Black Friday

by Judy M. Kerr

Oldfield waved a hand at him. “Carry on.” He rubbed his two o’clock shadow. “We’ll get that USB drive today.” He clapped a hand on Cam’s shoulder and steered him over to the surveillance area.

  MC followed, bothered by the fact the USB recorder hadn’t been retrieved the previous week. Those recordings would be important in obtaining search warrants.

  Arty Musselman parked his blue BMW in his assigned spot in the Stennard company parking lot. His meeting with the FBI had both eased his mind and put him on edge. They’d foregone putting a wire on him because they’d installed a camcorder in Stennard’s office.

  His mouth felt like a cotton ball had taken up residency, and he had an empty feeling, the size of the Grand Canyon, in his stomach. He knew he was doing the right thing. After recording phone conversations with Mike over the last couple weeks he’d become even more determined to put an end to the lunacy. What they were doing was wrong on so many levels that if he were Catholic he’d find the nearest priest and drop to his knees and confess all his sins.

  “Hey, Musselman. Going the wrong way, aren’t you?” Len Klein was on his way out the front door as Arty entered. Klein laid a hand on Arty’s shoulder, halting him midstride. “What’s up? You can’t be bothered to say hi?”

  Arty shrugged the hand off his shoulder. “I’m on my way to a meeting with Mike and Gavin, if it’s any of your business.” He pressed his lips together and ground his teeth. The security guy was always pestering him.

  Klein leaned in, arms folded across his barrel chest. Arty tensed and pulled his coat collar together. The guy was malevolent in a Black Ops kind of way. He made Arty’s blood run cold.

  “Meeting? Really? Mike didn’t mention it. Maybe I should hang around.”

  Arty frowned. “I’m sure if Mike wanted you to stay he’d have told you. Just leave me alone.” Arty proceeded toward the hallway behind reception where the elevators were located. The last thing he wanted or needed was to deal with Klein.

  Dude of darkness followed Arty to the elevators. “No point in leaving only to have to come back later. I got no plans for tonight, anyway.”

  “Do what you want.” Arty pushed the up button for the elevator and pocketed his car keys.

  Klein mumbled, “I’ll do what I want.” He pushed past Arty and the elevators, used his keycard to access the security office down the hall. The door slammed shut behind him.

  Arty’s pulse hammered in his temple. Great. Now he’s pissed off at me. More stress. A ping sounded, and the brushed steel doors slid open. Arty stepped into the car and was whisked up to the fourth floor where Mike and Gavin’s posh offices, along with a mini kitchen and several conference rooms, were situated. A theater of sorts with a giant screen for use in meetings and training sessions occupied one room, although the room was rarely used.

  Mike’s secretary, Linda, was packing up for the day when Arty entered the outer office. “Hey, Linda. Heading home?”

  Linda jumped. “Oh, my, you scared me.” A hand with bright red perfectly manicured nails fluttered over her chest.

  “Sorry.” Arty wasn’t used to having such an effect on people. He was the type to melt into the woodwork, and usually they didn’t notice him.

  “Don’t worry. I knew you were coming, but I’m running late, and I’ve got to get home and get supper on the table before Charles gets there. Mike and Gavin are inside waiting.” She pulled her coat on and grabbed her purse.

  “Enjoy your evening,” Arty said.

  She lifted a hand in acknowledgment.

  Arty unbuttoned his coat and pulled a white cotton handkerchief from his pants pocket. He wiped his forehead and sucked in a deep trembly breath. As he let it out, he checked his watch. Right on time.

  Arty knocked on the solid oak door leading into the inner sanctum.

  “Come in,” came the sound of Mike Stennard’s muffled voice.

  Arty entered. A lavish walnut desk, roughly the size of a small yacht, held a desktop computer, laptop, and a phone. Off to the left of the desk was a coffee table, sofa, and two leather armchairs. A floor lamp stood like a watchman between the chairs. To the right of the desk was a mini conference table with six plush, black leather chairs on wheels.

  Mike, on the phone as usual, waved Arty over, pointing to an empty chair across from him. Apparently, tonight they’d be sitting around Mike’s desk.

  Arty set his briefcase on the floor and tossed his coat over the back of the chair.

  Gavin was already in the other chair facing Mike’s desk. He raised a cut crystal highball glass with about an inch of amber liquid. “Want a drink?”

