A story of Baxter....
A hand appeared over the lip of the cliff and, searching for a firm handhold, the white powder that covered them
leaving a record of passed over grips. It finally settled on one, shortly thereafter a head joined it. Sweat pouring off
its brow, the sandy brown hair plastered firmly to its scalp; it was filled with tension and concentration. A few more
seconds passed, then a second hand sprang up, and the body levered itself over the edge and lay panting in it's
effort.
"Good job sir, excellent." The voice was midrange with a trace of nasal and California drawl.
"Shut up Yun, and get me a towel."
Baxter Whitehall Bennett rolled his lean frame away from the edge, and brushed himself off as he rose to his full
height, a full head taller than his associate Yungstead Dawes. The smaller man was busy tapping away on his laptop
and looking fearfully at surroundings.
"Are you sure this is a good idea sir. I mean, I know Morocco was a success, but this? There's nothing here.
We're gonna have to pipe in sunlight. And what about the conservationists?"
"Don't worry Yun, it's going to be glorious, you'll see." Baxter grabbed a towel from the bag next to Yun and
methodically began wiping himself down until he was completely dry. Yun made sure to focus in tightly on his
computer screen while Baxter neatened up some private areas. He only looked up again when Baxter stepped to
edge of the cliff and looked out.
Baxter could already see it in his mind. The green veldt would be cut back, and the foundation built up, the
whole area flattened, then a sculpted landscape surrounding an apron of concrete. On the apron spaced an equal
distance from the center would be four thirty-story spires. Set in the middle, another sculpted landscape with
custom villas mixed in among the plants. And the centerpiece, a man made lake with an island mall in the center. He
had already begun re-spacing out the fountains and picking out colors for the lobbies when he forced himself to
stop.
"Sir, "Yungstead chimed in, this stylish glasses glinting in the sun, " We've got to go, it's almost noon and the
chopper should be at the pickup point in thirty minutes."
Baxter held up his finger for silence, for a moment savoring his vision, then turned and smiled at Yun. He felt it
rising in him again, and knew it was good.
Three weeks since jungle
Baxter stood at the head of the table and quietly counted up all the money looking back at him from over their
customary glasses of water. By his estimate he figured one and half, maybe one point seven billion, give or take a
few million. He liked to keep these first round meetings small, and so the number around the table was twelve. Along
with some institutional investors, he had some new private money that he had hoped to bring under his spell.
The meeting was going to be brief, but he'd already made them wait for ten minutes although he hadn't
needed it, and so some of the private money was beginning to get restless. He smiled to placate them, afforded a
silent nod to a few familiar fund managers.
Off to his left, Yun checked his watch and sighed.
"Gentleman, " Baxter's practiced tone brought a hush over the of the all-male table, " allow me to introduce you
to my latest concept in new living, I give you... La Junglei."
Yun tapped on the remote he'd held ready for the past five minutes, and the room darkened as the panels in
front of the windows turned to shade out the sun. From speakers all around the room the low jungle tones slithered
across the floor, and special emitters filled the air with appropriate jungle scents.
A screen slid from it's recessed space in the ceiling, as did the matching projector near the glassed in doors, and
the presentation started. Baxter had already watched the computer-generated jungle roll beneath him and settle on
the plain, so he stepped over to the corner and stood next to Yun.
"How long is this thing again?" He spoke in low tones, trying not to distract from the english tones in the
voiceover. Yun looked at him and indicated 10 minutes.
On the screen, the clearing of the jungle, building of infrastructure, construction of service buildings and initial
construction flashed by. The animation had been finished that morning, and some of the transition cuts weren't
completely smooth. The mall took shape, then the outer buildings, and then the lake was excavated and filled and
so on. As each milestone in the construction was pointed out by the voiceover, Baxter and Yun intently watched
the investors for the signs of interest they needed.
As the presentation came to close, the walk through of the villas fading as the room returned to regular light,
Baxter resumed his position at the head of the table. He had carefully made sure that no mention of figures was
included in the presentation, and now was time for the numbers. The starting numbers in reality, but numbers
nonetheless.
Yun appeared with a thin folder. Inside were a rack of stills of the animation, a single sheet of numbers with
deadlines highlighted and a CD-ROM diskette, containing a baffling 1,847 pages of graphs, legalese, maps, diagrams,
projections and other data.
"Gentlemen, what you have before you the opportunity to create something. Something glorious, that will last
the ages, that will stand in men's dreams, and more importantly, turn a regular profit." He grinned here at his own
little joke, and looked around the table for answering grins. Not all were smiling, but the important ones were
nodding. "What were are looking at here is basically an investment opportunity, one that promises a cash flow to
exceed it's startup costs inside of two years, with the long term ROI two percent above average, in a stable country
prepared to hand out incentives for brining jobs to the region."
"This it?" the voice was from the back of the room. Baxter almost ignored it.
"Is what it, sir? A billion dollar development deal not big enough for your interest? I do apologize." Baxter
sounded as sincere as he could as he started to recount the table.
"Not the deal, I mean this." The man held up the folder and waggled it. " Is this it? ONE sheet of paper, some
pictures and record to listen to on the way home?"
"That sir is a data diskette." Yun interjected, " And it has all the data you might require to make an informed
decision."
"Look Michaels, it's an interest meeting, if you aren't interested, fine." This came from one of the other investors.
Baxter smiled down the table at Mr. Michaels, and softened his gaze.
"Mr. Michaels, if you have any questions that need to be answered that are not covered on the CD, then please,
have my secretary make an appointment and I'll be more than happy to answer your questions."
Yun had to stifle his laugh, as to date no one had made it all the way through the information to the other side,
but had simply waited for the regularly revised numbers. Mr. Dawes quickly offered a departing drink to men at the
table and ended the meeting, before his boss could carry on his threat.
Six weeks since jungle
Yungstead hung up his phone and slowly crossed another name off his list. He took a deep breath, made the
appropriate change to his spreadsheet and watched as the program adjusted the figures throughout the lengthy
document. He sniffed at the changes, then printed it and put together his folder to go see the boss.
Leaving his crowded desk area, as this level had no walls and he shared the space with twenty other people, he
passed the soda machine, and made his way over to the service elevator for the ride up forty stories to the main
offices. Baxter had once tried to move these actual working offices completely out of the building to save money,
but then had balked at the idea of waiting for 'his people' to arrive.
On the 'show' floor, Yun appeared from behind ornate wooden doors and wound his way through the facade. At
these six ultramodern desks, models and actors toiled at whatever it was they did all day, generally looking
impressive and to clients when they observed them 'hard at work'. They had been Yun's idea after an incident
during an important conference, when the news of new ecological concerns at a site was broadcast in full volume
stereo profanity, with subtitles. The whole working office had been moved downstairs the next week.
Yun skirted them and ended up in front of Ms. Junos, the senior personal secretary of Mr. Bennett.
"Yun Dawes to see Mr. Bennett," Yun started the script in his head.
Ms. Junos peered over the top of her horn rimmed glasses at him for a moment, then leaned over from her
computer and went through her schedule, carefully mouthing out each appointment. She went through this
pantomime twice, then returned to her typing.
"You don't have an appointment, how may I help you." The tone of Ms. Juno's voice made it not a question,
but a statement.
"Mr. Bennett will want to see me, he's expecting me. I have some numbers that he needs."
Ms. Junos peered at him again, then finally turned from her computer, and repeated the schedule examination.
She looked up at the clock on the wall, the placing her finger on a time slot, looked up at Mr. Dawes and then asked
how long his impromptu meeting would last.
Rather than shrug as he wished, which incensed Ms. Junos to the point he'd have to start the entire sequence
over again, he stated five minutes. At his reply, Ms. Junos made a notation on the page, then tapped out the
number and began speaking into her headset phone. Yun smiled at one of the junior secretaries, then snapped to
attention when the senior secretary looked up.
"You have four minutes, Mr. Bennett has a meeting with the bank in thirty minutes and still has some preparation
to do."
Yun nodded a thank you, and passed through the brushed steel doors into the center of Bennett's empire.
Unlike the cramped confines of the working floor, Baxter's office seemed to ramble on with two conference tables,
one glassed in, a oaken block on which sat Baxter's custom desk, a bar, art pieces and models of past projects, and
leather couches all looking out on a view of the city, and behind it the bay. Baxter was sprawled on one of the
couches, eating an energy bar and reviewing a folder of answers to possible questions the bankers might throw at
him.
"Mr. Bennett, we've lost another one sir." Yun spoke without preamble or introduction.
Baxter paused in mid-bite, then slowly closed the folder and looked up Yun. He stood up, seemed surprised to
find his mouth full, and so started walking around the room munching and looking concerned. He stopped at one of
the encased models and looked over it, thoughtfully chewing and studying it for a moment. He finally swallowed
and looked at Yun, then turned and looked at the bay.
