laughed nervously. “Very appreciated.”
Gorski’s eyes tightened. He felt like squeezing down on the man’s shoulders, making him cry out in pain. But he kept his arm loose and nodded.
“You have a number in mind? Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I don’t know,” Stillwell said, continuing the nervous laugh. “I haven’t really … well… Forty thousand dollars, maybe? I mean It’s not a lot in comparison, and—”
“Forty thousand dollars?” Gorski’s blood rose. “That’s a big number for a bonus. But I guess we can work with that. Right, Richard?”
“Uh, yes, sir, Joe.” Birdman nodded. “I’m sure it can be arranged.”
“Get it done then.” Gorski stepped back, signaling the meeting was over.
Stillwell rose, still clutching the briefcase, and stammered, “Th-Thank you, sir. I-I really appreciate your help, Mr. Gorski. I really want to do what’s best for the company.”
“I can see that, Harry.” Gorski wrapped his arm around Stillwell’s shoulder and guided him toward the door. “And we’ll make sure you get what you deserve for this. We’ll make that a priority.”
Gorski shook his hand and thanked him again. He watched as Stillwell left the outer office before closing the door behind him again. Gorski stomped back to his desk, steaming.
Birdman shook his head. “I can’t imagine how this happened, Joe. This is shocking. I don’t know how—"
“The balls on that guy! Fucking chipmunk-cheeked bastard. Asking me for money like that.”
“Yes, he was really out of line.”
“This has got to be Matchstick, right? That rat fucker Monaghan was stealing from us, right? You think he and this guy were in on it together?”
“It’s the only explanation I can think of, Joe. He had to be.” Byrd nodded his head vigorously.
“Damn! I knew it.”
“I’ve started a file on Stillwell,” Birdman said, “and we’re looking at options.”
Gorski snorted. “Looking at options? This is bad business, Birdie. Just take care of it and make it go away.”
“Yes, Joe. I’ll handle it right away.” Birdman moved to stand up, but Gorski waved him back down.
“So, have you figured out where he is? We need to get that rat fucker and get our money back.
“You mean Tom Monaghan?” Birdman looked away.
“Yeah. That guy. Matchstick, that skinny, red-headed rat fink. Did you find him yet?”
“Working on it.” Birdman fidgeted, still looking like the scared little bird Gorski first met all those years back. “I’ve got some things in the works but, it’s complicated.”
Gorski frowned. “What’s so complicated? He has to be somewhere.’’
“I’m not sure,” Birdman said, shifting in his seat again. “I put two of our investigators on him and they both came up empty. The family moved in the middle of the night without telling anyone or leaving a forwarding address.”
“Yeah! And this explains why, Birdie.” Gorski jabbed a finger at the paperwork on his desk. “The rat stole from us and left town.”
Gorski trudged to the window again. Why was the problem so hard? If a guy steps out of line, you just smack him until he gets back in line. Lots of guys along the way had caused problems, then straightened out when they saw what it would cost them. This situation should be no different.
“Yes, Joe. You’re right. We’ve got the proof now.”
“If people find out about this, I’ll look like a sap.” Gorski stared through the window. The hawk still soared high. He liked the idea of the hawk in the city. A predator looking for its prey. “If he can get away with it, others are going to think they can fuck me over too.”
“You’re right, Joe.” Birdman tugged on his collar. “We can’t let that happen.”
“Damned right we can’t!” Gorski shouted, slamming his palm onto his desk hard, making Birdman jump. “Find the bastard and make him pay.”
“Yes, sir, Joe. We’ll pull out all the stops.” Birdman hopped to his feet and hurried to the door as though he was trying to escape.
Gorski waited until he was at the door, his hand on the doorknob. “With that other guy, Chipmunk—Stillman or whatever— do something, Byrd. We don’t need no more problems like this.”
Birdman nodded and stepped through the door. Gorski turned back toward the window once more. He scanned the sky again, looking for the hawk. After a moment, he saw it, perched on the antennae moorings of a neighboring building, alone, at the top.
