by Jim Beegle
All at once, as if the rude treatment from Amy had been a trigger, his emotional system seemed to teeter on the edge of overload. The issues with DECCO, the grief over the death of his friend, the discovery of the money, and his crumbling marriage washed over him all at once. He was trying to consider all this when his body demanded his attention and would not let him focus on the thought. It was while trying to compose his thoughts that he realized he had not eaten all day and hunger was now the only thing his mind could focus on. He left his desk and went to the kitchen to find something to at least quiet his stomach. He was not sure what he could do about the rest of himself.
While heating yet another can of soup, Mark looked out the kitchen window and noticed that the daylight part of his Sunday had slipped away. From his vantage point, he could see twilight descending on the pasture. After the soup was heated he quickly ate it, not even bothering to dump it into a bowl, just eating right out of the saucepan with a spoon. When his meal was done, Mark loaded the dishwasher with the few things he had used that weekend and started it before walking out of the kitchen into the living room and up the stairs to his bedroom. He checked to see that the water in the shower wasn’t dripping and turned off the lights as he exited the room. The fire had burned itself out over the course of the afternoon and evening. He picked up his briefcase, made sure it was latched, and headed for the kitchen making sure all the lights and the gas were turned off as he walked to the door. He did not pause once there but kept walking until he was out in the cold early evening air.
The drive back to Dallas was made almost on automatic. He was lost in his thoughts ranging from Amy, to Cecil, to DECCO, and back to Amy. In fact, it wasn’t until he pulled his car into the empty garage that he realized he was home. He now wasn’t even sure what he had been doing or thinking of all that time, but at least the time had passed and he was home safely. Before exiting the car his mind flashed a question to the forefront. It took him by surprise. Did he drive from Runaway Bay home or did he drive from home to Dallas? Déjà vu! It was the same sensation he had when driving on Wednesday. He did not dare answer that question, not now anyway. Not, in his current emotional state. He had too much to do and too much to deal with at the moment to spend any time on that right now. But he knew the cat, so to speak, was out of the bag as he let himself into the house. He would have to deal with it at some point, and soon.
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He was not sure what time Amy had come home. She was sleeping quietly beside him when he woke the next morning. He went through his rituals of the new day and left for work. He could hear Amy’s alarm clock going off as he let himself out into the garage. The drive to the office took the normal time with the usual aggravation associated with living and working in a big city. His day was filled with the routine of his job, which he was grateful for. It gave him something to do to keep his mind off the other things; chief among them was the meeting tonight. Sometime after three in the afternoon, Sandy called him on his phone, which also acted as the intercom between their offices.
“Mr. Ness is on line seven for you.” Mark picked up the phone and spoke into it.
“Mr. Ness, how are you?” he asked in a flat, distracted tone of voice. His mind was still on the information displayed on the computer screen in front of him.
“Fine, Mark, just fine. Did you have a nice Thanksgiving? Go anywhere?” the voice in the receiver asked.
“No sir, we stayed in town and cooked for guests and relatives.” And had yet another fight Mark thought to himself. “How was your holiday?” he asked instead.
“Oh, just great. The girls were home from school. It was nice to have the family all together again.” Art Ness, Mark recalled, had two daughters and both were attending college. One somewhere out east and the other in California. He could not remember what their majors were.
“Mark, the reason for my call,” Mr. Ness said signaling that the obligatory personal chit-chat time was over, “was to see if you were free for dinner on Wednesday night?” Instantly Mark’s muscles in his hand holding the phone tightened up.
“Uh … I think so, hang on just a second and let me check.” Mark open his Outlook calendar and looked at Wednesday evening to validate his memory that he had nothing scheduled. Not that it would have mattered to Art Ness, anyway. It was understood without having to say it that whatever else Mark had planned for that night would be the event rescheduled instead and the slot would magically open for dinner with Mr. Ness.
