NASA could not know, nor could the CIA, nor could any organization or person on Earth know that Outside, in the intergalactic darkness, something was on the move. Its motion sent tremors ahead, faint premonitions, tiny disturbances, unfocused, unintentional, the side effects from pushing on space-time strings. Like the draft from a Brazilian butterfly’s wings there were consequences, direct and indirect, throughout the cosmos.
On Earth, JJ Jamison awoke from a bad dream convinced that he was being persecuted by his employer. He vowed revenge, planned it over the next few years. An old woman, a refugee to the United States from central Asia, had a vision of herself gaining respect and an income by practising as a potato witch, a seer who could advise young people with the aid of malformed vegetable roots. She also persevered and had some successes, some failures. And in a seminary in Vermont a learned clergyman felt the unpleasant need to inform an eager and otherwise promising student that he lacked the vocation, that his idealism was too broad-based and his application too eccentric for him to enter their Ministry. The young man left, chastened and unrepentant, to find his own path through life. “Ernest,” he vowed, “You will make friends and improve the state of the world. Only the roadmap is missing, and it will be revealed in its own good time.”
The world took no notice of these events. Why should it? The seeds germinated slowly over the next few years.
*****
Before dawn on Saturday morning the bright yellow Lamborghini screamed down the highway from the mountain pass, headlights on but not needed in the brilliant light from the full moon. Ahead and below the city of Santa Barbara slumbered, a patchwork of black and silver. Beyond it the ocean was dark save for one shimmering streak of moonlight. The driver laughed aloud, joyously, left arm resting on the open windowsill, right hand on the wheel. JJ felt alive, awake, liberated with the road to himself, empty of all other traffic. He took the twists of the road with ease, at high speed and using both lanes to navigate the turns. A raccoon heard the squealing tires, looked around indecisively, tried too late to run clear. The car lurched violently on impact, slewed to one side, started to spin. The guard rails ripped into the beautiful bodywork, failed to prevent the car from rising, rolling, vaulting over them and soaring backwards and upside down to land three hundred feet down the cliff. It was not a survivable accident.
Unable to find a relative, the County Sheriff’s department called the driver’s employer. Clive MacFadyen took the call and drove up the coast in the morning sunlight to identify the body.
*****
“One hundred million or thereabouts,” said Clive, emotionless. “Possibly two. I don’t really understand the numbers.”
“Great,” responded Laura, her voice icy with controlled rage. “Just great.”
“And just who does really understand the numbers, pray?” That was Robert, of course, sarcastic as ever.
“JJ did, I guess. After all, he invented most of them.”
“Clive, please don’t be facetious. You’ve just told us you’ve lost over a hundred million dollars of clients’ money, that you don’t understand the book-keeping and that..that..that weasel John Jay Jamison – whom you hired, by the way, over my objections – that vile creature was inventing all the statements of account? How could you have been so stupid? Was he stealing from us as well as our clients?” Laura’s teeth were clenched and bared, her eyes protruding, her throat muscles twitching rapidly.
“He was stealing from everyone, far as I can make out. He changed the whole bank into one big Ponzi pyramid. He’s been at it for years and couldn’t possibly have left us in a deeper hole. If it hadn’t been for his car accident, the first we’d have known about it would be Monday, probably from the morning papers, since he was clearly being as vindictive as he could.”
“An even deeper mess, how could that be possible? You say we, as a family business, are liable for this huge sum but things could be worse? Bravo, Clive, you should have been a cheerleader and not a banker.”
“Yes, Robert, undoubtedly you are right as you always are after the event. I can only tell you both that I’m sorry. I want you to hear the bad news before the media do.”
“When will that be?” asked Laura with wifely forbearance. “When do the TV cameras break into our bathroom, when will the National Enquirer print front page photoshopped pictures of me in my bathrobe, complete with red eyes and drooping breasts, perhaps holding the board with my name and case number to my chest? When does that nightmare start, please, Clive?” Stifling sobs she rose from her chair and fled the room.
“What will you do now, Clive?”
“I don’t know. He crashed early this morning, Saturday. Media will have the popular headline, ‘Man dies in fiery 120 mph Lamborghini crash’ on the net by now, Sunday papers will copy that, but on Monday the financial world will recognize who he was and the phone calls will begin. Day after that the public rumors, day after that the withdrawal requests, after a few hours checks will start bouncing and I’ll have to make a public statement. I’ll notify the police first, of course, just to protect us a little, but that might let it leak out sooner. You should make yourself hard to find.”
“And Laura?”
“She is our Company Secretary and an ex-officio Director. We can’t keep her out of this.”
“I know my sister. She won’t be able to take the pressure.”
“I know my wife. She’ll just have to.”
The two men glared at each other, one infuriated and resentful, the other numbed and penitent. There was a long silence. Robert’s knuckles whitened on his clenched fists, the tic on his left cheekbone grew more pronounced. Clive, his head hung low, breathed deeply and tried not to think, not to remember, not to imagine anything, only to wish for time to pass. The antique clock by the doorway ticked loudly, emphasizing the silence. Then without a word Robert spun on his heel and walked furiously from the room. He shut the door behind him with a soft click that sounded to Clive like the trump of doom. Clive continued to stand, motionless, for a long, long time as evening approached and darkness slowly engulfed the room.
*****
Clive had received the morning call from the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s department. A car, a yellow Lamborghini registered in the bank’s name, had run off the highway in the hills behind the city. The driver was one J J Jamison, pronounced dead on arrival at the county hospital. Would Clive please come to the morgue to identify the body or suggest some relative or other friend of the dead man who would do so. And by the way, there was a large sum of cash found in the trunk of the car, which would be secured by the police along with the car itself while the crash was investigated. Clive had dressed quickly, driven up the coast, reached the morgue at nine and identified JJ’s body. Then he had stopped for breakfast on State Street and started out for the drive back to Beverly Hills. He wondered briefly what the cash was about, but was not unduly concerned. Since JJ was well paid and had expensive tastes, carrying a few thousand in his wallet would be quite in character. Like the Lamborghini, classed as a company-owned business tool for tax purposes, as JJ had once explained. In Ventura, Clive pulled over to call first Laura and then Robert, to tell them of the accident and set up a meeting at home later that afternoon. No doubt there would be some publicity to be managed and decisions on how best to keep things running while a new manager was sought. That thought led Clive to make a U-turn and drive back to the office. He would have to look at JJ’s personal calendar and reschedule whatever arrangements had been made for the next few days.
Reaching the office, a converted residence last rebuilt in the Spanish style of tiled roof and brilliantly white painted walls, Clive parked in the street, walked to the door and let himself in. On his left was the main office and further down the hallway was the computer room. On his right was JJ’s private office. Clive recollected with some surprise that he had not been inside the building in well over a year – no need had arisen, JJ was such a competent no-surprises manager. Clive tried the door, but it was locked. He shrugged; he would collect the key on Monday from the morgue or the hospital or the police, wherever it had been put on removal from JJ’s corpse. Then Clive turned to the other office and opened the unlocked door. It was neat and orderly, even austere, as it always had been. Filing cabinets, wastebin, desk and chair for JJ’s secretary, phone and computer on desk, inbox and outbox. Clive wondered how any work could get done in such a well-ordered environment. He sighed, knowing that not having JJ to rely on was going to be hard. A second glance around, a quick look inside the desk drawers, all empty, no calendar, it must be locked in the private office, and with nothing useful to be done there, Clive turned to go. With his hand on the polished brass doorknob Clive was startled as the mail slot clicked open and a small bundle of mail dropped into the wiremesh box. The slot slammed shut and Clive could hear the letter-carrier’s footsteps move down the short path to the sidewalk. He fumbled for his keys with one hand, retrieved the mail in the other, opened the door, stepped outside, closed and carefully locked the door then realized the mail was still in his hand. No matter, no hurry to deal with that. He walked back to his car and sat for a moment to think.