Richard Byrd trembled as he left Gorski’s office. He kept his head down and marched out of the outer office and down the long hall, past the conference room and the sales area with all the cubicles. He had the urge to glance back to see if the Gorski was watching him, maybe coming after him, but he marshalled all his courage and kept facing forward. When he reached his office at the end of the hall, across from the kitchen, he breezed past his secretary without saying a word, slammed his door shut and slumped into his chair. His breath was fast, his skin burned hot. That was close. Too close. For a minute he’d been certain Joe was on to him.
The sounds of people talking in the kitchen filtered through the thin walls. Although his breathing slowed to normal, Byrd still couldn’t stop shaking. He quietly took stock of his surroundings. His office was small, enough room for his desk and chair, no more. Four blank walls, no pictures, no ornamentation, only the original white paint from when they moved in. Joe got the big title and the fancy office—he got the problems and responsibility.
Byrd hit the call button on the intercom and clasped his hands together to steady them.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Birdman?”
“Hold my calls. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
Byrd tried to tune out the background noise, so he could focus. He had three problems to deal with—three big problems. But that’s what he did, what he’d always done. He solved problems. The issues seemed overwhelming, almost insurmountable, but there was always a way. His mind was clouded now with all the fear and emotion, but if he broke each problem down to their component parts, focused on the details, he’d find a way. There was always a solution.
Byrd unlocked his computer and entered the accounts section again. He pulled up the master spreadsheet one more time and inspected it for flaws. He scrutinized each line and checked each tally. The corporation was broken into multiple units, with numerous affiliated partnerships, shell corporations and holding companies which the money moved through. It was a maze of affiliations, which complicated the audit and made the trail nearly impossible to follow. He’d set up the structure himself and, until now, it had been a perfect system.
Perfect until Stillwell, the accountant, found the hole. Byrd was lucky the accountant had come to him first, so he could get out ahead of the problem before telling Joe. And even luckier that Gorski was such a stupid oaf and jumped to the wrong conclusion. Byrd closed the spreadsheet. The accounting problem was fixable. It was a big problem, but he could solve it.
Byrd leaned back in his chair. Monaghan was his second problem, and this was a bigger issue. The man and his family had disappeared. Only one explanation made any real sense. He’d gone to the feds, and they’d taken him away and holed him up somewhere.
Byrd had clearly misjudged Monaghan. The man was competent, and Byrd had assumed he could trust him, but the assumption had been wrong. Monaghan turned out to be a backstabbing rat. They’d held meetings with competitors where price manipulation was discussed, and Monaghan was part of the inner group. Price fixing was illegal, and if the Feds got wind of it, they’d surely be interested. But that was why the company had so many lawyers on staff, and why they paid off so many politicians.
Byrd played the problem out in his mind. Price fixing was a crime, but not one the authorities would offer protection for. Monaghan wasn’t involved in anything else, certainly none of their more questionable practices. Byrd’s hands quivered, and his pulse boomed in his ear. Could he kno
w more than he’d let on? Violence, intimidation and threats were part of the company’s stock in trade, carryovers from their early loansharking days. These methods turned out to be even more effective with the legitimate crowd. But they’d needed less and less intimidation in recent years, and his goal was to turn completely legit soon. Still, there were exceptions. Monaghan joined them as one of the top executives with the Pendleton merger, and part of the negotiations with the CEO were brutal—in a physical sense. Monaghan must have heard the rumors, but no evidence ever surfaced, and this was old news.
Still, Monaghan had to be on to something. When the family disappeared, the only reason that made sense was the Feds had picked him up and squirreled him off somewhere. Which meant Monaghan had to have something on them and already told the Feds everything he knew. It also meant that he had to have some kind of documentation to prove his story, or the feds never would have taken him into the program.
Byrd took a deep breath in and a deep breath out.
Don’t give into the fear. Think things through. There’s always a solution.
