The SoapBoxers

On this Labor day, I thought I would take up Kosmo’s challenge to write short story. For your enjoyment, a story called “The Bomber Pilot”

Forty four hours since they had taken off and just one hour way from home. Captain Andrew Decker was proud to be the pilot of a B-2 Spirit Bomber. Major Walter Hampton was his commander sitting in the left seat for this leg of the mission. They had been the flight crew for take off, the bombing run and now for landing. Captain Zachary Wetherby and Lieutenant Catherine Miller were the second crew sleeping after their trans-pacific effort.

Andrew loved flying and loved being part of the strategic bomber command. All those hot shot fighter pilots might get the girls, but he was home four nights a week in the loving embrace of his wife Rosalyn (Rosie) and playing with his kids, Emily and Andy junior.

Forty five minutes out. “Call for clearance, then wake them up,” Major Hampton ordered. “Little Rock, Spirit of Ohio, forty five minutes out, requesting clearance,” Andy broadcast. “Ohio, ping IFF,” was the instant response. Andy activated the identification device. “Ohio, we confirm, clear runway four nine, you are next in line, no traffic.” “Roger runway four nine, g’day.” Andy switched to the intercom, “Wake up, we are home.” Andy didn’t hear the groans from the sleeping area as they sat up and fastened their harnesses. They still had to de-brief before finally getting home to sleep. Cathy was single and lived in the single officer’s dorm, Zach was on deployment, his family was in Dover, Delaware. Andy and Walter had taken the last leg to be awake when they got home.

Andy remembered a Navy story of a sailor coming home after a long deployment. His letter home was “you had better meet me at the dock with a mattress strapped to your back.” The response letter was “you had better be the first man off the boat.” After two day missions, Andy felt the same way.

They landed and got through de-brief. The mission had been perfect. The target was verified destroyed, there was no politically incorrect collateral damage, and for once, the French agreed with the target. Andy had called home as soon as they had landed, and again after de-brief, but there was no answer. Rosie must have been getting Emily from school. They could never plan his return since is take off and landing schedule were classified. Oh, well, he would just surprise her.

The drive across the base to married housing was quick. Kids were out playing, other air force jockeys doing their things. Rosie’s car was parked in front of the house, she must have just gotten home. Well if she listened to the messages, she knew he was back, no surprise. He parked the bright yellow Corvette next to the little blue Prius and hopped up the steps of the front porch.

The front door was slightly open. That was odd, he would have expected it if the kids were out front playing, but they were inside. He pushed it open and called out in a booming voice “DADDY’S HOME!” There was no response. He didn’t smell supper cooking, didn’t hear the kids. He walked through the house to the kitchen and looked into the back yard, not there either. Maybe they were next door with the Wilson’s. Rosie and Jackie were best friends and the kids were about the same ages. Andy decided to clean up a bit before heading over. He went to his bed room taking off his flight suit as he walked. At the door to the bed room he stopped.

Rosie and the kids were lying on his bed. They looked like they were sleeping, but Andy knew that they were not. The spread was soaked with blood. It took him a long time before he could move, then suddenly he rushed into the room and scooped his wife up in his arms. He held her lifeless body against him, her blood soaking his flight suit and shirt. He stood, holding her and crying. He didn’t notice as his body slowly sagged down and he set her back on the bed.

When his world came back into focus, he had to do something. He ran next door and started pounding, screaming for Jackie. Jackie’s smile flickered on when she saw him, then off when she saw the blood. “Andy what has happened?” “They are dead, they are all dead,” he stammered between sobs. Jackie backed up and grabbed the phone. She called the base police without taking her eyes off of Andy. As calmly as she could, she told the dispatcher the address and that she believed that three people had been killed.

Andy just stood there, shaking and sobbing. He had been out protecting his country and he had not been there to protect his family. His energy gave out and he collapsed on Jackie’s porch.

When he awoke, he was in a hospital bed, clean, and dressed in a hospital gown. There was an MP outside the open door and a Colonel sitting next to him. “Welcome back Captain.” “Yes, Sir, have you found out what happened to my family?” “We thought that you might be able to fill us in on that Captain.” “I walked in, saw them…” he sobbed, “I tried to pick up my wife … hold her…” Andy started to cry again. “Hm, Captain, please control yourself. We would like to know what happened during the hour between your debrief and you arrival at the Wilson front porch?” “What do you mean? It was only a couple of minutes.”

