TEPHANIE PULLED HER CAR into a space on the outskirts of the lot before she made her way to First Capital Mortgage’s fourstory building. She worked in an office on the second floor in the center of the building, processing employment verifications. The spacious room housed 40 cubicles, normally manned by 40 employees, mostly women. But she worked the late shift along with six other women, processing verifications received mostly from the west coast and Hawaii.
The moment Stephanie stepped from the elevator, still tightly clutch
Maggie Champion, Stephanie’s best friend, occupied a cubicle across the narrow hallway in the close quarters of the office, whose stark interior didn’t offer a single window view. A 62-year-old mother of four daughters and grandma of twelve, Maggie was a widow of five years. Her husband Richard had worked as a music teacher at one of the city’s high schools and had also served as a local ecclesiastical leader. He’d died in October after falling asleep at the wheel driving home from a religious conference in Salt Lake. Maggie would have been with him had she not been tending three of her grandchildren while their parents were away on a business trip.
Maggie was a devout, god-fearing woman, full of love and compassion, who played the organ for her church’s congregation. Her tall, slender features and graying hair lent her soft, square face an inviting countenance of wisdom. Stephanie looked to her as a caring friend and couldn’t wait to clock in, find Maggie, and share with her the wonderful news.
She found Maggie’s cubicle empty, her computer off. How strange –her co-worker usually arrived several minutes earlier than Stephanie.
“Kirsten.” She craned her neck to peer over the back wall of her work space, where the woman had just hung up from a call. “Did Maggie call in?”
Linda, a workaholic whose life-goal was to climb the corporate ladder of success as quickly as her skinny legs could take her–but was still stuck on the team leader rung–looked up with her tired, tarantula eyes. “She called in a few minutes ago. Her grandson fell against the bed or something and needs stitches. She’s tending her daughter’s baby while they go to the doctor.”
Upon hearing the news, Stephanie sunk in her seat and hunkered down to her work.
Al Kostecki slithered from his matted easy chair, in the process knocking two beer cans from the armrest to the floor. The rolling, near-empty cans trickled dime-size puddles of foamy fluid on the soiled carpet. He’d just finished watching his favorite morning soap–and downed his last beer. His youngest son, Andy, stumbled up the stairs from his basement bedroom in his leopard-print bikini underwear, opened the refrigerator door and stood staring blankly into the barren, bright-lit box, leisurely scratching at the skin just beneath his waistband. Truly a chip off the old block.
His mother had stopped buying groceries long ago, the day after she started eating her two square meals at the casino. The menfolk would have to fend for themselves, since her check barely covered the rent, utilities, car payment and insurance.
“You drank my beer,” Andy muttered.“I put it back dis afternoon. I got mail.” Al’s eyes lit up and a sinister smirk creased his mouth.
Andy slammed the fridge and spun around on his heels. “You lucky sobakc!” he said in his father’s native tongue. “Whose is it?”
“Dat stupid kid nex door.” Al flipped open the Hustler magazine he held to expose the credit card application jammed inside the centerfold. “I get bonus on dis von. De got preliminary vork all done.” Andy’s eyes rolled up into his head. “But he ain’t so stupid. He’s got the finest lookin’ woman I ever seen. Mmm, mmm, them long legs that go all the way up to her . . .”
“Her what?” Andy’s revelry was stopped in mid revel. Joan stomped into the room wearing a dingy robe, having already shed her makeup and wig. “You good-for-nothing trash are all the same!” she barked. “Can’t look at a woman without your filthy little minds undressing ‘em, can ya?” She filled the coffee-pot and set it on the burner. A cough–more like a long, scratchy hack–exploded from the back of her throat.
“Don’t got dat problem vit you no more.” Al refolded his magazine, jammed it in his back pocket, snatched up the car keys from atop the table and headed for the kitchen door.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” snapped his wife, her stubby fingers curling around the handle of a dirty coffee mug sitting on the counter top.
Al closed the rickety screen door between them. “Don’t vant ya take noting off dat anymore,” he laughed, glancing up and down her stout body. He knew what his cruel remark would bring, and nimbly stepped from firing range.
Joan’s mouth spewed vulgarities as the projectile concurrently passed through the torn screen and shattered into a hundred pieces across the crumbling concrete driveway. “And you better have my car back by 5:30, you . . .”
Al rolled up the window on the old Cadillac El Dorado and sped off to burn some of his wife’s hard-earned gasoline. He’d heard the same broken record a thousand times over. It was time to make some money.
In the meantime, Andy, unruffled in the least, had ambled from the kitchen to the bathroom, relieved himself, the door wide open, as his mother wound down and returned to her coffee-pot. He in turn meandered back into the kitchen, still scrupulously at the task of rearranging himself inside his tight underwear.
“Morning,” he muttered.
“You looking for a job today?”
“Sure, Ma, like always.” They sat opposite one another, the rickety metal table between them, awaiting their brew. Joan had tried to kick the lazy bunch from her home several times over the years. All had been in vain.
Maggie clocked in at 11:30 and made a beeline for her desk. The seven team leaders from the office were at their Thursday morning “Coaches’ Corner”, the company’s weekly pep talk. One of the big boys from the Chicago home office had flown in for the rally; the hotshot would already be halfway through his presentation by now.
The firm that had designed the new office sports pep talk was being paid serious money for the company’s morale boost. What’s more, it was being credited with the office’s increased sales, much to the workers’ outrage. The average employee didn’t care much for the game. The women joked amongst themselves that maybe the big shots truly didn’t know the real cause for the upturn: clearly, lower interest rates were driving the increased market share.