Clive was not, by temperament or by upbringing, a man of action. He liked to sit placidly and have things done for him. Right now, it was clear that some things had to be done, just to keep business running as usual, but he felt overwhelmed, taken by surprise. Life was being unfair. Who would take control, handle the situation, restore his tranquility? No name popped into his head. Robert and Laura knew nothing of the business. JJ was dead. Jodie, JJ’s secretary, could handle filing and phone calls, but little else. He thought of calling her; it could wait till Monday. He did not feel like doing anything at all. Still, he had to make a start somewhere. Perhaps at home, where he kept his laptop with all his clients’ contact information. He pressed the button to start his car, reached down to shift into drive and knocked the bundle of mail to the floor. He reached low to pick it up, glancing at the envelopes. Looked like some bills, he thought. Two in red envelopes? He looked more closely. One was stamped ‘Final Notice’, one stamped ‘Overdue’. He checked; both were correctly addressed to the bank. He tore them open, confirmed that they were what they said. Clive hated unpaid bills, they were not part of his lifestyle nor of JJ’s. He shut down the car and walked back to the office, let himself in again and sat at Jodie’s desk. He would leave her a note to clear these on Monday morning. But there were no sticky notepads on or in the desk, no pen or pencil. He looked around the office again. Wastebin empty. In and out trays empty. No photos, no personal items. How could a working office be so sterile, he wondered with growing concern. Since he could not easily leave a note for Jodie he decided to call her. The phone had a shortcut button labeled in blue ink ‘Jodie home’. He dialed, listened to it ring, and got a depersonalized voicemail message. “Jodie,” he began, “This is Mr MacFadyen. I’m calling because..” He paused, debating whether to complain about the unpaid utility bills or to tell her first about JJ’s death. Before he had decided, Jodie picked up. “Mr MacFadyen, I’m surprised to hear from you.”
“Jodie, I’m at the office and have some things to tell you.”
“Not for me, you haven’t. Not since you had me fired six months ago.”
“I what?”
“Mr MacFadyen, six months ago JJ fired me on your instructions. He said you disliked my attitude to customers on the phone. My attitude, indeed! So why are you calling me now, don’t you like your new secretary’s attitude? ”
“Jodie, I’m having a really bad day and I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never had you fired, I’ve heard no complaints about your attitude. What’s going on?”
“Going on? I’m still looking for a new job, that’s what’s going on. What’s going on at your bank I have no idea. JJ wouldn’t even let me step inside his office, or the computer room, or connect my desktop to the main network. Chained to my desk I was, I felt like even going to the restroom was resented, and then I was fired. I worked for the bank before you took over, felt like I was part of the family, handled all kinds of things for customers, and then suddenly you don’t like my attitude. One-way loyalty, Mr MacFadyen. So what do you have to tell me, as if I should care?”
“Jodie, let me tell you about my day so far. JJ died last night, I had to identify him early this morning. The office looks abandoned..”
“Abandoned? I was fired, I didn’t abandon anything.”
“I hear you, please don’t shout at me. I’m trying to find out what’s been happening, why there are unpaid bills coming in, why your old office looks uninhabited.”
“Don’t ask me, ask JJ.”
“JJ’s dead. Jodie, would you be willing to come back to work here on Monday morning? I know I’ll have some kind of mess to straighten out. Please?”
“Full-time and permanent or just mop and go?”
“Full-time, permanent, benefits and a raise into the bargain.”
“Then I’ll be there at eight.”
“Thankyou, Jodie.”
“Attitude, indeed! Bye.”
Clive, now thoroughly alarmed, went back to his car. In the trunk he had, he hoped, a lug wrench although it was years since he last had to change a tire. But yes, there was one. It was big enough and heavy enough to serve as either a hammer or a pry-bar. And it was more than a match for the flimsy lock on JJs door.
*****
JJ’s office was larger but just as tidy as the other, yet it did not have the same look of abandonment. On the desk was a large laptop, top-of-the-line Macbook, with a power cord attached. It was on, asleep. Next to it was a short stack of notebooks. On top of the stack, a plain white envelope. In JJ’s distinctive almost copperplate handwriting it said simply “Clive”.
Clive picked up the envelope, passed it from hand to hand and back again, fearing what it might contain. Finally he slit it open with his thumbnail and read the short note inside. One sheet of paper, written on one side only, JJ’s handwriting as he expected.
“Clive,” he read, “you supercilious, sloppy bastard here is your come-uppance. Bank is rupt, chummy. Not a penny in the till. Your precious golf buddies have lost every last penny they entrusted to you. Don’t believe me? Real books are in the safe, dummies in the computer, cash in my hand and creditors knocking at the door. Have fun, old thing, I’m outta here. I’m sure you won’t mind me taking the Lambo for one last ride, before it’s repossessed.
Have fun.
Most sincerely,
Your obedient ‘umble servant
JJ”
Clive felt the room close around him. His eyes focused on the note, everything else blurred and swam around his peripheral vision. There was a roar, the sound of surf in a tempest, in his ears and his chest jolted with every heartbeat. His stomach contracted to a hard, sharp walnut shell which turned over and over and over as he staggered, knees buckling, to the chair and collapsed, sweating and shaking, into its security. He was going to vomit, he knew it, but could do nothing. Perhaps he passed out, he was not sure, but after an eternity he regained some control over his muscles. And after another eternity he wiped his mouth using the lapel of his suit jacket and slowly re-read the note.
JJ must be insane, Clive thought. Or drunk, or drugged. Or evil beyond belief. Or a practical joker – no, not that, not JJ. He read the note a third time. It had not altered. Clive rose and stumbled to the restroom to empty what remained of his bowels, bladder and stomach. He cleaned himself with paper towels, rinsed his mouth with water, removed his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and looked grimly at himself in the mirror. “OK, Clive m’boy, let’s take a look at this mess,” he said aloud.
It was the most orderly mess imaginable. On the one hand, JJ had gone into a frenzy of wealth destruction. Over the last several years he had systematically bought high to sell low. He had made the bank invest its clients’ money in the auto industry before the recession only to sell at firesale prices at its depth. He had bought sub-prime mortgages at face value when the whole world knew they were worthless. He had bought Greek government bonds, and Argentinian debt, and loans from bankrupt cities. There was real estate in China with no legal title, gold mines in Khazakstan, two Broadway shows that never saw Broadway and a Hollywood movie that had played quite well in Slovenia, even some large promissory notes from names in the government of North Korea. Dividend payments to depositors and the bank board members had all come from the sale of the rapidly-dwindling assets. Yet on the other hand, it was all meticulously documented and summarized so that even Clive could clearly see the enormity of the losses. There was also a hard drive containing all the fraudulent documents JJ had produced over the years to lull Clive, his clients and government agencies. Finally, one yellow sticky note with a Cupid and red heart printed on it and in bold purple ink the bottom line: Net liabilities $137.2M, net assets $0, as of close of business Friday. 🙂 🙂 🙂 JJ
Late in the afternoon Clive took the two handwritten notes, the laptop and the two portable hard drives with the real and fictitious accounts to his car. He shut down the computers, put all the paperwork in the safe and spun the combination. Then he locked the front door, got into his car and drove home to face the still unsuspecting Laura and Robert.
*****
Although Clive hoped and expected to have a couple of hours at home to consider the situation, organize some thoughts and perhaps have a couple of stiff drinks before meeting with Laura and Robert, he was not to be so lucky. As he entered the house he was met by Laura, who had obviously been watching through a window for his return.
“Where have you been all this time?” Her voice was tense and a little shrill, her eyes a little red.
“At the office.”
“At the office? JJ died and you, you went to the office?”
“Well, yes. I thought we’d have to pick up loose ends, so I went there first.”
“We called you on your cell, two or three times.” Her tone was accusing and Clive did not see why. He had not expected her to be quite so upset by JJ’s death. Upset, yes, naturally, but only to the extent that a business associate had had an accident. After all, Clive would be the one to take on the extra burdens until a replacement for JJ was found.
“I guess I left my cell in the car. There was some unexpected stuff in the office that I had to look at immediately, took much longer than I’d expected.” He did not want to have to tell her and Robert separately about the situation; once would be quite enough.
“Well, that was inconsiderate of you. Robert is waiting in the living room, perhaps you would deign to tell us now just what happened? And you’re a mess – have you been drinking all day?”
So he had gone in cold, unprepared, to tell them the whole story. As he expected, both were angry and clearly thought Clive was in some way to blame. Laura was on the verge of losing her self control. She kept asking about JJ’s death, while Robert focused on the collapse of the business. Both had said remarkably little at the end, when Laura had disappeared to her bedroom while Robert had gone..where?
Clive stirred and walked to the window. The pools of illumination from the security floodlights showed him that Robert’s Mercedes was no longer in the driveway. He must have gone home. Tomorrow, thought Clive, tomorrow he will kill me, I guess.
*****
Something inside Clive’s body was demanding a drink, right now. His stomach had recovered from panic and was growling for food. His nose told him his shirt and jacket needed cleaning. His mind informed him that he should fetch the materials from his car and sit down to study them in more detail. But it was his heart that insisted he should first check on Laura. She was, by her own frequent admission, highly strung and prone to anxiety attacks. Clive was sure she would recover, in time, from the huge shocks she had just received but she might need him now to soothe her. Or she might throw things at him, but he had to accept that possibility. He switched on the stairway lights and plodded up the steps to their room.