“Captain, we understand the stress that missions can cause, we are just trying to determine what happened.” “I told you, I walked in and found them,” there was some desperation in his voice as he realized that the Colonel was suggesting he had killed his own family. The Colonel leaned close, “Captain, there was no forced entry, the knife was cleaned and in the sink, and the time of death matches when you were there. What happened?”

Andy realized then that the killers had heard his message. They had killed his family as he pulled up. He had warned them so they could get out the back door. He was now the only suspect.

Austin was as ready as he was going to be. He took a deep breath and popped open the door. He exited the lavatory of the airplane and stepped back into the cabin.

The plane had been aloft for ninety minutes. It was cruising effortlessly over flyover country. Half the passengers were trying to get some sleep. The other half were reading books, solving Soduku puzzles, and goofing around on laptops.

Austin walked back to his seat, grabbed the empty duffel bag from his seat, and walked purposefully toward the front of the plane. When he pulled aside the curtain that separated first class from the unwashed masses, people finally noticed.

“Hey, you can’t go up there,” protested a flight attendant as she walked swiftly toward him. The dozing passengers began to wake up.

Austin pulled the pistol from the duffel bag and leveled it at the flight attendant. She stopped in her tracks, and Austin could sense the heightened level of anxiety aboard the plane. Austin could see the puzzled look on her face – wondering how he managed to sneak a gun aboard the plane.

“Come up here,” Austin commanded her. When the woman hesitated for a moment, he nodded toward the gun to remind her of its presence. This reminder was effective, and she quickly joined him at the front of the plane.

“OK,” he shouted. “This is how things are going to work. Tiffany, here –“

“Tessa,” interrupted the flight attendant,

“Tessa,” he continued, glaring at the idiot, “is going to walk through the cabin with my bag. Each of you will simply drop your wallets and jewelry into the bag. When we’re done, I’m going to leave, and nobody gets hurt.”

“Bullshit,” yelled a burly man in the middle of the plane. “You’re not getting anything from me.”

Austin turned the pistol toward him. “I’ll get it from you, dead or alive. Your choice.”

The man’s companion spoke up. “I think he’s serious, Merrill.”

“Yes, Merrill. I’m serious. Dead serious.”

Merrill slunk back in his seat and Austin tossed the bag to Tessa.

“Go,” he growled. “Start at the front.”

Tessa began the process of collecting wallets and valuables from the passengers. Austin kept one eye on her while keeping the other eye on the rest of the plane – watchful for anyone else who wanted to be a hero.

“Hey, necklaces, too,” he said to a woman with a diamond broach around her neck. The woman clutched the broach and gave a wistful look before complying with his request.

When Tessa reached the back of the plane, Austin strode down the aisle and jerked the bag out of her hands. He took a quick glance into the bag and smiled appreciatively at the size of some of the diamond rings. This would be a very nice haul.

“OK,” he said, “the emergency door. Pop it open.”

“We can’t open it in flight,” protested Tessa.

“Yeah, you can,” he replied, pointing the gun at her. A few minutes later, the door was open and Austin prepared to jump.

“Geronimooooooooooo,” he yelled, beginning his freefall. Austin was on cloud nine – in a few short moments, he would be on the ground with his treasure.

A few seconds later, Austin realized that he had forgotten one small little thing. His parachute.

Editor’s note: my friend Lazy Man’s ongoing battles with MonaVie distributors was the inspiration for this story.  However, the companies, products, and people in this story are all fictional.  Keep fighting the good fight, Lazy!

Marco Pariso took a gulp of juice and settled into his rather uncomfortable chair in front of his rather ugly desk. The chair, the desk, and even the juice were absurdly expensive – pretentious products marketed to those with more money than sense.

Marco was faced with a serious problem. After several years of strong revenue growth, his company was facing a sharp decline. In this economy, fewer people were wanting to shell out $18 for a bottle of juice – even juice as fruitfully delicious as Panacea.

Even Marco was not immune from the downturn. This week, he had been forced to downgrade hair stylists to a bum who charged only $200. As he ran his fingers through his hair, he could feel the cheapness of the cut – how his hair longed for Rafael’s artistry.

Marco had decided to forestall the declining sales by ramping up marketing efforts. Panacea had always been marketed as having “more vitamins than you can find in nature.” Now the juice was being promoted as fighting swine flu, cancer, polio, and even AIDS.

Marco knew better than to have the company make official claims regarding these alleged health benefits. He had engaged the top distributors and suggested they start spreading the word unofficially by sending the information down the pyramid. Before long, thousands of Panacea distributors were claiming that the product could cure nearly every disease known to man. Because Marco had been smart enough to avoid putting these claims in black and white, he was confident that he would be able to keep the FDA at bay.

