by C. B. Carter
“You know what they say, when one door closes, another opens.”
“They do say that, don’t they? I guess all I need is the key.”
“Some doors are unlocked.”
Chapter Sixteen
~ William Paul Wright ~
Mark found Bama’s number and called him at 6:30 A.M. Seattle time. It was 9:30 A.M. on the east coast at the Pentagon.
“Personnel Records, Captain Wallace,” Bama answered.
“Captain Wallace now, huh? When are you up for Major?”
“I’m up for some major tail,” Bama joked.
The first few minutes of the conversation was a mixture of tall stories and the standard subjects of families, careers, and old times. Mark hinted all along that he was about to ask a huge favor.
“So, Mark, what are you really calling about?” Bama finally asked.
“It’s a huge favor.”
“Figured as much. Okay, you have my attention. What is it?”
“I need some information about someone who was in the Air Force.”
“I don’t know, Mark. I could get into a lot of trouble.”
“I know, but it’s for James Spain. You remember him, right? You’d be in jail and I’d be dead if it weren’t for him.”
“Hmm, yes, I remember him. Okay, what’s the name?”
“William Paul Wright, he was in the Air Force.”
“Do you know the years he was in or year of discharge?”
“Not really.”
“Do you know what AFSC?”
“What? Speak English! I have his service number.”
“Okay, fire away.” Bama took the name and service number. “I can find the record. I’ll take a look, Mark, but I can’t dig too deep, you understand that, right? I’m taking a big chance here. I mean, I’m at the Pentagon for God’s sake, and everything we do is scrutinized.”
“I understand, just get me the most you can. This guy is causing a lot of trouble for James.”
“I’ll fax anything I find from the FedEx on Crystal Square. What’s your fax number?”
Mark passed on the information from the phone’s faceplate in the hotel room.
“Thanks, Bama, or should I say, Captain Wallace?”
“Captain is fine. Not a problem. I’ll send you what I find. This will make us even, right?”
“Absolutely, and Bama, I do apologize for, you know.”
“I know. She’s happily married, has three kids now.”
“What, did you stalk her?”
“Didn’t have to, she sent me an email five months ago. You know, considering, I’m glad what happened—happened. I don’t even like kids.”
“It is a conundrum my friend. I find myself in a very opposite position. At any rate, send the fax as soon as you can.”
“Will do, take care.” Captain Wallace hung up the phone.
Mark went to the parking lot, pulled the clunky fax machine from the cargo area of his truck, and lugged it up to his room. He connected it, went online, and sent himself a fax and waited until it came through. He had missed an important fax before and now always went through this test and sent another one just to be sure.
When he was convinced the machine was working, he lay in bed for a few minutes, watched the news, and was shocked to see the Orioles had won. He dressed, ate the free breakfast offered by the hotel, and was out the door to scour the Embassy Suites parking lot. The only thing worth noting was that the GMC had moved sometime during the night. He wrote the details in his notebook.
When he returned to his room, the fax was alive and kicking. Bama was coming through for him with flying colors. He pulled the bottom sheet. It was the cover letter containing only eight words scribbled in what he considered to be poor penmanship: “Mark, this is a bad guy! Be careful.”
The fax printed another twelve pages and Mark read each one carefully. William Paul Wright had an attention-grabbing history and he was indeed someone of whom to be concerned. Mark knew he had to get in touch with James and couldn’t wait for the Seattle personals. He had to see him today, this morning, if possible.
He paced the room, trying to think of ways he could contact James without drawing attention.
“How can I do it? He’s bugged, he’s under constant surveillance,” Mark said out loud as he looked in the mirror.
Then it came to him and he called Sylvia.
“Lady Sylvia, Psychic, how can I help you?” Sylvia Banks said when she answered the phone.
“Did you know I was going to call?” Mark asked.
“Of course,” she responded.
“Okay, who am I, then?”
“Is this a prank caller? I’ll put a curse on you,” she said through gritted teeth.
“No, not a prank caller, it’s me, Mark, now don’t hang—” all he heard was a click followed by the dial tone.
He called again, she answered, “Don’t hang up. You had to have known I wasn’t going to call you, you’re a psy—”
Dial tone.
He pressed redial, “Listen, I know I said I would call after last summer, but I got caught up in my life back in Sacramento. I really need your help.”
Dial tone.
Pressed redial again, “Sylvia, please. It’s for a friend.”
“I know and this friend is James and he’s in trouble with money?” Sylvia responded.
“Yes, exactly. I need your help, you have no idea. How did you know it was James?”
“Mark, just because I’m a psychic doesn’t mean I don’t like surprises. There are many forces at work and I hoped you would call.”
“I’m sorry, I really am. Is your office still on Post Alley?”
“Yes,” she answered coldly.
“Okay, this is going to sound really, really strange, but I’m going to be bringing in a friend. But when he comes in, he will strip down to his boxers, leave his clothing in the reading room. He will then follow me to the back room while you pretend to do a reading for him.”
“That is strange, Mark. You want me to read his clothing?”
“Sure, if it makes you feel more comfortable with it. I just need to get him into the back room.”
