The Greedhawkers

By Jim Ardoin

Mark's life is shifting into the fast lane where all that he ever desired is quickly falling within his grasp. But soon Griffin finds himself the victim of blackmail. With his options narrowing, he must secretly travel to New York City and defeat this deadly threat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Ardoin
• Release date: Sep 18, 2010
• ISBN: 9781419632129

Jim Ardoin

Jim lives in the Intermountain West and has written five books. Please visit his website www.jimardoin.com for additional information on this author.

Book preview

The Greedhawkers

Jim Ardoin

Published by Jim Ardoin at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Jim Ardoin

ISBN 1-4196-3212-4

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

A bright morning sun warmed Mark Griffin’s face as he sped down the tree-lined boulevard in his black 1993 Mustang convertible. As he approached a long sweeping bend in the road, he applied the brakes which quickly slowed the vehicle. To his right, the massive stone entrance to Rolling Brook Country Club announced his destination. He gunned the engine and bolted into the parking lot. The tires squealed as Mark’s car bounced over a large speed bump. At the valet booth, a tall young man immediately handed him a red parking receipt. Stenciled clearly on the valet’s clean white shirt was his name.

Mark spoke first. Good morning Paul. I’ll be joining Mr. Gerald Crippen’s party this morning. Can you make sure that my clubs are placed in his cart?

Yes sir, Paul replied as he promptly removed Mark’s golf bag from the trunk. Mr. Crippen arrived about thirty minutes ago and is waiting for you in the men’s dining room.

Do you remember how many guests were with Mr. Crippen?

Mr. Crippen arrived with two other gentlemen. There will be four of you in the group today. That’s the maximum the club will allow.

Can you give me directions to the main dining room? This is my first visit to Rolling Brook, Mark confessed.

It’s real easy sir. Paul pointed to his right and provided precise directions. Go through that door and up three flights of stairs. At the end of the hall take a hard right and you will be in the dining room.

Mark reached into his pocked, retrieved a crisp five-dollar bill and pressed it into Paul’s outstretched hand. The young man carefully rolled the single bill in his fingers to discern its denomination. He looked up at Mark and nodded approvingly at the size of the tip. Your bag will be waiting for you here after your round.

Mark paused momentarily to savor his surroundings. Rolling Brook Country Club was not the most prestigious club in the area, but it nonetheless claimed among its membership many of the social and financial elite of the area. Brilliant white Austin stone covered the massive building, which sat imposingly on a large hill surrounded by well-aged hardwoods and perfectly sculptured shrubs. He was confident that one day he too would have a corporate membership so that he could rub elbows with the well healed of Kansas City society. He could dream as much as he wanted but he well understood that a corporate membership was still years in the future.

Mark opened the door as Paul instructed and began climbing the stairs. Emerald green carpet covered each rung and upon arriving on the 3rd floor, he entered a long hall leading into the bowels of the giant building. Within seconds of entering the main dining room Mark heard someone calling his name. It was Gerald Crippen, Mark’s boss and the president of New Era National Bank.

Over here Mark, Crippen called as he waived his white napkin in the air.

At a large round table in the far corner Mark observed that the president sat with two men he did not recognize. As he approached the table, Crippen sprang to his feet and walked briskly toward Mark. The two men met under a large chandelier in the middle of the massive room.

He extended his hand to greet Mark and said warmly, It’s great that you could join us today. I trust that you didn’t have any problem finding the place. It sticks out like a sore thumb.

No trouble sir, Mark responded with a broad smile.

Crippen placed his arm around Mark’s shoulder as they slowly returned to the table. Great, Crippen responded. Now come over to the table. There are a couple of important gentlemen I want you to meet.

Crippen’s had selected the best table at the club. It commanded an unobstructed view of the entire course. As the two bankers neared the table, the two men at the table pushed back their chairs and rose to their feet.