Sales had picked up for a while. Then those nosy internet bloggers began to take aim at Panacea. They claimed that Marco’s company was spreading lies about the health benefits of the drink. Marco had initially ignored the bloggers – merely annoying little gnats. Before long, he realized that some of these clowns had thousands of people reading their tripe every day. People were actually taking them seriously. When Marco looked at the sales figures, he could see a small, by noticeable drop in sales.

Marco decided to pick on the top blogger, Caped Crusader, in hopes that once the Crusader had been squashed, the rest of the bloggers would fall like dominos. Marco had his people publish fake studies all over the internet and had dozens of Panaceas distributors go to Caped Crusaders site and quote these fictional studies as the basis for Panacea’s health claims.

Crusader was a bit more clever than he had expected. He posted details about the visitors in order to show that all of the negative comments were coming from just a handful of geographical locations. He then went even a step further, showing that the sites which presented the studies had all been created in the same week and were all registered to the same organization.

Marco had been foiled again. Marco did not enjoy being foiled, and he began to plan his next move. Caped Crusader must be stopped – but how? Physical violence was distasteful to Marco, and so he pondered the ways that he could tie up Caped Crusader in court. A libel suit, for sure – and perhaps copyright infringement. He laughed as he made a mental note for his legal team to send out a cease and desist letter in the morning. That would scare the little shit. Crusader was probably some wimpy teenager living in his mom’s basement.

Out of the corner of his eye, Marco noticed a light in the distance. Within a few minutes, the light got much brighter. He went to the window and peered out. What he saw shook Marco to his core. The villagers were marching upon his mansion. The torches shed enough light that he could make out the faces of some of his former customers – and he noticed that they were carrying pitchforks.

After thirty years on the job, Ronald Jensen was stepping down as the head sommelier at Greenwich Gardens.  The Gardens, as the restaurant was widely known, was a favorite hot spot of the upper class.  A hamburger, if someone would even consider ordering something so common, would cost about as much as a working person’s weekly grocery bill.

For decades, Ronald had been serving wine to the elite snobs who frequented the place.  Most of the time, he ended up giving recommendations to the clueless nouveau riche.  Many of these clowns didn’t even know whether to order red or white wine with a meal.  Ronald was paid a livable wage for his work, and the tips allowed him to indulge a few of his hobbies and build a nest egg for retirement.

Ronald knew that he was luckier than some of the other employees at Greenwich Gardens.  While he was treated as a second class citizen by the wealthy patrons, most of the other staff was treated like dirt, as if they weren’t even human.  This had been the sad reality when the classes were forced together within the confines of the restaurant.  The working class served the rich, and the rich looked down their noses at the workers.

Ronald thought ahead, to his life after retirement.  He was moving away from the city, back near his old home town.  He had bought a modest cabin near the lake and would spend his golden years carving duck decoys and catching up on his reading.  He wouldn’t live an extravagant life, but he’d get by.

He heard laughter coming from a table near the back and glanced at the group.  They were kids in their 20s who had never worked a day in their life, and never would.  Trust fund kids with millions in the bank and nothing in their heads.  They spent their days dining on lobster and foie gras and enjoying the best wines in the world.  They had done nothing to earn their station in life.  There was truly no justice in this world.

Ronald smiled at that thought that justice would eventually be served.  Those who live by the sword, die by the sword.  Likewise, those who cruise through life eating, drinking, and being merry would also have these vices become their downfall.  The wine cellar at Greenwich Gardens had also been home to some of the most valuable and rare vintages of wine.  Indeed, a few dozen of the bottles currently in the cellar were very special indeed.

Ronald knew that it would be at least a year or so before the first of the special bottles was uncorked.  He wondered how many patrons would die before anyone thought to look at Greenwich Gardens as a source of the poison.  While the poison was quite lethal, it was also slow acting.  It could take a few days before the victims felt any symptoms.  With any luck, Ronald’s special vintage would continue to kill people quietly.  Just one victim every year or so, stretching out his silent legacy for decades.

Officer Graham Watkins grabbed the stale coffee, tossed the paper cup into the metal basket in the corner of the room, and turned to face the witness.  He plopped down a fresh cup of brew in front of him and took a seat.