“Mark, my place of business isn’t some type of happy finish pit-stop for you and your gay friend.”
“Sylvia, it’s nothing like that. You know better. Trust me, when he leaves, I will let you read me and you’ll see my life is about to take a change for the better. You have to make the reading to the clothes convincing.”
“If you wish. What time will you be coming by with your gay friend, James?”
“He’s not and I’m not—you know I’m not. Let’s see, it’s eight thirty-two now, how about eleven? Block out eleven to one for me because I’m not exactly sure.”
“I will speed up my eleven o’clock appointment. That will be one hundred and twenty dollars for the block, agreed?”
“Can I get a discount?”
“Sure, let’s make it an even two hundred.”
“Is the one-twenty still on the table?”
“No, and it’s about to increase.”
“Two hundred it is then. Just remember – make the reading seem like it’s real.”
“They are all real, Mark.”
“One more small favor, call his cell phone after we hang up, he shouldn’t answer, but if he does, hang up. I need you to leave a voicemail message confirming his appointment with you today. This is important. Leave the message for Sam M.D. and call after 9:30 or so.”
Sylvia wrote the number and name on a notepad. “I’ll call and confirm an appointment for Sam M.D. Anything else?”
“Yes, let him know where you’re located.”
“I can do that, anything else?”
“No, that’s it. Thanks Sylvia, I’ll see you in a few.”
“Ciao, and I know you will.”
Sylvia dialed James’s number at 9:30 and after four rings was routed to his voicemail, “Sam MD, this is Lady Sylvia with Mystic House calling to confirm your appointment for t
oday at eleven A.M. Please remember, on Fridays my office is located on Post Alley, just west of First Avenue.”
Chapter Seventeen
~ Bonfire Fridays ~
Bridget was up before James. She made him his favorite: scrambled eggs with vinegar and garlic, and a couple pieces of bacon with toast. She poured his coffee and gently shook him, “Wake up, baby, today is a new day.”
“I’m up, it smells good,” he said as he stretched his arms over his head.
“What does, breakfast or me?”
“Both, you smell delicious, but you know a man loves his bacon,” he said as he sat up in bed and watched her exit the bedroom.
“They should make a perfume that smells like bacon, it would be a hit,” he shouted.
“Gross. Get up. I have to take you to work and I want to finish unpacking today.”
“I’m up.” James took a shower, shaved, and examined the two cuts in the mirror. They were all but healed, the swelling was gone, and the wounds’ edges had pulled together and now were a sliver of light pink. The black eye was all but a memory. His lip had healed nicely.
“I think I’m going to have two scars,” he said when he sat and savored his eggs.
“Let’s see,” Bridget said, examining him. “Yes, they will be small, though, and women like a man with a few scars,” she said as she softly kissed each one.
“They do?”
“Sure, small ones, though, not anything big or gross. They make you look tough and sexy.”
“I’ll never understand women.”
“That’s our plan, you know, we have secret meetings just to keep you guys on your toes. Don’t forget today is cake day.”
“Damn, I forgot, and it’s my turn to bring the card. Where can we get one this early in the morning?”
“I already have it. It’s next to your cell phone on the nightstand. Okay, let’s get a move on,” she said as she cleared his empty plate from the table.
“You got the card for me? This couple thing might work, after all.”
“You better quit playing. I love this couple thing and I love you, scars and all.”
“I love you, too.”
He collected the Seattle Times from the hallway and quickly checked the personals while drinking his coffee. There was nothing from Mark. James felt a sense of anguish, but persuaded himself that Mark would contact him when he had something.
* * * *
James stopped after he crossed University, turned, and waved to Bridget.
She responded by blowing a kiss. This is how my mornings are going to be for the rest of my life, he thought, and it was wonderful. He made his way into the building, found Mr. Stone, and presented the card. The card was quickly circulated through the data center and found its way to Shelly.
“Is it cake day?” Shelly asked. It seemed every professional was familiar with the concept of cake day. It was the last Friday of the month and that meant a number of things. It was a bonfire of birthday candles on sheet cakes for anyone who had a birthday during the month, the well-deserved public congratulations to anyone who was promoted, and it was the day the guest speaker arrived to push the company line.
Sometimes, the guest speaker was the corporate type, selling the power of 401K plans and safe money investing. Every once in a while the guest speaker would be a local politician speaking for the mere purpose of a photo opportunity. But today, they had a professor of economics, and he apparently had something to say, as everyone was strongly encouraged to attend.
“Do we have to attend?” Shelly questioned.
“Yeah, I think we do. With my recent promotion, I think it would be frowned upon if I didn’t go. You can stay here, though.”
“You know wherever you go, I go.”
“Right, two peas in a pod. You look better today. Did you get some sleep last night?”
“Yes, for the first time in a week.”
“What are your plans for the weekend?”
“I’m flying home to see my daughter. I have to return Sunday.”
“Where is home?”
“I was told not to give any details.” As a mother, she wanted to tell him with pride her daughter, Madeline, was a fourth grade honor student in Denver, Colorado. “Sure, I understand. Well, we’re joined at the hip, so let’s go and see what the professor has to say.”
They exited the data room and both collected their cell phones from the lockers. James noticed he had voicemails and checked the messages.