Laura was asleep, motionless in the bed with covers drawn up tight around her neck, the TV still on. Clive switched it off, cutting off in mid-sentence some academic discussion about asteroids. He felt a double wave of relief, relief that she was calm enough to sleep and relief that he could at last attend to his other needs. He entered the bathroom and removed his dirty clothes, dropping his suit jacket and pants on the floor beside the laundry, his shirt and socks and underwear in the basket. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and considered simply wearing his bathrobe for the rest of the evening. No, he had work to do and for that he had to feel dressed. He put on clean underwear, a clean pair of pants, a golf shirt. Now he could concentrate, he thought. He left the bathroom quietly to go back downstairs. Laura was still sound asleep, he noted with approval, there was not a sound in the room to disturb her. He stopped with a sudden anxiety; she usually snored. Clive walked back to the bed and listened. Not a sound. His eyes drifted to her nightstand. A pill bottle with the top off, empty. He put his hand to her cheek, then his ear to her nose, then frantically shook her with one hand as he reached for her wrist with the other. She lay limp in his arm. He could feel no pulse.
God, no, no, NO! thought Clive. Now Robert will really kill me.
He called 911 from the phone at the foot of the stairs, told the dispatcher what seemed to have happened. She told him to stay on the line. “Yes,” said Clive dully, “on the line.” He dropped the phone and stumbled barefoot to his car. Nothing to be done, simply flee, find a safe hole to crawl into, shut the crazy world away, flee, flee, flee now and not stop until whenever. He started the car and was turning onto Melrose as the ambulance passed him, lights flashing, going in the other direction.
*****
Whether or not Robert really would kill him was a question that Clive chewed over in his mind in the days to come, but his immediate thoughts were much more limited. At first, he merely drove for the sake of distance, putting miles between him and home. He did not do this efficiently, for he was incapable of planning his route more than a car length ahead. He blindly followed traffic along Melrose, turned right at the light on Highland, right again on Wilshire, downhill on Fairfax, found himself on a freeway on-ramp heading west towards the beach. Traffic was relatively light on the freeway and his panic subsided to the point where his stomach, still growling, regained his attention. He left the freeway somewhere in Santa Monica and was instantly lost, but after a while found a brilliantly lit gas station with convenience store. He filled the tank, went into the store and bought a large cup of coffee, a very stale doughnut and two plastic-looking hotdogs, all of which he took back and ate in the car in the parking lot. His stomach quit complaining, at least about its emptiness, and the coffee helped clear his mind. Laura was his first collected thought. Was she really dead? He thought back, hoping to find some doubt, but failed. She was dead. No pulse, no breath, no room for doubt. What could have possessed her? Yes, she had always been nervous, highly-strung, subject to unpredictable mood swings, but never remotely suicidal. Yes, she reveled in being the bank president’s wife and using the wealth at her disposal, but surely the loss of that would not have caused her to end her life. They would have been able to keep some possessions, maybe quite a lot, and it was going to take months or years for lawyers or courts or accountants to track down and allocate any remaining funds. So why had she killed herself? It seemed insane, as insane as JJ’s orgy of destruction. Clive wondered for a moment if he was the insane one, sitting in his car at a gas station with dirty hot dog wrappers, cold coffee and bare feet, in flight from…from what exactly? From Robert, who might well be planning to kill him? From the insanities of the day? From facing another corpse in the morgue? From the police, perhaps – he had no idea how they reacted to husbands with dead wives who called 911 and then fled. Or just from responsibility?
Responsibility. That was the family watchword. The bank’s founder Cyril MacFadyen, his son Theodore, even Clive’s unmarried mother Rena May and her socialite sisters and the succession of dull, colorless, unimaginative, risk-averse managers they had hired, each one of them had preached and practised responsibility. Not one customer of MacFadyen’s Bank and Trust had ever lost a penny with them. It was a matter of pride and a magnet for what the family had called ‘the right kind of client’. Now the reputation was imploding, but for Clive the pride remained. He decided he would have to return home, visit the morgue, face Robert and the police, endure the onslaught of the press, pick up the broken remnants of the bank and apologise as best he could to his clients. After that, he had no idea. But first, he needed to pee. The convenience store was still conveniently open.
Clive came back to the car, picking his way carefully because he had already stubbed a bare toe painfully against the threshold of the restroom door. He slid into the drivers seat and reached to close his door. He heard an ominous click and felt something cold against the back of his neck.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” said a voice behind him, calm and unhurried, accentless. “We’re gonna get along just fine. Now first, so there’s no unfortunate misunderstanding, you’ve gotta listen to the ground rules. No sudden movements, no loud noises, nobody gets hurt. Got that?”
There was a short pause, then “Got that? It’s friendly and polite to say yessir at this stage in our acquaintanceship. Got that?”
“Yes,” said Clive, and then “sir.”
“Good lad. Now shut your door, both hands high on the wheel, start the motor and turn the headlights on. Nothing else. Got that?”
“Yes..sir.”
“Well done, lad. Next we’re gonna drive outta here, turn right into the traffic, right at the second light and onto the freeway. Drive safe, not too fast and not too slow. But click your belt first, we don’t want any tickets, do we now?”
Clive complied.
“You can call me Ernie if you like, but keep your eyes on the road ahead. What do you go by?”
“Clive.”
“Well now, Clive, you’re probably a little bit anxious right now. Sweaty palms, yes? No need to worry. We’re just going for a nice ride in the country, enjoy each others’ conversation, part as good buddies in the morning. Got that?”
“Yes..Ernie.”
“Oh Clive, you learn fast, you’re a good guy. Nice car, too, I like this dark glass you have in the back. Had it long?”
“Couple of years.”
“What make is it? All these SUVs look the same to me.”
“It’s a Porsche.”
“Very nice, shows good taste. What’s your line of business, Clive? And just stay in this lane, no speeding, we’re going to take the I-5 north for a while, got that?”
“Yes, Ernie. May I ask where we’re going to, and why?”
NASA could not know, nor could the CIA, nor could any organization or person on Earth know that Outside, in the intergalactic darkness, something was on the move. Its motion sent tremors ahead, faint premonitions, tiny disturbances, unfocused, unintentional, the side effects from pushing on space-time strings. Like the draft from a Brazilian butterfly’s wings there were consequences, direct and indirect, throughout the cosmos.
On Earth, JJ Jamison awoke from a bad dream convinced that he was being persecuted by his employer. He vowed revenge, planned it over the next few years. An old woman, a refugee to the United States from central Asia, had a vision of herself gaining respect and an income by practising as a potato witch, a seer who could advise young people with the aid of malformed vegetable roots. She also persevered and had some successes, some failures. And in a seminary in Vermont a learned clergyman felt the unpleasant need to inform an eager and otherwise promising student that he lacked the vocation, that his idealism was too broad-based and his application too eccentric for him to enter their Ministry. The young man left, chastened and unrepentant, to find his own path through life. “Ernest,” he vowed, “You will make friends and improve the state of the world. Only the roadmap is missing, and it will be revealed in its own good time.”
The world took no notice of these events. Why should it? The seeds germinated slowly over the next few years.
*****
Before dawn on Saturday morning the bright yellow Lamborghini screamed down the highway from the mountain pass, headlights on but not needed in the brilliant light from the full moon. Ahead and below the city of Santa Barbara slumbered, a patchwork of black and silver. Beyond it the ocean was dark save for one shimmering streak of moonlight. The driver laughed aloud, joyously, left arm resting on the open windowsill, right hand on the wheel. JJ felt alive, awake, liberated with the road to himself, empty of all other traffic. He took the twists of the road with ease, at high speed and using both lanes to navigate the turns. A raccoon heard the squealing tires, looked around indecisively, tried too late to run clear. The car lurched violently on impact, slewed to one side, started to spin. The guard rails ripped into the beautiful bodywork, failed to prevent the car from rising, rolling, vaulting over them and soaring backwards and upside down to land three hundred feet down the cliff. It was not a survivable accident.
Unable to find a relative, the County Sheriff’s department called the driver’s employer. Clive MacFadyen took the call and drove up the coast in the morning sunlight to identify the body.
*****
“One hundred million or thereabouts,” said Clive, emotionless. “Possibly two. I don’t really understand the numbers.”
“Great,” responded Laura, her voice icy with controlled rage. “Just great.”
“And just who does really understand the numbers, pray?” That was Robert, of course, sarcastic as ever.
“JJ did, I guess. After all, he invented most of them.”
“Clive, please don’t be facetious. You’ve just told us you’ve lost over a hundred million dollars of clients’ money, that you don’t understand the book-keeping and that..that..that weasel John Jay Jamison – whom you hired, by the way, over my objections – that vile creature was inventing all the statements of account? How could you have been so stupid? Was he stealing from us as well as our clients?” Laura’s teeth were clenched and bared, her eyes protruding, her throat muscles twitching rapidly.