"How close to the bottom are we?"
"If Mr. Meyer or Talbot drops out, we're dead, even with the Funds behind us." Yun didn't even consult his notes.
"I see." The two men equaled roughly a $40 million dollar commitment, and the without them was point where
the project entered the second round of funding looking more like a gamble than an investment. Baxter quickly
added mentally. In speculative construction, under funding meant no confidence, and a lack of confidence triggered
bad speculation, which translated into pessimism, which would place the project into the 'pipe dreams' file.
"I'm thinking we need to get the remaining invest....." Yun started, but Baxter cut him off.
"Who is it? Who is killing the dream Yun? What is his name?"
"Michaels, sir. It's Mr. Michaels. He's been doing some outside investigating."
"I see. Well Yun, then we'll have to take care of him. What is his problem? Why doesn't he just take his little bit
of money somewhere else?"
Mr. Michaels little bit of money was roughly $15 million, and Yun quietly made a note of that. "We could bring a
few new faces, we do have time, Mr. Bennett."
"No, it's the starting line-up or nothing. This project was hype when we created it, we go back into the second
round sketchy the new people will look at the numbers twice as hard. And Yun, I've looked at those startup
numbers enough to know they do not bear up under long term examination."
"So what do we do?" Yun almost knew the next words out of Baxter's mouth. He'd said them twice a year
every year since Yungstead Dawes had accepted the job fresh out of college.
"In this case, I will make a few calls, and it will be handled."
Seven weeks since the jungle
Harold Michaels had made his money, and felt the occasionally pressing need to make certain it didn't go to
waste. He owned a yacht that he had set foot twice in three years, a garage full of cars some of whom had sat so
long their batteries had died, and an art collection that would welcome in any home if he ever uncrated it.
His lunch today, consisted of an eggplant casserole with low fat cheese and fresh cut carrots courtesy of his new
trophy wife and so he sat at the coffee table in his office muddling through it and the departmental expense
projections for the next quarter. With each mouthful, he was becoming more and more inclined to slip down to the
steak house in the lobby and get a porterhouse.
"Mr. Michaels, your ...appointment is here." Mrs. Timber had been with Mr. Michaels since he started with a
warehouse he'd bought out of a foreclosure sale, and his office had been the space behind some file cabinets he
couldn't get to open. His offices now were behind a set of Chinese screens (again, the new wife) but the pair still
shunned the intercom in most circumstances.
Michaels puzzled for a second, looked at his watch and then shrugged. He'd thought the policy meeting wasn't
until after lunch but he could start it now. He considered dumping his lunch, changed his mind and called out to Mrs.
Timber to send them. For being early, he thought, they could watch him eat.
The first man to cross from behind the screens let Michaels know immediately this wasn't a policy meeting. Or at
least not the kind he was expecting. The man was of normal height, but massive, nearly as wide as he was tall. He
was wearing an obviously tailored suit, italian shoes, and a tie that made Michaels want to ask where he shopped. He
stepped gingerly, and took in the whole room, then instead of finding a chair, slid his bulk into a corner.
So taken with the first man, he was startled to find another, smaller man now sitting directly in front of him.
"So, Mr. Harold Jacob Michaels, age forty six, Republican, how is your lovely new wife, Candi ?"
Michaels nearly dropped his fork, and sat taking in his new visitor. This smaller man, also impeccably dressed with
hair that gleamed, looked tanned. He could see himself in the shine on the man's shoe, and watched raptly as the
man produced a large black pen, which he proceeded to toy with.
"My wife's name is Darla." he heard himself say.
"Your new wife's stage name was Candi Delight, so much more inviting that Darla Floss, but I can understand
why she might want to distance herself from that."
Michaels finally caught himself. He'd dealt with men like this over the years, he knew the types. He started
munching again.
"What can I do for you....gentleman?" He asked, after washing down his mouthful with some of the spring tea
his wife had sent with the eggplant.
"We share a mutual interest, a commonality if you will."
The sat looking at one another, Michaels waiting for the man to finish his statement, the man apparently taking
great interest in the shape of Michaels face. No one spoke for a minute, the only sound that of Mrs. Timber fielding
calls and typing.
"And this mutual interest would be?" Michaels finally asked, figuring he was already at the disadvantage.
"Mr. Michaels, my people, we do business around the world. We like to turn a profit. As a matter of fact, our
future projections show that profits will be good. Or rather did show that profits will good. It seems that one of our
projects, a rather large project as a matter of fact, is in jeopardy. And in looking for a reason as to why this is
happening, keep coming back to the same thing. " With his black pen, the man punctuated the sentence with a
lazy jab in the direction the Michaels.
"What is it you sell, just out of curiosity, because I'm still not sure." Michaels started after he'd digested this
argument.
"Jacob, how silly of me. Ours is a lovely product. Used around the world, in all countries. We have little problem
finding buyers. We sell concrete. Lots and lots of concrete. "
Harold sat on the couch and munched for a bit. He picked through his eggplant, and thought about the
appropriate question to ask at this time. Only his late mother had ever referred to him as Jacob, and he was more
than a little uncomfortable with its usage.
"But I don't deal in, or buy, or, so how do I fit in?"
"Don't be crude, Jacob. I'm certain if you think hard, it will come to you."
"I mean, what can I do to rectify this situation? Do you have any suggestions?" Michaels looked at him, waiting
for the next piece of the puzzle to be played. These types always had a 'suggestion' that would make everyone's
lives 'easier'.
"Really now, who would I be to tell you how to run your company," the man in the chair looked genuinely
surprised at the prospect," this is all yours, I'm certain you can come up with something that will make all parties, ah,
satisfied."
The smaller man shot out his french cuffs after he made the statement, and checked the jewel-encrusted watch
on his arm. He muttered something in what Michaels thought was Spanish, and stood up to leave.
"Oh no, don't get up. We are pressed for time so I'll leave you to think about what needs to be done. Don't
worry, we'll be in Touch." He said it capitalized, in a tone Michaels hadn't heard since he was five. The pair exited as
they entered, the large man first, the smaller man behind.
Michaels sat there, munching his eggplant until he felt confident they'd cleared the floor, then leapt to his feet
and dashed over to his desk. Somebody, somewhere was going to try to play hardball with him. Even as he dialed
the phone, yelling for Mrs. Timber to come and clean up the spilled tea while he waited for them to answer, he knew
he would have to bring out his big guns.
Eight weeks since the jungle
William 'Willy" Peck sat in Baxter's office and stared out past the breakers, taking great care to avoid ever
matching the gaze of Mr. Kingsley, who ambled around the room supposedly taking in the miniatures, but
constantly looking over at the younger man and scowling.
Although the two men appeared polar opposites, Kingsley's slate gray suit concealing a paunch and Willy's
pullover short sleeves and loafers, the two men could not have been more alike. Both chose their clients based on
portfolio strength, had an attention to detail and impeccable records, and both maintained a table at the local power
meeting place of the minute ( although Willy's was on the terrace and Kingsley's was in a private room in the back ).
Neither man broke his post when Baxter strode in, junior secretary in tow, asking her for some innocuous report
that he's suddenly discovered as interesting. Dressed in short sleeves himself, he nonetheless looked at Willy Peck
with disdain for not dressing for the occasion, and nodded at his own attorney and dismissed his secretary.
"Gentleman, it is Wednesday after lunch. Mr. Kingsley you are doubtlessly aware that I have a round of golf
scheduled every week at this time, and since you have asked that I miss it, I am going to assume this the end of the
world as we know it. It has been very lovely being alive with you both."
"Hey fellas, I don't like to be here on a Wednesday afternoon, either. Hell, if somebody sees me they might think
I work for a living. But this is serious bidness." Willy Peck drawled.
"Mr. Peck is alluding to a potential situation with our latest project, La Junglei." Kingsley chimed in from the far
side of the room. He reached into his jacket and extracted pair half-lens glasses, then moved back over to the
couch area and eased down, before consulting the notes he had arrayed on the coffee table.
"A client of Mr. Peck's is proposing to file an injunction, something frivolous no doubt, which he believes will
damage the reputation of the project, making continued investment an unwise financial decision." Kingsley said all
this with his head buried in a note, looking up only when he'd finished.
"Bennie, this whole thing is holding together now on spit, bailing wire and your good looks. An injunction to halt
all the operations on this baby and you still out looking for investors? Well, let's just say them damn monkeys won't
be worried bout trespassers no time soon."
Baxter who had been wandering aimlessly about the office froze. He turned to face the two men his smile painted
on, and nodded to both of them once again. He quietly moved over to his desk, slid into the high back leather chair
and picked up a pencil from the group sitting on in there ivory cup next to his phone. He slid his memo pad over,
and then pencil poised, looked at Willy and through almost gritted teeth seemed to ooze the words, "So what do
they want?"