  “No thanks.”

  Mike also had a drink, probably the same liquor, sitting on a cork coaster on his desktop.

  Gavin tossed back most of the booze and stood. “You sure you won’t have one?” He tilted his glass towards Arty. “I’m happy to hook you up. Single malt. Good stuff. I hit the boss’s private stash.”

  “No thanks on the Scotch. I’ll take a bottle of water, though.” Arty tried to concentrate on Mike’s phone conversation but Gavin was distracting.

  Mike said, “No. No. We’re good. I promise you, we’ll get those to you ASAP. You won’t be disappointed.”

  Arty got up and wandered over toward the dark wood half-circle shaped portable bar located behind the sitting area of the office. “Who’s Mike talking to?” he said quietly.

  Gavin retrieved a bottle of water from the mini fridge behind the bar and gave it to Arty. “Dunno. He was on the horn when I got here a few minutes ago.”

  Gavin seemed uninterested in anything other than his next drink. He poured a neat two inches into his glass and gently swirled it. Light reflected off the golden liquid.

  “You okay, buddy? You’re practically hyperventilating, like you’ve just run a marathon.” He sipped the Scotch, eyes locked on Arty’s face.

  Arty twisted the top off the bottle of water and took a couple gulps. “I’m fine. Still getting over a bug.” He leaned against the bar and rested his foot on the brass rail along the bottom, trying to maintain his cool. “What’s on the agenda tonight?” He fingered the cell in his pants pocket and got the bright idea to record Gavin before the actual meeting.

  Arty found Gavin creepy. He’d never trusted him, even back in college. Gavin was always calm and collected, but his eyes were like staring into an ash encrusted volcano. Arty figured they may be out of camera range for the task force recorder setup because the smoke detector/camcorder was on the other side of the office above the conference table and angled toward Mike’s desk.

  He wasn’t sure if the sound would pick up, and was pretty sure the video wouldn’t. Before he lost his nerve, he pulled the phone from his pocket. “Wanna make sure this thing’s on silent mode so our meeting isn’t disrupted.” Arty hit the touch screen and quickly tapped the voice recording app, then tilted the phone sideways and made a production over sliding the switch to vibrate mode before slipping the device into the side pocket of his suit coat.

  Gavin barely paid him any attention. He was focused on his beverage. “Good idea.” He headed toward Mike’s desk.

  Mike hung up the phone. “Holy shit guys. I was talking with Marco Radcliffe from Skylark International. Sit down. Sit down.” He took a slug of his drink and smacked his lips together. “Damn fine single malt.” He raised his glass to Arty and Gavin. “They’re functioning as the pass-through. I got a guarantee of two hundred million dollars last week in Switzerland.”

  Arty sat up straight in his chair. “Wait. I don’t understand. If you got the two hundred mil from Switzerland, why do you need Skylark International?”

  Gavin leaned to his left and nudged Arty’s arm. “So, Skylark can buy the receivables back at a discount.”

  “Fuckin’-A!” Mike hoisted his glass and drained it, then jumped up to get a refill. He danced across the carpet to the bar, saying over his shoulder, “There’s a couple stages involved here. First, I gotta get an extension from Fast Eddie. I need three weeks t
o get the money from Skylark International. Then I gotta get money to a couple other investors screaming for payment. Fifty million and forty-six million. Keep ’em quiet, for a while anyway.”

  Arty twisted in his chair and watched Mike replenish his drink.

  “I’ve got to sew this one up,” Mike said. “Some of the investors have been making waves. There’s been talk about notifying the authorities about fraud. We can’t allow anyone to tattle. Right?” He threw back the liquor.

  Gavin said, “The last thing we need are cops breathing down our necks. We have to be sure there’s an exit plan in place. Passports ready. You know the drill. Hopefully, it won’t get to that point because of the commitment from Skylark.” He regarded Arty and then Mike.

  “Right you are, Gav.” Mike rubbed his hands together like a kid ready to dive into a pile of presents. His face was candy apple red. “Arty, I need you working on funneling the money to different sources. A couple two, three, no, make it four different sources. Focus on moving money instead of making up purchase orders. You need to move the money to get it cleaned or we’re dead in the fuckin’ water guys. Dead as damn doornails. And then we’d need to get the hell outta the country. I got my place in the Caymans, so I’m not too worried, but I’d rather stay here.”

