Chapter Twenty-Five
Sitting in front of the flat screen Dell monitor inside of his six by eight
cubicle, Charles leaned forward and studied the late 1960’s video his Internet
search had uncovered.
Could this be the golden egg I’ve been looking for the past three weeks? … It certainly looks like it is.
Charles grabbed his mouse and selected his browser’s zoom option. Upon reaching a four hundred percent zoom factor, his mouth partly opened and an ear-to-ear smile streaked across his face.
“I’ve finally got you, Carl Thompson,” he exclaimed, gazing toward the sunlight outside one of Krypton Software’s Plexiglas exterior walls. “And unlike the last time I thought I had something we could use against you, when Ray Sizemore sees this, he’ll have a mega hoot.”
“A mega hoot?” Phillip asked, narrowing an eye, as he stepped into the cubicle next to his coworker's. A twelve-ounce cup of hot coffee tightly grasped within his right hand revealed his tension.
“Yeah,” Charles beamed. “You’re not going to believe what I just found. Come … take a look at this.”
Phillip turned toward his friend and displayed a superficial smile.
I’m sure you couldn’t have found anything that good, he thought, setting his hazelnut brew on the left side of his keyboard. I’ve been trying to dig up something on Carl ever since the first week of January. And it seems that from the day this guy was born, his life has been so goody two shoes; he should have been nominated as a poster child for Mr. Clean.
Upon entering Charles' cubicle a few seconds later, Phillip proceeded to study the video being displayed on his co-worker’s twenty-two-inch monitor.
“That is Carl Thompson, Gibsonville’s Office Skills instructor. Isn’t it?” Phillip asked, staring at the young, longhaired hippie in front of him.
“Yeah. Back when he was either in his late teens or early twenties,” Charles replied. “Isn’t this amazing? Who would have thought someone as straight-laced as he is would have been involved in something like this?”
Phillip nodded, but kept his eyes glued to the screen.
“You know,” Charles began, when the video reached its end. “… With Mr. Thompson now working in public education, if word about this or any accompanying pictures ever got out; it could easily cost him his job – especially since he works in a ‘Peyton Place’ neighborhood like Gibsonville.”
“You really think so?” Phillip took a second look at Charles’ monitor and clasped his chin. “He was just a kid when these were taken.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Charles picked up his handset, so he could dial his boss’s office. “As sensitive as society is today, in order to be an effective instructor you must maintain a high reputation. And if only a couple of these photos or the video were ever brought to the local media’s attention, it would be more than enough to blow Mr. Thompson’s reputation all the way to hillbilly heaven.”
Milliseconds later, upon hearing the telltale click of Ray picking up his phone being resounded on Charles’ external speaker, Phillip wondered if the exposé his coworker had found would actually be as effective as Charles thought it would be.
Thirty minutes later, the answer came in the form of a company-issued iPad and an order to immediately head toward Gibsonville.
*****
“Now why couldn’t Ray send Charles instead of me?” Phillip asked himself aloud as he turned right off Apple Street onto Micra Dr. – inside of Gibsonville City limits.
Carl’s off-white colonial-styled home, once again, stood proudly in the center of the block – completely surrounded with a picket fence and a three-foot high stainless steel gate which blocked the entrance to its 1950s styled front porch.
“After all, it was Charles who found the incriminating photos,” Phillip continued, reasoning with himself. “Yet, I’m always the one who gets sent out to do the dirty work. And if I fail, it's always my job that’s on the line – not his. … This just isn’t right.”
Phillip shook his head in frustration as he pulled behind Mr. Thompson’s cobalt blue Volkswagen Beetle, before stopping to focus on the condition of the ladybug-shaped automobile.
Gee. Either Carl Thompson is a lot worse off than when I last saw him, or he started to collect antiques. This car looks like it was built in the early 70s. … Hmm. I wonder if he bought it because of the burden related to his wife’s breast cancer?
Phillip made a mental note to ask Carl if the opportunity arose and headed toward his front porch.
*****
“Hello. May I help you?” Carl asked, offering his outstretched hand soon after the doorbell rang.
“Yes,” Phillip replied, grabbing Carl’s hand in a firm grip. “I’m …”
While Phillip was in the middle of answering, predominate question marks unexpectedly appeared in both of Mr. Thompson’s eyes. “You’re Phillip Cuttingham … from Krypton Software if I recall,” Carl interrupted.
“That’s correct,” Phillip confirmed, taking a step back in surprise. He definitely wasn’t expecting Carl to remember him.
Mr. Thompson’s smile disappeared faster than a coon being chased by a dozen hounds, and he instantly dropped Mr. Cuttingham’s hand.
“So what brings you back to Gibsonville? I figured after your failed attempt to bribe me a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t be seeing that incorrigible hide of yours around these parts again.”
Phillip lowered his black leather briefcase before opening it, so he could pull out his iPad.
“We’ve got a bit of unfinished business, Mr. Thompson,” he replied in a serious tone as he clicked on his ten-inch tablet. “And this time I believe you are going to want to cooperate.”
Carl released a slight chuckle and folded his arms in front of him.
“You really think so, slimeball? I’ve already told you how I feel about my students. … I’m not about to steal their game – no matter how much you're thinking about offering.”
Phillip ignored Mr. Thompson’s reply and pressed a few icons. He then looked deeply into Carl’s brown eyes.
“Krypton’s not offering you any money, Mr. Thompson,” he said, giving his soon-to-be victim a menacing grin. “That deal is ancient history. What I am going to ask you to do now, you’re going to do for free.”
“Free?” Carl choked. “You must be kidding. If I wasn’t willing to help your unscrupulous organization for two hundred thousand dollars, what in the devil makes you think I’d be willing to help them for absolutely nothing?”
“This.” Phillip turned his iPad around so his victim could get a clear view of what was on its screen.
As Carl watched the short video in front of him, his pupils widened and his throat constricted.
“What the … Heaven forbid. … Where in the world did you get a copy of this?” Carl gasped.
“Off the Internet,” Phillip replied, sliding his iPad back into its case. “You should have known videos would be made of something as historic as Woodstock, my used-to-be nude and carefree flower child.”
“I swear. I didn’t …” Reaching for the doorknob, Carl quickly closed the wooden front door behind him. With any luck, his wife had not overheard them. “I was just a kid at the time and never thought about things like that. Not to mention, the Internet didn’t even exist back then.”
“I know.” Phillip gave Carl a grin, not unlike a Cheshire cat’s. “But here it is and in living color as they used to say … a young, nude, pot smoking Mr. Thompson having a great time partying with his hippie girlfriend at Woodstock. Now imagine if your neighbors or the Guilford County School board got wind of this. It might tarnish that great reputation you’ve worked so hard to maintain.”
“Tarnish it?” Carl angrily replied. “You might as well kiss my career good-bye.”
Phillip agreed. “Yep. So do you think you might be willing to cooperate this time?”
Carl stared at him and frowned.
Heaven knows helping Krypton Software is the last thing I would ever want to do. But I have no choice. This video alone could easily cost me my job. And if that happened, how could I pay for Laura’s cancer treatment or even make the house payment?
“You still want me to make a copy of the kid’s game?” he squeaked, moments later.
Phillip laughed. “Not exactly …”