Crippen handled the introductions in a business-like manner. Gentlemen, I would like to introduce Mark Griffin, one of New Era’s finest young managers. Mark, these fine gentlemen are Daniel Neufeld and Steve Little with First Hudson Securities of New York City. They are working with a selected group of senior managers at the Bank to develop and market a complete line of investment products for our customers, Gerry disclosed to Mark.

It’s a pleasure to meet both of you, Mark said as he firmly shook each man’s outstretched hand.

Once the introductions were complete all four men sat down at the table. Neufeld spoke first. Mark, before you joined us, Gerry was telling us that you are the Bank’s newest senior vice president. He also told us that you were recently selected by the Bank’s executive committee to spearhead this project.

Mark did not immediately react to Neufeld’s comments. He pressed his lips together, stared at Crippen and shrugged his shoulders.

Crippen immediately sensed that something was amiss judging from the puzzled look splashed across Mark’s face. He patted Mark on the forearm and in a near whisper, issued new instructions to his subordinate. Let’s step over to the buffet. He turned to his guests and flashed a casual smile. Excuse us for a moment.

The two men stood and moved away from the table. When Crippen was certain that they were out of earshot of the investment bankers, he leaned close to Mark and asked, Didn’t Bill Hamilton tell you about this meeting yesterday?

Mark remained silent and didn’t immediately answer Crippen’s question. He merely stared at Crippen with an impish grin on his face.

Damn that old bastard, Crippen growled. When I met with him early yesterday he assured me that he would tell you about the promotion and prepare you for this critical meeting. Neufeld and Little arrived early yesterday afternoon and I spent the better part of the evening with them.

Mark finally assembled his thoughts and responded to Crippen’s comments, trying his best to appear unfazed by the surprising announcements. I know that Bill had an extremely busy day yesterday. I was pretty busy myself. He probably tried to contact me while I was out of my office. I didn’t look through the stack of phone messages before I left the office yesterday. I could have easily missed his message

Mark you don’t need to stand up for that miserable putz.

Mark seized on the moment, gambling that Crippen was livid and not just venting a little steam. You can count on me as always Gerry. Before we land on the 18th hole, I’ll have these hot shots eating out of my hand.

Crippen nodded his head in approval and smiled. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.

You can head on back to the table. I’ll grab a muffin from the buffet and be there in a minute.

With a fresh smile taking up the better part of his face Crippen pivoted and sauntered back to his seat at the table. Mark continued to the buffet and glanced over the selection. The food appeared stale. It wasn’t the least bit appetizing; however Mark didn’t want to play possibly the most important round of golf in his career without something on his stomach. After all, this was his first round as a senior vice president. He selected a small cup of fruit and a couple of cinnamon rolls before returning to the table.

Back in his seat, Mark remained quiet as he quickly consumed his breakfast and listened to every word of the conversation. Slowly he started size up both men. Neufeld looked to be in his late fifties and while he was not corpulent, Mark guessed he hadn’t missed a meal in the last twenty-five years. He sported thick black eyebrows, and the salt and pepper hair on his head was noticeably thinning. When Mark first saw him from a distance, he thought that he was bald.

Little, on the other hand, appeared to stand several inches over six feet. He combed his curly blond hair straight back. Mark observed that his eyes seemed empty as if focused on some object far off in the distance, definitely invisible to the others at the table. Little was clearly someone to be approached with considerable caution. He swam like an aggressive tiger shark, desperately searching for a reason, any reason, to attack.

Mark stared directly at Little. This appears this be a really challenging course. Have either of you played here before? It was a stupid question, but he had to start somewhere. Mark needed intelligence on the competition.

Little responded to Mark’s question. Gerry has been kind enough to bring me here twice before. Daniel, who is our corporate duffer, has never played here before. Don’t be lulled to sleep by his cavalier attitude about the game, Little warned Mark. He’s a betting man. He will press you on every hole and by the 19th hole, he’ll have you digging into your wallet to cover your losses.

We’ll see who’s paying up at the bar, Mark responded in a challenging tone as he shoved the remains of a cinnamon roll into his mouth. These links have been known to take down the biggest blowhards.

Crippen laughed under his breath as he downed the last of his Bloody Mary.

