The Doomsday Drifter: 3, #1

By Mark DaSilva

Millions are dead after terrorists succeed in gas attacks on major cities across the globe. Rushing home to be with his family, businessman Ted Ratelle suddenly finds himself stranded, lost, and alone in the Mojave Desert. Society has broken down quicker than he could imagine and Ted must then endure starvation, thirst, and lawlessness as he struggles to survive each day. Finding his family is a priority. To do so, he'll need to use his wits, instincts, and new survival training to find them in this deep, dark, and proactive thriller about one man's mission as he battles through a dystopian disaster.  

"With a strong visual sense and rugged American Southwest desert backdrop, DaSilva spins a fast-paced and engaging post-apocalyptic tale. Darkly humorous at times with a twisted streak, DaSilva captures the desperation of human nature when faced with terrible destruction." - IndieReader 

"IR Verdict: THE DOOMSDAY DRIFTER is an engaging and enjoyable read for those interested in fast-paced doomsday fiction that paints an evocative picture." - IndieReader 

REVISED JANUARY 2023 - 3rd EDITION

Normal paperback page count is around 400 pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark DaSilva
• Release date: Jan 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781393309604

Mark DaSilva

The author, a Canadian transplant having lived in Southern California for most of his adult life, began his writing career penning 16 Hollywood screenplays in variety of genres. Wanting to expand his creative world, he has now transitioned to writing novels and has completed two so far; The Doomsday Drifter and The Lost Safari. The college graduate in business also owned a wine company at one time and dearly misses it. When not punching keys, he loves to spend time with his family, drink red wine, and diss movies he hates. Check out his website for more books and free script reads: markdasilvawriter.com

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The one thing about the apocalypse that couldn’t be denied was a beautiful starry night. A million twinkling lights across the heavens dazzled us with their brilliance, unobstructed by clouds and man-made beams. The few of us that remained on the planet were free to gaze and soak in the spectacle of what God had created and willfully shared.

And all it took was a successful gas attack that killed millions across the globe.

Society broke down much faster than we could all imagine. Crimes went unpunished. Evil permeated the good in men and turned us against ourselves. When I began my journey throughout the wasteland, I had no idea who was responsible for so much misery and pain. There wasn’t anything in the news to warn us. It just happened.

Worst of all, I had no idea where my family was.

The earth around me became black, stark, and ominous when night fell. We needed more light, but when the switch became permanently turned off, we were left with stark opposites.

Darkness and light. And nothing in-between.

It was scary when you realized how black it got.

In earlier times, before mankind’s grand fuck up, I was a somebody once. A Corporate bigwig, married, with two boys. Wayne was thirteen and Kevin was eleven. Tracy and I bought a house in Mission Viejo, California, a family-friendly suburb located in south Orange County. Life was good, pleasant, and filled with sunshine and hope. My boys played ice hockey and it was a thrill for me to watch them.

Back then, I stood about six-one, weighing just over two hundred and ten pounds. At my last physical, my doctor said I was healthy, a bit overweight, but nothing to get excited about. At forty years old, I had yet to show any gray atop my brown hair and my green eyes avoided any age-related fine tunings. I was always clean-cut. Overall, I fit the mold of a C-Level Executive success. That success, however, didn’t carry into my home life. Marriage was a struggle and my workload didn’t help.

Months later, after the gas attack however, when I stared at myself in a broken mirror, I spied a man with messy, disheveled hair, hardened dark eyes, thinning cheeks, yellow teeth, and continuous stubble. I had lost over thirty pounds. I looked homeless. My family would be hard-pressed to recognize me.

I prayed my kids were somewhere safe. I just didn’t know where they were.

Or if they were alive.

CHAPTER TWO

LONG BEFORE THE GAS

At our Corporate Headquarters in Newport Beach, California, I had a small office on the fifth floor that overlooked a parking lot near the beach. My boss, the Chief Financial Officer, had a large room with a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean on the other side of the building that could fit three of my offices. He bragged about the scenery often and I found myself envious.

In our Las Vegas production site, one of a few we had across the country, I was always parked in a cramped visitor’s office with no window. Not my boss. Even away, he scored the better digs with large windows and wasn’t fazed at my discomfort.

About a year before the gas attack that ended life as we knew it, I was hovering over my small desk with my laptop, squirming over the latest financials. We were in the middle of a monthly close and that meant noses down and doors shut in the accounting department. However, the company was in rough shape. Not only was the margin creeping downwards due to increased costs in production, but our operating costs were also rising. Settlement estimates for lawsuits changed like the seasons. In the pharmaceutical business, that was the norm. People get sick all the time and sometimes, medications were to blame. Lawyers loved going after deep-pocketed drug companies and we were no different. Although we settled more than ninety percent of all lawsuits brought before us, their payouts were still staggering.

