Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  He stretched and yawned, then took another sip. Drucker liked his house—half an acre, two master bedrooms, and view of the ocean from above the beaches near Malibu. Secluded, too—thick oleander and two dozen pepper trees sheltered the main house from nosy neighbors. He had a satellite dish that got him a couple hundred stations and twelve pro football games on Sundays. Wolfgang Puck’s latest hot spot attracted the in-crowd, only a mile or two away, and, in a weekly show, Drucker liked to waltz in and order fifty bucks’ worth of gourmet-to-go as if he were at Mickey D’s. He drank only expensive booze, Starbucks’ double tall cappuccinos from the nearest joint two blocks away, and got laid at least twice a week, even if he had to pay for it. Los Angeles wasn’t such a bad place to live so long as you had enough dough to afford the good life, and he did. And he planned to have a lot more as he began to publicize his investment success to some of the rich cats in Beverly Hills. With almost no overhead—a small office, some equipment paid for by the brokers he sent business to, and a secretary who made minimum wage plus a buck—he would be raking in a couple mil per year in the not too distant future. Not bad, he thought, for a guy who went to J. C., and then to Chico State, where he amassed a whopping C-minus GPA. No sir, not bad at all. He deserved to feel like king of the damn hill.

  And he lived such an easy life. Except for the inquisition by that anal compulsive government prick last week, there were few problems. Managing a portion of Stenman Partners’ money was a godsend. Most of the time, Morgan Stenman’s people even told him what to buy and what to sell. Money flowed in, Stanley put it to work, and charged the partnership 1% of assets under management per year. Stenman, in turn, charged back to clients that 1% and a hefty percent of profits. Since Stenman had near perfect insight and returned ungodly profits to investors, nobody minded the big fees. Everybody felt happy as pigs in shit, especially Stanley “King-of-the-Damn-Hill” Drucker.

  A heavy knock on his front door shook Drucker back to the present. He rose from his chair and stood six feet from the solid wood door. He reflexively looked to the clock on the wall: five minutes after nine. Since the bitch had left him, he never had uninvited guests on Saturdays. This was his time to sit back, drink, watch a day of sports, and go bar hopping at night, looking to get lucky. That was the routine. If this was a door-to-door salesman, maybe he’d just kick the damn salesman’s ass.

  Drucker took a quick shot of scotch, then grunted, “Who’s there?”

  Instead of an answer, the door slammed open. The bolt ripped from its screws and wood splinters flew like darts. In a reflex, Drucker flung his hands over his face at the same moment his kidneys weakened.

  An enormous man, six-foot-two and at least two hundred and fifty dense pounds, cast an impressive shadow. He wore his hair in a thin ponytail and had a flattened nose, seemingly without cartilage. After he stepped in, a much smaller man with the face of a damaged ferret followed. An ugly grimace pulled the second man’s upper lip into a sneer, revealing polished, even teeth. Drucker guessed he was Mexican. Both wore tailored suits with open jackets and handguns strapped to their chests. Behind them a woman followed. The two men parted, looking like uneven pillars, allowing her to take center stage.

  Through full lips, she said, “My name is Sarah Guzman. These two gentlemen are my associates. You are a loose end.”

  Loose end? Her words made no sense. Neither did the name Guzman—no way this woman was Spanish or Mexican. If she had a single feature that wasn’t Anglo-Saxon, Drucker couldn’t find it, and he stared hard enough to notice. For once, Drucker wished his house had fewer trees and less brush. In fact, he’d have happily allowed every one of LA’s four million miserable losers to see into his yard, to witness this criminal act of breaking and entering. While his mind raced to figure things out, he kept asking himself what if. What if these men elected to pull their guns and use his head as a bull’s eye? Nobody would care. In LA, people minded their own business. What a horse-shit city. Help, he wanted to scream, but the word had no voice.

  “I am from Ensenada Partners. You know us?” the woman asked, seeming to feast on his confusion.

  Unfortunately, Drucker knew quite a bit about Ensenada—none of it good. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, humble and contrite. “You’re the Mexican connection—the one that funnels funds—”

  “You talk too much, Mr. Drucker.” She nodded and the small man struck Drucker’s jaw with the back of his hardened knuckles. Drucker recoiled, acting the part of a whimpering dog.

