by Jace Killan
He took the elevator to the twelfth floor and exited to the bland hallway with an occasional Ansell Adams print. He’d purposefully got a room that looked away from his office across the street just in the case someone should look out their office window and spot him. Of course they’d have to look up one floor, but even then. He didn’t want anyone knowing about his indiscretions. He’d kept them secret for years now.
He opened the door. Nadia waited for him in the bedroom. The vixen held a white sheet to her bare chest, the tops of her breasts exposed in the dim lit room. She had become his addiction, his particular brand of heroin.
“Hey, baby,” he said, smooth, sly, seductive, standing in the bedroom doorway.
“Hi,” she said. “Take your clothes off.”
He needed no further encouragement. He quickly undressed, leaving a trail from the doorway to the bed.
He started crawling onto the mattress, making his approach, but she told him to stop. “I have a surprise for you in the bathroom.”
A surprise? With hot anticipation he hurried to the bathroom, throwing open the door, and jumped at the sight.
A Hispanic gentleman wearing a sloppy tan business suit pointed a pistol right at him. “Easy, Mr. Mayhew. I don’t think you want to die.”
“What the hell is this?” He glanced at Nadia who stared at the bed sheets.
“Blackmail,” the man said.
“Ha. Good luck with that.” Mayhew eyed the glock. He’d never been held at gunpoint before and handled it pretty well considering. “I’d divorce my wife before I’d pay you a single dime.”
“No, Mr. Mayhew, I thought you were quite the negotiator. Didn’t you just land a large account?”
“You spying on me?”
“Of course.” The man waved his gun, motioning for Mayhew to have a seat on the desk chair. His bare backside stuck to the leather.
“Now, Mr. Mayhew, I’m going to assume that you’re out of your element just a little because your cards are hanging out there on the table so to speak.” The Hispanic man pointed at Mayhew’s groin. “So, before you make your situation worse, you should probably find out what cards I’m holding. Then we can properly negotiate this thing and get back to our lives.”
“Screw you.”
The man retrieved a small hand towel from the bathroom and pitched it to Mayhew. “If I were a prick, I might make fun of the size of your cards, but as you can see, I am quite the gentleman and insist that you give me just a moment to explain the situation.”
Mayhew wasn’t about to take on a guy with a gun. Not in the buff anyway. The man went to the front door and opened it, letting in a lady wearing nursing scrubs, wheeling a cart carrying an older looking computer and monitor.
Nadia, his mistress, removed the sheet, allowing the nurse to examine her stomach—an ultrasound machine. Within moments an image appeared on the screen of a baby.
“Nueve semanas,” said the nurse.
“Mr. Mayhew, you are the proud father to be.”
His heart sank. “I used protection. There’s no way that’s mine.”
“I assure you, Mr. Mayhew, that this child is yours because we used the semen from your protection to impregnate Nadia.”
Her eyes confirmed the truth. He didn’t know what hurt more, the betrayal or... “Like I said, I’d get a divorce before I’d pay you a plum nickel.”
“Now, Mr. Mayhew, there you go making a fool of yourself again. The reason that this soon to be child is problematic for you isn’t that you’ve managed to father a child out of wedlock while being married to an oblivious wife. It is that you’ve managed to father a child with a sixteen-year-old girl.”
Mayhew couldn’t speak. He stared at the beautiful slender body laying in bed. Could she be sixteen? She acted so mature. She wasn’t a virgin like Felicia. He had checked her ID. She’d claimed to be in college.
“That’s not possible,” he concluded.
“Oh, it is more than possible. The IDs you saw were fake, of course, but they’ve been destroyed now. Nadia’s mother will attest to her age, as will her birth certificate and fingerprints. So now you see the fullness of your predicament, Mr. Mayhew. The cards we hold include statutory rape. That will do more than just damage your relationship with your wife and children. You will lose your licenses and you will be registered as a sex offender for the rest of your life after serving maybe six years with good behavior.”