Maggie flipped on her computer, carefully nestled the attached headset over her delicately curled hairdo, and fit the earpieces snugly over her ears, smiling over at the glowing mother-to-be. Stephanie squirmed as she hurried to terminate her current call.
“Well, when are you due?” Maggie whispered as she scooted her chair across the hall into Stephanie’s workstation. Tears began to well up in Stephanie’s eyes, a not uncommon occurrence since the pregnancy began. “What’s the matter, dear?” Maggie consoled. She reached out and put her arm around her young friend, suddenly worried something might be wrong.
“N-nothing,” stuttered Stephanie, the tears spilling down her face as she folded back the images of her babies and laid them on her desk. “I don’t even know . . . w-why I’m crying.”
The older woman gently stroked her friend’s back. A co-worker in the adjacent booth poked her head over the divider to see what was going on.
“I’m having twins!” Stephanie blurted out–shattering in an instant all office decorum.
Within three minutes at least 30 women from the Employment Verification Team were jammed into the hallway near Stephanie’s cubicle, peeking over the dividers to catch a glimpse of the dark sonogram images and congratulating the expectant mother.
Meanwhile, a string of corporate suits followed Linda and the other six team leaders off the elevator and down the corridor leading to Employment Verification. The team leaders, having received such high praise for netting the best stats in the country, were anxious to introduce their staff to the visiting corporate dignitary–and his companion, the man who gleefully claimed all the credit.
A swell of chatter, plainly heard in the hall, was replaced by laughter and the boisterous expressions of women, sharing stories of their own pregnancies. Then, at once, a hush fell over the room. It was like some all-powerful being had suddenly reached down and draped a heavy tarp over the dividers. The throng of embarrassed woman, realizing they were being stared at by ten professional-looking men clad in fine business suits and their best ties, evaporated, each woman fleeing to the safety of her own desk.
Mike stepped from his pickup and locked the door. The parking lot of the Federal Building was largely deserted. Still, Mike was anxious. His face swivelled side to side, his deep-set eyes scanning the urban horizon. It appeared he hadn’t been followed. Technically, the assignment was finished. The phones had been disconnected and the moving rig was scheduled to pack up the rented shop gear the following day. Now off duty, he had been reassigned to the Utah office. After flashing his badge at the security guards, he marched straight into the Las Vegas office of the FBI.
“Agent Hale, you packed?” asked the suit-and-tied agent at the front desk.
“Maybe not. . . . Is Barnes in?”
“I think he’s just getting ready to leave for lunch. Go on back.”
Mike started down the hall toward the rear when Agent Shane Barnes stepped from his office to pull his door shut. Barnes was a real “suit,” part of the new generation of agents hired by the Federal government. It seemed almost every new recruit had a degree as either an accountant or an attorney. The days of hiring a good cop from the city force were long gone. For the few job openings in the agency, there were thousands of applicants. They could discriminate by hiring only the cream of the crop, and they knew it.
Anyone could see that Mike and Agent Barnes were polar opposites. Barnes, with his manicured nails, styled hair and straight, chalkwhite teeth, looked good in a suit. He was a natural in dealing with white-collar criminals. Mike, on the other hand, preferred the streets. Guns were his weapon of choice. The only things Agent Barnes had ever blown away were a few cases of clay pigeons at his father’s country club back east. He took special delight in mocking his much less polished fellow agent for his love of hunting.
“We need to talk,” Mike insisted.
“Hale, I thought you’d have that hunting trailer of yours hooked up to your 4-wheel-drive pickup and be halfway back to Utah by now,” sneered Agent Barnes.
“Cut the crap, Barnes. I think we’re back in business.”
Barnes shook his head. “I know you’d love to stay and keep playing with the cars, but the plug’s been pulled. The case is being shelved.”
“Well, you’d better dust it off.” Mike took a small plastic bag from his pocket and thrust it toward his pompous colleague. “Vincent Domenico dropped his Ferrari off this morning for a rush repair. I pried this from the trunk hinge. Didn’t take time to find the second one.” He dropped the bag containing a contorted, small-caliber slug into Barnes’ outstretched hand. “I’d say we’d better open shop again.”
Barnes’ face drew tight. “I’ll notify the SAC (Special Agent in Charge). You get back to work.”
“I’ve got the kid on it. Not a chance I could get it right in time.”
“Has he got anything to do with Domenico?”
“No way. The kid’s a good guy–practically refused to work on the car. We’ll need to be careful he doesn’t get sucked into this thing on entrapment.”
Barnes frowned. “‘Good kids don’t steal beer at gunpoint, hang out with punks like Bino Daniels, or drive cars with illegal plates. Matter of fact, now that I think of it, Mitch fits the description of a possible armed robbery suspect Vegas police took a report on last night. If they had a clue where the victim was, we’d help them bring Mitch in for questioning.”
“Listen, this kid’s no criminal.”
“Doesn’t he drive a red Camaro?”
“Sometimes. Why?”
“Your boy’s got problems. He got off with a wallet last night, at gunpoint. Seems he was chasing the guy across the railroad tracks and just about got him killed.”
Mike didn’t believe Mitch could be guilty of anything but trying to help. “We need him if we’re going to keep Vincent Domenico happy. Let’s bring the kid in so we can get this thing straight and put him on the payroll.”
“No, you keep the ball rolling. I’ll talk to Vegas PD and tell them we got a possible. We’ll keep a close eye on him. Maybe they’ll keep their distance while we play it out. If the kid’s dirty, we’ll let him hang himself.”