the game." He brought the razor up to Mack's face, whistling happily as he touched it to his victim's cheek.
****
"She's cool, but he creeps me out."
"Why's that, Frank?" Kathy asked. "Think he'll kick your ass if you hit on her?"
"Gimme a break, Kathy. I have more sense than to do shit like that."
"Since when? I saw the way you were looking at her. I can read you like a book. Last time I saw you with your tongue hangin' out like that was when you'd just gotten out of Reidsville. You were guzzlin' beer at the Pink Pussycat while you were waitin' for my set to end."
"Come on Kathy, dammit. That wasn't my fault. I'd been locked up for three years without even a sniff, and she was all over me. She didn't know I was waitin' for you to get off stage."
"Maybe not, but you coulda told her, asshole."
"She thought I was lookin' for love."
"And you found it, right there in the Pussycat. Didn't even have enough class to take her outside."
"How long you gonna keep raggin' on me about that? One little -- "
"One little mistake, my ass. You think I don't know how many women you've had on the side since we got married? Please! Get real. And I don't give a shit, as long as we score like we planned. Then I'm outta here and you can follow your whatsit wherever it leads you. But you keep it in your pants while we're on this damn boat, or I'll superglue it to your gut."
"Can we talk about somethin' else for a few minutes?"
"Like what, Frank? I didn't know you were interested in anything else."
"Like did they buy into our line?"
"Maybe. Does it matter?"
"It might. Better if they don't get to wonderin' what we're up to."
"That's for sure. I was watching her. I saw a look in her eyes when I started throwin' buzzwords around."
"What kinda look?"
"Like she mighta been followin' what I was sayin'."
"How could she follow it? It's bullshit, right?"
"Not entirely, Frank. I looked a lot of that stuff up, you know."
"Don't expect me to believe you really know about that stuff."
"That's not what I'm sayin'. I read enough to be sure I was usin' the words right."
"You mean that shit could really work? Non-relevant whatever?"
"Non-linear relativistic interval statistics. I have no idea if it could work. But usually people look totally lost when I start that part of the spiel. She was paying attention. Looked interested, even, like she was tryin' to follow along."
"Hmm. So you think she might be more than just a pretty face?"
"Could be. All the more reason for you not to mess with her."
"I'm not gonna. I'm not crazy. You get a read on Paul?"
"He wasn't even trying to follow what we were saying, but he sure was watching how we played it. And those eyes of his ... "
Frank grinned. "What? You think he's hot? You don't have a chance against her. Fuggeddaboutit, babe."
Sails Job - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 6th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers) Page 3
