THE CHARM OF REVENGE Read online

  “What difference would it have made? We were homeless and penniless. I couldn’t force them to help us any more than you could.”

  “But Marcus said you’d have made a fine surgeon.”

  “In his dreams! Taking people apart is easy. it's putting them back together that's hard.”

  “I’m sorry, Brad, but I feel as though you’re a stranger.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Is it? I’ve been fighting to make this family whole again, and part of you has been missing the whole time! You’ve never told me about your childhood, and—”

  “Mommy, stop shouting. I hate it!”

  Lola spun on her heel.

  Lilly was in the study doorway, hugging Mopsey to her chest with both arms and looking ready to wail.

  Lola dropped to her haunches and pulled her close. “Mommy’s not shouting, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  A knock came at the front door.

  Lola hesitated, then scooped Lilly up on her arm and went to answer it.

  * * * *

  Brad massaged his chest, straining to make out the muffled sound of Lola’s voice, blended with an Indian accent. He watched her close the door and return Lilly to the floor, but something had changed. She looked paler, older.

  “There’s a Mrs. Patel from the IRS outside, saying she’s here to collect over a half million dollars in unpaid taxes.”

  9. ONE OF EACH

  Friday, 4:41 p.m.

  Randall had assumed the advert was a honey trap to snare big-game poachers and traders in illegal animal products, but the Texas auction company that placed it claimed the license to kill the white tiger issued by the Myanmar government, was to raise money for conservation. Randall’s contacts investigated, and despite his incredulity, it proved legit. Now the auction bids were skyrocketing.

  A new number popped up, topping his three-hundred-thousand-dollar bid by a hefty fifty grand. “No, no, no, don’t they understand? This is my prize!”

  The computer pinged as another bid appeared, this time for three hundred and eighty. “Stop it, stop it! This can’t be happening!” The auction timer was counting down to the close. “Got to get a grip. I am the captain of my ship, the master of my destiny.” He gritted his teeth, typed $400,000, and hit enter. “Ha! Eat that!”

  Antwan appeared in the doorway. “Can I have a word, boss?”

  Randall considered him. “Make it quick.”

  Antwan slipped into the nearest seat. “You should call the others for this one, we’ve got a major problem.”

  Randall considered Anton’s words, the tone, body language, and the beads of perspiration on his brow. He buzzed Charles Snyderman, Rohn Stark, and Oswald Castro. Two minutes later, they sat waiting.

  “What’s going on?” Rohn said.

  Randall pointed with his chin. “Out with it, Antwan.”

  “Ahem, so you asked me to check on this weekend’s shipment.”

  Randall’s heart skipped. “I did, and you said Michaels was ready to ship twelve on Sunday night and you’d arranged the police escort.”

  “Correct, but you didn’t ask me to verify with Walton if the customers were also ready.”

  “And I shouldn’t have to, so stop ass-covering and get to the goddamn predicate.”

  “Ahem, well, I thought, since Walton handles sales, and—”

  “THE POINT, ANTWAN!”

  “Erm, Walton just called to say they need fourteen delivered Sunday, instead of twelve.”

  “That’s impossible,” Snyderman said. “The next batch isn’t due from Argentina for weeks.”

  Antwan’s eyes darted between their faces.

  Randall felt his cheek twitch. “What are you not telling us, Antwan?”

  “Walton said the whole contract will cancel if we don’t deliver fourteen.”

  Taking a deep breath, Randall counted to three and checked his screen to see whether his bid was still leading. It was. “Screw the buyers then! We’ll keep their deposit.”

  Antwan pursed his lips. “They didn’t pay one, boss.”

  Randall slammed his palm on the glass desk. “And why the fuck not, pray tell?”

  “They told Walton they would pay cash at handover Sunday, and, because they want to place a large Christmas order, Walton thought it was no biggie.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about the deposit earlier?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  Castro shook his head. “That's the least of our problems. If we don't get the extra two, we’re screwed. Michaels can’t keep the stock while Walton finds a new buyer, and if we’re still holding them when the next shipment arrives, we’re asking for trouble.