The man had Mayhew by the nut sack and he knew it. “What do you want?”
“There you go. Now you’re negotiating.” The man waited for Nadia to dress and leave the room with the nurse.
Mayhew tried to meet her eyes, but she denied him that. Maybe he’d never see her again. Had it all been a scam? And now, he would be the father of her child. Poor girl. She’d been just as much a pawn in this wicked game as he. Still, why hadn’t she told him? He could have helped her escape whatever menaces would force a sixteen year old to have sex with a forty year old man and carry his child.
Once they’d left, the man sat on the edge of the bed, facing Mayhew in the chair. ”All we want, Mr. Mayhew, is for you to make a lot of money.”
26
Butterflies churned Joaquin’s gut. It might have been his eating cocoa pebbles for breakfast, or his fear of meeting with Guzman. He searched the feeling and settled on Guzman. Not that he was afraid of meeting with the crime boss as an informant for the FBI. It was more that he associated Guzman with a past life, a life he wanted to leave behind. He worried that this meeting and the outcomes of this meeting might lead Joaquin back to old abandoned paths. He was sober and he needed to keep it that way.
“Ah, Jaqui.” Guzman stood from the café table, dressed in a pin striped business suit and red tie.
Joaquin wore jeans, flip-flops, and a long t-shirt, suddenly embarrassed that he hadn’t dressed more professionally. But how was he supposed to know? Last time he’d seen Guzman the two were wearing light blue jumpsuits.
“Señor Guzman,” Joaquin embraced the man, feeling two heavy pats on his back.
“Señor? C’mon, Jaqui.”
“Sorry, Jefe. Guess I’m nervous.”
“Está bien.”
Joaquin stepped back and met the man’s smile. “I’m also sorry for not getting back to your guy.”
“Hey, Jaqui, it’s okay. I meant to arrange my visit sooner. You deserved a welcome home party and all. You good?”
“Yeah. Good.”
“Sober?”
Joaquin nodded. “Still sober.”
“That’s great. Listen.” With a glance, Guzman dismissed his men, leaving the two alone in the corner of the restaurant. “You know I think of you as a son. You were there for me in my darkest times, Jaqui. I just want to make you a proposition.” He spoke with a grin.
“What sort of proposition?”
“Hear me out.” Guzman leaned forward. “On my mother’s grave, God rest her soul, if you don’t want in, I get it, no problem. I’ll find some other way you can pay your debt to the hermanos.”
Joaquin didn’t like the sound of that.
Guzman continued, “I promise you that you won’t be around any drugs. I know that you’ve worked hard at being sober and I would hate myself if I did anything to take that away from you. I know what you’ve lost and so I promise you, you’ll get all the help you need from me. Nothing but support.”
“Thank you.” That had been Joaquin’s biggest fear in all of this. That somehow this new chapter in his life would lead back to an old one.
“Don’t agree yet till you hear me out. Remember Ericson?”
“Yeah. You want to steal his $15 million stash?”
Guzman smiled. “No. I want to make my own.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re smart, Jaqui. I need someone with your book smarts and your street smarts. You’d be surprised at how rare a combination those two are.”
“Okay.”
“I know you spent a lot of time with Ericson, studyin
g stocks and the markets.”
He had. Joaquin loved paper-trading the stock market—it had become a new obsession. Had he not had his indiscretions he surely could have gravitated to Wall Street.
“You know what a short sale is?”
“Of course,” Joaquin said. “When you sell the stock before you buy it. Essentially you sell it on credit and have to buy it later to cover the short.”
Guzman’s smile widened. “Yes. I knew you were the right guy. Book smarts, Jaqui. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Um, I’m confused.”
Guzman leaned back, hands locked behind his head. “Why would anyone ever sell a stock before they buy it?”
“Because they expect the stock to go down.”
“Right you are, Jaqui. Sell high, the stock drops, then buy low and you make a fortune.”
“Only if you’re right about the stock drop.”
