National Take Your Child to Work Day was thrilling because it was my first exposure to extortion, abduction, and aggravated assault. Of course, I had already seen murder and mayhem in movies, television shows, video games, graphic novels, and actual novels, but the real thing was different in several ways.
It was like receiving a series of galvanic jolts to the central nervous system, and while I enjoyed these sensations very much, it was also a little confusing because I was fifteen years old at the time and I found it difficult to fully process everything.
There were so many questions, beginning with wondering if this is what being a grown-up in America was all about.
I wasn’t entirely naïve. I knew that anger was an intense emotion and that enmity between two people could be powerful enough to send shock waves through the surrounding atmosphere, but I wasn’t prepared for the gritty reality of adults spewing portentous warnings at each other and then following through on the threats with carnage.
Looking back on that day, I admit that there was something addictive about the surge of epinephrine from my adrenal glands. Violence was a narcotic, and I was more than willing to surrender to the desire for more experiences of this nature.
Seven of us were standing in a large and overly air-conditioned corporate boardroom, but I was the only child. None of the adults were paying any attention to me because of the tension between the two men who stood facing each other on the raised platform at one end of the hushed and otherwise empty chamber.
“The consensus of opinion here is that you are embarrassing yourself whenever you attempt to make conversation,” said the tall, thin man in the Navy-blue suit. He said it with an expression that was oddly ominous despite his smile.
“What the hell?” replied the shorter, heavier man in the rumpled plaid sport coat. His tone suggested he was looking for a fight.
“Take a moment to consider it,” blue suit said smoothly. “That is, if thought is something of which you are capable.” With studied nonchalance, he ran his hand over his tie, which was a shade of ultramarine that complemented his pastel blue silk shirt.
“Fuck this,” plaid coat said.
“I’ll help you,” blue suit continued. “You said you were looking forward to harming some of the people who are affiliated with our organization if we didn’t offer you and your… people… some of the profits from our most recent business venture.” It was clear even to me that there was ill intent in the small pause around the word “people.”
“So what?” plaid coat snapped.
“So, we choose to take threats seriously,” blue suit said quietly, “even when there is little to fear from someone so lacking in seriousness that most people might refer to him as low-life scum.” His affable tone and low volume only seemed to increase the menacing nature of his words.
“You can shove all that up your ass,” the heavier man responded.
“You know,” the thinner man said with insouciance, “when a new inmate arrives in prison, there is speculation about the behavior patterns that will play out around the pumpkin.”
“The what?”
“The pumpkin,” blue suit replied. “Or the fish, or the boot, or the fresh meat, as newbies are called. You, as I am certain you realize, will be the fresh meat.”
“Fuck you. Fuck all of you!” Plaid coat waved a fat hand around the room, making a point of aiming it at each of the others.
The man in the blue suit had a pitying smile on his face as two of the other men took a step towards the belligerent one.
“Hold on,” blue suit instructed his associates. “We can afford to remain calm for the moment. Our gross and foul-mouthed acquaintance here can always be counted on to react in his primitive manner, but he’s not going to do anything right now. He may be quite dim-witted, but even he recognizes that we are on the twentieth floor, we are able to open the service elevator doors even when the cab itself is all the way down at the parking level, and we could let gravity take care of this… blight on humanity.”
“I don’t have to listen to your crap,” the big man said loudly. Despite his pugnacious tone, he didn’t make a move to leave.
The other men stared at him with malevolent intent. “This clown,” said one of the men gruffly, “needs some discipline.” He actually licked his lips in anticipation.
The heavyset man’s eyes darted from one to the other of the scowling men surrounding him, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and jowls. “You don’t scare me!” he said, as if trying to convince himself.
“I believe,” blue suit went on smoothly, “that even someone with your lack of intellectual acumen is capable of thought at an atavistic level. I am certain that a dump truck like you would represent a challenge to the more seasoned inmates.” The prison slang “dump truck” referred to the obesity of the man in the rumpled plaid coat. “After they eyeball you,” blue suit went on, “one of the inmates will size you up as a June bug, and that might result in you receiving a chin check.”
Thanks to streaming services, Dashiell Hammett fiction, Turner Classic Movies, and an indulgent nanny, I had recently been exposed to entertainment that featured crooks, cops, and penitentiaries, so I knew that a “June bug” was a cowardly inmate and that a “chin check” was a punch to a newly arrived prisoner to see if he would fight back.
“You wouldn’t dare touch me,” plaid coat said with more bluster than good sense.
The other men regarded him the same way a lab technician might study a beaker of gelatinous fluid being poured into a Petri dish.
“Sometimes,” blue suit said, “when boundaries are crossed, an example must be made to keep everyone toeing the line in the future.”