  “He’s right.” Snyderman said, “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Hold on,” Randall looked at Antwan, “you said they’re placing another order?”

  “Ahem, that’s what Walton said.”

  “How big?” A new bid topped his.

  “He reckons thirty-six, so far.”

  “And the Argentinian shipment is pre-sold so we can’t use them to fill this new order.” Randall looked from one to another as a giddy wave took hold. “Can our suppliers deliver that many?”

  Rohn nodded. “The Mexicans keep hassling me to take more. I even spoke to Walton about it last month, but he said he couldn’t do it.”

  Antwan cleared his throat again. “He can now, and apparently the final number might double. Said December could be, um, a stellar month!”

  “Hold on,” Castro rubbed his shock of wild hair as if to improve comprehension. “Double will make it—”

  “Seventy-two,” Snyderman said.

  “So, that’s… half a million dollars,” Castro whispered.

  “Four hundred eighty-six thousand, to be precise,” Snyderman said.

  Randall’s computer pinged once more, but now the gods were smiling on him. “Right! There’s no way they’re canceling Sunday’s order, so you’d better figure out where we’re getting the extra two. And Snyderman, I don’t want a learned discourse on the obstacles and risks!”

  “And I won’t be giving one because it’s impossible to get stock in two days. Even if someone has it to ship, it takes time to organize transport and pay off INS.”

  “Charles,” Castro cut in, “you weren’t listening. We have to find the other two and shift the stock before they die on us.”

  Rohn Stark, who had been studying the dark flecks on the backs of his hands, looked up, “I might have someone.”

  “Oh, did I mention it has to be one of each?” Antwan said.

  Everyone looked at Rohn, who had gone back to studying his liver spots. “In that case, they’re the ones.”

  “Rohn,” Snyderman said, “we’ve only got forty-eight hours. Who is this mystery supplier?”

  “It’s not a supplier, Charles…”

  10. A MURDER OF CROWS

  Friday, 4:50 p.m.

  Brad caught Lola’s glare before she disappeared into the kitchen, but she was the least of his worries. The tax demands on his desk were for two hundred grand, yet here was someone at his door demanding over half a million, so what the hell was going on? He clutched the arms of his leather desk chair as if a tight grip might stop his world from going off the rails; it didn’t. He rose, shuffled to the front door, took a deep breath and opened it. In front of him stood a diminutive Indian woman in a gray suit, clutching a clipboard and inspecting the front of the house.

  “Can I help you, Madam?

  “Mr. Fairweather?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman moved closer and held out her ID. “My name is Mrs. Patel from the Internal Revenue Service. I am here to collect the five hundred and thirty-six thousand dollars of unpaid taxes you owe.”

  A flock of crows squawked overhead, audible even over the roar of a passing bus.

  Brad tried to smile, but his face refused to comply. “There must be a mistake, Mrs. Patel, I owe nothing.”

  “That is not what our record
s show, Mr. Fairweather.”

  “Your records? You mean my tax returns, which my accountant files for me.”

  “We have no record of receiving your returns, Mr. Fairweather, and our records show this debt is outstanding. This is a courtesy visit to collect what you owe. If you do not make payment now or propose a payment plan, we will issue recovery proceedings forthwith.”

  Brad tried to process the words without erupting or imploding, then decided that civility may be the better part of valor and stepped to one side. “I think you’d better come in.” He pointed to the first room on the left. “Please, take a seat. Can I get you a coffee?”

  The woman strode past him, taking stock of the empty hallway. “I don’t drink coffee, and my visit today is to collect payment from you.” She walked into the tiny sitting room, scanning en route. “Is that a Fontana Arte mirror, Mr. Fairweather? And are those flying fish Murano glass from Venice?”

  Brad rubbed his chest, still trying to catch up. “I don’t know, my wife bought them at a garage sale. Why are you scoping out my living room? I already told you I owe nothing, and my tax returns prove it!”