“Hey, Jaqui boy. You know me. I don’t leave things to chance.”
Joaquin shrugged. “They have ways of tracking insider trading.”
“No, amigo. You’ve got me wrong.” Guzman slid Joaquin his cell phone and told him to look up a ticker symbol.
Joaquin did. Costa Cruise Lines traded at $63.12. Then he noticed the stock had dropped over ten percent from the week before when it had traded in the low seventies.
“Did you short this?” Joaquin asked.
“Yes. Through one of Ericson’s contacts.”
“How much did you make?”
Guzman’s smile widened, showing his gold plated tooth. “Just a couple mil.”
“Mil as in Spanish for thousand or mil as in English for million?”
He nodded and laughed. “We’re speaking English.”
“But it wasn’t insider trading? How’d you know when it would drop?”
“It’s not about when it drops. It’s about why.”
Guzman took the phone and tapped it a couple times then returned it to Joaquin again.
Joaquin skimmed a story about a cruise liner whose facilities had stopped working mid-sail triggering the price drop.
It started to make sense to Joaquin. “You knew this was going to happen.”
Guzman shrugged. “I made it happen.”
The article credited equipment malfunction.
“Sabotage?”
“My people,” Guzman said. “Some of my contacts worked for the company.”
His people? People that owed the cartel from their favors, their protection, their debts. No doubt Guzman considered Joaquin one of his people.
“Why do you need me?”
“Ericson’s a greedy prick, Jaqui. He’s taking half of the profits. But I did all the work. I need someone I can trust. Someone like you.” Guzman held out his hands. “So? What do you say?”
This hadn’t gone the direction Joaquin had expected. He figured he’d be running drugs, not sabotaging companies.
“What would my role be in your...business venture?”
“I need someone that can serve as my personal liaison with an investment firm. We’d get you an apartment in New York with a nice salary.”
“New York?”
“Yeah. Wall Street.” Guzman smirked. “I just need to know if you’re in.”
“What would I do as a liaison?”
“Basically, you’d be their biggest client and, as such, have a bit of say in the fund’s investments. Not all of them will be...special, but some will be. I’m going to put a great deal of money in your control to manage.”
Joaquin’s thoughts rushed around like dropping a bag of marbles on concrete. He hadn’t expected anything like this. What would the FBI think? What would Spencer think? Would he be in a position to help the feds? Of course he would. He’d have their money. And for a moment his path shimmered in his clouded mind.
Guzman continued, “You’ll have all of my resources to help you stay sober. You have my word. Getting high wouldn’t do either of us any good.”
A rush of guilt conflicted with his thoughts of vigilante justice and redemption. Maybe Guzman was a bad guy, but not to him. He’d acted more like a caring father.
Joaquin buried his head into his hands, rubbing his eyes and scratching his scalp. He needed to think. But Guzman wanted an answer now.
“Listen Jaqui. I’m tired of the thug life, as you American’s call it. I want to make some real money. The real crooks are on Wall Street and in your government. That bastard, Ericson, made off with seventy million dollars. And we’re both smarter than that fool. I want to get mine without all the drama and bloodshed. It’s a lot of work slinging dope. I’ve got thousands of guys involved in that enterprise and sure we make good money, but each one of those guys is a liability. Why do you think I was in prison anyway? One of those liabilities had something on me. This operation, Jaqui will be you and I and a couple others that we can trust.”
Joaquin looked up, meeting Guzman’s eyes. “And if things go south, I’ll be your fall guy.”
“Yes.” Guzman pursed his lips. “But I’ll make that worth your while, I promise. Risk and reward, right, Jaqui?”
Joaquin wondered what would be required of him to be in such a position that he could point the finger back at the cartel. He wanted to run it by Spencer before committing, but one didn’t make Jefe Guzman wait. Any pause would seem suspicious. He was in or out right now.
“Alright. I’ll do it.” Joaquin extended his hand meeting Guzman’s for the confirming shake.