“Good morning, Mr. Mills,” he started, reading the name from the page in front of him, “We believe that you may have information pertinent to an ongoing criminal investigation.  We – “

The other man cut off Watkins in mid sentence.  “I confess, I killed her.  Lock me up.”  Spencer Mills buried his head in his hands and began to weep uncontrollably.

The rookie officer was fortunate that Mills wasn’t able to see him as Watkins’ jaw dropped completely to the floor.  What the hell?  This was supposed to be a cookie cutter interview regarding an embezzlement case against one of Mills’ co-workers.  Now we were talking about murder.  Watkins hadn’t the slightest clue what killing Mills might be talking about.

Watkins wondered if it might be best to get a more seasoned investigator into the room to finish the interview.  Watkins decided against it, preferring to strike while the iron was hot.  By the time he tracked down a detective, Mills might stop talking.  Better to keep the ball rolling.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Mills.  Your confession will undoubtedly bring some closure to the family of the victim.  Before I go further, I should advise you that you have certain rights.”  Watkins pulled out his pocket copy of the Miranda rights and made sure that he recited them clearly and correctly.

“Now, do I understand that you wish to waive these rights and speak freely about this crime?”

Mills wiped tears from his face and nodded in agreement.

Watkins pulled a sheet of paper from one of the folders in front of him.  “This form is a waiver of your Miranda rights.  If you wish to waive your rights, read this carefully and then sign and date the form at the bottom.”  Watkins uncapped his pen and handed it to Mills.  Mills gave the document a cursory glance before scribbling his signature.

Watkins breathed more easily.  Sometimes the mere mention of Miranda could make criminals think twice about confessing.  He had cleared the first hurdle.

Typically, the interrogator has most of the pieces of the puzzle and needs just a few details from the perpetrator in order to complete the picture.  In this case, the situation was completely flipped.  Watkins had just a couple of pieces and needed to extract the other 498 from Mills.  He decided to get the ball rolling with an open ended question.

“Why did you do it?”

“I just got tired of waiting, you know?  I picked her up at a bar near the stadium.    Alex Brady had a good game, and we won, so everyone was in a pretty good mood.  Afterward, we went back to my place.  I just wanted to get in her pants, but she wanted to watch the Bombers game.  So we’re watching the stupid Bombers game.  The whole time, I’m just thinking about sex, but she keeps talking about baseball.  She just won’t shut up, you know?  Finally, she’s yammering on about the DH, and I just snapped.”

Watkins took a long sip of coffee from his cup.  He needed to tread very lightly.  It was critical to avoid tipping off Mills to the fact that he had absolutely no idea what murder Mills was confessing to.  Asking for the name of the victim was sure to make Mills clam up.  He decided on an indirect approach, hoping that useful information would spill out.

“This is my first murder case,” admitted Watkins.  “I’ve always wondered – what does it feel like?”

Mills grinned back at the rookie.  “It was the ultimate high, copper.  Like the perfect trip.  Better than blow, better than ice.  Feeling her neck snap was the best feeling I’ve ever experienced.”

Want to know what comes next?  It’ll cost you!

As you know, the vast majority of the content on The Soap Boxers is free.  A couple of times each year, I bundle up the fiction stories that have accumulated since the last publication, add in a bonus story, and tie them up in a nice bundle and attach a price tag.

How much will it cost you?  Well, you have 3 purchasing options:

• The 96 page PDF Tip of the Iceberg and Other Stories.  The PDF contains 31 stories consisting of about 27,000 words.  I’m pricing this at 15 cents per story – $4.65 for the collection.
• The title story is also available as an audio book with a run time of about 28 minutes.  Your cost is $1.99.  Note that this is just the one story, not all 31.
• You can also purchase the combo pack that contains the PDF as well as the audio book.  Normally the price is  $5.79 – but for the next two weeks, you can get it for $4.65.  That’s the same price as the PDF, so you might as well buy the combo pack.

You can find these products and many others, at the Hyrax Publications store.  I hope you think the pricing is fair and will buy a copy to support an independent writer.

As an added bonus, the first three people to buy the combo pack will receive a free copy of The Cell Window combo pack.  If you are one of the first three people, I will try to notify you within 24 hours.  If you aren’t among the first three, you can still get a good deal on The Cell Window Combo Pack – it’s currently on sale for just $3.65.

I will also allow you to share any product with a friend.  In reality, there’s very little I can do to prevent you from sharely freely, other than rely in the honor system.  However, in this case, you can share with a friend with no guilt whatsoever.  All I ask is that you tell the friend about The Soap Boxers.

Thank you for your continued support.