  Arty said, “Good. I’m sick of doing fake purchase orders.” He watched Mike standing by the bar, lost in his own semi-inebriated world. “But I’m still not clear what my part is on this new deal.” Arty blotted his forehead with his handkerchief as he waited for Mike’s reply.

  “You bailing on us, pal?” Gavin swung toward Arty. “Mikey, suddenly our guy here is all worried about doing fake purchase orders when up until now he’s whipped them out faster than a Nascar race driver whizzing around the track.”

  Arty’s radar blipped. His lungs seemed to have stopped functioning. He felt like he was watching a bad episode of The Twilight Zone. Waiting for Mike to defend him, he melted like a wilted flower, sweat dripping down the sides of his face.

  Mike didn’t hear, or maybe he’d had a hit of cocaine before Arty got there, because he was off on another tangent. “I went to see one of the investors last week, as a precaution. Wanted to cover our asses. Told him I’d probably go out of business and maybe even end up in jail because we bought a whole lot of bad paper—the POs—similar to when people got caught up buying bad mortgages. That was how I put it to him. A great excuse to get us out of this mess, if it becomes necessary.”

  Arty said, “We didn’t buy the POs. I created the POs. You told me to make up all the POs.”

  Mike returned to his desk. “I know. But I told him it originated from someone else, not us. We didn’t know who, we just bought them.”

  Gotcha, Arty thought, covering a twinge of exhilaration. He felt perspiration sliding down his back and was grateful he’d kept his suit jacket on so Gavin and Mike wouldn’t notice. “Okay. But we didn’t buy the POs from anyone, Mike. And I don’t understand why we’d say we bought bundles of bad POs from people. Who would we have bought them from?”

  Gavin asked, “Why are you so hung up on an inconsequential fib, Arty?”

  Arty’s heart palpitated, but he concentrated and kept his speech steady to make sure the recording was clear. “I mean, we all gotta be on the same page, right? Tell the same story.”

  Gavin pointed a finger at Arty. “You, especially, better make sure you’re telling the right story.”

  Mike switched gears. “If we don’t cover our asses now, I’m afraid one of the investors will sniff out the scam and throw us under the bus. Gavin thinks we need to talk more, Arty. Get our story straight. I don’t trust Fast Eddie or one of the others if something starts to go south. And it could. I know Eddie’s thrown others to the wolves to save himself.”

  Gavin said, “It’s like Mike said earlier, our situation is similar to those guys who were buying bad mortgages. Brokers all over the place writing up bad mortgages and these guys buying the paper. Some people didn’t pay. Couldn’t pay up, so they covered their arses. ‘Oh, we had no idea we were buying bad mortgages.’” He stood. “My opinion is we have to play our defense similarly, should it become necessary. We were the buyers of these bad POs. The only ones we may have risk on are one or two where you say you did it yourself, wrote up the fake POs yourself. Memorize the details, buddy.” He clapped a hand on Arty’s shoulder. “Understand?”

  “Our risk is higher, though,” Arty said. “All of the POs are fake. Not some, all. Which obviously means we have more risk. And by admitting we conjured fakes on one would only substantiate our complicity in everything.” Arty reached, again, for his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. He chanced a quick glance up at the smoke detector/recorder and wondered how anyone outside the room would be able to make sense of the many-faceted scheme.

  Gavin leaned into him. “You sure you’re all right? You’re sweating up a storm and it’s actually chilly in here. Getting cold feet?” Gavin’s stormy gaze fixed on Arty.

  Arty swallowed, shrank under Gavin’s scrutiny. He didn’t trust his voice for a moment.

  “Oh, come on Gav, you know our boy is in the thick with us. He’s got our six. Loyal to the end.”

  Arty jutted his chin at Gavin. “I’m still recovering from an ear infection and strep.” He wiped his damp hand down his pants leg, smoothing the fabric.

  Gavin shifted backward in his chair. “What the hell? You contagious?”

  Arty stuffed the soggy square cotton cloth into his side pocket and briefly touched the phone inside. “No, but I’ve still got a slight fever. That’s why I’m sweating. Can we get on with the business and forget about my health?”

  Gavin laid a hand over his heart. “But, Arty, your health is of the utmost concern to us.” He smiled, but the emotion didn’t reach his eyes.