“No sir, I am free that evening. What time should I fly over?” he said, still looking at his day planner.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I think I’ll come to Dallas this time. There are a few things regarding the release of the software I want to talk to you about mano a mano, okay?” Mark paused before answering. It was very unusual for Art Ness to travel to Dallas. As far as Ness and the rest of DECCO were concerned, Phoenix was the center of the known universe and the rest of the world was flat. Something was up, but Mark resisted the temptation to ask for any more.
“Oh, that is very kind of you to go to the trouble, sir. Want me to pick you up?” Mark requested of his boss.
“No, I have reservations at the Anatole; they’ll send a car for me. Why don’t we say dinner at eight in the Nanna Grill?” The Nanna Grill was a very nice and expensive eatery at the top of one of the Anatole’s towers overlooking downtown Dallas.
“That would be fine, Mr. Ness.” Mark said.
“Good, good, I’ll see you there.” And with that Art Ness hung up, ending the conversation. As Mark was hanging up his receiver, his mind began to wonder what this meeting was going to be about. It was bad news of some kind. Good news meetings were held in the office. Bad news was always handled offsite. He shook his head in an effort to clear it. He could not worry about that at the moment. Other things were in control of his time now. But, like a juggler with several new balls being added to the ones already in the air, it was getting harder and harder to keep something from falling to the floor.
Without even taking his hand off the phone he had just hung up, Mark dialed his wife’s office. He waited while her secretary put him through to her. “Amy, I have to copy some things and get them to FedEx and off to Phoenix tonight.” He continued spinning his tale before she could interrupt. “If I miss the pickup here I will have to stop by their office near Love Field. It’s on the way home but I may be a few minutes late. I don’t think our client will be there on time anyway. He never is. If I am not there at seven you and Hamilton just wait. I won’t be too long.”
“Mark, if you think” now it was his turn to shorten the phone conversation. “Thanks, Amy, I’ll see you in a little while. Gotta run.” With that, he hung up on her. He actually smiled as he collected the things around his desk and started stuffing them into his briefcase.
Mark lingered downtown to be sure that he would arrive home after seven o’clock. He stopped at a deli close to Love Field Airport and devoured the sports section of the paper along with his ham and cheese on rye and a Coke. When he pulled up to his house he could see the black Lincoln Town Car driven by Amy’s boss sitting at the curb in front of the house. Good, Mark thought to himself, all the players are in place. He parked his own car in its usual spot in the garage and entered the house through the door that led into the kitchen. He rounded the corner into the room to find Amy mixing drinks at the bar off the kitchen and her boss sitting on a barstool, leaning on the breakfast bar.
E. Hamilton Hunte was not related, in any way save his name, to the infamous and wealthy Hunte brothers of Ft. Worth. Mark would quickly admit that he had never once heard Hamilton ever claim to be one of the family. If someone wanted to make that connection on their own, however, Hamilton did not go out of his way to try to dissuade them from this false assumption. He was a man of medium build, in his mid-fifties. His waistline was a testament to the fact that he spent most of his waking hours sitting down. He had most of his hair although in the last few y
ears most of it had started to turn silver. Mark could not remember ever seeing the man dressed in anything other than a suit. As evidenced by the “casual” bar-b-cue, given in honor of the Germans at the ranch several years ago, Hamilton wore a suit.
Even though as a little boy his parents had stressed to him that it was never a good idea to form an opinion about someone by a first impression, Mark had taken an immediate dislike to Hamilton from their first introduction. He was outgoing and friendly, but in a shallow sort of way. Nothing he had done or said since then had caused Mark to change his mind.
Amy, on the other hand, thought Hunte to be a brilliant and talented man. Hamilton had taken an interest in Amy early in her career. She owed a good deal of her rise through the ranks of IBC to Hamilton’s attention and patronage. But there was still something about his manner that left Mark with a feeling of distrust. When they shook hands, Mark always had to resist the temptation to make sure his watch was still on his arm. To his knowledge, E. Hamilton Hunte was a man without any redeeming virtue.