My company, Novril Corporation, had offices in other states but Las Vegas was the distribution site where some of the pills got made, most notably heart and kidney meds. With a bottom line that was floundering, that meant quarterly trips for me to Sin City with limited attention given to fun and entertainment.

I had been with the company for ten years, starting out as a Finance Manager and eventually making my way up to Vice President of Finance. It wasn’t fun and games over the decade either. Twice we instituted departmental layoffs and I managed to survive both rounds. I both loved and hated my job. I loved the team, the work, and the actual role itself. I hated my boss and the uncertainty of a business that never seemed to gain ground on the competition no matter how hard we tried. We did okay in sales but never stellar. If it wasn’t for my salary, stock options, and retirement package, I would have left long ago.

One hot July day, the Controller, a small guy named Brett, knocked on my door. He had a surfer look to him with long, wavy blond hair that draped over his shoulders, even though the man was a local from Las Vegas, born and bred. I waved him in and he opened the door quickly. I noticed he carried with him a wad of paper.

What’s up, Brett? I asked him. Not the surf, I hope.

Not revenue, that’s for sure, Brett said, not getting my quirk. He slumped into the empty chair and laid the paper on his lap. You want to hear it?

Is the Pope Argentinian?

Lame. Anyway, we’re down ten percent from last month.

I closed my laptop. We were supposed to match our projections and that was going to sting. I grew serious. Why?

A real clusterfuck, he said and slid the financials to me. I spoke to sales; they think it’s the value of Viaxen for one that is blowing us away. Those guys at Carterly Pharmaceuticals got the market cornered well. And two, some of our customers delayed shipments until next month when they promised this month.

They promised me the sales would be in.

Brett simply shrugged. So, we’re below budget, below forecast for the quarter. Do you want me to tell Randall?

Better you than me, I said. Randall drank his lunch today. Brett almost went into cardiac arrest. I’m joking. I got it, I smiled. Randall was my boss; he and Brett were at odds with each other. I was the go-between.

Good, because he’s an asshole, Brett said and gasped a sigh of relief. You know, word on the street is they call him Riffing Randall? I’m sure he’s proud of it.

I am aware of it. The moniker was for Randall’s dubious track record of RIFs, or reduction in force, wherever he went to save on costs. He often came off like a genius to investors. Resentment ran deep too and I heard his life was threatened more than once by those he laid off.

Hopefully, he doesn’t live up to that reputation here, Brett stated.

I tried to downplay the man’s reputation. The Board isn’t interested in negative PR. Not now, anyway.

Brett breathed a sigh of relief. The guy put in long hours and was fighting bad morale in his department. Brett was well-liked enough, but probably not well-suited for the stress of timely deliverables in a high-turnover environment. One accountant walked out the other day and took her knowledge with her saying she wasn’t appreciated and that Riffing Randall kept making passes at her. Human Resources heard her complaints but tried to brush them under the rug. We were scrambling to find a replacement and squirming at possible legal action.

Take the gang out for lunch tomorrow, I said. They worked hard.

You got it.

Keep it to pizza with two toppings max, I said. He knew I was joking.

Brett left me with the preliminary financials and I wanted to burn them. I made some notes as to why they were so bad and dreaded the walk down the corridor to my boss’s office. He would act smug and condescending, then try to lift my spirits with immature jokes and innuendos. Brett was right. Randall was an asshole. A pompous asshole. I wished I had a different boss.

Later, Randall allowed me to pay for the cab ride back to the hotel, as he always did. It seemed he was above that menial task but he wasn’t opposed to chiding me about it. You really going to put that lousy fifteen bucks on the expense report? he asked me.

I keep track of all expenses, I responded.

Yeah, I know you do.

Randall was a heavyset older guy in his early fifties with gray, slicked-back hair, deep, dark eyes, and a flattened nose that he boasted was formed by barroom brawls. Except for the brief interruption when I paid the cab fare, he chatted non-stop about the wrongdoings at work. We walked from the cab to the hotel where we had a corporate account with great rates. I was looking forward to the detour to my room.

Those scumbags in accounting, they got their heads up their asses, Randall whined as we strode through our hotel lobby. They got our audit guys doing our work for us and it’s costing us an arm and a leg. Why hire a Controller if your auditor does all the fucking work for him?

Well, we’re short-staffed, was what I replied, lamely.

I hate that excuse. I want to cut that asshole Brett loose. He does a sloppy job. We don’t need him.

And get whom? We interviewed for months last time, I stated.

Randall stopped and gripped my arm. Let’s plan to get rid of Brett.

Come on, Randall. That’s going to take time to hire someone else. Again.

So, make the time. Work your fucking magic. You’re his boss, see to it that he’s gone. Oh, I don’t want any severance going out. Draw up a list of bad work habits and force his way out so he quits instead.

What?

Spelling mistakes in his emails, times he declines meetings, shit he says on the phone, whether he drives too fast in the parking lot, times he leaves early. You know, enough to make legal and HR happy.