“He was stealing from everyone, far as I can make out. He changed the whole bank into one big Ponzi pyramid. He’s been at it for years and couldn’t possibly have left us in a deeper hole. If it hadn’t been for his car accident, the first we’d have known about it would be Monday, probably from the morning papers, since he was clearly being as vindictive as he could.”
“An even deeper mess, how could that be possible? You say we, as a family business, are liable for this huge sum but things could be worse? Bravo, Clive, you should have been a cheerleader and not a banker.”
“Yes, Robert, undoubtedly you are right as you always are after the event. I can only tell you both that I’m sorry. I want you to hear the bad news before the media do.”
“When will that be?” asked Laura with wifely forbearance. “When do the TV cameras break into our bathroom, when will the National Enquirer print front page photoshopped pictures of me in my bathrobe, complete with red eyes and drooping breasts, perhaps holding the board with my name and case number to my chest? When does that nightmare start, please, Clive?” Stifling sobs she rose from her chair and fled the room.
“What will you do now, Clive?”
“I don’t know. He crashed early this morning, Saturday. Media will have the popular headline, ‘Man dies in fiery 120 mph Lamborghini crash’ on the net by now, Sunday papers will copy that, but on Monday the financial world will recognize who he was and the phone calls will begin. Day after that the public rumors, day after that the withdrawal requests, after a few hours checks will start bouncing and I’ll have to make a public statement. I’ll notify the police first, of course, just to protect us a little, but that might let it leak out sooner. You should make yourself hard to find.”
“And Laura?”
“She is our Company Secretary and an ex-officio Director. We can’t keep her out of this.”
“I know my sister. She won’t be able to take the pressure.”
“I know my wife. She’ll just have to.”
The two men glared at each other, one infuriated and resentful, the other numbed and penitent. There was a long silence. Robert’s knuckles whitened on his clenched fists, the tic on his left cheekbone grew more pronounced. Clive, his head hung low, breathed deeply and tried not to think, not to remember, not to imagine anything, only to wish for time to pass. The antique clock by the doorway ticked loudly, emphasizing the silence. Then without a word Robert spun on his heel and walked furiously from the room. He shut the door behind him with a soft click that sounded to Clive like the trump of doom. Clive continued to stand, motionless, for a long, long time as evening approached and darkness slowly engulfed the room.
*****
Clive had received the morning call from the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s department. A car, a yellow Lamborghini registered in the bank’s name, had run off the highway in the hills behind the city. The driver was one J J Jamison, pronounced dead on arrival at the county hospital. Would Clive please come to the morgue to identify the body or suggest some relative or other friend of the dead man who would do so. And by the way, there was a large sum of cash found in the trunk of the car, which would be secured by the police along with the car itself while the crash was investigated. Clive had dressed quickly, driven up the coast, reached the morgue at nine and identified JJ’s body. Then he had stopped for breakfast on State Street and started out for the drive back to Beverly Hills. He wondered briefly what the cash was about, but was not unduly concerned. Since JJ was well paid and had expensive tastes, carrying a few thousand in his wallet would be quite in character. Like the Lamborghini, classed as a company-owned business tool for tax purposes, as JJ had once explained. In Ventura, Clive pulled over to call first Laura and then Robert, to tell them of the accident and set up a meeting at home later that afternoon. No doubt there would be some publicity to be managed and decisions on how best to keep things running while a new manager was sought. That thought led Clive to make a U-turn and drive back to the office. He would have to look at JJ’s personal calendar and reschedule whatever arrangements had been made for the next few days.
Reaching the office, a converted residence last rebuilt in the Spanish style of tiled roof and brilliantly white painted walls, Clive parked in the street, walked to the door and let himself in. On his left was the main office and further down the hallway was the computer room. On his right was JJ’s private office. Clive recollected with some surprise that he had not been inside the building in well over a year – no need had arisen, JJ was such a competent no-surprises manager. Clive tried the door, but it was locked. He shrugged; he would collect the key on Monday from the morgue or the hospital or the police, wherever it had been put on removal from JJ’s corpse. Then Clive turned to the other office and opened the unlocked door. It was neat and orderly, even austere, as it always had been. Filing cabinets, wastebin, desk and chair for JJ’s secretary, phone and computer on desk, inbox and outbox. Clive wondered how any work could get done in such a well-ordered environment. He sighed, knowing that not having JJ to rely on was going to be hard. A second glance around, a quick look inside the desk drawers, all empty, no calendar, it must be locked in the private office, and with nothing useful to be done there, Clive turned to go. With his hand on the polished brass doorknob Clive was startled as the mail slot clicked open and a small bundle of mail dropped into the wiremesh box. The slot slammed shut and Clive could hear the letter-carrier’s footsteps move down the short path to the sidewalk. He fumbled for his keys with one hand, retrieved the mail in the other, opened the door, stepped outside, closed and carefully locked the door then realized the mail was still in his hand. No matter, no hurry to deal with that. He walked back to his car and sat for a moment to think.
Clive was not, by temperament or by upbringing, a man of action. He liked to sit placidly and have things done for him. Right now, it was clear that some things had to be done, just to keep business running as usual, but he felt overwhelmed, taken by surprise. Life was being unfair. Who would take control, handle the situation, restore his tranquility? No name popped into his head. Robert and Laura knew nothing of the business. JJ was dead. Jodie, JJ’s secretary, could handle filing and phone calls, but little else. He thought of calling her; it could wait till Monday. He did not feel like doing anything at all. Still, he had to make a start somewhere. Perhaps at home, where he kept his laptop with all his clients’ contact information. He pressed the button to start his car, reached down to shift into drive and knocked the bundle of mail to the floor. He reached low to pick it up, glancing at the envelopes. Looked like some bills, he thought. Two in red envelopes? He looked more closely. One was stamped ‘Final Notice’, one stamped ‘Overdue’. He checked; both were correctly addressed to the bank. He tore them open, confirmed that they were what they said. Clive hated unpaid bills, they were not part of his lifestyle nor of JJ’s. He shut down the car and walked back to the office, let himself in again and sat at Jodie’s desk. He would leave her a note to clear these on Monday morning. But there were no sticky notepads on or in the desk, no pen or pencil. He looked around the office again. Wastebin empty. In and out trays empty. No photos, no personal items. How could a working office be so sterile, he wondered with growing concern. Since he could not easily leave a note for Jodie he decided to call her. The phone had a shortcut button labeled in blue ink ‘Jodie home’. He dialed, listened to it ring, and got a depersonalized voicemail message. “Jodie,” he began, “This is Mr MacFadyen. I’m calling because..” He paused, debating whether to complain about the unpaid utility bills or to tell her first about JJ’s death. Before he had decided, Jodie picked up. “Mr MacFadyen, I’m surprised to hear from you.”
“Jodie, I’m at the office and have some things to tell you.”
“Not for me, you haven’t. Not since you had me fired six months ago.”
“I what?”
“Mr MacFadyen, six months ago JJ fired me on your instructions. He said you disliked my attitude to customers on the phone. My attitude, indeed! So why are you calling me now, don’t you like your new secretary’s attitude? ”
“Jodie, I’m having a really bad day and I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never had you fired, I’ve heard no complaints about your attitude. What’s going on?”
“Going on? I’m still looking for a new job, that’s what’s going on. What’s going on at your bank I have no idea. JJ wouldn’t even let me step inside his office, or the computer room, or connect my desktop to the main network. Chained to my desk I was, I felt like even going to the restroom was resented, and then I was fired. I worked for the bank before you took over, felt like I was part of the family, handled all kinds of things for customers, and then suddenly you don’t like my attitude. One-way loyalty, Mr MacFadyen. So what do you have to tell me, as if I should care?”
“Jodie, let me tell you about my day so far. JJ died last night, I had to identify him early this morning. The office looks abandoned..”
“Abandoned? I was fired, I didn’t abandon anything.”
“I hear you, please don’t shout at me. I’m trying to find out what’s been happening, why there are unpaid bills coming in, why your old office looks uninhabited.”
“Don’t ask me, ask JJ.”
“JJ’s dead. Jodie, would you be willing to come back to work here on Monday morning? I know I’ll have some kind of mess to straighten out. Please?”
“Full-time and permanent or just mop and go?”
“Full-time, permanent, benefits and a raise into the bargain.”
“Then I’ll be there at eight.”
“Thankyou, Jodie.”
“Attitude, indeed! Bye.”
Clive, now thoroughly alarmed, went back to his car. In the trunk he had, he hoped, a lug wrench although it was years since he last had to change a tire. But yes, there was one. It was big enough and heavy enough to serve as either a hammer or a pry-bar. And it was more than a match for the flimsy lock on JJs door.
