by Sara Forbes
Felix
Bitcoin Billionaires, Book 2
SARA FORBES
©Sara Forbes 2018
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be considered as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
www.saraforbes.com
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
1
CARA
THE MAN IN THE TRENCH COAT matches the description: Mid-forties, five nine, slight paunch, sandy hair. The woman is dark, pale-faced, petite, and looks younger than twenty-two. Both heads are slightly ducked as they enter the bar. At the last second, he twists around to glance behind him and that’s when I get my best shot.
His wife, let’s call her Mrs. B, is probably going to cry when she sees these photos. I return to my Nikon and snap a few more until the adulterer is gone. Lowering the camera, I wipe sweat from my brow. Two weeks of false leads and waiting in dark places got me to this point. It’s double my average time and I’m not being paid by the hour. I’d have earned more per hour flipping burgers.
My smartwatch alarm goes off. I have an appointment with Marvin Goodman in ten minutes. Not that I was likely to forget. I shoot off a text to Mrs. B asking her to come in to my office this afternoon. That’s going to be a lot of fun. Spying on cheating spouses makes up over eighty percent of my work. It just about pays the bills and I should be grateful even if it always makes me feel like scrubbing myself down with soap and hot water afterward. My degree in information and cyber-security, that I’m still paying off student loans for, languishes unused, waiting for better days. The exciting counterterrorism jobs tend to go to internal employees on the large corporations’ payrolls, not twenty-seven-year-old, independent private investigators.
Goodman’s already waiting as I approach the bench on Venice Beach promenade, our usual rendezvous, his dyed hair gleaming blue-black, looking vaguely like Ronald Reagan. One leg bouncing impatiently, he flicks his gold cigarette case shut and frowns. That’s when he spots me and his face clears.
Marvin Goodman is an investor and close friend of my late father’s. He’s hired me to investigate a guy who was “cramping his style” as he put it. I was delighted to take on a project that engaged some of my brain cells, but now that the job is done, I fear the fun is over.
Goodman jerks his chin toward the surfers frolicking in the crested waves. “You ever done it?
“Surfing? No.”
“Still doing the jiujitsu?”
“When I get time.”
“Guess you’re busy these days. I’ll make it quick”
“Always have time for my loyal clients, Mr. Goodman.”
It’s our spiel—he pretending that I’m uber-busy, me pretending that I’m squeezing him into my schedule. I’ve known him since I was seven—the precocious little girl who sat on Rick Cole’s desk, spouting nonsense for the adults’ amusement, quoting the old detective movies that Dad loved so much. Even in my teens, Goodman and I shared intelligent conversations in which he made me feel like an equal. I like to tell myself he hired me for this project on merit but deep down I can’t help feeling he did it as a favor to Dad. Dad’s death last year of a sudden heart attack shocked him as much as it did me, and I think he wants an excuse to come back to the office and to sit in his usual mahogany and leather chair.
There are times when I daydream of striking off my list any client who’s had anything to do with Dad and starting over with a clean slate. Of course, then I’d go bankrupt because finding new clients these days is hard. Many clients seem to expect PIs to be gravelly-voiced, chain-smoking Humphrey Bogart types, and balk when they see me—a sporty woman whom people keep comparing to Meghan Markle. I get the resemblance but I’m taller, flat-chested, and not half as pretty. I have more luck with female clients who often want to work with a female PI, but sadly, the work is usually tracking wayward husbands.
“You get anything on Palmer?” Goodman rises gingerly from the bench.
“I’ve good news and bad news,” I say.
“Bad news first.”
“Jack Palmer’s not the guy we’re looking for.”
“But you said… What? But Venezuela…” His voice trails off.
“Red herring. Jack Palmer knows next to nothing about investing.” I inhale deeply. “My mistake.”
I hate admitting being wrong. It’s a costly error that’s going to test our cozy PI-client relationship. As Goodman’s bushy eyebrows hike further toward his hairline, I continue. “He hasn’t touched Bitcoin, or any digital currency, since he cashed out six years ago to start his production company. He liquidated that last year and has been surviving on small, indie productions since. He doesn’t come out of his apartment much. His girlfriend’s moved in. He’s writing a movie for her. They dine at Master Ha. It’s all in my report.”
“Well what’s the good news?”
“It’s his brother. Felix. Twin brother.”
“The poker player?” Goodman shakes his head.
“The whole sunny poker boy act is just that—an act. Felix Palmer’s actually one hell of a strategist when it comes to investing. He’s been in the market since the days when you could buy Bitcoin for less than a cent. He’s the whale you’re looking for.”
Goodman is shaking his head again. “Are you sure? I’d only call someone a whale who holds a serious amount of Bitcoin—enough to manipulate the price in a big way.”
I nod. I never say I’m sure unless I’m sure.
Goodman lets a colorful, boisterous reggae band pass by our bench before speaking again. “I’ve seen Felix Palmer on YouTube. Can’t imagine him having the attention span to acquire Bitcoin, let alone hold onto it long enough to get rich.”
