by J. L. Abramo
For months, the effort attracted a lot of favorable tweets and postings, garnering heady anticipation. Given the internet has seemingly induced mass attention deficit disorder among the populace, when the start-up faltered, when the app quickly earned the rep among those who are followed on social media of being liked but not loved, the company’s days were numbered. It was then on to the next trendy thing for all concerned.
Through one of his shell corporations, McBleak had purchased the vacant building for less than what the owner had wanted. At that point though, there were little prospects for renting out the space again and the owner, an older woman who’d inherited the property, was tired of the hassles being a landlady. Housed in the facility were a variety of specialized tools for overcoming security measures, monitoring equipment to various mechanical and electronic locks. There were also a number of old-fashioned safes that McBleak had restored. For his practice session, the combination of the Mosler had been reset by his friend and cohort, Bunny Sawyer.
Dressed in stylish casual clothes, McBleak exited the unmarked building via a steel side door. His iPhone, the other one for his straight transactions, sounded. He answered the call from Vionetta Vickers.
“What up, Big V?” She was ten years his senior.
“I’m reminding you about your lunch at the Strathmore’s Lanceford Grill with Garner Woodward.”
“You think I’d blow that off?” He walked toward his car, beeping off the alarm.
“It’s important, and there are times that what you consider a priority can be, shall we say, unconventional when it comes to business and the intricacies therein.”
“What would my world be without you?”
“I often ask myself that.”
He chuckled. “Did the report come in about Daystar?”
“On your desk.”
“Excellent. See you a little later.”
“Of course.”
McBleak was behind the wheel of his late model Cadillac, an old man’s choice for a luxury car, his current girlfriend Nita Van Gundy had remarked.
“I’m an old-fashioned sort,” he’d answered.
She’d regarded him for a moment, pausing before she said, “Yes, you are.”
Traffic wasn’t bad getting from the red-bricked building in the industrial section to the Strathmore, a hotel located in the gentrified Queen’s Landing area near the water. After leaving his car at the valet, he entered and made his way to the elevator. Before he reached the bank of them, he was intercepted.
“Before you see Garner, let me have a quick word with you, Malcolm.” The middle-aged man talking was beefy. Though his suit was expensive, it looked ruffled and misshapen on his heavy, hunched over frame.
“We’ve been over this, Roger,” McBleak said.
The other man put up his hands, signaling stop or surrender. “Just hear me out.”
“Roger, you know full well this is not my doing. Every day these kinds of maneuvers happen. And it’s not like you won’t benefit.”
“That’s not the point, and you know it. People will lose their jobs when this shakes out.”
“People were already losing their jobs there. This measure salvages what’s left.”
Roger Meredith stuck a finger at the other man. “Shit, McBleak, you were an early investor. You believed in me and the company, then. Why not let me see if I can turn this around?”
“It’s too late.”
Meredith’s jaw muscles bunched, and he looked ready to explode at the younger man. Instead, he said in a calm tone, “A month, give me a month.”
McBleak gazed at him evenly. “I’ll see, but I wouldn’t bet the house on it.”
A hard chuckle escaped his throat. “I hardly have anything left to bet with. Just my name and what I hoped was left of my goodwill.”
“Be well, Roger.”
“Yeah.”
The heavyset man stalked away. A poker-faced McBleak rode the elevator to the top floor where the restaurant was. He spotted Garner Woodward at a table that commanded a view of the boardwalk and water beyond.
“Good to see you,” Woodward said, shaking McBleak’s hand. He was in his early fifties, fit and tanned naturally from the tennis he played with zeal and intensity.
McBleak returned pleasantries and sat opposite. “Did Roger find you?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
The waiter was there, and McBleak ordered an Arnold Palmer. The server departed.
Woodward shook his head slightly. “I blew him off but saw him doing his best to hide near the elevators to ambush you when you came in.” He hunched a shoulder. “I suppose if I was in his position, I’d do what I could to save my company.”
McBleak considered that Woodward would throw cripples and blind orphans under the wheels if it meant furthering his interests. Any firm to him was judged in limited ways, it was either in the black or in the red.
He said, “I hear you. What’s good here?”
They caught up briefly, ordered their meals, and began discussing the reason for their lunch meeting. The matter they discussed was a forced buyout of Roger Meredith’s outfit, Tynsadine, an aerospace instruments package manufacturer. Outsourcing had dried up several long-standing accounts but in the works had been a possible lucrative contract with a private space exploration company started by one of the dot com billionaires. Unfortunately for Meredith, a competitor had been chosen.
Woodward had the ahi tuna salad, and McBleak had an open-faced steak sandwich.
“To be your age again and eat like that,” his lunch companion opined.
“You stay in shape pushing those wheelbarrows of money to the bank, Garner.”
Woodward smiled thinly and dabbed at his mouth with his cloth napkin. “We agree then, on the price for the stock?”
“I’m in sync with the rest of the board.” McBleak was not only an early investor in Tynsadine, he’d recently returned to the small board after being off of it for several years. Ironically, he’d been enticed back by Roger Meredith to help save his sinking company. Instead, McBleak had worked behind the scenes to make sure the relatively modest concern would attract the attention of the shark Garner Woodward. Bringing him this deal would demonstrate to Woodward he was an earner, setting him in good. For McBleak intended to steal a lot of money from this man within the next two weeks—right in front of his eyes.