I stood up to Randall, which wasn’t often, and said, That’s a shitty way of handling people. That’s a prime example of an asshole. I’m not that heartless. Brett has a family too.

Then be that asshole. If you can’t, maybe I find another Vice President that can.

I stopped in my tracks. Is that supposed to be a joke?

Randall stopped as well, turned, and glared at me. Look, something has to be done. Do you want to stand up there and conduct damage control in front of the investors? Take the heat because we missed earnings?

He’s hardly to blame. He’s doing his job, I told Randall.

Our auditors don’t think so, Randall snapped.

Instead of heading to the elevators, Randall diverted to the hotel concierge desk where a man named Ginn was patiently waiting. Got to make a pit stop, Randall mumbled and veered off. "Come with me. I want you to meet someone. His name is Ginn. Trust me, you will love this guy. You need this guy."

I followed, reluctantly. I wanted to rest up in the room. I can’t. The beers in my mini-bar are getting way too cold, I whined but it fell on deaf ears.

Ginn, the hotel concierge. I had seen the man many times before but just in passing. I heard about Ginn’s reputation. A man who can get things. I stayed back, not wanting to be seen. Randall was up to his old habits and I preferred to keep a distance.

Ginn was a clean-cut, polished man whose blond hair was neatly styled, and parted on the left. He had these piercing blue eyes that would follow you like a portrait on the wall. Beneath those stellar eyes, he had a sharp nose and pointy chin. He looked to be in good shape, taller than me, maybe an athlete once. During my first stays at the hotel, he’d greet me as if we were old friends each time I’d pass his desk. I’d nod and say hello, not thinking too much of him or his services in the beginning. He was a hotel fixture to me, just a staff member who was there for you, maybe providing a suggestion for a good steakhouse or the estimated cost for a cab ride downtown.

Randall and Ginn exchanged a quick handshake. I settled in behind Randall, knowing that my boss was after something immoral and I wanted to avoid any connection whatsoever. Randall always worked his magic. As our Chief Financial Officer, he earned that spot with an authoritative, no-bullshit manner. Our CEO, or Chief Executive Officer, secured him from a competitor three years ago, where he earned high praise for lifting troubled companies to profitability. Professionally, the man was revered in our industry who often earned backslaps from his enemies. Privately, the man was cutthroat, an abusive jerk that had no regard for human capital. What most didn’t know was that while he worked hard, he partied even harder. His trophy wife stayed home and never traveled with him. She was at least half his age and oblivious to his shenanigans.

Ginn, my good man, this is Ted, Randall said and stepped aside for me.

Ginn leaned over and extended his hand to me. Nice to meet you, Mr. Ratelle.

I shook it and said, Good to meet you too. I wasn’t too fazed that he knew my name. I figured that was his job.

Randall patted Ginn’s arm and looked at me. Teddy, this guy right here, he can get you anything you want. All you have to do is ask. Am I right, Ginn?

Within proper boundaries, was Ginn’s reply. I knew that was a lie.

I was tempted to say, new boss, but resisted. I hated it when Randall called me Teddy. He did so on purpose, usually in front of others. It was a dick move. Randall then slapped the counter and said to Ginn, Now, where were we?

A small paper bag was handed over by Ginn which Randall snatched right away. Good man, Randall quipped. Put it on my tab.

Of course, Sir, Ginn answered.

The contents inside the bag were cocaine. Randall regularly invited me to his room to partake and I always declined. The hotel concierge was his dealer? I hadn’t known that. I assumed it was always some local guy paying a visit to his room.

Oh, Randall added. I don’t want to be lonely tonight. Make it happen. You know what I like.

I rolled my eyes. If Gwen, Randall’s wife, only knew. That would be an expensive divorce. His fourth, mind you.

I’ll see to it that you’re in good company, Ginn said with a nod. After dinner, as usual. And then with a quick nod over Randall’s shoulder, Ginn asked me, Is there anything I could do for you, Mr. Ratelle?

How about you remove that stick up his arse? Randall interrupted.

I frowned at the remark. I shook my head and said, No, thanks.

If he changes his mind, Randall said to Ginn with a wink. Add it to my bill. His wife would never know.

Thankfully, Randall and I separated after we rode the elevators. I went to my room while he went to his. I bemoaned the fact my boss ran me ragged but I was powerless to stop it and still rattled by his comment earlier about finding another VP. I was in too deep with my job, believing my lottery would come eventually with the stock options and generous retirement package I worked so hard to achieve.

After Randall’s earlier comments, I wasn’t so sure I’d see any of it.

Later, after a quick shower, I flipped through the TV channels with a drink in my grasp. Finding nothing of value to watch, I turned the TV off and walked to a large tinted window. Below, Las Vegas was alive with streams of people, flashing lights, and a never-ending river of cars occupying the Strip. Gamblers wandered the sidewalks like ants, trying hard and fast to enter and exit the casinos. I decided to join them and try to get lost somewhere. Maybe at a craps table or some lonely bar with video poker.