"Mr. Peck's client, "Mr. Kingsley chimed in , his notes up again," are requesting that the initial landscaping and
infrastructure suppliers be re-bid at this time, citing a lack of explanation of bid approval procedure in your project
outline."
"Bennie, it's still early. Hell, we could start this right after D-Day, at this stage we shouldn't even have to move
any actual start dates, or nothing."
Baxter nodded at Willy, then ducked his head for a few moments and scribbled furiously on his memo pad. His
head popped back up after few seconds and Kingsley continued.
"They are also requesting an outside auditor to go over the books at each project phase completion, as outlined
in the project overview."
"Just somebody everybody can get along with. You know how it is boys, some people know the accounting
firm too long and bang, they're washing the dirty laundry for you. Not that anybody's accusing anybody of
anything. In fact we think this move will look good to you in the long run. Show your new investors you boys are
about bidness."
Baxter nodded to Willy again, and repeated the scribbling routine.
"There is also a request for some involvement in the advertising and marketing arm, as well as position on the
long term strategy team for the project"
"Now Bennie, don't get all uppity about this one, I know how it sounds, but they ain't looking to run it, or even
have final say, but they do want a voice. Something meaningful though, or let them appoint someone."
Baxter scribbled some more then popped his head up, his eyes a lidded glaze, his face frozen in a smile. "Is there
anything else?"
"Some minor sundry items..." Kingsley started, but Willy cut him off.
"Nothing to get jumped up about, we don't want to get into planning out villas and all that, but my clients
missus favors an eggshell blue. Look fellas, you know how this plays out, we gonna wrestle around all that, and we'll
figure something out that makes 'erebody happy. You got till, noon-ish tomorrow, I gotta see the judge at one."
"The presiding officer?" Kingsley asked, his pen now poised over the low coffee table to take notes. Baxter
eyebrows jumped just a hair at his voice.
"Rudy Cavito, you know him."
Kingsely put his pen down without writing anything and leaned back on his chair, clasping his hands across his
well concealed paunch. Baxter's face fell for an instant, then bounced back into his false smile.
"Look fellas," Willy continued, " I'm really doing ya'll a favor. My client originally wanted jes spring it on you. It
was my idea to try and work with you. Why don't ya'll go over the numbers, call who you need call and ring me up
when you got a counter-offer. A real counter-offer. I think I get my client to give it a look see."
"We'll call you in the morning. Keep your schedule open." Kingsley said quietly, his gaze now finding the shoreline
and beyond.
"Ain't got nothing planned till eleven thirty. I got one meeting I can get out of and then lunch and the judge.
You know where to find me." Willy jumped up of his seat, and stood looking around the room for second. Then
turned and headed for the door.
"Oh, and Willy, "Baxter finally spoke as the attorney reached the door, " thanks for coming by."
Willy Peck gave the pair a half grin, and then sidled out the door. Baxter stood up, and holding the memo pad in
his hand, circled around to the models and began looking at them. He slid his hand over a few of the glass cases and
then rested on one and slapped the memo pad down onto it.
"Judge Cavito will be inclined to extend the injunction for inquiry purposes, that's our problem. Unless we can
approach the hearing with the matter resolved, he's going to scrutinize this." Kingsley stated, as he gathered
together his notes.
"The environmentalists and the human rights people are gonna be kicking up a enough sand without stopping
the project. Damnit man! Who's killing this?" Baxter asked his eyes glued to his model.
"Mr. Peck represents four investors of our original group, all of whom are still committed. The injunction will not
name its source until the hearing. However by that time, the damage to project may not be recoupable."
"Review the information with Yun, see if we can accommodate these requests without wrecking this thing on the
other end. Have something in my hands by nine. "
Mr. Kingsley rolled off the couch, and checked his folder again to make sure he had all his notes, although none
remained on the table. He made a curt nod to Baxter, then trundled out the steel doors.
Baxter stood for a moment, looking back and forth between the model and his notepad, before he finally tore
the top sheet off, crumbled it into a ball and through it at the window. It bounced off harmlessly, and he spent
several minutes picking it up and bouncing it off other items in the office in a fit of rage.
After he lost it under his desk, he took a few moments and calmed himself, then crossed the room and made
himself a drink. Moments later he notified Ms. Junos that he was headed down to the corner cafe to get a latte, she
made a note of it and knowing her boss, immediately checked his schedule for the next few days to push back all
but the most vital of activities.
A little later the speculator strolled through the lobby and out of the building, walked up two blocks and got into
the considerable line at Moontime Coffee Bar. He shuffled up, bought one of the magazines and creamy latte (soy
milk) then took a table in the back of the crowded space. Three minutes later one of the girls cleaning up slid her
celluar phone onto the table and picked up the fifty that was folded under the corner of the magazine in a motion
Baxter knew they must practice after closing up.
As soon as she was gone, Baxter picked up the phone and in the room crowded by mundane conversations,
made a call.
H.J. Michaels climbed out from behind the steering wheel of his car, one which he still drove into work himself
every morning, and took a deep breath. It had been a long day, and he figured on a light meal, maybe a little time
on couch and into bed before eleven. He walked slipped into the utility door, taking little interest in long black limo in
front of the house across the wide subdivision street. He dropped his keys in the little wicker basket (again his new
bride) took of his shoes on the mat ( new wife ), padded into kitchen and retrieved a Lite Beer, then made his way
into the living room where he promptly dropped it onto the new carpet.
"Ah, Jacob, we were wondering when you would make it." The little man placed his drink down on one of the
shell coasters, and smiled at him, beckoning him closer.
"Harold, you should have told me you had plans, you know I need time to plan things. But a trip to the
Caribbean is just what I need!" Darla looked up from the brochures that she and another young woman had spread
over the floor.
H.J. shot a look at the small man, and started to storm forward when he saw the massive man step from behind
the bar on the far side of the room, a huge pistol low by his side. His face filled with fear, but Darla was engrossed in
the photographs and didn't notice, and the smaller man smiled at him, then popped up and motioned for Harold to
follow him over to the bar.
They stood there at the bar looking at each other for a moment, and the smaller man placed his drink on the bar
and the large man began to mix him a fresh one. Harold looked him in the eye, and tried to figure his edge.
"Jacob, " he finally spoke, his teeth a brilliant white," I am so disappointed. I thought I could trust you. As it is, I
see I am going to have to take matters into my own hands. In about three minutes, your private line in your office
is going to ring. It will be your attorney, Mr. Peck. He will be calling to let you know about you injunction. Don't look
surprised. I have the benefits of knowing the goings on at Mr. Pecks firm, and we found it very upsetting that you
were trying to cut us out. Jacob I thought we were friends."
"Look I don't know who you are, but you're not going to get away with..." Harold started in a gruff whisper, but
the little man cut him off.
"Getaway? Whatever do you mean sir? We are simply your traveling companions. You've decided to take a little
trip. You are about to call off the injunction and take a spontaneous vacation for oh, about five days. At your wife's
insistence. We are here to simply to make sure you enjoy your journey."
Darla squealed in the middle of the room and all the men's heads jerked in her direction. She and the other girl
giggled together and then they looked over at the men, who they noticed were suddenly watching them.
"What?" She looked guilty for a moment, and Harold shot his eyebrows.
"Oh, I've got to pack, I don't know what I am going to bring," Darla suddenly gasped, and she bounced to her
feet and looked shocked for minute.
" Pack light, Darla, Harold and I are going to take you ladies shopping the moment you get there. Brand new
everything, so let's get hopping," the little man stated smoothly. Darla repeated the squeal, and the two women
disappeared down the hall to the master bedroom.
The men stood there is silence and the massive man finally replaced the Lite Beer that Harold had left lying at the
entrance to the kitchen. Harold tried to size up his options. He could refuse to cancel the injunction; but he wasn't
sure what steps they would take in retribution. He could go along with them, but he was sure they would be leaving
the country within hours, and his windows to restart the injunction would be infrequent and unpredictable. A
moment here, a few seconds there. Or he could fight them. The big man looked a little bored, waiting, and Harold
fantasized a straight punch pole axing him, leaving the small man would who would be no problem.
The phone in his private office rang, breaking in on the part of dream where he was dodging bullets, and in his
mind Harold made his decision.
They trooped in, Harold in the middle of the trio, and the small motioned for him to answer the phone. Harold sat
at his desk, scooped up the phone to answer and looked up into the barrel of the weapon the huge man had
flashed before.
"Yes," his voice more a sound than the word, as he noticed that the inside the barrel had little grooves as
opposed to being smooth as he had always assumed.
"Harry, it's me Willy. Been talking to the them boys over a Bennie's and got few things they can work on. Now it
ain't everything, but it's a start, I think you need to look at it."
The small man looked at Harold from the seat he taken, and smiled wanly.
"Well, Willy, " croaked Harold, "I've been thinking."
"You okay there son? You sound terrible."