*****
JJ’s office was larger but just as tidy as the other, yet it did not have the same look of abandonment. On the desk was a large laptop, top-of-the-line Macbook, with a power cord attached. It was on, asleep. Next to it was a short stack of notebooks. On top of the stack, a plain white envelope. In JJ’s distinctive almost copperplate handwriting it said simply “Clive”.
Clive picked up the envelope, passed it from hand to hand and back again, fearing what it might contain. Finally he slit it open with his thumbnail and read the short note inside. One sheet of paper, written on one side only, JJ’s handwriting as he expected.
“Clive,” he read, “you supercilious, sloppy bastard here is your come-uppance. Bank is rupt, chummy. Not a penny in the till. Your precious golf buddies have lost every last penny they entrusted to you. Don’t believe me? Real books are in the safe, dummies in the computer, cash in my hand and creditors knocking at the door. Have fun, old thing, I’m outta here. I’m sure you won’t mind me taking the Lambo for one last ride, before it’s repossessed.
Have fun.
Most sincerely,
Your obedient ‘umble servant
JJ”
Clive felt the room close around him. His eyes focused on the note, everything else blurred and swam around his peripheral vision. There was a roar, the sound of surf in a tempest, in his ears and his chest jolted with every heartbeat. His stomach contracted to a hard, sharp walnut shell which turned over and over and over as he staggered, knees buckling, to the chair and collapsed, sweating and shaking, into its security. He was going to vomit, he knew it, but could do nothing. Perhaps he passed out, he was not sure, but after an eternity he regained some control over his muscles. And after another eternity he wiped his mouth using the lapel of his suit jacket and slowly re-read the note.
JJ must be insane, Clive thought. Or drunk, or drugged. Or evil beyond belief. Or a practical joker – no, not that, not JJ. He read the note a third time. It had not altered. Clive rose and stumbled to the restroom to empty what remained of his bowels, bladder and stomach. He cleaned himself with paper towels, rinsed his mouth with water, removed his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and looked grimly at himself in the mirror. “OK, Clive m’boy, let’s take a look at this mess,” he said aloud.
It was the most orderly mess imaginable. On the one hand, JJ had gone into a frenzy of wealth destruction. Over the last several years he had systematically bought high to sell low. He had made the bank invest its clients’ money in the auto industry before the recession only to sell at firesale prices at its depth. He had bought sub-prime mortgages at face value when the whole world knew they were worthless. He had bought Greek government bonds, and Argentinian debt, and loans from bankrupt cities. There was real estate in China with no legal title, gold mines in Khazakstan, two Broadway shows that never saw Broadway and a Hollywood movie that had played quite well in Slovenia, even some large promissory notes from names in the government of North Korea. Dividend payments to depositors and the bank board members had all come from the sale of the rapidly-dwindling assets. Yet on the other hand, it was all meticulously documented and summarized so that even Clive could clearly see the enormity of the losses. There was also a hard drive containing all the fraudulent documents JJ had produced over the years to lull Clive, his clients and government agencies. Finally, one yellow sticky note with a Cupid and red heart printed on it and in bold purple ink the bottom line: Net liabilities $137.2M, net assets $0, as of close of business Friday. 🙂 🙂 🙂 JJ
Late in the afternoon Clive took the two handwritten notes, the laptop and the two portable hard drives with the real and fictitious accounts to his car. He shut down the computers, put all the paperwork in the safe and spun the combination. Then he locked the front door, got into his car and drove home to face the still unsuspecting Laura and Robert.
*****
Although Clive hoped and expected to have a couple of hours at home to consider the situation, organize some thoughts and perhaps have a couple of stiff drinks before meeting with Laura and Robert, he was not to be so lucky. As he entered the house he was met by Laura, who had obviously been watching through a window for his return.
“Where have you been all this time?” Her voice was tense and a little shrill, her eyes a little red.
“At the office.”
“At the office? JJ died and you, you went to the office?”
“Well, yes. I thought we’d have to pick up loose ends, so I went there first.”
“We called you on your cell, two or three times.” Her tone was accusing and Clive did not see why. He had not expected her to be quite so upset by JJ’s death. Upset, yes, naturally, but only to the extent that a business associate had had an accident. After all, Clive would be the one to take on the extra burdens until a replacement for JJ was found.
“I guess I left my cell in the car. There was some unexpected stuff in the office that I had to look at immediately, took much longer than I’d expected.” He did not want to have to tell her and Robert separately about the situation; once would be quite enough.
“Well, that was inconsiderate of you. Robert is waiting in the living room, perhaps you would deign to tell us now just what happened? And you’re a mess – have you been drinking all day?”
So he had gone in cold, unprepared, to tell them the whole story. As he expected, both were angry and clearly thought Clive was in some way to blame. Laura was on the verge of losing her self control. She kept asking about JJ’s death, while Robert focused on the collapse of the business. Both had said remarkably little at the end, when Laura had disappeared to her bedroom while Robert had gone..where?
Clive stirred and walked to the window. The pools of illumination from the security floodlights showed him that Robert’s Mercedes was no longer in the driveway. He must have gone home. Tomorrow, thought Clive, tomorrow he will kill me, I guess.
*****
Something inside Clive’s body was demanding a drink, right now. His stomach had recovered from panic and was growling for food. His nose told him his shirt and jacket needed cleaning. His mind informed him that he should fetch the materials from his car and sit down to study them in more detail. But it was his heart that insisted he should first check on Laura. She was, by her own frequent admission, highly strung and prone to anxiety attacks. Clive was sure she would recover, in time, from the huge shocks she had just received but she might need him now to soothe her. Or she might throw things at him, but he had to accept that possibility. He switched on the stairway lights and plodded up the steps to their room.
Laura was asleep, motionless in the bed with covers drawn up tight around her neck, the TV still on. Clive switched it off, cutting off in mid-sentence some academic discussion about asteroids. He felt a double wave of relief, relief that she was calm enough to sleep and relief that he could at last attend to his other needs. He entered the bathroom and removed his dirty clothes, dropping his suit jacket and pants on the floor beside the laundry, his shirt and socks and underwear in the basket. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and considered simply wearing his bathrobe for the rest of the evening. No, he had work to do and for that he had to feel dressed. He put on clean underwear, a clean pair of pants, a golf shirt. Now he could concentrate, he thought. He left the bathroom quietly to go back downstairs. Laura was still sound asleep, he noted with approval, there was not a sound in the room to disturb her. He stopped with a sudden anxiety; she usually snored. Clive walked back to the bed and listened. Not a sound. His eyes drifted to her nightstand. A pill bottle with the top off, empty. He put his hand to her cheek, then his ear to her nose, then frantically shook her with one hand as he reached for her wrist with the other. She lay limp in his arm. He could feel no pulse.
God, no, no, NO! thought Clive. Now Robert will really kill me.
He called 911 from the phone at the foot of the stairs, told the dispatcher what seemed to have happened. She told him to stay on the line. “Yes,” said Clive dully, “on the line.” He dropped the phone and stumbled barefoot to his car. Nothing to be done, simply flee, find a safe hole to crawl into, shut the crazy world away, flee, flee, flee now and not stop until whenever. He started the car and was turning onto Melrose as the ambulance passed him, lights flashing, going in the other direction.
*****
Whether or not Robert really would kill him was a question that Clive chewed over in his mind in the days to come, but his immediate thoughts were much more limited. At first, he merely drove for the sake of distance, putting miles between him and home. He did not do this efficiently, for he was incapable of planning his route more than a car length ahead. He blindly followed traffic along Melrose, turned right at the light on Highland, right again on Wilshire, downhill on Fairfax, found himself on a freeway on-ramp heading west towards the beach. Traffic was relatively light on the freeway and his panic subsided to the point where his stomach, still growling, regained his attention. He left the freeway somewhere in Santa Monica and was instantly lost, but after a while found a brilliantly lit gas station with convenience store. He filled the tank, went into the store and bought a large cup of coffee, a very stale doughnut and two plastic-looking hotdogs, all of which he took back and ate in the car in the parking lot. His stomach quit complaining, at least about its emptiness, and the coffee helped clear his mind. Laura was his first collected thought. Was she really dead? He thought back, hoping to find some doubt, but failed. She was dead. No pulse, no breath, no room for doubt. What could have possessed her? Yes, she had always been nervous, highly-strung, subject to unpredictable mood swings, but never remotely suicidal. Yes, she reveled in being the bank president’s wife and using the wealth at her disposal, but surely the loss of that would not have caused her to end her life. They would have been able to keep some possessions, maybe quite a lot, and it was going to take months or years for lawyers or courts or accountants to track down and allocate any remaining funds. So why had she killed herself? It seemed insane, as insane as JJ’s orgy of destruction. Clive wondered for a moment if he was the insane one, sitting in his car at a gas station with dirty hot dog wrappers, cold coffee and bare feet, in flight from…from what exactly? From Robert, who might well be planning to kill him? From the insanities of the day? From facing another corpse in the morgue? From the police, perhaps – he had no idea how they reacted to husbands with dead wives who called 911 and then fled. Or just from responsibility?