  “And I told you we have no record of receiving them, and the burden of proof is on you.”

  “I’m sorry, what does that even mean?”

  “It means you pay what we say you owe, and unless you can prove you do not, we will seize your assets and liquidate them.”

  “This is outrageous, I can show you a copy of the returns!”

  “As you wish, Mr. Fairweather. However, we do not consider tax returns as proof of anything—they are just your representations, and we do not accept copies.”

  “But my accountants filed them online, so I only got copies!”

  “Do you own this property, Mr. Fairweather?”

  “It has no equity if that’s what you’re getting at; why are you shaking your head?”

  “Because none of that is our concern, so please stop wasting my time, Mr. Fairweather. I want to know how you propose paying your debt to us.”

  “You can’t treat people like this when they don’t owe a damn dime!”

  “Do not swear at me, Mr. Fairweather. We will treat you any way we choose because we collect the money that keeps this country running. Without us, there could be no public services to keep people safe in their beds. No healthcare when they are sick. That makes us essential. Whereas you are expendable.”

  “Just stay right there.” Brad marched to his study. Moments later he entered the living room and held out the sheaf of papers. “Why are you making a list of my belongings?” The woman ignored him and continued writing as she crossed to the bookcase in the corner.

  Brad watched as she looked up from her device and her eyes fell on a tiny two-by-three-inch photo. She froze.

  “Why do you have a picture of Sai Baba?”

  “What’s that got to do with taxes?” Brad held out the sheaf of papers once more.

  “My husband and I follow his spiritual teachings,” she murmured, taking the papers from him.

  “You could’ve fooled me! You’ve done nothing but threaten me since you walked in here, and I'm damn sure that's not in any of his teachings.”

  “There is no need for rudeness, Mr. Fairweather.”

  “Why? Because you’ve been all goodness and light?”

  “Are you a devotee?”

  “No, my wife’s guardians are—I mean, were.”

  “And what do you believe in, Mr. Fairweather?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but Henry Wadsworth Longfellow said, ‘Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all.’ I believe everyone gets what’s coming to them, eventually.”

  “Karma!” She glanced back at the photo, then down at the papers in her hand. “Well, it is clear from what I see here that you are not owing any tax.”

  “You haven’t even looked at them!”

  The woman hesitated, staring him in the eye. “We have a certain discretion in these matters, Mr. Fairweather.”

  “Discretion to do what?”

  She glanced at the photo once more, but now her hands were shaking.

  “My job will be fired if you repeat this—and I will deny it vehemently.”

  “Deny what? What’s going on?”

  “I made up this demand. Sorry, Mr. Fairweather.”

  “You WHAT! Is this normal?”

  “We create fictitious demands when we believe income is being undeclared. The larger the demand, the faster people crawl out of the woodwork. That is what my boss says, and it is why he refers to taxpayers as maggots—because they crawl so quickly. But in your case, I have been ordered to apply these amounts.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs.?”

  “Patel.”

  “Mrs. Patel, I don’t understand, ordered by whom—your boss?”

  “I am sorry, but I must be leaving. Good luck to you, Mr. Fairweather.”

  11. ALL CROOKS

  Saturday, 8:00 a.m.

  Sangeeta Patel stepped into the elevator, praying to reach the sanctity of her cubicle before Cilcifus arrived.

  The elevator doors ground open on the second floor, but she remained motionless, her finger pressing the green “open” button as she poked her head out and peered down the grimy corridor, listening for any sound of life.

  She had lain awake half the night, disturbed by the photo in Fairweather’s house. Over and over, she asked herself why Swami had led her to work in this evil place for this diabolical man when all she wanted was to follow the light. She spent her days taking people’s hard-earned money, so she must be evil, too.

  “Ms. Patel!” Cilcifus appeared in front of the elevator, his cheek twitching.

  Sangeeta’s finger slipped from the button, and the doors slid closed. Heart pounding, she jabbed the “open” button again.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I work here, sir.”

  “On Saturdays?”