The silence of the room made the tinny voice from the receiver loud enough for all to hear, and Harold knew
that both of the other men could hear the conversation. He looked past the barrel up the wrist of the big man, and
committed himself, and plunged onward.
"I'm fine. It's no deals, all or nothing." he had to push the words out of his throat. He flinched, waiting for the
impact. He heard his attorney squawk into his ear, and felt the smooth grain of the wood beneath the fingers of his
left hand. He remembered the first girl he'd ever loved, the moment his father had announced his parents’ divorce,
and the taste of first steak he'd ever eaten.
He opened his eyes. The big man was still there, only now he was seated, straining the limits of the furniture, and
the gun was nowhere to be seen. The phone was in the cradle, and he could feel wetness on his face. The big man
grinned at him, then rose from the chair, patted him playfully on the top the head and then turned and left him
sitting there.
"Honey come on, the limo is waiting," Darla called to him and he paused a little confused, and walked to door
and saw the two ladies in the street headed for the waiting car. He wanted to call out, but he saw them safely get
into the car and after a minute, Darla popped up out of the sunroof and waved him over.
He started then, stopped at the threshold, realizing he hadn't seen either of the two men in a few minutes. Darla
finally tired of the hold up, climbed back out the car and made her way back across the yard.
"Come on, Harold," and he recognized that tone in her voice that she was going to have her way, " we have a
plane to catch. Now." He protested lightly then allowed himself to be dragged to car. Michaels wasn't sure if he was
dead or alive, but he knew he was his own man, and he was going to live life on his own terms.
Hearing Day
Baxter spent the morning waiting for the phone to ring. Yun was calling Peck's office every twenty minutes with
a new spiel, and Kingsley had called twice, claiming he thought he could block the injunction. Baxter had insisted
each time that he would prefer if the item never existed, and Kingsley had said he would work on it and hung up.
He was now regretting not getting a larger overage in his initial investment group, and listened as the buzz he
molded over the previous weeks began developing nicely. He talked to select brokers between fielding his associates’
calls, and listened as they threw pitches. Baxter relished these small market affairs, and roller coastered between the
euphoria of the deal and desolation of knowing the injunction was out there. It was almost eleven when he heard it
the first time that question about a potential problem and he ended the call. He got a bigger blurb than he was
looking for, along with a semi-favorable note, on one of the cable financial network shows.
It was all going exactly as planned, or it would be until the news of the injunction was released. The money would
dry up, and Baxter wasn’t yet prepared to let the potential profit walk away. He didn't even count the already
liberally applied "grease" that there was no hope of ever seeing again.
“Ms. Junos, I think I’m gonna run down and get me a latte.”
Willy closed his eyes and let the taste of fresh salmon, grilled perfectly float in his mouth. Ernesto had out done
himself today, and the country lawyer leaned back satisfied, reaching to grab the sweetened ice tea he preferred at
mid-day.
“William Percy Astor Peck, age thirty eight. Attorney at law. Let me get that for you.”
Willy opened his eyes slowly, the breath he’d been letting out gone. Across from him sat a impeccably dressed
man, with a ruddy complexion and hair that gleamed in the sun. He held in his left hand Willy’s drink, and wore what
the wily lawyer thought of as a shit-eating grin.
“Look buddy, “ Willy plucked his offered glass and sipped it calmly, “This heyah table is occupied. So why don’t I
get Frank to get you your own table inside. “
“I’m sorry, didn’t Mr. Michaels tell you? We’re having lunch today. A very nice long lunch.“ Waiters appeared
and re-set the other three places at the table swiftly as the two men measured each other. Peck could tell this guy
was no regular operator, and glanced at the clock in the distance.
“Hey, this about that Jungle crap? Cause if you trying to stall I can re-schedule that thang. This heyah is just
stupid.”
“Willy, what are you talking about? We’re having lunch, relax.” Two women joined them at that moment and
before he could stop himself , the lawyer turned on his natural charm and introduced himself, with a laugh and quick
touch of their arms. The food appeared moments later to Willy’s surprise and everyone dug in.
“Scuse me ladies, I gotta make a call.” Willy started to stand.
“Willy, no phones at lunch, that’s just rude.” The smooth man seated at the table with the roast chicken shot a
glance that the lawyer followed over to the far side of the terrace. A iceberg of man was shifting his seat, and Willy
gulped visibly then sat back down.
“Willy-kins you seem nervous relax, nothing’s going to happen.” The blonder of the ladies cooed and turned her
attention back to her own meal.
Willy picked up his fork, shrugged and dug back into his salmon. He shot a wink at the man at the end of the
table and leaned into one of the girls whispering something that made her laugh. The judge would just have to take
an apology.
Mrs. Timber sat back down, frustrated. The damn fender bender had kept her out of the office for nearly three
hours. She thanked god that Mr. Micheals was out for the rest of the week.
Five months into construction
Yun let the foreman go, confident that his intense language course had let him breach the barrier of
communication. The two men had shook hands and the junior exec watched the man start calling together his
team to go over the changes. He tabbed another item off his mental list and turned to head back over to the trailer
complex.
He paused at the fresh blast of air conditioning savoring the feeling after the burning heat. As he made his way
down the hall, glanced into an office seeing a mountain of a man studying out one of the many blueprints. Yun
smiled at the dapper man next to him, his ruddy complexion nearly equal to the at of the outside workers, although
the junior executive had never seen him outside. He walked past his secretary, a particularly curvy girl who's father
owned one of the local lumber concessions, and eased behind his large cluttered desk. He relaxed for a moment in
the leather then called out, "Celia, I need Mr. Bennett on the phone."
"Yun, how's it going?" Baxter grinned to the room as his young assistant came onto the speaker phone.
"Two full weeks ahead of schedule, we even got a break on some of the fees from Aeroship. I'll fax it up today."
"Thanks, Yun." He looked up from the Y-shaped phone at the men standing awaiting any information. A few held
drinks in their hands, a few others with open folders they were studying.
"What about that damn forest fire? It was on CNN." One of the men asked.
"A controlled burn blown out of proportion by extreme environmentalists. I can have someone down there next
week to inspect and tell you that we did the jungle a favor with that little bit we did." Baxter smiled at the man. The
investor nodded.
"Yun, I'm in the middle of meeting right now, I'll call you back in about a half hour." Without waiting for a reply,
he clicked off the phone and turned his attentions back to his group. Answering questions deftly, and pointing out
figures and projections, Baxter was the picture of cool. That brief phone call from the site had been enough to quell
any fears that tightened these guts made of money. The developer knew at this point it was nearly over, and that
he'd already transferred the building capital outside the reach of the American judicial system just in case.
A little less concerned now, the drinks and the talk turned to sports and social pursuits. Baxter had stepped away
from his group to freshen up his drink and get back to explaining why the soft schedule would get the local team
into the playoffs when a name caught his ear.
"Heard anything about Micheals lately?" one of a small group of three asked the other two conspiratorially.
"Stopped listening months ago, damn shame though." Another commented.
"Baxter? You heard anything?" The first man caught Baxter paying attention to their conversation. His drink
topped off he sidled over to the group and lowered his voice.
"Only that he still hasn't gotten out yet." Baxter offered.
"Peck still hasn't gotten him out?" This came from the third man with more than a hint of disbelief.
"Not Peck. Peck dumped him months ago. When they froze his assets." The second man informed him.
"I didn't know that. I know when they found that mob stuff on his computers they were thinking about it..." the
third man said.
"It was mob stuff?" The first man cut him off. "I didn't hear mob stuff."
"You don't play golf with the attorney general." The third man bragged.
"Either way," Baxter cut in, "him getting arrested overseas on drug charges the same day didn't help."
"Okay that was just stupid. I wish I could say something else but that was just stupid." someone piped in.
"He must have been the unluckiest sumbitch in the world. His company gets busted for securities fraud the same
day he gets arrested on drug charges in front of two reporters from the Miami Herald in a rinky dink hell hole in the
islands. It's gotta be some kinda record." the speaker chuckled and wandered off to freshen his own drink.
"Didn't his wife divorce him?" one of the two remaining asked Baxter and his gossip partner.
"And do what, do back to dancing? She can't get half of nothing. It's federal case, no divorce court is going to
get those assets released any time soon, provided the stockholders don't milk him dry." The other man nudged
Baxter at the reference; another couple of men joined the group.
"I say he was setup." A newcomer piped in, "his books were clean the month before. We were all set to get him
some financing lined up for deal he was working in Kansas. Everything looked good to our audit team."
"They found it on his secretaries’ computer and in the accounting system files. Who could have set him up?
Duplicate set of books, one good one and one bad one." The original speaker theorized.
"Damn shame," said Baxter, "he was a nice guy too."