I chuckle. “No, he doesn’t seem to hold onto much very long: houses, cars, women. They slip through his fingers like the sand on the Bali beaches he likes to frequent. But it’s all an act to throw people off the scent. An expensive cover up for what he’s doing behind the scenes.”
“Of course, he can afford to throw money around on a cards table.” Bitterness creeps into Goodman’s tone. “It’s small change for him. I can’t believe that’s the guy.”
“I’ll send you the final report and invoice this afternoon.” I say.
Goodman gives me a mirthless grin. “Oh, this matter is far from closed.”
I raise a hopeful eyebrow.
He glances around, like every spy in every thriller ever, but the promenade is full of people out enjoying the Friday afternoon sunshine who couldn’t give a shit about us. “Cara, I told you I wanted you to find out who this Bitcoin whale is but I didn’t tell you why.”
I give him the “go on” look, trying to keep my excitement in check. Does he have a new task for me? Will it involve tracking split-second movements of Bitcoin across computer networks because that would be kind of cool.
“The Bitcoin fund I manage?” Goodman says. “It�
�s mainly pensioners’ savings. Folks who want a little comfort in their lives when they retire, for playing golf in Florida or taking the grandkids to Disneyworld, or what have you. Folks like your dad.”
I grimace. Sometimes I wish Marvin Goodman didn’t know quite so much about my dad’s failed investments late in his life which, I’m convinced, led to his heart attack at only sixty-one. Dad didn’t want to invest with Goodman as he felt it would jeopardize their friendship, so he found another broker who convinced him that pouring his retirement savings into Bitcoin was a good idea. Turns out it was a terrible idea.
Goodman’s enthusiasm for the digital currency has continued strong, however. And while I have grave reservations about Bitcoin, I admire his zeal to help the little folk, seeing to it that big banks and investors aren’t the only ones who can benefit from investing.
“A good return will mean the difference between my clients having the comfort of their own homes for the rest of their lives or having to foreclose and live in poverty. Ultimately, It’s about dignity, Cara. Human dignity. Which brings me to your task.”
“Yes?”
“I want you to stop this guy, this Felix Palmer, from manipulating the Bitcoin price against me ever again. He’s done it too often. I’ve had enough of his bullshit.” Goodman punctuates his outburst by squeezing the life out of his cigarette case.
“How do I stop him?” I ask.
“Listen carefully, Cara. My clients, they’ve bought futures contracts for Bitcoin. They’re basically laying a bet that Bitcoin will be a certain price on a certain date. If the Bitcoin price is higher on that day, they win, if it’s lower, they lose.
I nod. Unless you’re a time traveler dropping in from the year 2027, futures contracts are a bad idea. Then again, I’m not a gambling person.
Goodman takes out a checkered handkerchief and mops his brow. “I assured my clients that Bitcoin would be worth double the $10,000 per Bitcoin price they bought it at.”
“But surely your clients know how volatile the market is and that they shouldn’t bet more than they can afford to lose?” I say.
He eyes me wearily. “You say that like you expect human beings to be rational. I did warn them, Cara, I did. But then I saw the hope in their eyes of making decent money for once in their lives…I-I couldn’t persuade them otherwise.”
“When’s the, uh, deadline, the particular date?”
“9 a.m. Pacific Time on April 17th on the Gemini Exchange Auction.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to do with Felix Palmer?” I ask, eager to bring this conversation around to something I can bill hours for.
Goodman’s hands shake. “If he finds out about my futures, he’ll bet the other way. He’ll want to drive the price as low as possible by dumping a shit ton of his own Bitcoin on that day. It’ll make my clients’ Bitcoins sink in value. Then, of course, when they’ve sold it off, which they must, at a devastating loss, he’ll buy it all up again on the cheap, giving him more leverage. I need you to deter him from doing that.”
I exhale slowly. I’ll be sure to ask him nicely.
Goodman rushes on. “He’s been doing this for years—clearing out small brokers like me from the market. He just wants more, more, more. Meanwhile, innocent investors like your poor father end up in poverty at the end of their lives.”
Lost in his rant, Goodman’s face is turning purple and I fear he’s going to have a heart attack, just like my poor father. I lay a steadying hand on his forearm.
Goodman looks at me dolefully, “He’s taking away the last chance the little guys have of bettering their lot. I need you to stop him.”
“I want to help. But on what basis would I get paid even if I can’t guarantee the desired outcome, Mr. Goodman?” I ask. I hate to ask, but I can’t work for free, not with those banks breathing down my neck. And the desired outcome looks iffy at best. “I mean, chances are, Felix Palmer has already put in his bids for April 17th and the bots will take over, no matter how much I manage to influence him.”
Goodman takes out a cigarette and slides it behind his ear. “You’re sharp, like your old man. And tough. I like that.”
I smile tightly. I certainly try to project that image at all times.
“I’ll pay you a per diem rate, as before. Your brief is to dig deeper,” he says, “find out what makes him tick. Why he’s doing this.”
