No Way Back (31 page)

Even life around the house has improved. Libby’s sulking and night-time crying jags have petered out. Libby’s not Miss Sunshine – never has been – but at least nowadays
she doesn’t seem to hate me – doesn’t stare at me as if I’m some stranger who woke up one day, uninvited, in her bed. Or, if I
am
a stranger, at least now I am one
she has grown accustomed to.

I see Dr Liago once each week, religiously keeping my appointment with him, not because I like him – or even think him competent – but rather because I want to avoid the wrath of
Gordon Kramer. The little whispering doctor performs his mumbo-jumbo hypnotherapy –
Relax and breathe, Mr Thane
;
Do not take drugs, Mr Thane
;
Lock the memories of your
son away, somewhere safe, Mr Thane
– and even though his sessions are both ridiculous and tedious, they are better than the alternative: a surprise visit from Gordon, and finding myself
handcuffed to a parking-garage sprinkler while he screams and punches me and tells me what a good-for-nothing shit I am.

I like this new feeling. I like being happy. I like being successful. It’s so new, and so good, and so right, that I ignore the voice, that soft and almost imperceptible voice, that nags
on occasion. It comes at night, usually, in the dark, as I fall asleep beside Libby, with the teak-blade fan squeaking overhead. It’s a tiny voice.
You’re Jimmy Thane
, it says.
You are Shiva, the destroyer. You are the wrecker. You are death. You can’t change who you are. You can’t start again.

But that voice is very quiet. And I can ignore it, usually. And I can go to sleep.

The trouble starts on a Tuesday afternoon in September.

I’m seated at my desk, and the phone rings. When I answer, Amanda is on the line. ‘Oh, Jim, you’re still here,’ she says, sounding surprised to hear my voice. ‘I
wasn’t sure that you would be.’

That’s a little jab at the new Jimmy Thane office hours. I
have
been taking it easy these past weeks, coming in late in the morning, leaving early in the afternoon – and
when I do bother to show up, I tell Amanda airily to ‘Hold all calls’. I admit it’s hypocritical, coming from the CEO who tore his employees a new asshole that first morning he
arrived, when they showed up twenty minutes past nine. But that was before I understood my real job. My real job is simple, and doesn’t require effort. It doesn’t even – for that
matter – require showing up. My job is this: Shut up, take the money, and don’t ask questions.

‘You have a visitor,’ Amanda says. ‘Should I send him in?’

Before I can ask who it is, I hear her tell the visitor, ‘Go ahead in. He says he wants to see you.’

A moment later there’s a knock on my door, and a voice calls, ‘Special delivery!’

Pete Bland fills the doorframe, toting a plastic shopping bag. He holds it up. ‘Present for you, Jimmy,’ he says cheerily. He walks in, without waiting for an invitation. He plops
the bag on my desk. It crunches with the sound of ice. ‘A dozen stone crabs from the Gator Hut,’ he says. ‘Now we’re Even Steven.’

‘Last person who gave me crabs was a hooker named Angel. I still haven’t gotten even.’

‘Mind if I sit?’ he asks, sitting.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Actually, I was on my way out.’

He looks at his watch. His eyebrows arch. ‘At three o’clock?’

I lift the bag of crabs from my desk, lay it gingerly by my feet. A whiff of its contents wafts to my nostrils. Wharf at low tide. ‘You know how it is,’ I say. ‘Trying not to
burn out. Reasonable hours. Work–life balance. All that crap.’

‘Oh, OK,’ he says, in a voice that indicates that he is trying hard not to pass any judgement. ‘OK. Then I’ll make it fast. I came here for two reasons.’ He holds
up two fingers. ‘One, to say thank you for all your billable hours. Tao Software is now officially my most important client. All those signed contracts... Good Lord, how are you guys doing
it, anyway? Making an offer they can’t refuse?’ He laughs.

‘Something like that.’

‘That White Rock contract alone is putting Ashley through college. She wants to start calling you Uncle Jimmy, by the way. You don’t mind, do you?’ Before I can answer he goes
on: ‘Don’t have a heart attack when you see our August invoice. It’s big, Jimmy. Really big. You guys will pay, right?’

‘I always pay my debts,’ I say. Which is not exactly true. Involuntarily I touch the nub of my missing pinky finger, where Hector the Bookie once educated me about the importance of
timely repayment.

‘Number two,’ he says. ‘And this is the real reason for my visit. I mean, besides my desire to give you crabs.’ He pauses. ‘I found something you might be
interested in.’

‘Oh?’