“I didn’t come here alone,” plaid coat said hurriedly. “There are three guys in the building and four more down in the car.”
The man in the blue suit glanced at one of his associates. They exchanged nods.
“Thank you,” blue suit told plaid jacket.
“For what?”
“For verifying that there are eight of you.”
“You can’t do anything to us!” plaid coat protested. “Too many people saw us arrive.”
“A few people saw some badly dressed men arrive, but no one will remember much about that. Badly dressed men are in and out of office buildings every day.”
“I’m warning you—!” plaid coat started to say.
The sap hit him on the side of his head just behind the ear and he sank to the floor.
The man with the sap got ready to deliver another blow. He saw it wasn’t needed and returned the weapon to his jacket pocket.
“And now, I have a warning for you,” blue suit calmly informed the fallen man. “If you bleed on our floors, your heirs will be invoiced for the restoration costs.”
“Blood won’t be a problem, boss,” said one of blue suit’s associates. He produced a ski mask and jammed it over the fallen man’s head, spun it around so the mouth and eye holes were on the side opposite the wound, and then fastened it in place with duct tape.
Plaid coat began moaning. At a nod from blue suit, a couple of the other men delivered vicious kicks to the now horizontal figure.
“That means you should shut the fuck up,” one of the associates explained with exaggerated politesse.
“I do hope you get the point,” another associate stated with faux graciousness before kicking the mound of plaid once more.
“That’s the point of my shoe, by the way,” he added helpfully.
“Gentlemen,” blue suit said, “let us proceed to the basement. We have eight sub-human creatures to be taught an important lesson.”
The five men picked up plaid coat as the man in the blue suit turned to look at me. He smiled. I smiled back. “We need to talk,” he said. “Come here, son.”
“Yes, father,” I replied.
He put one hand on my shoulder. “I hope you fully appreciate that this moment can be viewed as a valuable learning experience.”
“I do, father.”
He smiled again. We turned and followed the others as they carried plaid coat out of the suite of offices and down a long corridor to a bank of elevators. The doors of five of the elevators were identical in size, shape, and facade, but the sixth had doors that were wider and taller than the others. It was identified with signs reading Maintenance Use Only.
Inside the service elevator, I saw it was utilitarian but much larger than the ones for passengers. It was drafty and cold inside, and noisy, too. Looking up at the men’s faces as the car descended to the bowels of the building, I saw a variety of expressions. My father and a couple of the others had impassive faces, as if not allowing human emotion to affect them. The other men looked the way zoo animals look at feeding time.
Once we stepped out into the lowest of the structure’s below-ground levels, the air felt even colder than in the air-conditioned offices. I wrinkled my nose at the odor of gasoline, engine oil, and rubber tires. Sounds echoed off the concrete floor and walls.
We marched up to four more of my father’s men, each of whom also had a look of ferocity. They were standing over the bodies of disheveled men who were conscious but had their arms and legs trussed.
Suddenly, plaid coat was hoisted aloft again, and he was abruptly plopped atop the seven other torsos. Several grunts and oaths came from the pile.
“The trash will remain silent,” said one of the associates. A couple of them administered kicks to the prone bodies.
“Action hour,” my father said to his men. “Seven of these misguided souls will soon depart from a container ship which will weigh anchor tomorrow morning from Steel Beach Harbor. By the time they wake up, they should be approaching the territorial waters of Taiwan. However, the obese one will be driven across town and deposited where our competitors can’t help but stumble over him.”
My father took me aside as two of his associates donned plastic raincoats and gloves. The beating they administered to plaid coat was savage. The men were proficient with their feet and fists; their plastic rain gear quickly became streaked with blood.
As the ritual thrashing progressed, I received a brief but informative lecture from my father on the way the city government was designed to help its elected officials while hindering everyone else. He explained how organizations such as ours were compelled to establish alternative means of achieving money and power.
“There is an ebb and flow that must be maintained between all the organizations in any city,” my father told me. “What is happening to those eight hired goons is unfortunate, but necessary.” He turned to look me straight in the eyes. I blinked but held his gaze. “I would like you to remember two things.” He waited until I nodded, ready to receive his next lesson. “Life is tough,” he told me. His lips briefly held a slight grimace as he added, “Business has to be tougher.”
My father’s men put the bloody remains of plaid coat—now a dirty pink plaid coat—into the bed of a recently stolen Ford Super Duty F-450 King Ranch pickup. Two men climbed in beside the body. Another took the wheel and they drove off to perform their very special delivery.
With military precision, a dark gray van was maneuvered into position near the seven tied-up men. One by one, their bodies were grabbed by five of my father’s associates, and unceremoniously flung into the dank and dark rear compartment of the van.