  Mike stood and moseyed over to the bar again to pour himself another drink. “Arty’s right. We need to focus on the situation. Let’s wrap this up. I’ve got a date later.”

  Gavin rolled his eyes at Arty. “How old is this one, Mike? You need to be careful. The last one was barely out of high school. We don’t need any unwarranted media attention, my friend.”

  For once, Arty agreed with Gavin. “Be careful, Mike.”

  “You guys are jealous. Tori is suitably past the age of consent. Trust me.” Mike leaned against the bar and took a swallow of booze. “Arty, you know what to do? Forget the purchase orders, for now. Focus on channeling the funds we got coming in to keep the investors fat and happy. Oh, and also prepare for an audit because Skylark International might want an audit of our financials before they release funds to us. I’m certain I can talk them out of it, but just in case, you gotta have copies of the PO files ready for them to review.”

  “Wait! What?” Arty jumped up. “Mike, have you lost your mind? We won’t withstand an outside financial audit. We have no files. We have stacks of fake POs. Nothing to back up the money going in and out of this place. Zero. Zilch. Nothing.” Waves of adrenaline and fear surged through him.

  Mike laughed. “Calm down. We’ll be fine.” He waved his glass in the air. “You got your tightie whities in a bundle for nothing.”

  “This is not good, Mike. Not good.”

  Gavin stood and drained his glass. “I told you he was a weak link, Mike.” He eyed Arty. “You gotta do what you gotta do here, buddy. Cover our asses. Which means covering your own too because you’re in this manure pile just as deep as we are.” He crossed to the bar and set his empty glass on the bar top. “I’ve gotta get home to the missus. We good here?”

  Arty dug his hands into his pants pockets and faced Mike and Gavin. “Dandy.”

  Mike clapped Arty on the back. “See, Gav, I told you he’d be fine. Arty’s tough enough.” He swilled the remaining liquid from his glass. “I think we all oughta head out.” He laid a hand on Arty’s shoulder. “Chin up. We’re gonna make another boatload of money!”

  Gavin said, “Mikey, you sure about him?” He tilted his head towar
d Arty. “Maybe we should put someone on him? You know, make sure he doesn’t flake out on us? Let me put out a call.”

  “Still in the room, Gavin.” Arty retrieved his coat from the chair.

  Mike squinted at Arty. “He’s trustworthy, Gav. We’ve had each other’s backs since college. Nothing’s changed, except we’re all older and richer.”

  “It’s on you, Mike.” Gavin pointed a finger at Stennard. “You make sure he sticks with the script. Because if you don’t, I will. G’night guys.”

  Mike closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. “You’ve got him worried. Are we solid? I need to know. I need you to tell me you’re with us.”

  “I’m on board.” Arty picked up his briefcase. “I hope you’re right about the money, Mike. Seriously.”

  Mike guided Arty toward the door. “I am, my man. Have faith. You know I reward loyalty.”

  His assurance did nothing to soothe Arty’s nerves.

  “Haven’t we always come out smelling like a rose?” Mike pushed Arty through the portal.

  Arty was hot beneath the cold sheen of sweat coating his body, his mind bouncing like popping popcorn. He pulled his phone from his suit coat with a shaking hand as he left Mike’s office and moved toward the elevator. He thought about stopping the recording, but replayed Gavin’s comments over in his head.

  The distinct snick of the stairway door, to the right of Mike’s office, brought him out of his reverie. Had someone been lurking? Len? Maybe Gavin? Who else would be up here? The cleaning crew didn’t come in until ten o’clock.

  He jammed his phone back into his pocket. Sucking in a lungful of determination, Arty stepped toward the stairway door, once through, he guided the door closed quietly behind him. He stood, taking shallow breaths, listening. His pulse thundered in his ears. He thought he heard a distant shuffle of footsteps followed by another click as a door below closed.

  Arty retreated through the door into the fourth-floor hallway. He took the elevator down so as not to let on he’d noticed the snoop. Arty suspected Klein was spying. Or maybe his imagination was working overtime. He sighed and dug his phone from his pocket again. Setting his briefcase on the elevator floor he fumbled to stop the recording app. The elevator reached the main floor and the doors glided open. Arty dragged the briefcase out onto the hallway floor intending to finish his business with the phone.