He turns in his seat, to look behind him. He reaches for my office door – my room is so small, that he has no problem doing so – and he pushes it closed. He returns his gaze to me
and says: ‘Remember when you asked me to investigate that house?’

‘What house?’ I’m about to say – but then I do remember. Before the intrusion of Ghol Gedrosian into my life, before that two-million-dollar gift from Tad Billups, before
the mass lay-offs at Tao – before all that, I actually cared who was embezzling money from my firm. That was back when I thought my job was to turn the place around. Now I know better: my
real job is to keep things quiet, and to keep cashing cheques.

Whoever was stealing from Tao used a house on Sanibel as his base of operations – that house with the low-beamed attic and the preponderance of Russian speakers. I asked Pete Bland to do
some digging, and to find out who owns it.

‘Well,’ Pete continues. ‘We ran a search, like you asked. And we found out who owns the house on 56 Windmere. I guess the file got misplaced, with all the excitement over the
lay-offs. So I never showed you. Actually I didn’t see it myself until this morning.’

‘OK. Who owns it?’

Pete looks uncomfortable. ‘I want to be honest with you, Jimmy. I feel like we’re friends. Are we friends?’

‘Sure, Pete, we’re friends. Friends that happen to bill each other. But friends.’

‘That’s why I was disappointed. I felt like maybe we weren’t. Like you were testing me.’

‘Testing?’

‘Or maybe this is what passes for Silicon Valley humour. You know, making the country lawyer do a little jig, while you guys laugh about it in the boardroom?’

‘I don’t understand. Who owns the house, Pete?’

‘Come on, Jimmy.’

‘Really,’ I say. ‘Who owns it?’

‘You want some timpani before I make the announcement? A drum roll?’

‘Pete—’

‘Fine. Hang on to your hat, Jimmy.’ He opens his briefcase, takes out a Manila folder, and tosses it onto my desk. ‘The house at 56 Windmere is owned by – get this, Jimmy
– a Mr James Thane, from Palo Alto, California. That’s right. Pick yourself off the floor, Jimmy.
You
own the house.
You’ve
owned it for three years, free and
clear. Paid cash for it back in 2007. As if you didn’t know.’

I stumble from my office. I hear Pete behind me, calling, ‘Are you OK, Jimmy? Jimmy, what’s wrong? Jimmy, you forgot your crabs! You gotta put them in the
fridge!’

I ignore him. I need to get out of here. I need to go home. I need to find Libby. I need to tell her.

Before this moment, I could make excuses, could tell myself stories – increasingly elaborate stories, I admit – about what I was doing at Tao. I wasn’t proud of my role, but I
accepted it: to be window dressing for other people’s criminal activity. When I went to sleep at night, I could convince myself that, despite what was going on around me, I was doing my best
to run a legitimate company. I was doing my best to save Tao.

But now I know the truth. I’m not here to turn this company around. I’m not here to act as window dressing.

I’m here to take the fall. I’m the mark. I’m going down.

I jog through the bullpen towards the reception area. Ahead, I see Amanda through the door. She is talking to someone. She looks anxious.

But this barely registers. I’m moving fast, and I’m desperate to leave this place and go home to my wife. Three steps into the reception room, I hear the man’s voice –
familiar, dripping with Southern honey – an accent so thick you could spread it on cornbread with a fork.

‘Mr Thane!’ Agent Tom Mitchell calls. Then I see him, standing in the corner, practically hiding from me. ‘There you are, Mr Thane! I’m so glad I caught you.’ An
emphasis on the word
caught
. Or maybe I’m imagining it. ‘I have a few things I need to discuss with you. How about me and you have a private chat?’

He lassoes me into the boardroom, where he takes a seat at the end of the conference table. I remain standing, as if to show him that I’m not fully committed to being
here, not at all, and that I might just choose to flee.

Agent Mitchell slumps back into his chair. He stretches his legs, and clasps his fingers behind his head, revealing dark ovals of perspiration under his arms.

‘How’ve you been, Mr Thane?’ he asks, peering down his nose at me.

‘Not bad,’ I say.

‘You look... ’ He pauses, staring. He considers. He says, finally, ‘Piqued.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s been pretty stressful around here.’

‘I was surprised that I didn’t hear from you. Not since we last spoke.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Have you?’ He smiles. ‘It’s just that I thought you might call. On the chance that you remembered something. You know, about our friend.’

‘Our friend?’

‘Our Russian friend. The man I’m looking for. You remember his name, I’m sure. Have you heard from him?’

‘No.’

‘You would have called me if you had,’ he says. ‘Right?’