Responsibility. That was the family watchword. The bank’s founder Cyril MacFadyen, his son Theodore, even Clive’s unmarried mother Rena May and her socialite sisters and the succession of dull, colorless, unimaginative, risk-averse managers they had hired, each one of them had preached and practised responsibility. Not one customer of MacFadyen’s Bank and Trust had ever lost a penny with them. It was a matter of pride and a magnet for what the family had called ‘the right kind of client’. Now the reputation was imploding, but for Clive the pride remained. He decided he would have to return home, visit the morgue, face Robert and the police, endure the onslaught of the press, pick up the broken remnants of the bank and apologise as best he could to his clients. After that, he had no idea. But first, he needed to pee. The convenience store was still conveniently open.
Clive came back to the car, picking his way carefully because he had already stubbed a bare toe painfully against the threshold of the restroom door. He slid into the drivers seat and reached to close his door. He heard an ominous click and felt something cold against the back of his neck.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” said a voice behind him, calm and unhurried, accentless. “We’re gonna get along just fine. Now first, so there’s no unfortunate misunderstanding, you’ve gotta listen to the ground rules. No sudden movements, no loud noises, nobody gets hurt. Got that?”
There was a short pause, then “Got that? It’s friendly and polite to say yessir at this stage in our acquaintanceship. Got that?”
“Yes,” said Clive, and then “sir.”
“Good lad. Now shut your door, both hands high on the wheel, start the motor and turn the headlights on. Nothing else. Got that?”
“Yes..sir.”
“Well done, lad. Next we’re gonna drive outta here, turn right into the traffic, right at the second light and onto the freeway. Drive safe, not too fast and not too slow. But click your belt first, we don’t want any tickets, do we now?”
Clive complied.
“You can call me Ernie if you like, but keep your eyes on the road ahead. What do you go by?”
“Clive.”
“Well now, Clive, you’re probably a little bit anxious right now. Sweaty palms, yes? No need to worry. We’re just going for a nice ride in the country, enjoy each others’ conversation, part as good buddies in the morning. Got that?”
“Yes..Ernie.”
“Oh Clive, you learn fast, you’re a good guy. Nice car, too, I like this dark glass you have in the back. Had it long?”
“Couple of years.”
“What make is it? All these SUVs look the same to me.”
“It’s a Porsche.”
“Very nice, shows good taste. What’s your line of business, Clive? And just stay in this lane, no speeding, we’re going to take the I-5 north for a while, got that?”
“Yes, Ernie. May I ask where we’re going to, and why?”
NASA could not know, nor could the CIA, nor could any organization or person on Earth know that Outside, in the intergalactic darkness, something was on the move. Its motion sent tremors ahead, faint premonitions, tiny disturbances, unfocused, unintentional, the side effects from pushing on space-time strings. Like the draft from a Brazilian butterfly’s wings there were consequences, direct and indirect, throughout the cosmos.
On Earth, JJ Jamison awoke from a bad dream convinced that he was being persecuted by his employer. He vowed revenge, planned it over the next few years. An old woman, a refugee to the United States from central Asia, had a vision of herself gaining respect and an income by practising as a potato witch, a seer who could advise young people with the aid of malformed vegetable roots. She also persevered and had some successes, some failures. And in a seminary in Vermont a learned clergyman felt the unpleasant need to inform an eager and otherwise promising student that he lacked the vocation, that his idealism was too broad-based and his application too eccentric for him to enter their Ministry. The young man left, chastened and unrepentant, to find his own path through life. “Ernest,” he vowed, “You will make friends and improve the state of the world. Only the roadmap is missing, and it will be revealed in its own good time.”
The world took no notice of these events. Why should it? The seeds germinated slowly over the next few years.
*****
Before dawn on Saturday morning the bright yellow Lamborghini screamed down the highway from the mountain pass, headlights on but not needed in the brilliant light from the full moon. Ahead and below the city of Santa Barbara slumbered, a patchwork of black and silver. Beyond it the ocean was dark save for one shimmering streak of moonlight. The driver laughed aloud, joyously, left arm resting on the open windowsill, right hand on the wheel. JJ felt alive, awake, liberated with the road to himself, empty of all other traffic. He took the twists of the road with ease, at high speed and using both lanes to navigate the turns. A raccoon heard the squealing tires, looked around indecisively, tried too late to run clear. The car lurched violently on impact, slewed to one side, started to spin. The guard rails ripped into the beautiful bodywork, failed to prevent the car from rising, rolling, vaulting over them and soaring backwards and upside down to land three hundred feet down the cliff. It was not a survivable accident.
Unable to find a relative, the County Sheriff’s department called the driver’s employer. Clive MacFadyen took the call and drove up the coast in the morning sunlight to identify the body.
*****
“One hundred million or thereabouts,” said Clive, emotionless. “Possibly two. I don’t really understand the numbers.”
“Great,” responded Laura, her voice icy with controlled rage. “Just great.”
“And just who does really understand the numbers, pray?” That was Robert, of course, sarcastic as ever.
“JJ did, I guess. After all, he invented most of them.”
“Clive, please don’t be facetious. You’ve just told us you’ve lost over a hundred million dollars of clients’ money, that you don’t understand the book-keeping and that..that..that weasel John Jay Jamison – whom you hired, by the way, over my objections – that vile creature was inventing all the statements of account? How could you have been so stupid? Was he stealing from us as well as our clients?” Laura’s teeth were clenched and bared, her eyes protruding, her throat muscles twitching rapidly.
“He was stealing from everyone, far as I can make out. He changed the whole bank into one big Ponzi pyramid. He’s been at it for years and couldn’t possibly have left us in a deeper hole. If it hadn’t been for his car accident, the first we’d have known about it would be Monday, probably from the morning papers, since he was clearly being as vindictive as he could.”
“An even deeper mess, how could that be possible? You say we, as a family business, are liable for this huge sum but things could be worse? Bravo, Clive, you should have been a cheerleader and not a banker.”
“Yes, Robert, undoubtedly you are right as you always are after the event. I can only tell you both that I’m sorry. I want you to hear the bad news before the media do.”
“When will that be?” asked Laura with wifely forbearance. “When do the TV cameras break into our bathroom, when will the National Enquirer print front page photoshopped pictures of me in my bathrobe, complete with red eyes and drooping breasts, perhaps holding the board with my name and case number to my chest? When does that nightmare start, please, Clive?” Stifling sobs she rose from her chair and fled the room.
“What will you do now, Clive?”
“I don’t know. He crashed early this morning, Saturday. Media will have the popular headline, ‘Man dies in fiery 120 mph Lamborghini crash’ on the net by now, Sunday papers will copy that, but on Monday the financial world will recognize who he was and the phone calls will begin. Day after that the public rumors, day after that the withdrawal requests, after a few hours checks will start bouncing and I’ll have to make a public statement. I’ll notify the police first, of course, just to protect us a little, but that might let it leak out sooner. You should make yourself hard to find.”
“And Laura?”
“She is our Company Secretary and an ex-officio Director. We can’t keep her out of this.”
“I know my sister. She won’t be able to take the pressure.”
“I know my wife. She’ll just have to.”
The two men glared at each other, one infuriated and resentful, the other numbed and penitent. There was a long silence. Robert’s knuckles whitened on his clenched fists, the tic on his left cheekbone grew more pronounced. Clive, his head hung low, breathed deeply and tried not to think, not to remember, not to imagine anything, only to wish for time to pass. The antique clock by the doorway ticked loudly, emphasizing the silence. Then without a word Robert spun on his heel and walked furiously from the room. He shut the door behind him with a soft click that sounded to Clive like the trump of doom. Clive continued to stand, motionless, for a long, long time as evening approached and darkness slowly engulfed the room.
*****
Clive had received the morning call from the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s department. A car, a yellow Lamborghini registered in the bank’s name, had run off the highway in the hills behind the city. The driver was one J J Jamison, pronounced dead on arrival at the county hospital. Would Clive please come to the morgue to identify the body or suggest some relative or other friend of the dead man who would do so. And by the way, there was a large sum of cash found in the trunk of the car, which would be secured by the police along with the car itself while the crash was investigated. Clive had dressed quickly, driven up the coast, reached the morgue at nine and identified JJ’s body. Then he had stopped for breakfast on State Street and started out for the drive back to Beverly Hills. He wondered briefly what the cash was about, but was not unduly concerned. Since JJ was well paid and had expensive tastes, carrying a few thousand in his wallet would be quite in character. Like the Lamborghini, classed as a company-owned business tool for tax purposes, as JJ had once explained. In Ventura, Clive pulled over to call first Laura and then Robert, to tell them of the accident and set up a meeting at home later that afternoon. No doubt there would be some publicity to be managed and decisions on how best to keep things running while a new manager was sought. That thought led Clive to make a U-turn and drive back to the office. He would have to look at JJ’s personal calendar and reschedule whatever arrangements had been made for the next few days.