Malcom Newbury sat behind the great mahogany desk, waiting for the others to arrive for the meeting. The intern, Rachel Buxton, sat at Newbury’s right, pounding away at the keyboard as she answered the vast majority of emails that made it into Newbury’s inbox.

Buxton had been an intern at Newbury Industries for six months, but her ties to Malcom went back much further. Buxton’s parents had both been longtime domestic employees of Newbury.

Diana Buxton had been in charge of the inside of Newbury’s home. Among her chores were the cooking, cleaning, and trips to the grocery store. Where Diana’s realm ended, Thomas Buxton’s began. Thomas maintained the grounds, kept the two horses fed and exercised, fixed anything that broke, and served as chauffeur or butler when the occasion called for it.

When Rachel was fourteen, tragedy struck. Her parents were driving home from a rare night on the town when their car hit a patch of ice, slid off the road, and slammed into a tree. Diana and Thomas were killed instantly.

Diana and Thomas Buxton had no living family, so it was no great surprise that their wills dictated that Malcom Newbury be appointed as Rachel’s legal guardian. This was not a responsibility Malcom looked forward to. His own children had long since flown the coop, and he had no desire to raise another teenager.

Rachel was equally uncomfortable with the arrangement. However, she realized that remaining under the roof of Malcom Newbury was immeasurably better than landing on the streets, and she made every effort to ease the burden on him.

Over the years, Rachel had assisted her mother on many of the tasks around the house, and she quickly slipped into the role her mother had filled for Malcom – ensuring that the house was clean and that dinner was always ready on time. Malcom had hired a man to maintain the grounds, but Rachel took charge of the horses.  The fact that Rachel Buxton was able to maintain excellent grades with a grueling work schedule was a testament to the fortitude of the young woman.

Two years later, Malcom had suffered a heart attack while eating dinner. His trusty servant Rachel had immediately performed CPR and called 911. At the hospital, she maintained a vigil in his room, sleeping for only fifteen or twenty minutes at a time before resuming her watch.

It was during his convalescence that Newbury realized that he had taken the loyalty of Rachel and her parents for granted. This sixteen year old girl stood by him every step on his recovery, serving as his coach and urging him on. At the same time, not a single member of Malcom’s own family could be bothered to call or write.

Malcom decided that Rachel would have the opportunity to go to college, despite the fact that her parents had died nearly penniless. On her eighteenth birthday, Malcolm surprised her with the gift of a college education, completely paid for.

Three years into a stellar college career, it had been time for Rachel to embark upon an internship. She had initially balked at the prospect of an internship with Newbury Industries, insisting that she wanted to gain an opportunity on her own merits. Malcom had suggested that she analyze her resume more closely – her merits certainly qualified her for this opportunity.

For six months, she had been Malcom Newbury’s personal assistant. She had learned about the company from the founder himself. She was a natural, and was soon handling the majority of correspondence with minimal involvement from Newbury – allowing only the most complex issues to arrive at his desk. She was far and away the best assistant Newbury had ever had the pleasure of working with.

Rachel ceased her typing when the five vice presidents of Newbury Industries entered the office and took their seats. She sat with anticipation, waiting for the meeting of the power brokers to begin.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” began Malcom Newbury, “as you know, this young woman is Rachel Buxton, the intern. She has been doing an excellent job, and I would like to announce her promotion.”

Rachel broke into a broad smile at the unexpected news. Being promoted to a permanent position would be a great relief – no more running around trying to land a job before she graduated in May.

“As of this moment, Rachel will assume the title of vice president. Upon my retirement or eventual demise, she will become president of the company.”

Rachel sat in stunned silence. She noticed that she was the only one registering any shock – it was clear that this meeting was for her benefit.

Malcom turned and spoke directly to Rachel. “Over the years, I treated your parents very poorly. They put their very heart and soul into making me happy, and I rewarded them only with their wages. They gave me the great honor of raising their daughter, and this I also held in low regard. In my old age, I have come to realize that you are far more family that my own flesh and blood. I have enjoyed watching your successes over the years, and it is with great pride that I look forward to turning my life’s work over to you.”

When he finished speaking, Rachel saw a single teardrop land on his cheek. She stood to embrace him, the only living person that she could consider to be family. Their relationship had been forged by hardships – and as a result, was as strong as steel.

The ball sailed high into the air before smashing into the window of a house situated deep in right field of the makeshift diamond.

Jeffrey Snyder grabbed his glove and prepared to make a hasty exit to avoid the wrath of the homeowner.