“If there even is a reason,” I point out. “Maybe he’s just playing games with you to mess with your head?”
“Well, I need to know. There’s got to be some clue in something he does.”
This is more my line of work. Character profiling. Determining motivation and next moves. “I can fit you into my schedule.”
“You’ll do better than that. You’ll clear your schedule and focus entirely on this. It’s that important.”
“With all due respect—”
“I’ll compensate you accordingly.”
“But I do have other clients, Mr. Goodman.”
“They can hire lesser skilled PIs to track their adulterous husband and wives.”
I’ve shared my frustrations with Goodman so he knows he has me now. All I can do is nod.
“I need someone with skills,” he continues. “Someone who’s as good as Rick Cole. I can only think of one person.”
Goodman lets out a long sigh. “Your father worked himself to an early grave. He could’ve taken off early if he hadn’t been worrying about providing for you and your sisters. If he hadn’t lost all that money with Vanguard Investments.”
I glower at him. He’s just lost his brownie points. “That’s all in the past, Mr. Goodman. We’re capable of looking after ourselves. Laila’s got a job at college now. Tessa and Alanna are happy lodging with their aunt and they’re performing well in school.”
“I’m pretty sure it was Palmer, that time too,” Goodman continues as if I haven’t spoken. “After he squeezed all the normal investors like your dad out of the market, he just snapped it all up again at a discount price.” He clicks his fingers. “And so, on it goes, with the guys at the top getting an ever-bigger slice of the pie.”
The thought of a smarmy billionaire, Jack Palmer’s brother no less, getting richer at the expense of ordinary folk makes my skin crawl. In the time it takes a seagull to land on the bench and fly off again, I’ve made my decision. “I’m happy to help, Mr. Goodman.”
“Good, good. It’s not an old man’s world anymore, Cara. All this cryptocurrency hype, all these goddamn shitcoins.”
“Shit people, more like,” I add. I’m at your service, Mr. Goodman. Let’s the rid the planet of this scum.”
***
Goodman leaves and I head back to my office eight blocks away in my battered little Honda. The office doesn’t look much from the outside but the location so near Venice Beach is spectacular.
First thing when I sit down at my laptop, I open up my calendar to clear it out for the next couple of weeks, right up to April 17th. Goodman is paying me a flat daily rate until then. I can’t complain, and I’m even more determined to get the desired outcome for him. I’ve never seen him so agitated.
I swear, this Bitcoin investing will be the death of him if he goes on like this, letting the greedy bastards of this world get to him. For the sakes of both him and his elderly clients, I desperately want the money to flow in a fair direction this time. And then when it’s all over I’ll take Mr. Goodman by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. He should leave Bitcoin to the younger sharks of this world and spend his precious time left on this earth with his sons and daughters.
After calling two clients to postpone my work for them, which doesn’t go down well, I look up Felix Palmer’s latest games on YouTube. He has no website, or social media account, just these brash, weird poker videos.
For someone so unscrupulous and greedy, the guy has the face of an angel with his startling, wide-spaced, blue eyes, perfectly waved, golden hair, and glowing, almost dewy skin—and it’s not make up. Set o
ff by broad shoulders and a ripped physique that his tux fails to conceal, he’s the image of a slick, well-to-do movie star type. He oozes sex appeal and I’m gawking at him before I realize what I’m doing. At least I won’t be caught unawares when I do face him for the first time. What a total waste of good looks if ever there was one.
At this professional level, poker is a confusing game to follow, but I get the hang of it after watching three games—by which stage I’ve had enough. It’s not teaching me anything. Felix Palmer’s face is expressionless—whether he’s risking wildly or letting others make fools of themselves. I don’t know what I expected—a mustachioed guy cackling evilly as he scoops in his winnings? Nope, he has the archetypal poker face.
I order a cheap takeout noodles meal and settle in for the evening to study up on cryptocurrency investing. I could go back to my shitty apartment but the office is much more conducive to work—no noisy neighbors here, or paper-thin walls, or bad air circulating. This was Dad’s office for his entire career and it’s the one thing he managed to pass on to us—all four sisters equally. I paid Laila, Tessa and Alanna off for their shares even though it meant taking out another loan. I’d live here day and night if I could, but it wouldn’t exactly create a good impression with my clients.
I haven’t touched the décor, not a thing. It still has that Hollywood forties’ noir style with horizontal blinds, faded grey striped wallpaper, a massive mahogany desk and green table lights. Black and white photos of his old friends and family adorn the shelves along with his black falcon statuette like in The Maltese Falcon. A heavy, polished typewriter sits proudly in the corner. Dad’s ghost lingers in every nook and cranny.
My younger sisters can’t understand why I didn’t just sell the office off and buy a nice condo, but they just don’t get it. We sisters are all spread out over the state, we’ve no focal point anymore, and weeks can go past without me seeing any of them. The office is the one thing tying us to our past, to the fact that we were ever once a family. I have this fear that if I sell, we’ll lose the spirit of the family we once had forever.