  “There is paperwork I need, as I have field visits all week.”

  “In my office, please!”

  Sangeeta looked at her finger, still on the button. An inch away was another button with the letter “G.” It should have been an “E” for “escape,” or perhaps “S” for “survival.”

  “Now, please,” Cilcifus boomed.

  She released the button and hurried along the corridor into his office.

  Her boss sat at his desk and pointed to a chair on the other side. “Sit. You have something to tell me?”

  “Sorry, sir, I do not know what you mean.” She didn’t want to sit, so she stood before his desk.

  “Your time sheet says you went to see Fairweather yesterday.”

  “Oh! Yes, sir.”

  “And?”

  “It is as I thought. The man has no money, sir. None!

  The tiny muscle in Cilcifus’s cheek twitched harder as he took a deep breath, held it, then blew it out through pursed lips. “Ms. Patel—Sangeeta, isn’t it?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but did I not say you should consider the assignment a rite of passage?”

  “Y-yes sir, but I didn’t understand—”

  “I see. You didn’t understand what I meant. Well, let me enlighten you. The Special Investigations units are a brotherhood, a fraternity if you will. As a newcomer, you are what we call a neophyte. Do you understand?”

  “Um, no, sir. Unemployment administration sent me here.”

  Cilcifus leaned his elbows on his desk and rubbed his face.

  “You came from the unemployment administration.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And do you want to go back there?”

  “N-no, sir.”

  Cilcifus smacked his palm on the glass desktop. “Then you can damn well do what I asked!” He took another deep breath. “Sorry, let me restate that,” he said in a softer tone, though his cheek was twitching furiously now. “Why did
you not do what I asked, Sangeeta? Hm?”

  “Because this man has no money and his tax returns are in order, so there is not anything to collect. I have the papers; you can see for yourself.” She pulled the stack of papers from her bag and placed them on his desk.

  Cilcifus swiped them onto the floor. “I don’t care what lies he put on his returns! I told you I wanted him served on a platter. Was that so much to ask?”

  Sangeeta blinked back the tears. “I am sorry, sir, but I cannot be doing this. You are being wrong here. Not everyone is cheating the IRS, but you act as if the entire world is full of cheaters.”

  “Course they’re cheaters! That’s why the government has Special Investigations hubs all over the country. The only time they stop cheating is when they’re dead!”

  Sangeeta took five paces backward, then turned and hurried out of his office.

  “Where are you going, Patel? Don’t you walk out on me, I’m your boss, God damn it!”

  She ran for the elevator as the ranting followed her down the corridor. She punched the button, and her heart leaped when the doors opened at once. Slipping through the doors, she hit “G,” for “good riddance.”

  12. HOODIE

  Saturday, 9:15 a.m.

  Brad glanced at his reflection in the window of his blue Ford pickup and recognized what others observed. Dark shadows beneath the eyes of a man lost in the past. Overhead the stone gray sky promised an ill wind as he climbed into the driver's seat, fired up the engine and pulled away from the home that Daisy never saw. Six years since she died in Lola's arms, yet it seemed like yesterday. He pulled the black pouch from the breast pocket of his fleece and removed the silver bracelet. Running it between thumb and forefinger the memories flooded back of the first time Daisy opened her eyes, and for the briefest instant, he saw God. Then God abandoned them.

  He wiped his cheek with his sleeve and tried to empty his mind, counting the charms over and over as they slid through his fingers.

  Ten minutes later, he pulled up outside the unfinished house and stared at the new roof, dusted with frost. He blinked hard, hoping he was hallucinating. Somehow, what had been a perfect roof was now missing a tile—no, make that three, five, eight tiles. This had to be Henryk’s doing. What did the idiot think he would achieve? Come to think of it, Brad wasn't sure why he was still fighting. Years of work, to create something beautiful, meaningful, and valuable, only for the agents to walk around saying, 'this is the kitchen,' and 'this is the toilet.' It was pearls before swine. Instead of creating value that would protect his family, it had become a financial sink-hole.