CHAPTER TWO
“Money is such a bother,” Nita Van Gundy said as she got out of bed, stretching her lithe, muscular body and yawning.
“Only because you got some, baby.”
She put fists on her hips and cocked her head slightly.
“I don’t see Hegel or Marx on your shelf, bud.” She stood clad only in lacy women’s boxers patterned with little red hearts.
“There’s one by Krugman,” McBleak allowed.
“I bought you that book. And the one by Paulo Freire. Two, in fact.”
“Oh yeah. I should try reading them one day, huh?”
“Dickhead.” She chuckled and leaned down to kiss him. She then straightened up and crossed the floor of her apartment to the bathroom.
Rubbing his unshaven face, McBleak sat up in bed. He took a colorful annual report off the nightstand and began leafing through it. The report was issued by the Critical Mass Initiative, part of the Van Gundy Family Fund. Nita Van Gundy was the executive director of the Initiative. While her family’s fund was a staid institution that gave to the likes of the chamber music society and seeing eye dog providers, her wing granted monies for community organizing and social change efforts in hardscrabble areas of several counties. She did not sit behind her desk reading applications but was frequently in the field, meeting with groups from reformed gang bangers to transgender, pink hair coiffed, environmentalists.
Returning from the bathroom, Van Gundy noted McBleak reading through his report. He looked up at her, and there was a faraway look in his eyes. He blinked, and it was gone. He closed the bound pages and placed it back on the nightst
and. She sat on the bed near him.
“Hungry?” She said.
“Only for you.” He cupped one of her breasts, the edge of his thumb working back and forth across the areola.
“What a charmer,” she said, letting her hand slide up his leg under the comforter until it stopped between his thighs.
Afterward, they showered separately, dressed, and went down into the street. They’d decided on the Kojaku Korean-Mexican fusion lunch truck. This was actually made up of three trucks that staked out different locations in the city during the day. The trio was around for the after club goers in the early morning hours. Van Gundy had checked the Kojaku twitter feed. She confirmed, as the rolling restaurant maintained a daily schedule on their website, that one of their trucks would be nearby in the early afternoon.
Walking along, McBleak said, “Are you getting burned out, Nita?” He was picking up the thread of their conversation before they allowed themselves to get distracted.
“It’s not that. But sometimes I feel like a cop or social worker. I see all these injustices around me, and the best I can do is apply a Band-Aid. That’s hardly getting to the root of the problem.”
“You’re funding clean and sober addicts venturing into the projects to keep the peace among their homies, tenant rights groups, and what have you. I mean that’s frontline, right?” They came to an intersection and waited for the light to cycle back to green.
“No doubt. But the rock seems to be getting bigger as do the mountains.” The light changed, and the two stepped into the intersection.
McBleak said, “What do you suggest? Jailing the Wall Streeters like your lefty fellow travelers want will be a visceral thrill. But then what?”
“Confiscate their wealth.”
“I don’t need to remind you that some of that liberal guilt and wealth funds the Initiative—substantially.” Van Gundy and McBleak had met five months ago at a salon-type event that Critical Mass had put on to showcase a few of their recipients to the well-heeled.
“Ain’t that the truth?”
“So?” he pressed. “What’s the answer?” They turned a corner toward their destination.
“That, like it or not, empirical conditions dictate reform not revolution, as my mom would say.” Her mother had been part of the anti-war and then Woman’s Movement in the ’70s. “You would think the excess of the bankers would be something that united the left and the so-called anti big government right, but the Teabaggers really just want to be rich too. They don’t want to handicap their chances.”
“The American Dream is that any of us can achieve.”
“You trying to be ironic, McBleak?”
“Me?” he smiled.
“Naw, not you.”
They both laughed. The truck was stationed on the side of the art museum. Once they got their orders of bulgobi short-rib tacos and a kimchi and carne asada quesadilla, they sat and began eating in the rest area of the museum outfitted with purposefully retro ’60s designed tables and benches.
McBleak swallowed his food and asked, “Are you still in communication with that group you featured in the annual report? The one on the north side in the Bellanoche section? They made some noise recently and got that oil refinery plant closed.”
“You mean the Sutter Community Improvement Association?”
“That’s them,” he said.
“Sure. In fact, I’m going out there to a meeting next week. They’re considering running a couple of candidates for the city council race coming up next year.” Her brow furrowed for a moment, and she said, “Why do they interest you?”
“Steve?” said a man who’d walked over to the couple.
McBleak swiveled his body around a quarter. The newcomer was in slacks and a light blue dress shirt complemented by a burgundy-colored tie. He smiled. “Cedar Rapids, about four years ago? The Daystar convention at the Marriot?” He chuckled like they’d shared an outlandish experience. “Brad, Brad Wilburs.”
“No, sorry,” McBleak said. “My name’s not Steve.”