“Hello there,” Mark said as he strolled through the kitchen toward the study. “I’ll be right back, I just want to put my briefcase up.” Mark did not break his stride but let it carry him through the living room and into the study where he put his briefcase down by the desk. He retraced his steps and re-entered the kitchen. Amy and Hamilton were sitting with drinks at the small table they used for the meals most of the time, owing to the fact that usually, it was just Amy and Mark dining in their house. Amy was at the end of the table farthest from where he stood. Hamilton was sitting in one of the two chairs on the side of the table on Amy’s left.
“Hi, Mark,” Hamilton said flashing a smile of perfectly straight, white teeth. “I understand you are going to help us land some business tonight.” He said this without moving from his spot. Neither bothered to ask if he would like a drink, which was fine for Mark. He needed to keep his head clear for the time being.
“Where’s your client?” Amy asked with no other preamble.
“He’ll be along shortly,” Mark said taking a seat at the opposite end of the table from Amy. “We need to talk about a few things first.” Amy arched her eyebrows.
“Oh, and what is that?” she asked. Mark did not answer her question directly. Instead, he turned to face Hamilton.
“Hamilton, does the name David Cameron mean anything to you?” Mark asked quickly to make sure he would not lose his nerve. At first, there was no reaction, but in an instant, Mark could see that Hamilton was beginning to think. His face showed that the name had indeed triggered something in the back of his head. His brow moved as he continued to search his mind, trying to put his finger on why the name sounded familiar to him. This went on for roughly a minute until his face brightened and he turned his attention back to Mark.
“Yes, it does. He ran MIS for Southwest Bank of Houston when I worked there. One Friday, before a long weekend, the son of a bitch crashed the computer and skipped the country with several million dollars of the bank’s money. Fifteen million dollars to be exact.” He paused and transformed his body back into a “think” posture. “But, what’s that got to do with anything?”
“David Albert Cameron is the client you came here to meet.” The silence that followed Mark’s announcement was palpable and almost physical in its presence. Hamilton just sat motionlessly. On reflection later that night it reminded Mark of an article he had read about communicating with the Viking landers on Mars. JPL in Pasadena, California, would send the signal out into space and then have to wait ten to fifteen minutes for the lander to receive the message and reply because of the great distance the signal had to travel between California and Mars. When there finally was a reaction to what Mark had said, it took on the form of rage.
“Amy, what the hell is going on here?” Hamilton demanded, getting up from his chair. “I don’t have time for this. What kind of game are you playing, Vogel?” Amy was also on her feet. Although he was pretty sure she had no knowledge of David/Cecil or his theft from Southwest Bank, she was indignant by proxy for her boss.
“Mark,” she said taking a step toward Hamilton, “you had better tell us what’s going on here and quickly.” Mark did not speak right away. Instead, he absentmindedly pulled a piece of gum from his pocket and unwrapped it. Mark would have preferred to have his pipe, but Amy hated it. Mark had to admit that the odor was pretty strong and when he was at the house in Dallas he smoked outside.
“If you’ll sit back down and be patient, I’ll explain.” He said after working the gum toward the back of his mouth. There was another pause while Hamilton thought about what he should do. Finally, he reseated himself and nodded to Amy who did the same.
“Ok, I’m listening. But this better be good.”
“David Cameron was a friend of mine.” When Mark said this Amy made a noise as she sucked in her breath. “I did not know anything about his past until just a few weeks ago.”
“You said ‘was a friend’ of yours. What happened?”
“In fact, I did not even know his name was David Cameron either until just a few weeks ago.” Mark continued as if he had not heard Hamilton’s question. Before speaking again Mark shifted his eyes in order to look at Amy. “I knew him as Cecil Lawrence.” The shock on Amy’s face was immediate and profound. He turned back to look at Hamilton. “And he’s dead.”