Reaching the office, a converted residence last rebuilt in the Spanish style of tiled roof and brilliantly white painted walls, Clive parked in the street, walked to the door and let himself in. On his left was the main office and further down the hallway was the computer room. On his right was JJ’s private office. Clive recollected with some surprise that he had not been inside the building in well over a year – no need had arisen, JJ was such a competent no-surprises manager. Clive tried the door, but it was locked. He shrugged; he would collect the key on Monday from the morgue or the hospital or the police, wherever it had been put on removal from JJ’s corpse. Then Clive turned to the other office and opened the unlocked door. It was neat and orderly, even austere, as it always had been. Filing cabinets, wastebin, desk and chair for JJ’s secretary, phone and computer on desk, inbox and outbox. Clive wondered how any work could get done in such a well-ordered environment. He sighed, knowing that not having JJ to rely on was going to be hard. A second glance around, a quick look inside the desk drawers, all empty, no calendar, it must be locked in the private office, and with nothing useful to be done there, Clive turned to go. With his hand on the polished brass doorknob Clive was startled as the mail slot clicked open and a small bundle of mail dropped into the wiremesh box. The slot slammed shut and Clive could hear the letter-carrier’s footsteps move down the short path to the sidewalk. He fumbled for his keys with one hand, retrieved the mail in the other, opened the door, stepped outside, closed and carefully locked the door then realized the mail was still in his hand. No matter, no hurry to deal with that. He walked back to his car and sat for a moment to think.
Clive was not, by temperament or by upbringing, a man of action. He liked to sit placidly and have things done for him. Right now, it was clear that some things had to be done, just to keep business running as usual, but he felt overwhelmed, taken by surprise. Life was being unfair. Who would take control, handle the situation, restore his tranquility? No name popped into his head. Robert and Laura knew nothing of the business. JJ was dead. Jodie, JJ’s secretary, could handle filing and phone calls, but little else. He thought of calling her; it could wait till Monday. He did not feel like doing anything at all. Still, he had to make a start somewhere. Perhaps at home, where he kept his laptop with all his clients’ contact information. He pressed the button to start his car, reached down to shift into drive and knocked the bundle of mail to the floor. He reached low to pick it up, glancing at the envelopes. Looked like some bills, he thought. Two in red envelopes? He looked more closely. One was stamped ‘Final Notice’, one stamped ‘Overdue’. He checked; both were correctly addressed to the bank. He tore them open, confirmed that they were what they said. Clive hated unpaid bills, they were not part of his lifestyle nor of JJ’s. He shut down the car and walked back to the office, let himself in again and sat at Jodie’s desk. He would leave her a note to clear these on Monday morning. But there were no sticky notepads on or in the desk, no pen or pencil. He looked around the office again. Wastebin empty. In and out trays empty. No photos, no personal items. How could a working office be so sterile, he wondered with growing concern. Since he could not easily leave a note for Jodie he decided to call her. The phone had a shortcut button labeled in blue ink ‘Jodie home’. He dialed, listened to it ring, and got a depersonalized voicemail message. “Jodie,” he began, “This is Mr MacFadyen. I’m calling because..” He paused, debating whether to complain about the unpaid utility bills or to tell her first about JJ’s death. Before he had decided, Jodie picked up. “Mr MacFadyen, I’m surprised to hear from you.”
“Jodie, I’m at the office and have some things to tell you.”
“Not for me, you haven’t. Not since you had me fired six months ago.”
“I what?”
“Mr MacFadyen, six months ago JJ fired me on your instructions. He said you disliked my attitude to customers on the phone. My attitude, indeed! So why are you calling me now, don’t you like your new secretary’s attitude? ”
“Jodie, I’m having a really bad day and I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never had you fired, I’ve heard no complaints about your attitude. What’s going on?”
“Going on? I’m still looking for a new job, that’s what’s going on. What’s going on at your bank I have no idea. JJ wouldn’t even let me step inside his office, or the computer room, or connect my desktop to the main network. Chained to my desk I was, I felt like even going to the restroom was resented, and then I was fired. I worked for the bank before you took over, felt like I was part of the family, handled all kinds of things for customers, and then suddenly you don’t like my attitude. One-way loyalty, Mr MacFadyen. So what do you have to tell me, as if I should care?”
“Jodie, let me tell you about my day so far. JJ died last night, I had to identify him early this morning. The office looks abandoned..”
“Abandoned? I was fired, I didn’t abandon anything.”
“I hear you, please don’t shout at me. I’m trying to find out what’s been happening, why there are unpaid bills coming in, why your old office looks uninhabited.”
“Don’t ask me, ask JJ.”
“JJ’s dead. Jodie, would you be willing to come back to work here on Monday morning? I know I’ll have some kind of mess to straighten out. Please?”
“Full-time and permanent or just mop and go?”
“Full-time, permanent, benefits and a raise into the bargain.”
“Then I’ll be there at eight.”
“Thankyou, Jodie.”
“Attitude, indeed! Bye.”
Clive, now thoroughly alarmed, went back to his car. In the trunk he had, he hoped, a lug wrench although it was years since he last had to change a tire. But yes, there was one. It was big enough and heavy enough to serve as either a hammer or a pry-bar. And it was more than a match for the flimsy lock on JJs door.
*****
JJ’s office was larger but just as tidy as the other, yet it did not have the same look of abandonment. On the desk was a large laptop, top-of-the-line Macbook, with a power cord attached. It was on, asleep. Next to it was a short stack of notebooks. On top of the stack, a plain white envelope. In JJ’s distinctive almost copperplate handwriting it said simply “Clive”.
Clive picked up the envelope, passed it from hand to hand and back again, fearing what it might contain. Finally he slit it open with his thumbnail and read the short note inside. One sheet of paper, written on one side only, JJ’s handwriting as he expected.
“Clive,” he read, “you supercilious, sloppy bastard here is your come-uppance. Bank is rupt, chummy. Not a penny in the till. Your precious golf buddies have lost every last penny they entrusted to you. Don’t believe me? Real books are in the safe, dummies in the computer, cash in my hand and creditors knocking at the door. Have fun, old thing, I’m outta here. I’m sure you won’t mind me taking the Lambo for one last ride, before it’s repossessed.
Have fun.
Most sincerely,
Your obedient ‘umble servant
JJ”
Clive felt the room close around him. His eyes focused on the note, everything else blurred and swam around his peripheral vision. There was a roar, the sound of surf in a tempest, in his ears and his chest jolted with every heartbeat. His stomach contracted to a hard, sharp walnut shell which turned over and over and over as he staggered, knees buckling, to the chair and collapsed, sweating and shaking, into its security. He was going to vomit, he knew it, but could do nothing. Perhaps he passed out, he was not sure, but after an eternity he regained some control over his muscles. And after another eternity he wiped his mouth using the lapel of his suit jacket and slowly re-read the note.
JJ must be insane, Clive thought. Or drunk, or drugged. Or evil beyond belief. Or a practical joker – no, not that, not JJ. He read the note a third time. It had not altered. Clive rose and stumbled to the restroom to empty what remained of his bowels, bladder and stomach. He cleaned himself with paper towels, rinsed his mouth with water, removed his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and looked grimly at himself in the mirror. “OK, Clive m’boy, let’s take a look at this mess,” he said aloud.
It was the most orderly mess imaginable. On the one hand, JJ had gone into a frenzy of wealth destruction. Over the last several years he had systematically bought high to sell low. He had made the bank invest its clients’ money in the auto industry before the recession only to sell at firesale prices at its depth. He had bought sub-prime mortgages at face value when the whole world knew they were worthless. He had bought Greek government bonds, and Argentinian debt, and loans from bankrupt cities. There was real estate in China with no legal title, gold mines in Khazakstan, two Broadway shows that never saw Broadway and a Hollywood movie that had played quite well in Slovenia, even some large promissory notes from names in the government of North Korea. Dividend payments to depositors and the bank board members had all come from the sale of the rapidly-dwindling assets. Yet on the other hand, it was all meticulously documented and summarized so that even Clive could clearly see the enormity of the losses. There was also a hard drive containing all the fraudulent documents JJ had produced over the years to lull Clive, his clients and government agencies. Finally, one yellow sticky note with a Cupid and red heart printed on it and in bold purple ink the bottom line: Net liabilities $137.2M, net assets $0, as of close of business Friday. 🙂 🙂 🙂 JJ
Late in the afternoon Clive took the two handwritten notes, the laptop and the two portable hard drives with the real and fictitious accounts to his car. He shut down the computers, put all the paperwork in the safe and spun the combination. Then he locked the front door, got into his car and drove home to face the still unsuspecting Laura and Robert.