27
Joaquin was surprised at how comfortable he felt with money. He stood on a raised platform, surrounded by mirrors. He’d barely aged since entering prison though he looked different now, jawline flatter, hair shorter, eyes more hallow, but he could still pass for eighteen.
Guzman’s personal tailor had taken Joaquin’s particulars for the fitting session now in progress.
“If you are in finance,” the tailor said with a hint of an eloquent Spanish accent, “your first suit must be charcoal.”
“Is this double breasted?” Joaquin opened the jacket he now wore. He had heard the term before but didn’t really know what a double-breasted suit looked like.
“No.” The tailor shook his head, put off by the comment. “I will bring one for you to try on, but I must protest. The double-breasted suit is a larger coat with an extra set of buttons on the side. Traditionally it is for large men and the look as been adopted by the Steve Harvey’s of the world. I must say that it wouldn’t be an appropriate look for someone in finance.”
Joaquin settled on a charcoal suit that had three buttons on the jacket and one split in the back of the coat. The suit would come with two pairs of pants, one tailored with cuffs and the other plain.
“Your next suit should be navy blue. The suit coat can double as a blazer when you want to dress down. It will look great with a pair of khakis or even jeans if you wear the right shirt.”
The tailor’s assistant held out three navy blue suits and waited for Joaquin to choose one. He selected the jacket baring two buttons.
He put it on, the sleeves covering his hands in unfinished edges.
The tailor noticed Joaquin examining the buttons. “The rule is that if you have three buttons, the bottom one is never fastened. You can button the middle, or the top two. If there are two buttons, you can fasten both, or the top one, the bottom never by itself.”
Joaquin had no idea that there were so many rules with suits. And that was just the beginning. The tailor selected a grey pin stripe suit for Joaquin’s third. He might’ve worn a suit three times in his whole life. Now he owned three of them, each with two sets of pants.
“Oh my.” The tailor looked at Joaquin’s feet, the magic zapatos. “We must get you some better shoes. Take them off please.”
He did. The tailor lifted them like he was holding a smelly diaper. They might have been scuffed, well worn, but they didn’t smell, and they still had a good amount of life in them. But Joaquin liked them most of all because they reminded him of
his grandfather.
“Shall I dispatch them for you?” the tailor said.
“No, I’ll do it.”
The tailor dropped the shoes into a plastic bag and set it on the floor next to the growing pile of clothing.
There were many more rules with shoes. No brown shoes with the charcoal suit, but they could go with the grey pin stripe as long as his belt and shoes were of the same tone of brown leather. Nor should he wear black shoes with his blue suit, especially if he only wore the blue blazer.
His fourth suit was blue with pin stripes, just as his fifth suit, though the stripe pattern differed and the fifth had an occasional thin thread of red.
“You will not be paying for these, but it is imperative that you know the price and brand of everything you wear. These suits are Zegna, except for your charcoal and grey pinstripe, those are Canali suits, personally tailored, so you will want to start exercising regularly. An office job has its way of adding to the waste line.”
“How much does this suit cost?”
“The charcoal and navy are each twenty-six hundred and the other four are thirty one hundred.”
Joaquin received three pairs of shoes with matching belts, two brown of differing tones and one black with wingtips. They were Italian made, Ferragamo, costing no less than five hundred each. They had wooden heals that clapped when Joaquin walked on the tile floor.
Next came the shirts. He only picked out the fabric as each would be tailored specifically for his build.
“You will need to have these shirts dry cleaned after each wearing. They should be pressed with medium starch; except for these three will need heavy starch.” The tailor motioned to the fabrics held by his assistant. “I will refer you to a dry cleaner near your office that will give you appropriate service.”
He then received a lengthy lecture on ties, how and when to wear them, and what each color meant. He had three power ties, red with varying diagrams. He had four yellow ties, two with stripes, one with paisleys and one with flowers. And three striped ties of varying colors though the tone was primarily blue. The tailor insisted that he only wear Ferragamo ties, belts, and shoes.