“Wait a minute,” came a shout from over his shoulder. Jeff stopped in his tracks and turned to face his classmate, Ryan Green.

“It’s OK,” explained Green. “The old lady that lives there is really cool. She just gives us the balls back without yelling at us.”

Snyder hesitated. Could this be true? Any time an adult had caught one of his friends breaking a window, the whole group had been yelled at and forced to pay to fix the window. He decided that Green wouldn’t lie to him. He turned back around and joined the group and they walked toward the house.

Ryan Green took a step forward and rang the bell. A moment later, a woman answered the door.

“I’m sorry, Miss Marshall. We broke your window again.”

Kathleen Marshall looked at the group of young boys. “Which of you boys hit the ball?” she asked.

Jeffrey Snyder hesitated for a moment, and then spoke. “It was me, ma’am. I’m very sorry.”

“You a righty or a lefty?”

“Uh, I’m righthanded, ma’am.”

“That’s a good piece of hitting, then,” she remarked. “You took the ball the opposite way. You can’t expect to succeed by pulling everything.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied a dumbfounded Snyder.

“Go back to your game, boys. Don’t you worry none about this window – I can get it fixed easily enough.”

The relieved group muttered thanks to Kathleen and they raced back toward the diamond to continue their game.

Kathleen Marshall made a note to call her handyman to get the glass in the window replaced. She could expect to replace the glass at least a couple of times each year, as well as suffering several dents to her siding.

Marshall put the cost of the repair out of her mind for a moment as she watched the boys continue the game. It was a beautiful day in June, and these were the true boys of summer – the kids who played the game for the sheer enjoyment.

Kathleen thought back on her own son, Edward. Edward’s favorite toy as an infant had been a plush baseball, and he spent countless hours swinging away at a ball on a tee in his younger days. When he was finally old enough to play with real bats and balls, he spent summer days such as this playing baseball from sun up to sun down. Many times, Kathleen had to walk down to the diamond to drag him home for supper.

Kathleen also remembered the last year. Edward fighting the leukemia that ravaged his body. Every day, he listened to baseball games on the portable radio next to his bed. His love of the game gave him the strength to continue his fight.

The she remembered that long ago fall day. The baseball season had wrapped up, and there was no baseball to listen to on the radio. Edward managed to stumble across The Natural playing on one of the movie channels. He drifted off the sleep as Robert Redford smacked the mighty blast that froze the clock at a moment in time.

Frozen in time, too, was the smile on Edward’s face. It was the final time that he would drift off to sleep.

Kathleen looked back toward the boys playing baseball and took a moment to dab a tear from her eye. Some of her friends said that she allowed the kids to take advantage of her and that she should make them pay to fix her window when they broke it. Kathleen knew that she could never do that. She would never do anything that would chase away these boys – the boys who kept alive the memories of her Edward with their joyful baseball games.

The final part of the three part story.

Murray and Smythe spent the morning analyzing the financial records of Wallaby, as well as the records of the foreign suppliers Wallaby was interested in taking over. The offer Murray had on the table would give Smythe a sizable ownership interest in Wallaby. Based on the past performance of the company, it looked like a solid bargain.

During post-lunch cocktails, Murray made a final pitch.

“In most case, I would never dream of taking on an outside investor. Unfortunately, my silent partners and I are stretched thin at the moment, and the banks think my plan is a bit on the risky side, given the financial state of the suppliers.”

Leonard Smythe nodded, not totally disagreeing with the opinion of the banks.

“If we can get the infusion of cash to take control of these suppliers, we’re going to have a very strong year. Our revenue has been on a steep upward curve for the last few years. But if we’re forced to renege on the deals we’ve made with the computer manufacturers, we not only lose that revenue, but the trust of those companies.”

“I’ve heard good things about you, Mr, Smythe, so I wanted to give you a crack at this. I’m confident that you would be a fair partner and would not put your own interest in front of those of the company. Unfortunately, though, time is of the essence. I have a meeting with another venture capitalist on Monday, so I’m going to need an answer by tomorrow.”

Smythe gulped the rest of his scotch and sat silently for a moment. “Silas, my boy, I’m seriously considering investing in Wallaby. However, we’re talking about a serious amount of money. I’ll have to sleep on it and give you an answer in the morning.”

Smythe headed back to hotel in the early afternoon, saying that he needed to make some calls about some other deals he was working on. He arranged to meet Andrea in the hotel bar once again.