A hand appeared over the lip of the cliff and, searching for a firm handhold, the white powder that covered them
leaving a record of passed over grips. It finally settled on one, shortly thereafter a head joined it. Sweat pouring off
its brow, the sandy brown hair plastered firmly to its scalp; it was filled with tension and concentration. A few more
seconds passed, then a second hand sprang up, and the body levered itself over the edge and lay panting in it's
effort.
"Good job sir, excellent." The voice was midrange with a trace of nasal and California drawl.
"Shut up Yun, and get me a towel."
Baxter Whitehall Bennett rolled his lean frame away from the edge, and brushed himself off as he rose to his full
height, a full head taller than his associate Yungstead Dawes. The smaller man was busy tapping away on his laptop
and looking fearfully at surroundings.
"Are you sure this is a good idea sir. I mean, I know Morocco was a success, but this? There's nothing here.
We're gonna have to pipe in sunlight. And what about the conservationists?"
"Don't worry Yun, it's going to be glorious, you'll see." Baxter grabbed a towel from the bag next to Yun and
methodically began wiping himself down until he was completely dry. Yun made sure to focus in tightly on his
computer screen while Baxter neatened up some private areas. He only looked up again when Baxter stepped to
edge of the cliff and looked out.
Baxter could already see it in his mind. The green veldt would be cut back, and the foundation built up, the
whole area flattened, then a sculpted landscape surrounding an apron of concrete. On the apron spaced an equal
distance from the center would be four thirty-story spires. Set in the middle, another sculpted landscape with
custom villas mixed in among the plants. And the centerpiece, a man made lake with an island mall in the center. He
had already begun re-spacing out the fountains and picking out colors for the lobbies when he forced himself to
stop.
"Sir, "Yungstead chimed in, this stylish glasses glinting in the sun, " We've got to go, it's almost noon and the
chopper should be at the pickup point in thirty minutes."
Baxter held up his finger for silence, for a moment savoring his vision, then turned and smiled at Yun. He felt it
rising in him again, and knew it was good.
Three weeks since jungle
Baxter stood at the head of the table and quietly counted up all the money looking back at him from over their
customary glasses of water. By his estimate he figured one and half, maybe one point seven billion, give or take a
few million. He liked to keep these first round meetings small, and so the number around the table was twelve. Along
with some institutional investors, he had some new private money that he had hoped to bring under his spell.
The meeting was going to be brief, but he'd already made them wait for ten minutes although he hadn't
needed it, and so some of the private money was beginning to get restless. He smiled to placate them, afforded a
silent nod to a few familiar fund managers.
Off to his left, Yun checked his watch and sighed.
"Gentleman, " Baxter's practiced tone brought a hush over the of the all-male table, " allow me to introduce you
to my latest concept in new living, I give you... La Junglei."
Yun tapped on the remote he'd held ready for the past five minutes, and the room darkened as the panels in
front of the windows turned to shade out the sun. From speakers all around the room the low jungle tones slithered
across the floor, and special emitters filled the air with appropriate jungle scents.
A screen slid from it's recessed space in the ceiling, as did the matching projector near the glassed in doors, and
the presentation started. Baxter had already watched the computer-generated jungle roll beneath him and settle on
the plain, so he stepped over to the corner and stood next to Yun.
"How long is this thing again?" He spoke in low tones, trying not to distract from the english tones in the
voiceover. Yun looked at him and indicated 10 minutes.
On the screen, the clearing of the jungle, building of infrastructure, construction of service buildings and initial
construction flashed by. The animation had been finished that morning, and some of the transition cuts weren't
completely smooth. The mall took shape, then the outer buildings, and then the lake was excavated and filled and
so on. As each milestone in the construction was pointed out by the voiceover, Baxter and Yun intently watched
the investors for the signs of interest they needed.
As the presentation came to close, the walk through of the villas fading as the room returned to regular light,
Baxter resumed his position at the head of the table. He had carefully made sure that no mention of figures was
included in the presentation, and now was time for the numbers. The starting numbers in reality, but numbers
nonetheless.
Yun appeared with a thin folder. Inside were a rack of stills of the animation, a single sheet of numbers with
deadlines highlighted and a CD-ROM diskette, containing a baffling 1,847 pages of graphs, legalese, maps, diagrams,
projections and other data.
"Gentlemen, what you have before you the opportunity to create something. Something glorious, that will last
the ages, that will stand in men's dreams, and more importantly, turn a regular profit." He grinned here at his own
little joke, and looked around the table for answering grins. Not all were smiling, but the important ones were
nodding. "What were are looking at here is basically an investment opportunity, one that promises a cash flow to
exceed it's startup costs inside of two years, with the long term ROI two percent above average, in a stable country
prepared to hand out incentives for brining jobs to the region."
"This it?" the voice was from the back of the room. Baxter almost ignored it.
"Is what it, sir? A billion dollar development deal not big enough for your interest? I do apologize." Baxter
sounded as sincere as he could as he started to recount the table.
"Not the deal, I mean this." The man held up the folder and waggled it. " Is this it? ONE sheet of paper, some
pictures and record to listen to on the way home?"
"That sir is a data diskette." Yun interjected, " And it has all the data you might require to make an informed
decision."
"Look Michaels, it's an interest meeting, if you aren't interested, fine." This came from one of the other investors.
Baxter smiled down the table at Mr. Michaels, and softened his gaze.
"Mr. Michaels, if you have any questions that need to be answered that are not covered on the CD, then please,
have my secretary make an appointment and I'll be more than happy to answer your questions."
Yun had to stifle his laugh, as to date no one had made it all the way through the information to the other side,
but had simply waited for the regularly revised numbers. Mr. Dawes quickly offered a departing drink to men at the
table and ended the meeting, before his boss could carry on his threat.
Six weeks since jungle
Yungstead hung up his phone and slowly crossed another name off his list. He took a deep breath, made the
appropriate change to his spreadsheet and watched as the program adjusted the figures throughout the lengthy
document. He sniffed at the changes, then printed it and put together his folder to go see the boss.
Leaving his crowded desk area, as this level had no walls and he shared the space with twenty other people, he
passed the soda machine, and made his way over to the service elevator for the ride up forty stories to the main
offices. Baxter had once tried to move these actual working offices completely out of the building to save money,
but then had balked at the idea of waiting for 'his people' to arrive.
On the 'show' floor, Yun appeared from behind ornate wooden doors and wound his way through the facade. At
these six ultramodern desks, models and actors toiled at whatever it was they did all day, generally looking
impressive and to clients when they observed them 'hard at work'. They had been Yun's idea after an incident
during an important conference, when the news of new ecological concerns at a site was broadcast in full volume
stereo profanity, with subtitles. The whole working office had been moved downstairs the next week.
Yun skirted them and ended up in front of Ms. Junos, the senior personal secretary of Mr. Bennett.
"Yun Dawes to see Mr. Bennett," Yun started the script in his head.
Ms. Junos peered over the top of her horn rimmed glasses at him for a moment, then leaned over from her
computer and went through her schedule, carefully mouthing out each appointment. She went through this
pantomime twice, then returned to her typing.
"You don't have an appointment, how may I help you." The tone of Ms. Juno's voice made it not a question,
but a statement.
"Mr. Bennett will want to see me, he's expecting me. I have some numbers that he needs."
Ms. Junos peered at him again, then finally turned from her computer, and repeated the schedule examination.
She looked up at the clock on the wall, the placing her finger on a time slot, looked up at Mr. Dawes and then asked
how long his impromptu meeting would last.
Rather than shrug as he wished, which incensed Ms. Junos to the point he'd have to start the entire sequence
over again, he stated five minutes. At his reply, Ms. Junos made a notation on the page, then tapped out the
number and began speaking into her headset phone. Yun smiled at one of the junior secretaries, then snapped to
attention when the senior secretary looked up.
"You have four minutes, Mr. Bennett has a meeting with the bank in thirty minutes and still has some preparation
to do."
Yun nodded a thank you, and passed through the brushed steel doors into the center of Bennett's empire.
Unlike the cramped confines of the working floor, Baxter's office seemed to ramble on with two conference tables,
one glassed in, a oaken block on which sat Baxter's custom desk, a bar, art pieces and models of past projects, and
leather couches all looking out on a view of the city, and behind it the bay. Baxter was sprawled on one of the
couches, eating an energy bar and reviewing a folder of answers to possible questions the bankers might throw at
him.
"Mr. Bennett, we've lost another one sir." Yun spoke without preamble or introduction.
Baxter paused in mid-bite, then slowly closed the folder and looked up Yun. He stood up, seemed surprised to
find his mouth full, and so started walking around the room munching and looking concerned. He stopped at one of
the encased models and looked over it, thoughtfully chewing and studying it for a moment. He finally swallowed
and looked at Yun, then turned and looked at the bay.
"How close to the bottom are we?"
"If Mr. Meyer or Talbot drops out, we're dead, even with the Funds behind us." Yun didn't even consult his notes.