When the loading of the trussed cargo was completed, each of the associates nodded respectfully to my father, and then entered the van. The rear doors of the vehicle were slammed shut and the metal box of bodies rolled away.
At a signal from my father, three shiny black limousines emerged from another part of the parking garage. The trio of large vehicles purred into place before us. Two bodyguards exited the middle car, opened the rear door, and waited courteously as my father entered. He motioned for me to get in, and I slid onto the leather seat beside him.
Once our mini convoy was moving, my father checked the laptop on the seat across from him. After a few moments, the tension of the day began to subside. As we glided through the city streets, dad smiled and appeared satisfied. He turned to look at me.
“We haven’t had much time together since your return from Europe. Congratulations on your graduation from the academy, by the way.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now, how are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m fine, sir,” I told him.
“Son, today you have started learning some very important lessons about the family business,” he told me.
“Yes, father,” I replied.
“Ours is an important enterprise, one that keeps the gears and wheels and cogs of society running efficiently. True, this is a venture involving a bit of spilled blood and shattered skeletons—a business of crimson and bone—but we are a vital part of twenty-first century civilization. We make certain that industry works in a way that allows everyone to enjoy a bit of profit. Without us, everyone would be subjected to the chaos of capitalism. Without us, there would be no efficient government, no effective way for businesses to grow, no well-defined neighborhoods, and no way to get anything accomplished. Without us, the world would be nothing but a mindless muddle of bureaucrats amid an avalanche of crippling paperwork. Do you understand what I’m saying so far?”
“Yes, I think so,” I replied.
My dad activated the sound system in the limo. Someone with an excellent touch was playing piano. I could tell the music was J.S. Bach, but I had to look at the display screen to learn the performer.
“This recording,” my father told me, “is by Maria João Pires. I also have this piece played by Glenn Gould. I alternate between the two. I can never decide which one is best, and I consider myself fortunate to be able to enjoy both.”
As we drove out of the city to the foothills where the estate was located, my father spoke about the empire he had built with the unwavering support of his wife and two brothers. My mother had died of cancer, one uncle was now in prison and the other was missing and presumed dead. Quietly, my father alternated between reminiscing about his wife and musing about his plans for retribution against those who had attempted to thwart the family business.
He apologized for sending me away to the boarding school in Switzerland. “I was assured that you would get a good education there,” my father said, “but more importantly, I knew that a private academy would be ideal to show you that life is a power struggle between vicious and often quite dull-witted animals. It’s important to always remember that.” He paused a second and looked at me with a rueful expression. “Sadly, while the potential for rational thought resides within each of us, most people do not utilize this gift. You may have noticed this.”
“I have, father.”
“Son, I apologize for the pain that your schooling no doubt caused you. I’m certain a lot of your stay there was hellish, but I knew that enrolling you in one of those godforsaken institutions would be excellent training for you, no matter what career path you might choose. Naturally, I am hopeful you will decide to join the family business. To that end, allow me to begin showing you some of the specialties, peculiarities, and machinations of our small but growing empire.”
He outlined the areas of primary concern: gambling, prostitution, narcotics, extortion, and tax evasion. Those weren’t the words he used; he offered terms like games of chance, private sexual therapy, temporary escape from the vagaries of life, organized leverage, and artistic bookkeeping.
Even the so-called legitimate business ventures were subject to manipulation. He took me through the rituals of a “Romney robbery” and a typical “Trump travesty.” In the former, an investment firm obtains control of a healthy company and drives it into the ground by extracting obscene profits until the firm must be dismantled and the employees terminated. In the latter, a new venture is set up to return obscene profits to those at the top until the entire operation is driven into bankruptcy, again tossing aside the employees, and causing losses to all investors who were not in on the scam. “We make money either way,” my father told me. “It’s the true art of American business ingenuity,” he stated.
The limousine turned off the highway, first onto a commercial thoroughfare, and then a series of side roads, some involving hairpin turns and switchbacks. Eventually, the limo reached the private road that led up through a grove of trees behind which lay the mansion.
“One day,” my dad said, “all this, the grounds, the estate, and the organization, will be yours.” Once again, he met my eyes straight on. “This will only happen under a certain set of circumstances.” He paused and his voice became gruff and his eyes cold. “It will only occur if you’re hard enough, quick enough, and ruthless enough. Got it?”
“Yes, father,” I said.
When we entered the mansion, he helped me check to see if any of the victim’s skin, hair, or droplets of blood were on my clothing. He took me to the gymnasium and into the showers and steam room. There, he showed me where we burned the items of clothing that had been exposed to any activities that the authorities might deem nefarious.
“As we speak, the limo is being cleaned, inside and out. And now we will wash away any evidence of our participation in the murky work we just witnessed.”