Monaghan surely gave them some documentation, but that wouldn’t be enough. If it was, the Feds would have made themselves known by now. No, for any charges to stick, they needed his testimony. And if he didn’t testify, they didn’t have enough to make their case. That was the only logical conclusion. Byrd had to think things through more. There was a solution, he just didn’t have it yet. At least Gorski still didn’t know the extent of their Monaghan problem.
Which brought up his third problem. Byrd placed his head in his hands and slumped lower in his seat. His third problem was the worst, his own partner—Joe Gorski. How had it gotten this bad? Wrong question. It had always been bad, he’d just grown used to it. From the day he’d met Gorski at Morgan Park Jr. High, he’d been terrified of the big buffoon. With the beatings, the teasing and the constant bullying, Joe made his life a living hell. Birdman remembered how he had to hide all the time, planning his whole day so Gorski wouldn’t catch him. And no matter how much he planned, it didn’t usually work. Until he figured out that if he couldn’t hide from Joe, he had to become valuable to him somehow. Byrd stopped being a victim and became a toady, helping Joe shakedown more kids for more money.
In a sick way their partnership worked, and they’d evolved together for all these years. Their company, Empire Holdings, had grown from a single truck to a conglomerate with assets spread over twelve different industries, one of the fastest growing private companies in the Midwest. Gorski was a public figure, all because of what Byrd had done.
Byrd wished he could break away, but he’d done his job too well and was too valuable for Joe to ever let him go. And knowing what Joe was capable of doing, Byrd could never leave on his own.
But with things going so well lately, Byrd worked up his courage and started to put some distance between him and his old friend, which was why the accountant’s story was so disturbing. Panic rose up from Byrd’s stomach, and he closed his eyes. He repeated the breathing exercises for a full ten counts. Yes, this was much too close. Business had always been stressful, more so since he started skimming company funds into his own accounts. His war chest had grown into the millions, and soon he’d be able to make his own way, no matter what Joe thought about it.
So, he had the three big problems.
Byrd took out his key and opened his desk drawer. He pulled out one of his burner phones and dialed a memorized number. He could only work on one solution at a time.
Day 2
Saturday October, 22
27
Louis Mayfield glanced in his rear-view mirror and scowled. Working on Saturday morning was a ball-ache, but he’d gotten used to it over the years. He didn’t have a nine-to five job and things came up, so nights and weekends were in the mix at times—part of the life. Part of the problem was that he had to drive all the way out to the suburbs to pick up Wade, and it bothered him, big time. Wade was having car issues and Louis told him he’d drive if he had to, but he hadn’t expected Wade to take him up on the offer. In fact, it irritated him the young man didn’t find a way to at least meet half way. And now the capper, this asshole in the blue Subaru was riding his bumper again.
Louis gazed forward. He was driving right with the flow of traffic with nowhere to go. If he sped up, he’d drive straight into the bumper of the car a few lengths ahead. Louis glanced up at the rear-view again. The asshole. A pasty white guy, dimpled cheeks and oozing a sense of entitlement. His face was big in the mirror, close enough to see the bits of food stuck between his teeth. Louis squeezed his steering wheel tight. Who was this guy to ride up on him like this?
Louis was driving an impressive hunk of metal, a brand new, cherry red, Range Rover, with every bell, whistle and luxury option included. He was dressed to the nines, too. Despite it being Saturday, it wasn’t going to cramp his sense of style. He wore a Kiton cashmere sport coat over a pink and white checked, custom-tailored shirt and designer jeans. Hell, his shoes alone cost nearly a thousand dollars. The pasty asshole in back might not like the fact that Louis, a mature black man, was driving a finer car than he was, but god damnit, he was the king of the fucking road and he’d damn sure drive the way he wanted. Louis tapped on the brakes and tires screeched behind him. He punched the gas again and surged forward.
Louis checked the mirror once more. The asshole was further back now, his face crimson red, he shook his fist in the air. Serves him right. The expressway was a community and you had to abide by the rules. Let this be a lesson to him. Louis wasn’t going to let the pasty moron ruin his day. He had important things to do. He needed to wrap his mind around the task at hand and not let outside influences shape his thinking.