"I see." The two men equaled roughly a $40 million dollar commitment, and the without them was point where
the project entered the second round of funding looking more like a gamble than an investment. Baxter quickly
added mentally. In speculative construction, under funding meant no confidence, and a lack of confidence triggered
bad speculation, which translated into pessimism, which would place the project into the 'pipe dreams' file.
"I'm thinking we need to get the remaining invest....." Yun started, but Baxter cut him off.
"Who is it? Who is killing the dream Yun? What is his name?"
"Michaels, sir. It's Mr. Michaels. He's been doing some outside investigating."
"I see. Well Yun, then we'll have to take care of him. What is his problem? Why doesn't he just take his little bit
of money somewhere else?"
Mr. Michaels little bit of money was roughly $15 million, and Yun quietly made a note of that. "We could bring a
few new faces, we do have time, Mr. Bennett."
"No, it's the starting line-up or nothing. This project was hype when we created it, we go back into the second
round sketchy the new people will look at the numbers twice as hard. And Yun, I've looked at those startup
numbers enough to know they do not bear up under long term examination."
"So what do we do?" Yun almost knew the next words out of Baxter's mouth. He'd said them twice a year
every year since Yungstead Dawes had accepted the job fresh out of college.
"In this case, I will make a few calls, and it will be handled."
Seven weeks since the jungle
Harold Michaels had made his money, and felt the occasionally pressing need to make certain it didn't go to
waste. He owned a yacht that he had set foot twice in three years, a garage full of cars some of whom had sat so
long their batteries had died, and an art collection that would welcome in any home if he ever uncrated it.
His lunch today, consisted of an eggplant casserole with low fat cheese and fresh cut carrots courtesy of his new
trophy wife and so he sat at the coffee table in his office muddling through it and the departmental expense
projections for the next quarter. With each mouthful, he was becoming more and more inclined to slip down to the
steak house in the lobby and get a porterhouse.
"Mr. Michaels, your ...appointment is here." Mrs. Timber had been with Mr. Michaels since he started with a
warehouse he'd bought out of a foreclosure sale, and his office had been the space behind some file cabinets he
couldn't get to open. His offices now were behind a set of Chinese screens (again, the new wife) but the pair still
shunned the intercom in most circumstances.
Michaels puzzled for a second, looked at his watch and then shrugged. He'd thought the policy meeting wasn't
until after lunch but he could start it now. He considered dumping his lunch, changed his mind and called out to Mrs.
Timber to send them. For being early, he thought, they could watch him eat.
The first man to cross from behind the screens let Michaels know immediately this wasn't a policy meeting. Or at
least not the kind he was expecting. The man was of normal height, but massive, nearly as wide as he was tall. He
was wearing an obviously tailored suit, italian shoes, and a tie that made Michaels want to ask where he shopped. He
stepped gingerly, and took in the whole room, then instead of finding a chair, slid his bulk into a corner.
So taken with the first man, he was startled to find another, smaller man now sitting directly in front of him.
"So, Mr. Harold Jacob Michaels, age forty six, Republican, how is your lovely new wife, Candi ?"
Michaels nearly dropped his fork, and sat taking in his new visitor. This smaller man, also impeccably dressed with
hair that gleamed, looked tanned. He could see himself in the shine on the man's shoe, and watched raptly as the
man produced a large black pen, which he proceeded to toy with.
"My wife's name is Darla." he heard himself say.
"Your new wife's stage name was Candi Delight, so much more inviting that Darla Floss, but I can understand
why she might want to distance herself from that."
Michaels finally caught himself. He'd dealt with men like this over the years, he knew the types. He started
munching again.
"What can I do for you....gentleman?" He asked, after washing down his mouthful with some of the spring tea
his wife had sent with the eggplant.
"We share a mutual interest, a commonality if you will."
The sat looking at one another, Michaels waiting for the man to finish his statement, the man apparently taking
great interest in the shape of Michaels face. No one spoke for a minute, the only sound that of Mrs. Timber fielding
calls and typing.
"And this mutual interest would be?" Michaels finally asked, figuring he was already at the disadvantage.
"Mr. Michaels, my people, we do business around the world. We like to turn a profit. As a matter of fact, our
future projections show that profits will be good. Or rather did show that profits will good. It seems that one of our
projects, a rather large project as a matter of fact, is in jeopardy. And in looking for a reason as to why this is
happening, keep coming back to the same thing. " With his black pen, the man punctuated the sentence with a
lazy jab in the direction the Michaels.
"What is it you sell, just out of curiosity, because I'm still not sure." Michaels started after he'd digested this
argument.
"Jacob, how silly of me. Ours is a lovely product. Used around the world, in all countries. We have little problem
finding buyers. We sell concrete. Lots and lots of concrete. "
Harold sat on the couch and munched for a bit. He picked through his eggplant, and thought about the
appropriate question to ask at this time. Only his late mother had ever referred to him as Jacob, and he was more
than a little uncomfortable with its usage.
"But I don't deal in, or buy, or, so how do I fit in?"
"Don't be crude, Jacob. I'm certain if you think hard, it will come to you."
"I mean, what can I do to rectify this situation? Do you have any suggestions?" Michaels looked at him, waiting
for the next piece of the puzzle to be played. These types always had a 'suggestion' that would make everyone's
lives 'easier'.
"Really now, who would I be to tell you how to run your company," the man in the chair looked genuinely
surprised at the prospect," this is all yours, I'm certain you can come up with something that will make all parties, ah,
satisfied."
The smaller man shot out his french cuffs after he made the statement, and checked the jewel-encrusted watch
on his arm. He muttered something in what Michaels thought was Spanish, and stood up to leave.
"Oh no, don't get up. We are pressed for time so I'll leave you to think about what needs to be done. Don't
worry, we'll be in Touch." He said it capitalized, in a tone Michaels hadn't heard since he was five. The pair exited as
they entered, the large man first, the smaller man behind.
Michaels sat there, munching his eggplant until he felt confident they'd cleared the floor, then leapt to his feet
and dashed over to his desk. Somebody, somewhere was going to try to play hardball with him. Even as he dialed
the phone, yelling for Mrs. Timber to come and clean up the spilled tea while he waited for them to answer, he knew
he would have to bring out his big guns.
Eight weeks since the jungle
William 'Willy" Peck sat in Baxter's office and stared out past the breakers, taking great care to avoid ever
matching the gaze of Mr. Kingsley, who ambled around the room supposedly taking in the miniatures, but
constantly looking over at the younger man and scowling.
Although the two men appeared polar opposites, Kingsley's slate gray suit concealing a paunch and Willy's
pullover short sleeves and loafers, the two men could not have been more alike. Both chose their clients based on
portfolio strength, had an attention to detail and impeccable records, and both maintained a table at the local power
meeting place of the minute ( although Willy's was on the terrace and Kingsley's was in a private room in the back ).
Neither man broke his post when Baxter strode in, junior secretary in tow, asking her for some innocuous report
that he's suddenly discovered as interesting. Dressed in short sleeves himself, he nonetheless looked at Willy Peck
with disdain for not dressing for the occasion, and nodded at his own attorney and dismissed his secretary.
"Gentleman, it is Wednesday after lunch. Mr. Kingsley you are doubtlessly aware that I have a round of golf
scheduled every week at this time, and since you have asked that I miss it, I am going to assume this the end of the
world as we know it. It has been very lovely being alive with you both."
"Hey fellas, I don't like to be here on a Wednesday afternoon, either. Hell, if somebody sees me they might think
I work for a living. But this is serious bidness." Willy Peck drawled.
"Mr. Peck is alluding to a potential situation with our latest project, La Junglei." Kingsley chimed in from the far
side of the room. He reached into his jacket and extracted pair half-lens glasses, then moved back over to the
couch area and eased down, before consulting the notes he had arrayed on the coffee table.
"A client of Mr. Peck's is proposing to file an injunction, something frivolous no doubt, which he believes will
damage the reputation of the project, making continued investment an unwise financial decision." Kingsley said all
this with his head buried in a note, looking up only when he'd finished.
"Bennie, this whole thing is holding together now on spit, bailing wire and your good looks. An injunction to halt
all the operations on this baby and you still out looking for investors? Well, let's just say them damn monkeys won't
be worried bout trespassers no time soon."
Baxter who had been wandering aimlessly about the office froze. He turned to face the two men his smile painted
on, and nodded to both of them once again. He quietly moved over to his desk, slid into the high back leather chair
and picked up a pencil from the group sitting on in there ivory cup next to his phone. He slid his memo pad over,
and then pencil poised, looked at Willy and through almost gritted teeth seemed to ooze the words, "So what do
they want?"
"Mr. Peck's client, "Mr. Kingsley chimed in , his notes up again," are requesting that the initial landscaping and
infrastructure suppliers be re-bid at this time, citing a lack of explanation of bid approval procedure in your project
outline."