The first one was from a Lady Sylvia with the Mystic House and he thought, at first, she had left the message to the wrong number and almost deleted it until it registered that Sam M.D. was Mark.
The second message was from Bridget, saying she loved him, but the Seattle Seahawks and Duke Blue Devils posters in the living room were coming down. He’d have to wait until he had a man cave.
The third message was from the insurance adjuster, Manuel Sanchez, ‘Mr. Spain, we are nearing the final stages of your claim. We appraised a value of seventy-two thousand for the 1969 Boss 429 Mustang. Unfortunately, your policy, number 00231419, has a property damage limit of forty thousand, so the vehicle is considered a total loss. We will be sending you the standard release package, along with a check. Thank you and have a good day.’
“Love messages from Bridget?” Shelly asked.
“Yes, I forgot I have a meeting with my psychic today. Do you think we could skip lunch? And I’m only getting forty thousand for my Mustang.”
Shelly’s phone rang. “Hello. ... Yes. Correct. ... It’s a psychic, I guess. ... I will let him know.” She placed her cell phone on her shoulder. “Mr. Wright wants to know what is Sam M.D.?”
“Oh, it should be Sammy. I don’t book the appointment with my real name.” The excuse had to work. Hell, he just thought of it on the spot.
She brought the phone back to her ear. “Did you get that? ... I will. Bye.”
She placed the cell phone in her purse. “He said you can go, but I have to go with you and do not try to lose them. He also said he’s sorry about the car.” She shook her head as she relayed the message. “I don’t much like psychics. I can’t believe you go to one, can’t we skip it?”
“I try to keep an open mind, Shelly. Would you believe what’s happening to us if you weren’t living it? Two peas in a pod, remember.”
James could see she wasn’t being persuaded, so he quickly shifted gears. “She’s not that kind of psychic. She deals in love and spiritual awareness.” He had no idea what it meant, but neither did Shelly.
“Okay, but you owe me one, they really spook me.”
They found a couple of seats in the middle of the auditorium and politely clapped and shared in the can-laughter when expected. The professor wasn’t your average economics professor. He was fluid and didn’t mention many numbers in his speech.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please help me welcome Dr. Thomas,” announced Mr. Stone.
“Thank you, Mr. Stone,” Dr. Thomas said as he removed the microphone from the podium and walked the floor.
“Tsunamis are ruthless, but not because they are powerful forces of nature. They are certainly that, but because they seem to strike instantly and always hit coastlines where millions of people create homesteads, raise their families, and live off the resources of the sea. Tsunamis are natural weapons of mass destruction and I don’t think anyone would disagree.
“There are manmade tsunamis, too. Financial mechanisms that quake somewhere in the remoteness of a deep black sea we call economics, Wall Street. Take your pick of the cause of the quake and most have set their sights on the burst of the housing bubble, but that was only a ripple. The true cause of the tsunami, I believe, hasn’t arrived yet. Derivatives such as credit default swaps or CDS’s. Let’s be clear, if a housing market value falls, there are still assets behind the loans. Sure, the asset decreased in value, but there is still an asset, only the home owner is going to lose in the bet or only the bank. The event is somewhat isolated.”
/> He paused and put up one of only two slides he had loaded into the presentation. It showed the increasing trend of CDS’s from 1998 to 2008. It was a startling trend. Credit default swaps, originally created by JP Morgan Chase in 1995, had increased 100 fold from 1998 to 2008.
“I want to do a simple demonstration of a simple CDS deal. Just bear with me, as I’m sure most of you have a very good understanding. But I see some bored faces and a couple of confused faces. I can’t help if you’re bored, but I can possibly help those who are confused.”
“In its simplest form a CDS is a bet, no different than pulling up a chair at a roulette table. In my hand, I hold a hundred dollar bill. I’m going to loan this to this gentleman for eight percent interest.” He handed the bill to a bank auditor in the first row, who pretended to pocket it.
“I have the serial number,” the doctor joked and the crowd politely laughed.
“This gentleman looks trustworthy enough and I know he has decent credit because I checked, but I want to buy a little insurance in case he goes broke, so I talk to her.” He placed his hand over the young lady sitting next to the auditor.
“Hey, this guy owes me one hundred dollars. Can you insure the debt for me? She says, ‘sure, if you pay me five dollars,’” Dr. Thomas said in a woman-like voice.
“Deal. As the original lender, I’m in a good spot. I have an insured loan, a contract—a guarantee between me and him, and now a guarantee from her. Because I have two guarantees to pay, the credit agencies rate my loan books very high. Nothing wrong so far, right?” The crowd already sees the possible downfall in the deal and begins to murmur.
“Now, she’s a business, so I don’t check her like I did the first guy. I use a ratings agency and the agency states she is good for the hundred. But it’s a big risk, right? She accepted five dollars to pay a hundred dollar debt in the event he defaults without checking him out. As long as nothing goes wrong, she will make money hand over fist, but she has no true asset leveraged against her position and even though a deal is made—if she goes bankrupt, well, I’m okay, I guess, unless he goes bankrupt, right?”
The audience quietly agreed.