A screech of tires, a horn honk and the sensor in his side mirror flashed. Louis glanced over, and the Subaru was beside him, the pasty asshole less than a car’s width away, glaring at him, yelling—flashing his middle finger at him. Louis glared and flashed his finger back. The Subaru surged forward and swerved in front of him, cutting him off. Tail lights flashed, and Louis stomped on his brakes to avoid rear-ending the SOB. More honking and tires squealing.
Blood rushed to his head and Louis saw red. The asshole could have wrecked his new car. He could have killed him! His muscles tensed, his heart rate spiked. He’d kill the bastard. He’d force him off the road and drag him out of the car and beat him with his fists, hell—he’d beat him with a tire iron. Blood would be shed. His breathing raced, and he was nearly out of control when a thought popped in his head: Whatever begins in anger, ends in shame.
He drank a long breath in, eased off the gas, and loosened his chokehold on the steering wheel. Life was all about action, not reaction. He wasn’t some dog that jumped every time a buzzer sounded. Louis was a self-made man, in control of his destiny and emotions. Despite his heart thumping, he eased back into his seat. The Subaru swerved again, cutting off the guy in the next lane. He kept his car at a steady speed and took in another soothing gulp of air. Let the asshole ruin someone else’s day. Louis was done with him.
The community park wasn’t far from the expressway exit. He found the last vacant spot in the main parking lot. He ambled along the blacktop path surrounding the playing fields, looking for Wade. Today was soccer day, and every field was in use. Soccer never made sense to him. It was nothing but running around and chasing after a ball. Boring as hell. He strolled up to the third field over. A bunch of young girls were clustered near the far end of the field, one team in gold t-shirts, the other in sky blue.
Wade Baker stood on the far sideline. Most of the parents were near midfield, sitting in their canvas chairs, but Wade prowled the line, pacing with the team. Young and lean with a blond buzz cut, he looked like a high school football coach. His gray sweatpants and navy windbreaker reinforced the impression. During the years they’d worked together, Louis tried to teach him a sense of style, but so far it hadn’t taken. Louis sauntered down the line to greet him.
“Wade,
my man. How are you this fine morning?”
“Hey, Lou. You’re early.” Wade glanced over then turned back to the field. “Come on gold!” He shouted. “You can do it.”
“We got to get going.”
“Yeah, I know. Just hang on a minute. Cassie’s been a star and I want to see how this attack plays out.”
Louis checked his watch. They had a schedule to meet, but they had time. He stood in place while Wade continued pacing the line. Out on the field, the girls ran together in a herd, the ball careening wildly off their shoes, mud splattering their shins. Steam rose from their bodies in the chill of the October air. The ball crossed midfield and one of the girls in gold, a thin blonde, taller than the other eight-year-olds, broke away from the pack and sprinted forward, controlling the ball between her feet as she ran.
“Come on, Cassie,” Wade yelled.
A defender darted toward her. She kicked the ball and veered to the right leaving the defender behind. Another ran at her from the far side of the field, but Cassie was too far away. It was just her and the goalie. She arrived at an angle, running hard. The goalie spread her arms wide and tensed for the shot. Cassie ran almost to the goal line before she kicked. The ball sailed past the goalie and landed in the back of the net. Cassie pumped her arms in the air and jumped with excitement. The parents along the side lines clapped and cheered.
“Damn! See what I’m talking about?” Wade ran back and clapped Louis on the shoulder as he nearly jumped up in down with excitement. “She’s great, right?”
“Yeah, she’s something. We got to get going, man.”
“Yeah, I know. Give me a second to say goodbye to Susan.”
Wade walked over to the line of lawn chairs, reached over and touched his wife’s shoulder. Susan looked up, brushed her long blonde hair from her eyes, and gave a tight smile. She looked past her husband and nodded toward Louis.
Living Proof Page 33