The smile got thinner on the other man’s face but didn’t go away. “Oh, come on. I recognize that voice. You’re such a kidder.” He shook a finger. “In fact, I tried e-mailing you a couple of times after that, only they bounced back.”
“Amigo, I’m telling you, I’m not this guy you think I am,” McBleak said pleasantly. He was aware that Van Gundy was staring at him and the stranger.
The other man’s smile finally evaporated, and he held out a hand, spreading his fingers. “Sorry to bother you. But you’ve got a twin running around out there.”
“Don’t we all.” McBleak manufactured a smile, turning back to the table. Brad Wilburs walked back to his table on the plaza where two other men sat and ate as well.
“Funny, huh?” he said, hunching. “That ever happen to you?”
Van Gundy said, “Sure.” It seemed she was going to continue talking but didn’t. They both went on with their lunch quietly until McBleak spoke again.
“You’d asked me about the Sutter folks?”
She nodded, her mouth full.
“There’s been talk, as you know, of development out there, among the prospects is an Axinon bottling plant.”
“Thank you for getting me in to see their community relations person,” she said. “They’re interested in our business seed fund.” McBleak was an investor in the designer water label that produced the popular Double Six brand among others.
“I expect the usual payment.”
She touched his hand. “Of course.”
“I was wondering about the level of pushback from the folks in the area or was this seen as a jobs incubator?”
“Creators versus takers,” she quipped. “This an investment angle you’re investigating, more than just your money in Axinon?”
“The single most powerful asset we all have is our mind. If it is trained well, it can create enormous wealth in what seems to be an instant.”
She snorted. “That’s horseshit from one of those get rich quick books you don’t read.”
“I’m a capitalist, my darling. But your influence on me has tempered my natural rapaciousness.”
She chewed, shading her eyes from the now shifted sunlight. “Has it now?”
“You sound doubtful,” he teased, enjoying his taco.
Throatily, she whispered, “I figure you just say that to get in my pants.”
“How shallow of me.”
“Uh-huh.” She leaned over and gave him a greasy smack. “How do you decide what to invest in, McBleak?”
“My gut.”
She twisted her lips regarding him. “Let me know when you want to talk to my girl. She’s the best.”
“Of course, darling.”
Later, McBleak drove the Cadillac out to the north side. A Best of Sam Cooke CD played softly on the sound system. Nita Van Gundy was curious about the source of his funds and, by extension, how he’d acquired them. Bringing up her money manager at lunch wasn’t the first time she’d done so.
In her social and material bracket, it was considered impolite to ask friends and acquaintances how they’d made their money if they didn’t volunteer the information. Typically those who came from inherited wealth like her assumed if you attended certain functions and dressed a certain way, then you were like them. The money was just there and every once in a while a lawyer or some dour-faced money manager showed up to reprimand you for your spendthrift ways. Or maybe, like a Kardashian, you simply assumed it was a given you got paid to be at an event or club to bestow on it the “so now” imprimatur just because of being you.
But Van Gundy was not a vapid or self-absorbed woman. She was not a shopaholic or worried about what was a trending restaurant and what was this week’s old news. She’d long ago discovered that all real money, money that mattered, was not achieved without someone, usually many nameless someones, paying the price. In her case, her family fortune were made the old-fashioned way, off the sweat of workers in her robber baron
forefathers’ steel and lumber mills who had invested in the Central Pacific railroad during the transcontinental expansion.
As Cooke sang “Bring It on Home to Me,” McBleak reflected on the fact that he’d tried to make a go of it more than once with a young heiress into her looks and shoes and that little island off the coast of Greece that her friends told her was just the most wondrous place for a getaway. They were certainly open and adventurous in terms of sexual matters but hardly kept up with current events beyond scrolling past headlines on their iPhones.
He understood when he first met Van Gundy and those familiar stirrings welled in him, that she was going to be a challenge. Not in a high-maintenance, cater to her capricious whims way. But a smart, insightful woman who, in the mid-morning, could be speaking at a brunch full of the blue-veined, iron-willed matrons and at night, be meeting with cholos and their abuelas in the barrio shouldn’t be taken for granted. He’d noted her reaction to the man at lunch. He’d kept the proper questioning look on his face, but he wondered, had she sensed his unease beneath the façade he hoped he’d maintained?
Yet, that’s what heightened his relationship with her, he concluded as he re-checked his direction on the onscreen map. Could he keep his secrets with someone like her? He almost scoffed aloud. Prisons and graveyards were full of would-be clever bastards. The trick was to be able to do your crime and not only not be caught, but pull off the score without making it look like you were doing anything out of sort. Wasn’t that the lesson from the banksters Van Gundy railed about? Misdirect. Point the suspicions elsewhere. If that didn’t work, be ready to walk away. But he was established here. He liked living the life of the pampered insofar as outward appearances went.
McBleak parked his car at a meter and exited along a commercial street of local business of the shoe repair, car stereo installation, and nail salon variety. The Bellanoche section of the north side was full of aging buildings and lampposts stripped for the copper wiring. Once home to a heavy Italian immigrant influx from nearly a century ago, in the 1980s, it had seen the influx of immigrants and the undocumented from Central America and Mexico.