  “Huh,” he said, rubbing his cheek. “Talk too much?” Adding to everything else, the steel edge in her voice cut through to his spine, making it difficult for him to remain erect.

  “I have it from a contact of mine that you are someone the SEC intends to investigate,” the woman said. “Could you enlighten me as to your conversation with an Agent Dawson last week?”

  Drucker attempted to look pliant through a steady head-bob. Despite the dreaded men flanking Guzman and the pain of a swelling cheek, he couldn’t help but focus on her. About the size of a child, yet possessing full cleavage and perfect hips, the woman had alluring, deep-set blue eyes that seemed entirely dead to him. In return, she regarded him as she might an annoying gnat, in need of extermination. What was she doing here? he wondered. She clearly didn’t mind putting herself at risk, showing up personally at his door like this—she probably enjoyed the danger. She would bust his balls, and when he went down, spit on him. That’s what he saw in her face.

  “This guy Dawson,” Drucker began, “said he had interest in how I managed such big returns. He said I seemed to have a sixth sense when trading in my aggressive fund—the one I manage for Stenman Partners.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I use stock and currency charts—technical analysis. I showed him the paperwork . . . I know the drill. Everything documented.”

  “Did you book those other trades?”

  “Other trades? You mean the ones losing all that money?”

  “Yes. Those.” Sarah gave a subtle nod and the larger man began to clean up the shards of wood. The other moved a step closer to Drucker.

  “Yeah, I booked them. Why anybody’d want to lose so much money over the course of a couple days beats me, but I do what I’m told.”

  “Did you find those losses stressful?” Sarah looked down the deep corridors of fear in Drucker’s damp eyes.

  “Uh, uh. Not my money.” Drucker took a half step back, but a hand pinched his shoulder. He froze.

  “Have another drink, Mr. Drucker.” Sarah nodded in the direction of the open bottle resting on a table next to an armchair. As she did so, the thick man finished cleaning the pieces of door and switched off Drucker’s television.

  “No thanks.”

  Drucker swore at himself for panting like a dog and stuttering like a damn fool. In the middle of Drucker’s silent tirade, the scar-faced smaller man shoved the bottle to his lips. Drucker choked as expensive whisky flowed half down his throat and half down his shirt. He tried to scream, but the needle that struck his neck put him to sleep in half a breath. As if the bones had been yanked from his body, he folded and sprawled across the white carpet.

  Where am I?

  This was the first thought popping into Stanley Drucker’s battered head as he regained consciousness. Every bone ached. As he lay on his back, railroad tie rigid, glass shards dug into his skin. He looked up a sheer brick wall, while the smell of urine—some of it his own—hung in the fetid air. He’d awakened, he determined, shivering in an alley. Twenty inches above his face, the scarred man who had attacked him, who had stuck him with the long needle, looked down at him through gun barrel eyes. With flaring nostrils, the man resembled a baby bull, ready to attack. Drucker bent a weakened arm to his face, hoping to remove a pair of sunglasses blurring his vision. He pulled, and immediately tried and failed to scream.

  “Time for a challenge, Señor Drucker.”

  Drucker struggled to lift himself, but a vicious heel kicke
d his raised shoulders back down, causing his head to bounce off asphalt.

  “Not yet, mi amigo. You must learn the rules first.”

  Drucker flopped side to side like a dying fish on a dry dock. He struggled to focus on his tormentor’s expression, but the heavy tint of his glasses prevented that.

  “Let me explain how we play this game.” The voice came across as a whisper, sounding almost intimate. “Your sunglasses have been attached to your head with epoxy, and your tongue, injected with a toxin, is swollen.”

  I can take care of any investigation. I’m an asset. Drucker listened to his gurgled sounds and nearly choked over his thickened tongue and the saliva building inside his mouth.

  From his jacket pocket, the male enforcer, Ferret-Face, removed two rectangular metal boxes, each fitting into a palm. He then reached down and yanked Drucker’s half-naked body to its feet, forcing a box into each of Drucker’s hands. Ferret-Face clamped Drucker’s right thumb onto a raised button on the first box.