*****
Although Clive hoped and expected to have a couple of hours at home to consider the situation, organize some thoughts and perhaps have a couple of stiff drinks before meeting with Laura and Robert, he was not to be so lucky. As he entered the house he was met by Laura, who had obviously been watching through a window for his return.
“Where have you been all this time?” Her voice was tense and a little shrill, her eyes a little red.
“At the office.”
“At the office? JJ died and you, you went to the office?”
“Well, yes. I thought we’d have to pick up loose ends, so I went there first.”
“We called you on your cell, two or three times.” Her tone was accusing and Clive did not see why. He had not expected her to be quite so upset by JJ’s death. Upset, yes, naturally, but only to the extent that a business associate had had an accident. After all, Clive would be the one to take on the extra burdens until a replacement for JJ was found.
“I guess I left my cell in the car. There was some unexpected stuff in the office that I had to look at immediately, took much longer than I’d expected.” He did not want to have to tell her and Robert separately about the situation; once would be quite enough.
“Well, that was inconsiderate of you. Robert is waiting in the living room, perhaps you would deign to tell us now just what happened? And you’re a mess – have you been drinking all day?”
So he had gone in cold, unprepared, to tell them the whole story. As he expected, both were angry and clearly thought Clive was in some way to blame. Laura was on the verge of losing her self control. She kept asking about JJ’s death, while Robert focused on the collapse of the business. Both had said remarkably little at the end, when Laura had disappeared to her bedroom while Robert had gone..where?
Clive stirred and walked to the window. The pools of illumination from the security floodlights showed him that Robert’s Mercedes was no longer in the driveway. He must have gone home. Tomorrow, thought Clive, tomorrow he will kill me, I guess.
*****
Something inside Clive’s body was demanding a drink, right now. His stomach had recovered from panic and was growling for food. His nose told him his shirt and jacket needed cleaning. His mind informed him that he should fetch the materials from his car and sit down to study them in more detail. But it was his heart that insisted he should first check on Laura. She was, by her own frequent admission, highly strung and prone to anxiety attacks. Clive was sure she would recover, in time, from the huge shocks she had just received but she might need him now to soothe her. Or she might throw things at him, but he had to accept that possibility. He switched on the stairway lights and plodded up the steps to their room.
Laura was asleep, motionless in the bed with covers drawn up tight around her neck, the TV still on. Clive switched it off, cutting off in mid-sentence some academic discussion about asteroids. He felt a double wave of relief, relief that she was calm enough to sleep and relief that he could at last attend to his other needs. He entered the bathroom and removed his dirty clothes, dropping his suit jacket and pants on the floor beside the laundry, his shirt and socks and underwear in the basket. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and considered simply wearing his bathrobe for the rest of the evening. No, he had work to do and for that he had to feel dressed. He put on clean underwear, a clean pair of pants, a golf shirt. Now he could concentrate, he thought. He left the bathroom quietly to go back downstairs. Laura was still sound asleep, he noted with approval, there was not a sound in the room to disturb her. He stopped with a sudden anxiety; she usually snored. Clive walked back to the bed and listened. Not a sound. His eyes drifted to her nightstand. A pill bottle with the top off, empty. He put his hand to her cheek, then his ear to her nose, then frantically shook her with one hand as he reached for her wrist with the other. She lay limp in his arm. He could feel no pulse.
God, no, no, NO! thought Clive. Now Robert will really kill me.
He called 911 from the phone at the foot of the stairs, told the dispatcher what seemed to have happened. She told him to stay on the line. “Yes,” said Clive dully, “on the line.” He dropped the phone and stumbled barefoot to his car. Nothing to be done, simply flee, find a safe hole to crawl into, shut the crazy world away, flee, flee, flee now and not stop until whenever. He started the car and was turning onto Melrose as the ambulance passed him, lights flashing, going in the other direction.
*****
Whether or not Robert really would kill him was a question that Clive chewed over in his mind in the days to come, but his immediate thoughts were much more limited. At first, he merely drove for the sake of distance, putting miles between him and home. He did not do this efficiently, for he was incapable of planning his route more than a car length ahead. He blindly followed traffic along Melrose, turned right at the light on Highland, right again on Wilshire, downhill on Fairfax, found himself on a freeway on-ramp heading west towards the beach. Traffic was relatively light on the freeway and his panic subsided to the point where his stomach, still growling, regained his attention. He left the freeway somewhere in Santa Monica and was instantly lost, but after a while found a brilliantly lit gas station with convenience store. He filled the tank, went into the store and bought a large cup of coffee, a very stale doughnut and two plastic-looking hotdogs, all of which he took back and ate in the car in the parking lot. His stomach quit complaining, at least about its emptiness, and the coffee helped clear his mind. Laura was his first collected thought. Was she really dead? He thought back, hoping to find some doubt, but failed. She was dead. No pulse, no breath, no room for doubt. What could have possessed her? Yes, she had always been nervous, highly-strung, subject to unpredictable mood swings, but never remotely suicidal. Yes, she reveled in being the bank president’s wife and using the wealth at her disposal, but surely the loss of that would not have caused her to end her life. They would have been able to keep some possessions, maybe quite a lot, and it was going to take months or years for lawyers or courts or accountants to track down and allocate any remaining funds. So why had she killed herself? It seemed insane, as insane as JJ’s orgy of destruction. Clive wondered for a moment if he was the insane one, sitting in his car at a gas station with dirty hot dog wrappers, cold coffee and bare feet, in flight from…from what exactly? From Robert, who might well be planning to kill him? From the insanities of the day? From facing another corpse in the morgue? From the police, perhaps – he had no idea how they reacted to husbands with dead wives who called 911 and then fled. Or just from responsibility?
Responsibility. That was the family watchword. The bank’s founder Cyril MacFadyen, his son Theodore, even Clive’s unmarried mother Rena May and her socialite sisters and the succession of dull, colorless, unimaginative, risk-averse managers they had hired, each one of them had preached and practised responsibility. Not one customer of MacFadyen’s Bank and Trust had ever lost a penny with them. It was a matter of pride and a magnet for what the family had called ‘the right kind of client’. Now the reputation was imploding, but for Clive the pride remained. He decided he would have to return home, visit the morgue, face Robert and the police, endure the onslaught of the press, pick up the broken remnants of the bank and apologise as best he could to his clients. After that, he had no idea. But first, he needed to pee. The convenience store was still conveniently open.
Clive came back to the car, picking his way carefully because he had already stubbed a bare toe painfully against the threshold of the restroom door. He slid into the drivers seat and reached to close his door. He heard an ominous click and felt something cold against the back of his neck.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” said a voice behind him, calm and unhurried, accentless. “We’re gonna get along just fine. Now first, so there’s no unfortunate misunderstanding, you’ve gotta listen to the ground rules. No sudden movements, no loud noises, nobody gets hurt. Got that?”
There was a short pause, then “Got that? It’s friendly and polite to say yessir at this stage in our acquaintanceship. Got that?”
“Yes,” said Clive, and then “sir.”
“Good lad. Now shut your door, both hands high on the wheel, start the motor and turn the headlights on. Nothing else. Got that?”
“Yes..sir.”
“Well done, lad. Next we’re gonna drive outta here, turn right into the traffic, right at the second light and onto the freeway. Drive safe, not too fast and not too slow. But click your belt first, we don’t want any tickets, do we now?”
Clive complied.
“You can call me Ernie if you like, but keep your eyes on the road ahead. What do you go by?”
“Clive.”
“Well now, Clive, you’re probably a little bit anxious right now. Sweaty palms, yes? No need to worry. We’re just going for a nice ride in the country, enjoy each others’ conversation, part as good buddies in the morning. Got that?”
“Yes..Ernie.”
“Oh Clive, you learn fast, you’re a good guy. Nice car, too, I like this dark glass you have in the back. Had it long?”
“Couple of years.”
“What make is it? All these SUVs look the same to me.”
“It’s a Porsche.”
“Very nice, shows good taste. What’s your line of business, Clive? And just stay in this lane, no speeding, we’re going to take the I-5 north for a while, got that?”
“Yes, Ernie. May I ask where we’re going to, and why?”
*****
Copyright 2016 Flight of Eagles
Khoti Sarque 