Hamilton considered this bit of information for a moment. Amy was completely out of the game. The fact that the meeting had started off in a direction that she was totally unprepared for, the fact that she did not really know anything more about the robbery other than what she had just heard and was, therefore, having to follow along in the dark, and finally the fact that Cecil was someone other than the negative image of him that she had already formed, was more than her mind could deal with at the moment. To Mark’s private admiration, he discovered Hamilton was unfazed by this news.
“Okay, you knew Cameron. Okay, now he’s dead. What’s that got to do with your wife and me?”
“Before he died, the man I knew as Cecil Lawrence went to see his lawyer.” Mark continued in the same tone of voice he had been using for the last few minutes.
“A wise move on his part.” Hamilton said with not just a little bit of sarcasm in his voice. Mark held up his hand to signal to Hamilton to let him finish.
“He made out a will, and in that will he left everything to me.” Mark paused to let the meaning of his last statement sink in. “Everything,” Mark said in a whisper. The significance of what Mark was saying was not lost for a minute on Amy’s boss. Hamilton sat forward in his chair and spoke.
“Define everything?” He asked.
“His entire estate, including what is left of the money that he stole from Southwest and its accumulated interest.” Mark said for clarification.
“And just how much is that?” Hamilton asked in a steady tone of voice.
“It’s hard to come up with an exact amount. But the best I can figure is it’s more than thirty million dollars.” The exact amount of money Mark had just stated to Hamilton was a lie he had decided on beforehand. Cecil had left very detailed records as to the location of the deposits and the exact amount invested or deposited and the rate of return it was earning. The sum of all the accounts came to a good deal more than thirty million. However, Mark knew that exact information regarding the amount and location of each deposit was his only leverage at the moment. Just like a poker player holding a sure winner in his hand, he still hedged his bets.
“So you have total control of the money?” He asked after some more thought. Mark nodded his head in agreement. Hamilton paused for a moment longer before speaking again. “Let’s say for the moment what you just told me is true. I have no way of knowing if it is or it isn’t, but let’s just say it is. You’re a rich man. Congratulations. I’m still not clear on what that has to do with me.”
“I’ll tell you what it has to do with you.” Mark said as he leaned across the
table toward Hamilton. When he began speaking again it was in a voice just loud enough for Amy and Hamilton to hear him. “I want to give it all back and I want you to help me do it.”
Chapter Seven
No one moved. Amy sat as if glued to the chair. Hamilton looked as if he were watching a car crash; while his mind was telling him to move, his body would not respond. Mark continued to lean on the table resting his weight on his arms. The silence in the room was so profound that he could hear all the appliances in the kitchen humming. Then, as if given a signal from an off-camera director, both Amy and Hamilton started talking at once.
“Cecil stole all that money and gave it to you?” Amy asked still in shock.
“What do you mean give it all back? All thirty million?” Hamilton asked. The vastness of the sum was beginning to set in. Mark continued to ignore Amy and kept his gaze on Hamilton.
“All of it, the principal and the interest, everything.” Mark answered. Finally, he moved back off the table and into a sitting position. Hamilton also sat farther back in his chair and looked at Mark for a long time. The two men stayed locked in a gaze for a good sixty seconds.
“Why choose us?” Hamilton asked, motioning to Amy.
“As to why I picked you,” Mark said, ‘that’s not hard to figure out. You came from Southwest Bank; you know the story behind the theft. IBC now owns Southwest. I suppose, in a roundabout way, the money actually belongs to IBC.” He paused to catch his breath. “As to why Amy,” he continued shifting his gaze, “ she is after all my wife and conveniently an employee of IBC as well. Why? Is there some specific department I need to contact for giving back stolen money?”
Hamilton smiled at this. “Not that I know of.” He sat silently for a long moment after making his reply.
“Where is it?” Hamilton finally asked, a considering look on his face. It was truly a calm, thoughtful look and that surprised Mark. The question, however, was not a surprise. It had been expected. Mark did not have to ask him what he meant. They both knew Hamilton was referring to the money.