"Bennie, it's still early. Hell, we could start this right after D-Day, at this stage we shouldn't even have to move
any actual start dates, or nothing."
Baxter nodded at Willy, then ducked his head for a few moments and scribbled furiously on his memo pad. His
head popped back up after few seconds and Kingsley continued.
"They are also requesting an outside auditor to go over the books at each project phase completion, as outlined
in the project overview."
"Just somebody everybody can get along with. You know how it is boys, some people know the accounting
firm too long and bang, they're washing the dirty laundry for you. Not that anybody's accusing anybody of
anything. In fact we think this move will look good to you in the long run. Show your new investors you boys are
about bidness."
Baxter nodded to Willy again, and repeated the scribbling routine.
"There is also a request for some involvement in the advertising and marketing arm, as well as position on the
long term strategy team for the project"
"Now Bennie, don't get all uppity about this one, I know how it sounds, but they ain't looking to run it, or even
have final say, but they do want a voice. Something meaningful though, or let them appoint someone."
Baxter scribbled some more then popped his head up, his eyes a lidded glaze, his face frozen in a smile. "Is there
anything else?"
"Some minor sundry items..." Kingsley started, but Willy cut him off.
"Nothing to get jumped up about, we don't want to get into planning out villas and all that, but my clients
missus favors an eggshell blue. Look fellas, you know how this plays out, we gonna wrestle around all that, and we'll
figure something out that makes 'erebody happy. You got till, noon-ish tomorrow, I gotta see the judge at one."
"The presiding officer?" Kingsley asked, his pen now poised over the low coffee table to take notes. Baxter
eyebrows jumped just a hair at his voice.
"Rudy Cavito, you know him."
Kingsely put his pen down without writing anything and leaned back on his chair, clasping his hands across his
well concealed paunch. Baxter's face fell for an instant, then bounced back into his false smile.
"Look fellas," Willy continued, " I'm really doing ya'll a favor. My client originally wanted jes spring it on you. It
was my idea to try and work with you. Why don't ya'll go over the numbers, call who you need call and ring me up
when you got a counter-offer. A real counter-offer. I think I get my client to give it a look see."
"We'll call you in the morning. Keep your schedule open." Kingsley said quietly, his gaze now finding the shoreline
and beyond.
"Ain't got nothing planned till eleven thirty. I got one meeting I can get out of and then lunch and the judge.
You know where to find me." Willy jumped up of his seat, and stood looking around the room for second. Then
turned and headed for the door.
"Oh, and Willy, "Baxter finally spoke as the attorney reached the door, " thanks for coming by."
Willy Peck gave the pair a half grin, and then sidled out the door. Baxter stood up, and holding the memo pad in
his hand, circled around to the models and began looking at them. He slid his hand over a few of the glass cases and
then rested on one and slapped the memo pad down onto it.
"Judge Cavito will be inclined to extend the injunction for inquiry purposes, that's our problem. Unless we can
approach the hearing with the matter resolved, he's going to scrutinize this." Kingsley stated, as he gathered
together his notes.
"The environmentalists and the human rights people are gonna be kicking up a enough sand without stopping
the project. Damnit man! Who's killing this?" Baxter asked his eyes glued to his model.
"Mr. Peck represents four investors of our original group, all of whom are still committed. The injunction will not
name its source until the hearing. However by that time, the damage to project may not be recoupable."
"Review the information with Yun, see if we can accommodate these requests without wrecking this thing on the
other end. Have something in my hands by nine. "
Mr. Kingsley rolled off the couch, and checked his folder again to make sure he had all his notes, although none
remained on the table. He made a curt nod to Baxter, then trundled out the steel doors.
Baxter stood for a moment, looking back and forth between the model and his notepad, before he finally tore
the top sheet off, crumbled it into a ball and through it at the window. It bounced off harmlessly, and he spent
several minutes picking it up and bouncing it off other items in the office in a fit of rage.
After he lost it under his desk, he took a few moments and calmed himself, then crossed the room and made
himself a drink. Moments later he notified Ms. Junos that he was headed down to the corner cafe to get a latte, she
made a note of it and knowing her boss, immediately checked his schedule for the next few days to push back all
but the most vital of activities.
A little later the speculator strolled through the lobby and out of the building, walked up two blocks and got into
the considerable line at Moontime Coffee Bar. He shuffled up, bought one of the magazines and creamy latte (soy
milk) then took a table in the back of the crowded space. Three minutes later one of the girls cleaning up slid her
celluar phone onto the table and picked up the fifty that was folded under the corner of the magazine in a motion
Baxter knew they must practice after closing up.
As soon as she was gone, Baxter picked up the phone and in the room crowded by mundane conversations,
made a call.
H.J. Michaels climbed out from behind the steering wheel of his car, one which he still drove into work himself
every morning, and took a deep breath. It had been a long day, and he figured on a light meal, maybe a little time
on couch and into bed before eleven. He walked slipped into the utility door, taking little interest in long black limo in
front of the house across the wide subdivision street. He dropped his keys in the little wicker basket (again his new
bride) took of his shoes on the mat ( new wife ), padded into kitchen and retrieved a Lite Beer, then made his way
into the living room where he promptly dropped it onto the new carpet.
"Ah, Jacob, we were wondering when you would make it." The little man placed his drink down on one of the
shell coasters, and smiled at him, beckoning him closer.
"Harold, you should have told me you had plans, you know I need time to plan things. But a trip to the
Caribbean is just what I need!" Darla looked up from the brochures that she and another young woman had spread
over the floor.
H.J. shot a look at the small man, and started to storm forward when he saw the massive man step from behind
the bar on the far side of the room, a huge pistol low by his side. His face filled with fear, but Darla was engrossed in
the photographs and didn't notice, and the smaller man smiled at him, then popped up and motioned for Harold to
follow him over to the bar.
They stood there at the bar looking at each other for a moment, and the smaller man placed his drink on the bar
and the large man began to mix him a fresh one. Harold looked him in the eye, and tried to figure his edge.
"Jacob, " he finally spoke, his teeth a brilliant white," I am so disappointed. I thought I could trust you. As it is, I
see I am going to have to take matters into my own hands. In about three minutes, your private line in your office
is going to ring. It will be your attorney, Mr. Peck. He will be calling to let you know about you injunction. Don't look
surprised. I have the benefits of knowing the goings on at Mr. Pecks firm, and we found it very upsetting that you
were trying to cut us out. Jacob I thought we were friends."
"Look I don't know who you are, but you're not going to get away with..." Harold started in a gruff whisper, but
the little man cut him off.
"Getaway? Whatever do you mean sir? We are simply your traveling companions. You've decided to take a little
trip. You are about to call off the injunction and take a spontaneous vacation for oh, about five days. At your wife's
insistence. We are here to simply to make sure you enjoy your journey."
Darla squealed in the middle of the room and all the men's heads jerked in her direction. She and the other girl
giggled together and then they looked over at the men, who they noticed were suddenly watching them.
"What?" She looked guilty for a moment, and Harold shot his eyebrows.
"Oh, I've got to pack, I don't know what I am going to bring," Darla suddenly gasped, and she bounced to her
feet and looked shocked for minute.
" Pack light, Darla, Harold and I are going to take you ladies shopping the moment you get there. Brand new
everything, so let's get hopping," the little man stated smoothly. Darla repeated the squeal, and the two women
disappeared down the hall to the master bedroom.
The men stood there is silence and the massive man finally replaced the Lite Beer that Harold had left lying at the
entrance to the kitchen. Harold tried to size up his options. He could refuse to cancel the injunction; but he wasn't
sure what steps they would take in retribution. He could go along with them, but he was sure they would be leaving
the country within hours, and his windows to restart the injunction would be infrequent and unpredictable. A
moment here, a few seconds there. Or he could fight them. The big man looked a little bored, waiting, and Harold
fantasized a straight punch pole axing him, leaving the small man would who would be no problem.
The phone in his private office rang, breaking in on the part of dream where he was dodging bullets, and in his
mind Harold made his decision.
They trooped in, Harold in the middle of the trio, and the small motioned for him to answer the phone. Harold sat
at his desk, scooped up the phone to answer and looked up into the barrel of the weapon the huge man had
flashed before.
"Yes," his voice more a sound than the word, as he noticed that the inside the barrel had little grooves as
opposed to being smooth as he had always assumed.
"Harry, it's me Willy. Been talking to the them boys over a Bennie's and got few things they can work on. Now it
ain't everything, but it's a start, I think you need to look at it."
The small man looked at Harold from the seat he taken, and smiled wanly.
"Well, Willy, " croaked Harold, "I've been thinking."
"You okay there son? You sound terrible."
The silence of the room made the tinny voice from the receiver loud enough for all to hear, and Harold knew
that both of the other men could hear the conversation. He looked past the barrel up the wrist of the big man, and
committed himself, and plunged onward.