Randall had already texted me twice. In one, he said the girl that came over had a hot friend who could come over, like pronto, and to get my ass over there. Randall was only two doors down from me. That was too close. I texted that I was too tired and would get some rest. He instantly texted me back, calling me a pussy.

I dressed and made my way downstairs to the lobby, sidestepping the gamblers entering the hotel. As I passed Ginn, he waved me over.

What have you planned for the rest of the evening? he asked.

I hadn’t thought much of it. Grab some dinner, probably play some craps. Get shitfaced. Go to a strip club. You know the drill.

I was kidding about the last two but suddenly Ginn whipped out two tickets from behind the desk. Cirque de Soleil. Tonight, at nine pm. How about it?

I paused. I don’t know. I wasn’t planning on a show.

It’s quite remarkable. Have some fun. Lose yourself in illusion.

The thought of a Cirque show did intrigue me. I saw one once a few years back with my wife. It was fantastic. How much?

Free. A customer left them here and had to fly home earlier than expected. He flipped them to me. I scanned the tickets, noting they were expensive. What do you want for these?

Nothing.

You sure?

He winked at me. Maybe one day you’ll give me something.

There are two tickets though.

Bring someone with you, he suggested. Perhaps a lady friend.

Yeah, right. My wife would kill me.

A guest stepped up behind me and Ginn looked over my shoulder. Will there be anything else, Mr. Ratelle?

Nope, I answered and tucked the tickets into my pocket. Thank you. I slid away from the desk and wandered towards the elevators.

Enjoy the performance, Ginn called out to me.

CHAPTER THREE

The show was unbelievable. A definite highlight to an otherwise boring day. Cirque’s performers were amazing, their acrobatic skills completely mesmerized me. The show itself was a dazzling display of lights and sounds that seemed from another world. I sat near the front row, just a bit off-center, with an empty seat next to me. I had thought of inviting one of my coworkers but decided to take in the show alone. With the empty seat, I was able to stretch out and create more space.

After the show, I wandered back to my hotel near midnight, taking in the chilly night. Throngs of people still filled the streets. Soon, I was back in my hotel lobby where Ginn was talking to a guest, a pretty woman with a curvy figure in a tight dress and heels. She leaned on the desk close to him like they were in deep conversation. When Ginn saw me approach, the woman noticed his eyes avert to me. She quickly gathered her purse and walked away from him. As she passed me, she smiled, although it seemed forced.

I didn’t mean to interrupt, I said to him, awkwardly.

Ginn waved off the interruption as if it were nothing. How was the show?

Fantastic, I admitted. Awesome. Thanks for the tickets.

You only used one, though.

How the hell did he know that? I couldn’t find anyone to invite, so…

Maybe next time.

Sure, I answered and followed that with, How can I pay you back?

Ginn suddenly leaned in close. Tell me. How close are you and Randall?

I scoffed, thinking of my blowhard boss. Not much. Just work together. He’s my boss. We don’t do long walks on the beach if that’s what you’re getting at.

Well, he seems to have it in for you, Ginn said. If I were you, I might dust off the old resume.

I paused, wondering what the hell that meant.

Ginn went on. He’s not happy about the performance of some of his employees. Your name popped up.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, I sheepishly replied.

Randall is talking of restructuring. He mentioned a name. Vishnovsky. Does that ring a bell?

It did. Barry Vishnovsky was a partner in the firm auditing our books. Or, better, having his minions do it for him. Ginn continued, Anyway, he spoke of Barry taking on the finance department. For an enormous consulting fee, of course.

That was like a shot to the gut. How do you know all this? I gulped.

I have my sources.

The woman he was talking to a few moments ago. That had to be it. My bet was, she was with my boss and Randall must have opened up to her, probably in the throes of passion. Anything to make himself the big man.

Where is he? I asked. Where is Randall?

Up in his room. Done for the evening, I’m told.

I felt frozen on the spot. Unsure what to do. I suddenly craved a drink. Or three.

Don’t worry, Ginn said. I’ll see what I can do.

He’ll see what he can do? A concierge is going to save my job?

I need to go, I told him. Suddenly, I wanted to get out of Vegas for good. Just jump in my car and drive off. Randall and I flew though and our plane didn’t leave until tomorrow evening. Plus, we still had a full day at the offices tomorrow.

I fished out my wallet to pay him for the Cirque tickets but Ginn waved me off and grabbed his phone. Have a good night, Ginn said. We’ll talk tomorrow.

That night, I called my wife and caught up on the news back home. The conversation was brief, mostly speaking of the kids and school.

They were late getting out the door this morning, Tracy, my wife, hissed on the phone. Why do they do that? Make us all late?

They suck at time management. You know that, I replied.

But they screw around so much too! You know, they were spitting toothpaste on each other this morning when they were brushing their teeth! Wayne had to change his shirt twice!

Let’s make a rule then, I sighed. Only one brushes their teeth at a time.