Mark felt confident he held his ground to this point. He could afford to be cocky with a big promotion in his back pocket. The compulsories were concluded and the group was about to move to the next level of competition. Mark knew that he must maintain a firm grip on the lead position in order to win the day.

Crippen spoke up and queried the two investment bankers. How soon do you gentlemen think you can have the first products in the lobby of the Bank?

Neufeld wiped his mouth with his napkin and addressed the group. The program goes live tomorrow. All that remains is to get Mark in our offices for training.

Mark was stunned by Neufeld’s comments. A major program was starting at the Bank the following day and he knew nothing about it. Tomorrow! he blurted.

Yes Mark tomorrow, Little confirmed. The software has been loaded and the sales staff has been trained. New Era’s marketing department has scheduled a whole series of advertisements to commence immediately.

Mark struggled to maintain his composure. He now realized that there was considerable activity going on at the Bank just behind public view. Bank executives somehow managed to keep the lid on this one right up to the cusp of the formal announcement.

Crippen quipped, Mark, you have one hell of a challenge waiting for you back at the office.

I don’t know what to say, Mark nervously chuckled. Maybe I should skip golf and get to the office.

Neufeld and Little laughed loudly at Mark’s feeble response.

Gerry Crippen looked at his newest executive and winked. Let’s head out to the course. Our tee time will be here in a few minutes.

As the three men began to gather their things, Mark paused to look out the window to quickly scan the course to make his initial assessment. It was still early and a light misty fog hung close to the ground, blanketing the shallows and creek bottoms across the links. Immediately below the windows were the practice and the 18th greens. In the distance, Mark saw the first tee box through the hazy morning air. Several golfers were preparing to tee off.

The four men rose from the table, walked toward the exit and down the stairs to the carts. Mark felt confident after surviving this first encounter with these tigers from Wall Street.

Mark solidified his impressions on his new business associates. Steve Little was a brash and extremely aggressive young trader. On the surface at least, he was clearly someone who would gladly run roughshod over anyone or anything that stood in his way. He deduced that Neufeld was a true professional and would be highly predictable. If anyone could keep Steve Little in his cage it was Daniel Neufeld. Mark would nonetheless give both men a wide berth.

Just before the foursome exited the building, Crippen stopped at the entrance to the pro shop and said to his companions, I need some supplies so let’s step into the pro shop for a minute.

Inside the rather large pro shop Mark walked over to the counter and peered inside the glass display case. Stacked neatly inside the case were dozens of boxes of every conceivable brand golf balls. He knew from experience that none of the boxes carried prices. They were all expensive, very expensive regardless of brand.

Give me a dozen of the Titleist in white, he directed the club pro.

Son, that’s the best there is, the old veteran replied as he pulled a glossy red and black box from the case. He gentle placed them on the counter, then looked up at Mark and smiled. Will there be anything else for you today?

No just the balls, he replied. He picked up the small box and weighed it in his hand. How much? he asked as he returned it on the counter.

Without any hesitation whatsoever the pro grinned and casually responded, Sixty-five plus tax.

The number stunned Mark yet he said nothing in response. His mind raced and he was unsure whether he heard the pro correctly. Sixty-five dollars a dozen was enough to include tax, title and license. While reaching for his wallet someone walked from behind and pushed his arm aside.

Ivan, give me three dozen and mix them. Oh and Neufeld over there wants one of those navy blue wool sweaters. It’s a little chilly for him this morning. Add in a couple of caps and put it all on my account as usual.

The pro randomly pulled three boxes from the display case and placed them on the counter. Crippen reached over and slid Mark’s box of Titleist alongside his and instructed, Don’t forget to include these in the total. The pro stepped to the cash register to ring up the sale.

Before Mark could say anything Crippen looked at him and smiled. In a low voice he said, This old geezer is robbing us blind. A few years back he threatened to leave, so we voted to let him set his own prices. Hell, I don’t mind supporting the club pro, but I now wish we had let him go. The old bastard’s rubbing our noses in these egregiously high prices.