"I'm fine. It's no deals, all or nothing." he had to push the words out of his throat. He flinched, waiting for the
impact. He heard his attorney squawk into his ear, and felt the smooth grain of the wood beneath the fingers of his
left hand. He remembered the first girl he'd ever loved, the moment his father had announced his parents’ divorce,
and the taste of first steak he'd ever eaten.
He opened his eyes. The big man was still there, only now he was seated, straining the limits of the furniture, and
the gun was nowhere to be seen. The phone was in the cradle, and he could feel wetness on his face. The big man
grinned at him, then rose from the chair, patted him playfully on the top the head and then turned and left him
sitting there.
"Honey come on, the limo is waiting," Darla called to him and he paused a little confused, and walked to door
and saw the two ladies in the street headed for the waiting car. He wanted to call out, but he saw them safely get
into the car and after a minute, Darla popped up out of the sunroof and waved him over.
He started then, stopped at the threshold, realizing he hadn't seen either of the two men in a few minutes. Darla
finally tired of the hold up, climbed back out the car and made her way back across the yard.
"Come on, Harold," and he recognized that tone in her voice that she was going to have her way, " we have a
plane to catch. Now." He protested lightly then allowed himself to be dragged to car. Michaels wasn't sure if he was
dead or alive, but he knew he was his own man, and he was going to live life on his own terms.
Hearing Day
Baxter spent the morning waiting for the phone to ring. Yun was calling Peck's office every twenty minutes with
a new spiel, and Kingsley had called twice, claiming he thought he could block the injunction. Baxter had insisted
each time that he would prefer if the item never existed, and Kingsley had said he would work on it and hung up.
He was now regretting not getting a larger overage in his initial investment group, and listened as the buzz he
molded over the previous weeks began developing nicely. He talked to select brokers between fielding his associates’
calls, and listened as they threw pitches. Baxter relished these small market affairs, and roller coastered between the
euphoria of the deal and desolation of knowing the injunction was out there. It was almost eleven when he heard it
the first time that question about a potential problem and he ended the call. He got a bigger blurb than he was
looking for, along with a semi-favorable note, on one of the cable financial network shows.
It was all going exactly as planned, or it would be until the news of the injunction was released. The money would
dry up, and Baxter wasn’t yet prepared to let the potential profit walk away. He didn't even count the already
liberally applied "grease" that there was no hope of ever seeing again.
“Ms. Junos, I think I’m gonna run down and get me a latte.”
Willy closed his eyes and let the taste of fresh salmon, grilled perfectly float in his mouth. Ernesto had out done
himself today, and the country lawyer leaned back satisfied, reaching to grab the sweetened ice tea he preferred at
mid-day.
“William Percy Astor Peck, age thirty eight. Attorney at law. Let me get that for you.”
Willy opened his eyes slowly, the breath he’d been letting out gone. Across from him sat a impeccably dressed
man, with a ruddy complexion and hair that gleamed in the sun. He held in his left hand Willy’s drink, and wore what
the wily lawyer thought of as a shit-eating grin.
“Look buddy, “ Willy plucked his offered glass and sipped it calmly, “This heyah table is occupied. So why don’t I
get Frank to get you your own table inside. “
“I’m sorry, didn’t Mr. Michaels tell you? We’re having lunch today. A very nice long lunch.“ Waiters appeared
and re-set the other three places at the table swiftly as the two men measured each other. Peck could tell this guy
was no regular operator, and glanced at the clock in the distance.
“Hey, this about that Jungle crap? Cause if you trying to stall I can re-schedule that thang. This heyah is just
stupid.”
“Willy, what are you talking about? We’re having lunch, relax.” Two women joined them at that moment and
before he could stop himself , the lawyer turned on his natural charm and introduced himself, with a laugh and quick
touch of their arms. The food appeared moments later to Willy’s surprise and everyone dug in.
“Scuse me ladies, I gotta make a call.” Willy started to stand.
“Willy, no phones at lunch, that’s just rude.” The smooth man seated at the table with the roast chicken shot a
glance that the lawyer followed over to the far side of the terrace. A iceberg of man was shifting his seat, and Willy
gulped visibly then sat back down.
“Willy-kins you seem nervous relax, nothing’s going to happen.” The blonder of the ladies cooed and turned her
attention back to her own meal.
Willy picked up his fork, shrugged and dug back into his salmon. He shot a wink at the man at the end of the
table and leaned into one of the girls whispering something that made her laugh. The judge would just have to take
an apology.
Mrs. Timber sat back down, frustrated. The damn fender bender had kept her out of the office for nearly three
hours. She thanked god that Mr. Micheals was out for the rest of the week.
Five months into construction
Yun let the foreman go, confident that his intense language course had let him breach the barrier of
communication. The two men had shook hands and the junior exec watched the man start calling together his
team to go over the changes. He tabbed another item off his mental list and turned to head back over to the trailer
complex.
He paused at the fresh blast of air conditioning savoring the feeling after the burning heat. As he made his way
down the hall, glanced into an office seeing a mountain of a man studying out one of the many blueprints. Yun
smiled at the dapper man next to him, his ruddy complexion nearly equal to the at of the outside workers, although
the junior executive had never seen him outside. He walked past his secretary, a particularly curvy girl who's father
owned one of the local lumber concessions, and eased behind his large cluttered desk. He relaxed for a moment in
the leather then called out, "Celia, I need Mr. Bennett on the phone."
"Yun, how's it going?" Baxter grinned to the room as his young assistant came onto the speaker phone.
"Two full weeks ahead of schedule, we even got a break on some of the fees from Aeroship. I'll fax it up today."
"Thanks, Yun." He looked up from the Y-shaped phone at the men standing awaiting any information. A few held
drinks in their hands, a few others with open folders they were studying.
"What about that damn forest fire? It was on CNN." One of the men asked.
"A controlled burn blown out of proportion by extreme environmentalists. I can have someone down there next
week to inspect and tell you that we did the jungle a favor with that little bit we did." Baxter smiled at the man. The
investor nodded.
"Yun, I'm in the middle of meeting right now, I'll call you back in about a half hour." Without waiting for a reply,
he clicked off the phone and turned his attentions back to his group. Answering questions deftly, and pointing out
figures and projections, Baxter was the picture of cool. That brief phone call from the site had been enough to quell
any fears that tightened these guts made of money. The developer knew at this point it was nearly over, and that
he'd already transferred the building capital outside the reach of the American judicial system just in case.
A little less concerned now, the drinks and the talk turned to sports and social pursuits. Baxter had stepped away
from his group to freshen up his drink and get back to explaining why the soft schedule would get the local team
into the playoffs when a name caught his ear.
"Heard anything about Micheals lately?" one of a small group of three asked the other two conspiratorially.
"Stopped listening months ago, damn shame though." Another commented.
"Baxter? You heard anything?" The first man caught Baxter paying attention to their conversation. His drink
topped off he sidled over to the group and lowered his voice.
"Only that he still hasn't gotten out yet." Baxter offered.
"Peck still hasn't gotten him out?" This came from the third man with more than a hint of disbelief.
"Not Peck. Peck dumped him months ago. When they froze his assets." The second man informed him.
"I didn't know that. I know when they found that mob stuff on his computers they were thinking about it..." the
third man said.
"It was mob stuff?" The first man cut him off. "I didn't hear mob stuff."
"You don't play golf with the attorney general." The third man bragged.
"Either way," Baxter cut in, "him getting arrested overseas on drug charges the same day didn't help."
"Okay that was just stupid. I wish I could say something else but that was just stupid." someone piped in.
"He must have been the unluckiest sumbitch in the world. His company gets busted for securities fraud the same
day he gets arrested on drug charges in front of two reporters from the Miami Herald in a rinky dink hell hole in the
islands. It's gotta be some kinda record." the speaker chuckled and wandered off to freshen his own drink.
"Didn't his wife divorce him?" one of the two remaining asked Baxter and his gossip partner.
"And do what, do back to dancing? She can't get half of nothing. It's federal case, no divorce court is going to
get those assets released any time soon, provided the stockholders don't milk him dry." The other man nudged
Baxter at the reference; another couple of men joined the group.
"I say he was setup." A newcomer piped in, "his books were clean the month before. We were all set to get him
some financing lined up for deal he was working in Kansas. Everything looked good to our audit team."
"They found it on his secretaries’ computer and in the accounting system files. Who could have set him up?
Duplicate set of books, one good one and one bad one." The original speaker theorized.
"Damn shame," said Baxter, "he was a nice guy too."
This is a backstory of one the characters for a novel of mine. I'm using the working title
"Bohemian Cooker". For each of the principals I'm working out who they are and why they are
in the story. This was first one.
"Bohemian Cooker". For each of the principals I'm working out who they are and why they are
in the story. This was first one.