Easy for you to say. You’re always out the door before us.

Yeah, our conversations were like that. Boring as hell. I didn’t talk about work, ever. The hours and travel were too much for her but I insisted that there wasn’t much I could do. If the boss says go, I go. Simple as that.

I barely slept after that call. I tossed all night, thinking of my possibly limited future at the Novril Corporation, deeming it unfair that I’d be made a scapegoat. I was the one who straightened out the books when I first came on years earlier when they were on the verge of bankruptcy. Novril was in financial shambles and that was the thanks I was going to get? Getting tossed because I don’t agree with my boss about firing a guy who was trying?

In the morning, after grabbing an early breakfast and two cups of coffee at the hotel café, I met a quieter than usual Randall in the lobby where a taxi welcomed us just outside the door. Randall preferred riding in cabs, claiming that those drivers, unlike Uber or Lyft, rarely talked and he liked that. We rode in silence, mostly listening to the news on the radio. Randall was sweating, despite the chill in the air.

Party hard, Randall? I asked him, breaking the ice. On a work day?

Hungover, he mumbled. We should invent a pill for that. Make a killing.

When we got to work, I detoured to the finance area while Randall headed off to the executive offices. I avoided Randall most of the day and spent the time working with the finance department, trying to keep busy and productive. While I was there, I dropped a few hints to Brett that maybe the company wasn’t doing so well and that the grass could be greener on the other side. I’m not sure he got the gist of what I was getting at, but it didn’t matter. Maybe I needed to hear it for myself too.

After work, I grabbed an Uber solo back to the hotel and walked through the lobby. Ginn approached me from behind just before I reached the elevators.

Got a minute, Mr. Ratelle? he asked, holding the door for me.

Call me Ted, I insisted. I noticed the elevator was empty and with no one following, it would just be the two of us.

Right. Ted, he repeated. The doors closed. I hit the floor my room was on and the elevator began to climb. Ginn didn’t hit any buttons. Either he was getting off on my floor or he was along for the ride. Now, remember what we discussed last night. About how your boss, Randall, wants to sever ties in your working relationship.

Uh, yeah, a bit of a sore spot there, I answered, not knowing where that was going. This is really between him and I.

Well, I happen to know a dirty little secret about the man. Actually, a few secrets that could get him into a lot of trouble. And your company.

The elevator numbers progressed toward my floor. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it. I still had to report to the guy. Still, it did intrigue me and if it was damaging, I had better know about it. What is it? I finally asked him.

Well, you do know about his extracurricular activities in his room, don’t you?

Unfortunately, but that’s his business.

What if he was using company money to finance such activities?

How do you know this?

Ginn shot me a look. Who on earth do you think delivers for the man?

Okay, so what are we talking about? A couple hundred here?

Try thousands. Have you seen his expense report? All those client dinners?

Randall’s expense report was always high and always paid without a second glance. I should know, I approved them. He rarely supplied receipts claiming too much wine and business talk was flowing to care. He was above it, he claimed.

Ginn answered it for me. Hardly any dinners on there. Most of it has to do with women and blow. Did you also know he once slapped a woman around in Tennessee? She’s threatening legal action. What would a competitor do with all that information?

My floor dinged and the doors opened. I didn’t move at first; I was trying to grasp what he said. Instead, Ginn stepped forward and held the door for me. After you, he said but I couldn’t move.

What would happen to your stock price if some or all of this information was leaked? he asked.

I mean, it would be…bad.

Your stock would nosedive, wouldn’t it? Ginn continued.

So would my shares. How do you know all this?

It’s my job to protect my clients and my hotel. Sometimes, that means information is both sought by me and or provided to me.

Do you have proof? I asked.

The woman in Tennessee was paid off but the money ran dry and the rumor is, she wants more. Single mother, you see. Minimum wage waitress in a hotel. Apparently, she has lawyered up because Randall won’t answer his phone. Her name is Kendra. Here’s her attorney’s number. Ginn handed me a slip of paper.

My head was spinning. Was that all real? I certainly wouldn’t put it past Randall for any of those accusations. Oh, man, was all I could say.

Ginn interjected. As for the hookers on the company dime, I have a conversation on tape.

Excuse me?

You heard me. The one thing about Randall is, he loves to talk and try to impress the women out there with his status and wealth. Especially prostitutes. They eat it up and he clamors for the attention.

If the SEC, or Securities and Exchange Commission, found out about these charges, as well as the investing community, we could have serious implications if they were truthful. The woman getting beat was very, very bad for business. I’m speechless, I said. I was also impressed that a hotel concierge could have such a wealth of information at his disposal.

Become the whistleblower, Ginn stated. You cannot be fired for the act. It’s against the law.

Can you provide me with the tape?

I could. For a price.

That was the hint I was looking for. What is it?

Your company will be marketing a new anti-biotic. I want a box of Flouromoxin. Very powerful pill.