Thanks for the balls, Mark said.

You’ll need them, Crippen chuckled. And don’t thank me, thank the boys in accounting, he said with a wink. Abruptly changing his tone Crippen alerted Mark. That Steve Little fellow is a real buzz saw. I must warn you, he doesn’t like to lose. By the end of this round, he will have his hand deep in your wallet. He’s a pretty damn good golfer. Forget that crap he said about Neufeld. He’ll have trouble just getting off the first tee.

Mark made a mental note of Crippen’s comments. This was his day in the sunshine and he wasn’t about to be bested by a streetwise punk from New York City.

Crippen walked toward Neufeld and Little. He stood next to Neufeld and patted him on the shoulder. If you fellows have everything you need, then we can head out. Here are a dozen balls for each of you. It’s all right to lose them. He pointed at the club pro behind the counter. Ivan there fishes them out of the water hazards, then resells ‘em to members at ninety percent of new. His racket is not that dissimilar from you investment bankers, making money from someone else’s misery.

The foursome emerged from the building to the waiting carts. Mark noticed that the golf bags were not yet placed on the carts. He realized that Crippen was undecided on pairings for the round.

Mark felt a bit venturesome. He stepped forward and addressed the group. I believe Daniel and I can give the two of you a run for your money. Let’s say five dollars a hole and double the bet on each of the first four handicap holes. That should make for an interesting round and keep everyone honest.

Although Mark never played golf with Crippen, he was well aware of his reputation as a damn good golfer and one heck of a gambler.

Crippen looked over at Mark, giving him a quick smile. He picked up on Mark’s lead and responded, Pretty soft bet coming from a senior vice president. Let’s make it ten dollars a hole and triple the bet the first two handicap holes. Little and I will bury the two of you in the big sand trap at the 10th green, that is, if you make it that far.

Little spoke up sensing he was cut out of the betting arena. I hate fucking pussy bets. Let’s cut through the crap and make it twenty bucks a hole and an extra hundred for the winning pair. That way, we can’t end up even after the 18th hole. You guys will be paying up before we return to the clubhouse.

The four men agreed to the terms of the wager. Crippen called for each man’s handicap and ordered the staff at the club to load the golf bags on the carts. The men paired off and sped down the cart path to the starter’s house and first tee.

On the ride to the starter’s house, Mark pumped his new golf partner for information about the Bank. Neufeld revealed to Mark that he first discussed a securities program with Hamilton and Crippen well before Thanksgiving. The blackout of information was indeed total. Although the rumor mill churned for some time about changes at the Bank, nothing of First Hudson’s activities leaked to the staff.

The four men signed in with the starter then climbed the wooden steps to the first tee box. Mark looked around and admired the course. The first tee was elevated about eight feet above the cart path, offering a commanding view of the fairway. One hundred and seventy-five yards out, a deep overgrown ravine coursed diagonally across the fairway.

I’ve got to tell you guys, it plays a hell of a lot longer than it looks, warned Crippen. Many a golfer has wasted valuable strokes at the bottom of that ravine. He turned to Little. Steve you do the honors.

That ravine won’t be problem, bragged the arrogant securities trader. I’ll be over it in a second, he boasted. Then I will enjoy watching the three of you struggle.

Little stood in the center of the tee box and pressed the tee deep into the soft ground, leaving the ball unusually close to the turf. Mark sensed that Little felt pressured to shoot a good round. Little took one practice swing then addressed the ball. Visibly gritting his teeth, he slowly and methodically started his backswing. Upon reaching the top of his windup, he paused for a split second then swung through the ball with a loud crack. The flight of the ball split the morning mist and hooked ever so slightly, landing at a spot Mark judged to be no more than two hundred thirty yards from the tee. His ball was well past the ravine.

That’s a great start partner, snapped Crippen.

Next, Neufeld planted his tee and without even a practice swing shanked the ball one hundred thirty yards. Fortunately for Neufeld, it went right down the middle of the fairway.