The next morning, Andrea told Silas she was very confident that Smythe was going to come through with the money.

“I think our Mr. Smythe is a bit smitten with me,” Andrea told Silas over breakfast in the morning. “He tried to convince me to run away with him for the weekend”

“Did you agree?”

“Actually, I did. I thought it would give you some time to shut down operations and leave town. By the time Smythe smells a rat, all traces of Wallaby Industries will be long gone.”

Silas Murray smiled. “By the time he realizes that he’s being conned by a beautiful woman, his money would be sitting safely in the Cayman Islands.”

As Andrea had predicted, Leonard Smythe had his checkbook out when he met with Silas. He quickly signed the contract and handed a check to Silas.

“A million now, and the rest in ten days, as we agreed.”

Silas smiled and took the check, amused at receiving an old school form of payment. “I look forward to having you as a partner, Mr. Smythe.”

“Please, now that we’re partners, call me Leonard,” replied Smythe. “Oh, and if it isn’t a terrible inconvenience, I’d like to borrow your VP of Sales for a few days.”

“You kids have a good time. I think the company can survive for one day without Ms. Noonan.”

An hour after Smythe left the office with Andrea, Silas was at the bank. He deposited the check and left instructions to wire the funds to his Cayman account after the deposit had been verified.

Silas spent the rest of the day removing any trace of their presence from the location they had used as the headquarters for Wallaby Industries, including wiping for fingerprints. They had had upfront cash for the rent to avoid a paper trail. Silas Murray jumped on a plane and headed back home.

When Silas didn’t hear from Andrea on Monday morning, he got a little worried. When the funds hadn’t been verified by Tuesday, he got more worried. On Wednesday, he received a letter in the mail from Leonard Smythe.

My name is not really Leonard Smythe, of course, just as yours is not Silas Murray. I simply assumed the identity of Smythe for a few days, in order to use his credibility to gain your trust.

You conned a friend of mine several years ago. I doubt you remember it – it was just one of many victims you have conned over the years.

I took it upon myself to get revenge for my friend. You thought you were conning me out of my money, but I was actually conning you out of your wife. I made my sales pitch to her the first night I was in town. She’s tired of life on the run, Silas. I can give her a comfortable life without the need to constantly look over her shoulder.

Making our escape over the weekend bought us some time. Andrea knew that you wouldn’t get truly worried until the check bounced. She’s an amazing woman, Silas. You don’t know what you’ve been missing all these years as you focused all of your energy on the almighty dollar.

This is the second part of a three part story.

“I’m sure you and Andrea would talk business, so it’s a deductible expense for me,” Murray said with a conspiratorial wink.

Murray took a sip of coffee and turned the topic of the conversation back to business.

“As you know, Mr. Smythe, Wallaby is a privately held company. We develop computer components. We sell the components to the big manufacturers, who use the components in their computers.”

Smythe nodded as Murray continued. “We have strong relationships with a couple of foreign companies who do the actual manufacturing. Unfortunately, those companies are experiencing some major financial trouble right now.”

Murray continued his tale of woe. “If we can’t get the companies to deliver, we could find ourselves unable to meet the deadlines for the computer companies. That could put us in a world of hurt. In fact, it could threaten the viability of the company.”

“Can’t you simply shift the manufacturing to a different company?” asked Smythe.

“Not at this stage in the game, unfortunately. We wouldn’t have the time to find another supplier, sign contracts, and have them get ready for production. Time is simply too short.

“Then why do you need me?” asked the venture capitalist.

“One option that we have come up with is to simply buy those companies. This would give us complete control and allow us to meet our deadlines.”

“And you want my money.”

“Well, yes,” admitted Murray.

“How much?”

“We could acquire the companies for about three million in cash, in addition to assuming about a million and a half in debt.”

Murray spent the rest of the morning talking about the history of the company and sharing details about the products that the company produced. The company had started in Murray’s garage and slowly become a presence in the industry.

After a long lunch, they returned to the office and Murray placed a call to one of the suppliers. Although the man on the other end assured Murray that everything was going fine, Smythe could tell by the strain in his voice that this was not the case.

After the call, Murray brought up some news articles about the supplier’s parent company. The company was indeed teetering on the brink of collapse.

“We wouldn’t be buying the entire company, of course,” explained Murray, “but just the one subsidiary.”

“You’ve definitely given me a lot to think about, Murray,” responded Smythe. “I’d like to knock off early and head back to the hotel. We can continue this tomorrow.”

“Certainly.”