That stunned me. Antibiotics? You want a box of pills?

Yes.

What for? To sell them yourself?

What I do with them is my business. But, no, not to sell.

I didn’t know where to start. How do you suppose I get a box?

I’m sure you’ll think of something. Isn’t your job worth fighting for? Allow me to suggest this as well. If your boss was to suddenly resign, don’t you think you’ll be next in line?

That was too good to be true. Conceivably.

Maybe that’s why he wants to get rid of you. You are a threat.

Okay, snoop. How did you get the tape? I asked.

Ginn almost frowned. I cannot tell you that.

What if it isn’t admissible in court?

It may not be, but played enough and to the right audiences? That will make everyone squirm.

Let me think about it, I said and finally stepped out of the elevator.

You do that. But remember, he wants to replace you, he said and then disappeared as the doors shut.

Needless to say, that night, I began the process of sinking my boss by pulling up all of Randall’s expense reports on my laptop. Later, I called the Tennessee lawyer’s number Ginn gave me, just to make sure his allegations of the abused woman were legit.

A fiery man with a southern accent answered and gave me the lowdown.

The allegations were true.

CHAPTER FOUR

Randall had been stripped of his role two months later, the Board of Directors having relieved him of his duties as Chief Financial Officer for the company citing impropriety of all things. Word leaked out to the Board, thanks to me, that he was misappropriating company funds for his personal use on inflated expense reports and that an abused woman named Kendra Caligula in Tennessee was seeking legal action for an alleged crime there three years earlier. The SEC hadn’t been involved as of yet, but the threat loomed and that got the Board very nervous, especially with the MeToo movement still fresh. They called for an emergency meeting and put Randall on the spot. Randall denied everything but when a mystery tape was played in the boardroom, Randall heard his distinct voice as we all did. In the tape, Randall was discussing with a mystery woman called Candi, my assumption being a hooker, that the amount of money he spent to have a good time was his right as the boss. He bragged about helicopter ride blowjobs, Krystal champagne baths, and threesomes with teenage girls. Yet, somehow, this Candi knew how to ask the appropriate questions that steered Randall to more revelations. The more he talked, the more he sank. When asked if he could get fired for his naughtiness, Randall waved her off, calling the Board a bunch of cocksuckers who didn’t know their heads from their asses.

Randall’s face turned beet red and he clutched his heart. I thought the guy would pitch forward from a heart attack that very moment. He didn’t even proclaim his innocence. The Board voted almost immediately and fired him. Randall was escorted from the building that afternoon by a pair of burly security officers with his head hung low. He carried with him a box that held photos of his six kids, his current wife, and other personal belongings. Randall never knew it was me that blew the whistle and assumed it was the Controller that opened his mouth about the expense reports. He was at a loss about the tape.

I was promoted to the role of Chief Financial Officer shortly after. First, the Board wanted to know how I knew of the potential fiasco. I was approached by someone at a convention who took me aside, spoke on the condition of anonymity about Randall’s past, and handed me the tape. The last convention we had in Vegas only a month ago, I told them. It was a lie, of course, but I was convinced it was for the greater good. Ginn provided me with all the details but I couldn’t have him be the source. Being a hotel concierge, Ginn’s methods for gathering information on Randall could be deemed fuzzy or illegal. It was better to have the convention play a part. Ignorance too.

Did you know the person who handed it to you? one member asked.

I continued to lie. No. They quickly left.

Was it a man or woman?

"A man. He came up to me, and after some small talk, reached into his pocket and said, you might want to hear this. Come to think of it, I saw the guy at a competitor’s booth earlier. After he handed me the tape, he left and I never saw him again."

The truth was, Ginn emailed it to me. It was recorded on cell phone video, the screen black, which I took to assume that the phone was stuffed in a purse and out of view. After I copied it to a small tape, I played it to the Chief Executive Officer first who then called for the emergency meeting the next day. The rest was history.

The Board was eager to put the mess behind them and get back to work. Although I was promoted to the job I secretly coveted, the role didn’t happen without unforeseen consequences. I worked longer hours and traveled more. I remembered the saying, be careful what you wish for. That couldn’t have been more accurate.

Exactly three months later, in the very next financial quarter, I was back in Las Vegas. My wife wasn’t happy about it and asked me, point blank, if I was having an affair. She didn’t believe me that I had to travel to Las Vegas so much when there were other offices around the US as well.

Las Vegas is the problem child of the corporation, I told her. I don’t want people there to lose their jobs.

But why Vegas of all places and why so much? she whined. She was referring to the image of Sin City and all its temptations. I understood where she was coming from but at my professional level, there wasn’t a river of jobs to wade through.

It’s something I have to do, I said. Everyone is working late hours.

The Controller was still in his role and not performing to my satisfaction either. I feared Randall had been right after all, that Brett was in over his head but I was determined to work with the guy. I was sent there to assist Brett and help, more often than not, but frustration was building as were the excuses. We incurred high turnover in the accounting department too as two more people left and we had to hire temps to fill those roles. Something had to be done, and soon.