That’s exactly where you want to be coming off this first tee, Crippen pointed out to Neufeld. Play up short.

Unfazed, Neufeld walked up to Mark and ordered, Knock the fucking cover off the ball champ.

Mark moved to the center of the tee box clutching one of his bright new Titleist balls. He bent down and pressed the tee into the soft earth ever so lightly that his knuckles barely touched the damp grass. Still somewhat intoxicated by the earlier announcement of his big promotion, Mark felt surprisingly relaxed, both in body and in mind. He was fully prepared to enjoy the day regardless of the outcome.

He took a few practice swings and exhaled completely. Mark addressed the ball then took a long last look at the three men observing his every move. He concentrated on the ball and partially inhaled. Mark coiled then came cleanly through the ball with a smooth graceful swing. The ball shot out of the tee box and straight down the center of the fairway clearing the ravine by nearly one hundred yards.

Great drive, howled Crippen. We could be in trouble. What do you think Steve?

It’s early and there is a long way to go, snapped Little in reply.

The last to drive was Crippen. With an exceptionally smooth and fluid swing, Crippen cleared the ravine with ease.

The two pair of golfers battled back and forth for the next nine holes. By the clubhouse turn, Crippen and Little claimed six holes while Griffin and Neufeld showed three in the win column.

Neufeld was indeed a pathetic golfer. Mark observed that he exhibited little to no interest in the game. He was indifferent to what transpired. The outcome held no apparent interest to this man. His game was on the street and in the game of mega dollars and cents he excelled above most. Mark carried every hole they won.

Adjacent to the clubhouse, the foursome stopped at the refreshment stand to get snacks and drinks. They sat at a table to review their scores. Crippen observed that he and Little were each sixty dollars to the better.

Daniel and I have you where exactly we want you. Hold on to your gloves, we will blow by you before you realize, Mark joked.

Okay smartass, forget the sissy bet. Five hundred says I’ll bury you on the back nine, challenged an openly irritated Little.

There was a long pause. If that’s acceptable to Gerry and Daniel you’re on, responded Mark.

Crippen and Neufeld looked at one another and nodded their approval. We can sit back and enjoy this beautiful course and let these young Turks slug it out as they try to impress their bosses, Neufeld chuckled to Crippen.

Little jumped up and headed for the cart with Crippen almost ten yards behind. Mark and Neufeld finished their sodas then returned to their cart.

Steve is going to be mad as hell if he loses. The flight back will be downright miserable, complained Neufeld. When he gets like this I want to fire his ass, but what can I do? He’s the most aggressive trader I’ve got on the floor. But one day he is going to push too far and there won’t be any turning back.

Mark battled Steve Little back and forth across the fairways and through the sand traps. He felt like he was engaged in a modern gladiatorial event. By the time the four men reached the 18th tee box Mark and Little were tied. If they both shot par on this last hole then they would end the round with identical 68’s. Mark was shooting one of his best rounds especially considering he had no previous experience at Rolling Brook. Earlier on the 14th fairway Mark observed that Little struggled and appeared to be playing well out in front of what Mark judged to be his normal game.

Both men drove well off the 18th tee and didn’t say anything to each as they returned to the carts. Neufeld and Crippen joked openly signaling their enjoyment of the show, although quietly each wanted their thoroughbred to win. The separate parings made the competition interesting.

As they jumped into the carts, Crippen shouted, See you on the green. He gunned the cart and sped away.

When Mark arrived at the green, he found Crippen and Little waiting. Little hit a great five-iron approach shot with his ball resting about eight feet from the pin. Crippen was at least twenty feet away. Mark’s approach shot was excellent with his ball about twelve feet and slightly downhill from the pin.

The four golfers looked at each other and Neufeld spoke up first. Gerry, why don’t you and I putt out and let these young bucks fight it out for the cash?

With agreement on his proposal, Crippen two-putted and finished with a 75. Neufeld three putted and finished the round with a 103.

Little turned to Mark and said, "It’s just you and me kid. Looks like you are trying awfully hard to show