  More awkwardly, and never releasing the first hand, he did the same to Stanley Drucker’s left thumb. Tears dribbled down Drucker’s cheeks, and teetered on his upper lip until they built up and cascaded over, falling five empty feet to his blistered toes. With his gaze following that salty flow, he became aware of spider-webbing wires connecting several pounds of explosives strapped to his legs and hips. Barely visible across his naked chest were the words: Death Death. He recognized the building across the alley and street as the police station.

  “Here are the rules,” the man said, his words sounding rehearsed. “If you take either thumb off either device, you will explode. If you try and disconnect any wire, you will explode. If anyone else presses either of these buttons, relieving you, you will explode—each button is sensitive to your thumbprint only. In thirty minutes, no matter what you do, you will explode. This should be challenging. Do you understand?”

  Drucker understood all right. He clasped the detonators, putting maximum pressure on each of his thumbs.

  “And by the way,” the man said with a smile, “I will have saved you mucho dinero. You are not going to require a casket, I think.”

  Turning a corner, the well-dressed Mexican used a cell phone to call a local television station, alerting them that a suicide crackpot, lurking near the police station, had explosives strapped to his body. He even identified the man as one Stanley Drucker, violent alcoholic, divorced, unstable, and manager of a local fund that lost millions of dollars just this week.

  Rancho Santa Fe estates average four acres of grounds and more than 10,000 square feet of house. Nearly every one has a tennis court, a pool, and a stable of horses. Ayers’ estate went beyond even these lofty averages.

  Jason Ayers loved riding his favorite horse along the community trails. The aroma of Eucalyptus was soothing, and the tree’s shedding leaves and bark padded the trails and muffled the sounds of the outside world. In addition to these tall trees, Ayers’ property boasted close to a hundred lemon and orange trees—so many that he paid someone to harvest them twice a year and cart off the excess fruit.

  In the past, at night, with an absence of street lamps and sidewalks, Ayers felt at the edge of the world, alone and at peace. He cherished his home and had come to reconcile himself with his wife, Anne, these last few years. After his son Curtis had died ten years ago, he grew even more devoted to his daughter. Kate became the center of his life, and he would do anything for her.

  Longing for some of this former tranquility, but finding none, a diminished Jason Ayers spent Saturday afternoon slumped in a slip-covered chair, finishing a third scotch. “Oh . . . my . . . God,” he whispered. “How could I have let this happen? Hannah, why?”

  Sounds of footsteps at the door startled him. Anne Ayers stood inside the door frame, her gray hair scattered like detached spider webs. She had aged right in front of her husband, grown heavy and wrinkled. Was that why he had sought Hannah? Ayers had asked himself this question a hundred times. Was it a shallow need for younger, more vibrant company? He knew the answer was no. Hannah represented much more. He needed to help her, love her, and take care of her and her son. If he had been able to do so, he would have made a first installment on his debt to Matthew Neil. Now, everything he had attempted had turned deadly. And surely things were bound to get worse before they got better, if they ever got better.

  He looked at the wall clock. The hands blurred on their way to three o’clock.

  Why, God, am I such a weakling?

  “You shouldn’t drink so heavily,” his wife said.

  “Yes. You are right, dear.” Ayers continued to sip.

  “Come get something to eat, Jason.”

  He couldn’t know how long Anne had stood in the library. Had they been talking? “No. No thank you. I, uh . . . I think I’ll watch some news. Take my mind off of . . .”

  At three o’clock, you will turn on your television and wait. We have a message for you.

  Carlos Nuñoz had spoken those words to Ayers late last night. It was now five minutes before the appointed time. Suddenly, time slowed, then crawled. The television voices droned on—talking heads saying nothing important. Three o’clock came and went. Nothing. Five more minutes passed and still no news. He flipped channels. Could this be a cruel hoax? He prayed yes but believed no.

  At 3:20, he felt hopeful. Then, in the middle of a boxing match, came a news flash. A reporter’s excited voice filled the room, but Ayers absorbed the images, not the sound.

  TV crews captured live the frantic movements of a lunatic with explosives strapped to his body. As one camera focused on the word DEATH scrawled twice across his chest, the TV anchor identified the man as Stanley Drucker.