Thoroughly drained one work day, I wandered into the hotel lobby from my Uber ride, dreading the fact I had to open my laptop after a quick bite. It was going to be another late night.

Ginn saw me from across the crowded lobby and waved me over.

Rough day? he asked me.

Why didn’t I go into another profession? I said, leaning against his desk. "Archeologist. Zoologist. Some sort of gist."

Would you like a little pick-me-up?

I yawned. What do you mean?

From out of nowhere, Ginn slid me a small baggie of white powder. Don’t worry, it’s just a taste. Not enough to get you riled up in any upsetting manner.

I paused and licked my lips. I hadn’t done cocaine since college and there was a reason for that. My wife forbade it. I was a heavy partier back in those days and ran into problems when I used, which was often since my dormmate regularly supplied it. Juggling college and a full-time bartending job required a lot of energy, something coke was able to provide. I met my wife at an east coast college and she saw how strung out I became. All the tip money I made went up my nose. I claimed it was just fun but she thought otherwise. She thought I was an addict. She told me she would leave me if I continued. I stopped cold turkey and somehow managed to never look back. I just avoided it. Quite frankly, I never saw it. None of my friends after college ever did it.

It was the rush I needed though. Just a small amount too. Anything to get me over the hump. Just like my bartending days when I was closing at two am and had to study for an eight am exam the next day. It was necessary, I said to myself.

Ginn smiled. Don’t worry, there are no police in the area. This is not a set-up or sting. Just a little trade among friends.

My heart raced. What could it hurt? No one needed to know. What do you want for it?

More pills, he said. Vitamins this time. Calcium preferably. With that, he handed me the bag and I grasped it, squeezing it tight.

Tomorrow, I said to him. I’ll get you some.

I assumed Ginn sold them on the street to make up some cash. Why else would he want so many antibiotics? Why he didn’t bother to ask me for cash was a mystery though. It was always pills.

That night, I snorted for the first time in years, using a rolled-up dollar bill. I felt very much alive. I stayed up late and hammered out my work with incredible efficiency. I created a game plan for the accounting staff and adjusted roles and responsibilities. It didn’t stop then, however. Coke became a necessity to get me through the grind, each time I came into town. I would only use it then, I promised myself.

And Ginn was there, always ready with more.

CHAPTER FIVE

I provided Ginn with volumes of antibiotics, vitamins, and other medications over the next few months. I half-expected the man to open his own drugstore The meds were quite easy to get as I fudged the commission payouts for some sales reps who stated, and quite correctly too, that they worked hard, traveled far, and damn well deserved it. They, in turn, handed me their samples with no questions asked.

My turn at being CFO had its perks including a bump in salary and stock options. The rest of the department was given pay raises for the first time in two years. I decided to drop business casual wear and allowed jeans and t-shirts every day. Fridays were free bagels. After each close, I took the department out for lunch. The accounting department relaxed for once and everyone generally liked me (or so I was told). My employees worked harder. Nobody left. Departmental spending began to look better with less overtime forced on the workers. I never forgot how that was made possible. It was all thanks to Ginn and me becoming the new boss.

One morning just after six am, I checked out early, trying to catch a flight back home. Upon entering the lobby, Ginn waved me over.

Teddy! he shouted.

I cringed at my name called out like that as I slid over to him. What’s up, slick?

Oh my. Quite a lot, actually. Are you familiar with Carterly Pharmaceuticals?

I would say so, I huffed. They are a direct competitor.

I happen to know their stock will plummet soon. Are you interested in making some money?

He meant short-selling their stock. I didn’t own any of theirs. While no law says I couldn’t, I had to be careful.

Ginn said, Relax, it won’t be insider trading. There’s nothing the SEC can do.

That still sounded fuzzy. How do you know their stock will drop?

Ginn leaned in towards me and only said, Viaxen.

Viaxen was a very effective diabetic pill that worked wonders for that market. The drug, however, was rumored to have some nasty side effects including bloody urine, stomach, and chest pains. What about it? I asked.

They are about to be sued. A lawsuit is coming from the deep south somewhere. Some patients are experiencing bladder cancer and lawyering up. The plaintiffs are many and apparently, it’s very convincing. I heard the CEO talking on his phone this morning as he waited for his driver. The lawyers representing the plaintiffs don’t want to settle. They want to go to trial and they are suing for a disgusting amount of cash.

Wow.

I know.

You had me at disgusting, I remarked.

We must act fast.

That was too good to be true, but Ginn always delivered. I’m in, I told him.

Great, Ginn said, picking up his phone. I’ll make my trade right away. Let me call my broker. I suggest you do the same. The markets open in twenty-five minutes.

It took me a half-second to register. Thanks for the tip.