We each chose one of the shower stalls and enjoyed a thorough scrubbing. “Cleansing of the cleansing,” my dad put it. “Although don’t ever use that phrase in public, son,” he advised me. “Oh, be sure to take a moment to clean under your fingernails,” he informed me. “Better to be safe than sorry,” he said. “My father told me that, and it is excellent advice, so I am passing it on to you.”
“Yes, father,” I said, and made certain my nails contained no physical evidence.
We completed our showers and moved to the changing room. As we were toweling off, he said it was time for us to “go over our story for today.”
“Our story?” I asked.
“Our alibi. It is always important to have a narrative that at least suggests plausible deniability. Do you understand?”
“I believe so, sir,” I replied.
For the next few minutes, we worked out an acceptable timeline of events for my day with him, neatly avoiding any mention of our being at the site of the beatings and abduction. We repeated the timeline to ourselves until we felt it would be simple to state under oath.
“You know,” my father said, “the best alibis utilize as much truth as possible with only as few fabrications as are needed. I believe we have accomplished that. Do you agree?”
“Yes, father,” I said.
“Now, remember this for when you need to shape a narrative that will be acceptable to the authorities. It’s obviously important that everyone who is in on the story agree on the basic points, but it is also a good idea to have them disagree on one or two unimportant details.”
“How so, father?” I asked.
“For example,” he said, “while you and I would stick to the same timeline, we would not agree on the weather, or what we had for lunch, or the manufacturer of the limousines we took.”
“I see, sir,” I told him. “I would say the limos were Maybach but you would know they were custom-made by Rapelli Industries.” I saw a flash in my father’s eyes. I answered his unspoken query. “Rapelli is headquartered in the town where you had me... schooled.” I think I’m getting the hang of this pause thing. “It was impossible to be in that area and not know about Rapelli. Which also meant I learned about some of the people who work for you and your companies.”
“Oh, I see,” my father said. “Like Salazar the mechanic.”
“Yes, sir. When he visited to consult with the Rapelli technicians, he sometimes brought Raff along, and he explained a lot about the cars you have made over there and who tends to them over here.”
“Raff?”
“Raphael,” I said. “Señor Salazar’s son. Most of the kids in school called him Ralph, but he preferred Raff or his real name, and I was the only one who called him that.”
“I never knew his preference,” my dad admitted. “I owe Señor Salazar and Raphael an apology for using the name Ralph. I’ll have to take care of that tomorrow.” He made a note on his mobile. “Meanwhile, since we’re all set with our story, I think we deserve a reward. I suggest that you enjoy some ice cream while exercising your hand/eye coordination by playing video games. Does that sound like a good plan?"
“Yes, father.”
“Meanwhile,” he said, “I shall enjoy an excellent Louis XIII Black Pearl cognac and a hand rolled Cuban Cohiba Majestuosos 1966 cigar while I watch a couple of young women model some high heeled shoes and lingerie that I purchased for them. Have you ever seen a garter belt and nylons that cost twelve thousand dollars? Well, to be accurate, the items themselves cost less than a couple hundred dollars, but there are ... labor costs ... to be considered.”
“Labor costs,” I said tentatively. I paused and waited for my father to reply.
“Perhaps,” dad said, “this is a difficult topic. You need to let me know when you have feelings about other people’s bodies that you have never felt before.” My heart skipped a beat. “After a brief rundown on the nature, direction, and extent of your desires, we will provide the ... companions ... you require.”
I gulped and told him my requirements.
He smiled, nodded, turned, and walked down the corridor to enter his wing of the mansion. When the door opened, I heard women’s voices welcome him.
I went down the hall in the other direction and entered my old room. I discovered that major remodeling had taken place. Instead of a modest bedroom, bathroom, and study area, there was now an entire suite. The entryway was fairly small, but it opened onto a large sitting room with music player, video screens, computer gear, and inviting couches. A double door led to another room.
Wandering through the bed chamber, bath/spa, and walk-in closet reminded me of those lavish bachelor pads in CinemaScope and Technicolor movies from the fifties and sixties. All that was missing were the girls, drugs, and alcohol.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” I said.
The door opened. “Hi,” said a couple of young ladies. They didn’t wait for me to reply. They came in, closed the door, locked it, and asked me if I would like to play with them. I looked them up and down, smiled, and nodded.
I was not as experienced as they were, but I knew enough to avoid conversation. Smile, nod, point, respond. That was all that was required of me.
The girls were good. Very good. I learned a lot.
Afterwards, I began thinking about the horrid school, the time away from home, and the loneliness of my boyhood. It all seemed trivial now. Thanks to dad, all my boyhood dreams were coming true.
A story from the collection, 9 Muses 45 Devils 103 Potions.