On the way out, Smythe made plans to meet Andrea Noonan at the hotel bar before dinner.

The next morning, Andrea was filling her husband’s ears with complaints.

“He was flirting with me all night. He even gave me a goodnight kiss.”

“I hope you flirted back,” replied Silas Murray.

“I most certainly did not. I’m tired of these cons, Silas. I don’t like being the bait in a honey trap.”

“This is a big one, babe. We could score a million bucks from this Smythe guy. He’s a rube – buying the bullshit hook, line, and sinker. That kind of money should buy at least some mild flirting.”

Andrea was stunned at what her husband was telling her to do.

“And what if he wants to carry it further than flirting?”

“Just remember how big of a score this is. We definitely don’t want a goodnight kiss to be a deal breaker! This could be the deal that sends us to retirement in Costa Rica.”

Andrea was angered at Silas’ suggestion that she use her body to further their financial goals – but did look forward to the prospect of retiring to a warm climate in the near future. One big score and they could leave the con games in the past.

It seemed that Leonard Smythe had enjoyed his evening, in spite of the cool reception from Andrea.

“I think Ms. Noonan likes me,” he confided in Silas.

Silas Murray breathed a sigh of relief – Smythe was still under Andrea’s spell, oblivious to the fact that she disliked him.

“Andrea was just telling me how much she enjoyed spending the evening with you. She is looking forward to another night on the town tonight.”

The first part of a three part story.  Stay tuned for the rest of the story over the weekend.

Leonard Smythe was greeted by a receptionist as he walked into the corporate offices of Wallaby Industries.

“I’m here to see Silas Murray. He is expecting me – Leonard Smythe.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Smythe. Just one moment.” The receptionist grabbed the phone and made a couple of quick phone calls.

“I’m afraid that Mr. Murray is still in conference,” explained the apologetic woman. “I’m going to have our VP of Sales take you back to his office.”

A moment later, a perky redhead poked her head through the door of the reception area.

“Mr. Smythe? Hello, I’m Andrea Noonan, head of sales. Silas should be finished with his teleconference shortly. Please come with me back to his office.”

Smythe couldn’t help thinking what a great choice Wallaby had made for their VP of Sales. Ms. Noonan was quite the looker. She was tall, had an athletic build, and carried herself with an air of confidence.

“The place doesn’t usually look this dead,” explained Noonan. “There’s a big industry conference in Vegas this week, and almost everyone is there. We’re operating with a skeleton crew.”

Smythe looked around and counted exactly five employees at their desks. The rest of the desks lay in disarray. Framed photos, soda cans, and printers dotted the landscape. Wallaby wasn’t the biggest company in the world, but it was indeed running a skeleton crew. Taking Murray, Noonan, and the receptionist into account, there were eight Wallaby employees in the building.

“Must be a very important conference,” he remarked.

“Oh, yes,” replied Noonan with a smile. “This conference will probably drive about half our annual sales.”

“I’m surprised that the CEO isn’t there.”

“Well, Mr. Murray knows that you are a very busy man and tried to work around your schedule. I suspect that he’ll be taking a flight to Sin City later in the week.”

Smythe nodded. Indeed, he was an important man for Wallaby Industries. As a venture capitalist, he was accustomed to have people bend over backwards to accommodate his schedule.

Andrea Noonan was observing Smythe carefully to try to determine if the man was seeing past the charade. So far, so good. The desks had been professionally staged by Silas, and he had hired some out of work actors to fill a few of the seats.

Silas Murray popped out of his office as they approached. Murray was a well dressed man in his mid thirties and gave Leonard Smythe’s hand a hearty shake.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting with you, Mr, Smythe. Did you have a good flight?”

“It’s always a good flight when you’re in first class, Mr. Murray.”

Murray laughed at the witty remark. “Very true. Please, call me Silas.”

Smythe nodded to acknowledge the request, but did not make a reciprocal offer.

“Andrea, could you get us some coffee?” asked Murray as he ushered Smythe into his office.

“Normally, she’d bite my head off for a request like that. The VP of Sales does not fetch coffee – even for the CEO.” Murray laughed. “But we’re really short staffed this week, so everyone is wearing a few hats.”

Andrea Noonan returned with two steaming mugs of coffee and set them down on the table. Four sets of eyes watched her leave the room.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Murray, breaking Smythe from his trance, “but I planned your evening for you. Ms. Noonan will be showing you around town.”

The other man smiled broadly before responding.

“I think I would be agreeable to that.”

To be continued.