‘Of course.’

‘I knew I could count on you, Mr Thane. You’re a true gentleman.’ His face changes – becomes clouded. ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I’m here for another
reason. I’m looking for one of your employees. A Mr Dom Vanderbeek.’

It takes me a moment to process this. I was expecting – even dreading – a question about the house on Sanibel. Or about the money in my bank account. Or about some combination of
those two things. Such as: ‘Did you take cash from an attic on Sanibel and deposit it into your bank account?’

But that’s not what Agent Mitchell asked. He asked about Dom Vanderbeek. He continues, helpfully, as if my silence were caused by forgetfulness: ‘Mr Vanderbeek is your VP of Sales, I
believe, Mr Thane.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He
was
. But I terminated him.’

‘Terminated?’ He raises an eyebrow. He leans forward in his chair. ‘Now, just checking, Mr Thane. When you say you “terminated” him, that means you
fired
him. Am I right?’

‘Of course.’

‘Because Mr Vanderbeek is missing.’

‘Missing?’

‘Disappeared,’ he says. He snaps his fingers. ‘Just like that. Ten days ago. Wife found his car in the driveway, engine running. But no Dom Vanderbeek inside.’ As if he
can hear my thoughts, he adds, ‘Yes, it’s quite a coincidence. So many people leaving their cars running. As if we don’t have a terrible oil shortage in this country
already.’

‘I haven’t seen him,’ I say.

‘Not since you terminated him?’

‘Fired him.’

‘Fired him,’ he agrees, pleasantly enough. ‘I was just speaking to that gal in your office – the Spanish one? Big fat girl?’

‘Rosita.’

‘That’s the one. She told me that when you fired Vanderbeek, you two had words together. You threatened him.’

Thanks, Rosita.

‘That’s not true,’ I say, keeping my voice even. ‘Dom was very upset when I fired him. But I didn’t threaten him.’

‘Why did you fire him, Mr Thane?’

Because he was too curious about my company’s cash flow
, I think.

‘Because I didn’t like him,’ I say, looking Mitchell directly in the eye.

He smiles. ‘I respect your honesty,’ he says. ‘I suppose it’s none of my business who you fire or why. Chances are, Mr Vanderbeek is just taking a long vacation, and he
neglected to tell his wife. Happens more often than you think. Usually the husband turns up in the Keys, with a young lady, and they’re drinking margaritas and singing Jimmy
Buffett.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘I’m sure I am. In fact, if I was a betting man, I’d put money on it. I wonder, Mr Thane... are you a betting man?’

His smile, which was friendly just a moment ago, has curdled. Now it’s lupine and sly.

‘No,’ I say.

From his shirt pocket, he removes a spiral-bound notepad and taps it on his hand. It’s already opened to a page of interest. ‘See, now, that’s an answer I didn’t expect.
Do you remember, Mr Thane, the last time we met, I asked you about Ghol Gedrosian?’

‘Yes.’

‘You told me that you didn’t know him.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘That’s not what I hear.’ He leans closer. ‘We made an arrest on Thursday. Out in California. A nasty little Armenian fella. I won’t even
try
to do justice
to his name. I would just embarrass myself. This man was in charge of Ghol Gedrosian’s loan sharking and gambling. A money man. Sort of like your CFO.’

I picture mousy Joan Leggett in a fedora, holding a Tommy gun, wearing a Donna Karan outfit. No, probably not much like my CFO.

‘We found documents,’ Mitchell says. ‘Computer files. There were a lot of names in those files. Who owed money. Who paid money. Generally speaking, when you deal with a man
like Ghol Gedrosian, if you’re on the first list, you better
hope
you’re on the second. You catch my meaning?’

‘Yes.’

He’s staring at me with an open, friendly expression, as if inviting me to confess something. The boardroom – which is usually air conditioned to meat-locker chill, suddenly feels
quite hot, and for the first time, I think I might actually pass out, standing right here, with my head going
thump
against the polished conference table.

‘Do you know where I’m going with this yet, Mr Thane?’

‘No.’

‘Your name was on that list. You owed money to Ghol Gedrosian. You paid him money. Not pocket change, either. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Amounts that would stick in a man’s
memory. You are a good customer of his. Gambling, call girls, and – as far as I can make out – I don’t really read Russian too well, so I could be wrong about this – a hell
of a lot of drugs. Is any of this starting to sound familiar, Mr Thane? Or should I say’ – he looks down at his pad – ‘“J.R. Thane of 22 Waverly Drive” –
that was your address back in California – 22 Waverly Drive – wasn’t it?’