  Ayers knew Drucker, the same way he knew Cannodine. Hannah Neil had also known Drucker, just as she had known Cannodine. She also knew their crimes.

  The newscaster’s words found their way into Ayers’ brain:

  From what we have been able to gather, Drucker is an aggressive stock fund manager who’s apparently distraught over the loss of millions of dollars in investors’ money over the past several days.

  The deep voice then mentioned the tragedy at Jackson Securities just days earlier. The newscaster concluded by saying:

  Psychologists believe that with the current volatility in the markets, these sorts of mental breakdowns could become all too common—much like people jumping out windows during the Great Crash and Depression of the 1920’s and 30’s.

  Without warning, Ayers felt himself pressed against his chair-back. Drowning out all other sounds, the explosion vibrated the television. The video caught what appeared to be shards of brick hurtling from the disintegrating building next to where the man identified as Drucker had stood.

  The commentator’s voice first turned hoarse, then went silent.

  A moment later, Anne re-entered the study. Ayers’ white face must have unnerved her because her voice trembled. “Let’s go someplace,” she said. “You need to get out of the house.”

  She took her husband’s hand and pulled him up and out. Without a will of his own, it was a simple thing to do.

  The forty-nine dollar a night hotel room came furnished with cold linoleum tiles and ragged towels that scratched skin but couldn’t absorb water. The dump also had battered walls, and the overhead lights flickered and hummed. All night long, the sounds of connubial banging in the room next door infiltrated the fabric-thin walls. Sleep had not been an option.

  The stooped man with thick glasses tapped his bony fingers on the bedside table while pressing the phone against an ear. SEC Agent Oliver Dawson was small enough to shop in the boys’ section of Sears, and his suit draped a couple sizes too big. His haircut was discount, as was the wide tie riding too high on his collar. He wasn’t much of a physical specimen, either, with crayon lips, a pointed jawbone, and intense eyes. As he waited, he sipped a can of disgusting cola, his third in an hour. He wished the god-damn beverage machine had Diet Coke instead of this generic discountcrap
. It tasted like metal and the bubbles were too fat.

  Dawson’s attention refocused as a female voice informed him, “The report from the Director’s office yielded only dead-ends. I’m sorry, Oliver. The documents had no fingerprints. We may never know the source of this information on Jackson Securities or Mr. Drucker.”

  “Whatever happened to those FBI lab geeks being able to walk on friggin’ water?” Dawson immediately regretted the outburst. “I’m not mad at you, Angela. Just frustrated.”

  After she disconnected, Dawson slammed the phone down. This was a kettle of month-old fish-stink. His two biggest leads, and now both obliterated. He wanted to believe neither the FBI lab nor the Security and Exchange Commission’s Enforcement Division had leaks, but he knew one or both did. And he had been so close to squeezing Cannodine and Drucker.

  “Some squeeze I managed,” Dawson mumbled to himself. “I’m worse off now than when I started. Now the bastards know who I am and that I care.” They’d be watching, whoever they were.

  With his leads down the toilet, he doggedly began to pack his bags for the trip back to Washington, D.C.

  “Not giving up,” he told himself, “just waiting for another break.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS A DISHEARTENING FEW WEEKS OF UNEMPLOYMENT. At least twice, and as many as four times a day, Peter called, interviewed, and generally impressed those he met, only to get dinged when they contacted his former boss for a recommendation.

  On several occasions, he tried pretending he’d been unemployed for the last couple of years, but that didn’t fly too well either. Being a bum did-n’t exactly inspire prospective employers. One interview began to sound like the next, and Peter often forgot what dead-end job he was pursuing from one hour to the next. He even dipped into the marginal job market— those paying near minimum wage. Most of those employers wanted to know why a university educated man, who graduated near the top of his class, felt hell-bent on getting a shitty low-paying job working next to high school dropouts. They suggested he might quit the minute he found something more lucrative, as if moving up the job ladder were an option. Quitting his old job before having a new one had proved another of his less than brilliant strategies. At least he had the excuse of stress at his mother’s death and a sudden compulsion to move his life in a direction she would have approved. Still, not a smart move.