CHAPTER SIX

JUST MONTHS BEFORE THE GAS

My coworkers and I had just wrapped up another quarterly reporting and we were celebrating with table service at a club in my hotel. It was a rarity for them to hang out with me and I appreciated that. I opened up a credit card, pledging to keep it open until ten pm at least. Revenues and profits were up, the second such quarter, and we were all feeling giddy.

Ducking out of the lounge, I headed to Ginn to see if he could supply me with a little pick-me-up. I had used up my last batch the night before and I didn’t want a hangover from the booze. There was still work in the morning.

Ginn was at his usual spot, busy behind the desk. He didn’t even look up at me, but he knew I was there when I strolled up. Good evening, he said to me with casual indifference. What can I do for you? And then he looked up, showing annoyance and vexation with narrowing eyes. Not his usual, happy-to-serve self.

Funny guy, I replied.

Ginn didn’t move and simply stood there, holding a prissy and snotty glare as if I was an inconvenience.

Where’s the stuff? I asked, looking around.

You realize I do a lot for you, he said.

Yeah, pal, I do. Of course.

I risked my career for you. I’ve done some inappropriate tasks for you. Some quite illegal too.

Got it, I said, rolling my eyes. Come on, man.

Are you happy with my services? he asked.

I was too buzzed to give a shit anymore and was getting annoyed. Yes, you know I am. So, come on, quit fucking around. Is it here or not?

I’ve helped you live a new life, he said. New riches, wouldn’t you agree?

Whatever, I said and rolled my eyes.

Ginn stood firm. For me to continue, I require something from you.

So, this was what he was getting at. The dude wanted something more. What is it you want now? More pills? I told you it’s too hard these days, I said grudgingly and reached into my pocket for my wallet. He knew the pills were hard to steal. I figured it would be money that time which I had no problem giving.

Ginn put his hand out to stop me. No, it’s not money I’m after.

Then what?

A contract. I require it, he said.

Like a magician, Ginn’s hands suddenly moved quickly, swirling and circling. My right hand was then yanked forward and before I knew it, he was grasping it with his right, in a handshake, and holding it like a vice. His left was locked on my forearm, just behind my wrist, so he had me with both his hands.

What the hell? I said, weakly.

Ginn said, I’ve helped you with your new life. As I said, for me to continue, you must give me something of value in return.

What?

Volo quad alienum est, Ginn said to me.

What the hell does that mean? I tried to pull my hand back but I couldn’t. I also didn’t want to make a scene. Looking around, I noticed we were alone. The casino was alive with slot jingles and conversation, but our area was empty.

It’s an unbreakable bond between us, Ginn replied. And then I felt a prick between our hands.

Whatever, I said and yanked back, immediately feeling pain. Looking down at my hand, I saw blood. I was cut from the base of my palm to my middle finger.

So was Ginn’s, but that wasn’t all that I saw in his palm. It was covered in scars. Many scars. Something I had never noticed before. Also, the nail on his index finger on his right hand, the hand he used to shake mine with, was covered in my blood across an elongated tip, sharpened to a point. I had never noticed that. He had scratched my palm with it and his palm was bleeding too. We were both cut.

Our handshake was a blood handshake.

Excellent. I will inform you of what I desire and when to collect it. In time, Ginn replied. He casually grabbed a cloth and then tossed me one as well, and it was then I noticed a small knife, the blade red. He must have used it to cut his own palm before slicing mine with his fingernail. I looked down at the counter, he had a few cloths ready. He had anticipated this. Don’t worry, it will heal quickly. Its prominence, however, will be striking. Especially to others. Wear it as a badge of honor. No harm shall come to you. Unless I deem it so.

What, are you the devil now? I asked him.

Something like that, he replied and handed me a bandage. I wiped my blood off and pressed down. Ginn had the bandage open for me and he wrapped my hand, neglecting his own, which was still bleeding. Soon after, a bag appeared next to me, which was what I originally came for.

Confused, I stumbled off with the bag and hurried to the elevators. I resisted the urge to look back at Ginn and instead, brushed him off as irrelevant and tried to shake away the buzzkill as I pressed the elevator button.

Freak, I muttered, still avoiding his gaze. I could feel him watching me. Laughter erupted and I turned back around. The smarmy son of a bitch Ginn was smiling at me, his bloody hand raised high, almost triumphantly.

It’s a binding contract, he shouted to me as the elevator door opened. I sulked off into the elevator, holding the precious baggie on my left, begging the doors to close as fast as possible. Only when they closed and the elevator began to move did I relax.

Then, by the next day, Ginn was there again at his desk, smiling, courteous, and carrying on as if nothing occurred. Not then, not the next few times either. Instead, he began to call me, offering tempting packages that included room upgrades, champagne, and tickets to any show for each visit. Those extras were free too and he refused any payment. Soon, the blood handshake was forgotten as it scarred over in my palm. I guessed it was quid pro quo but I just didn’t understand what he wanted in return.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE GAS

Despite a five-hour drive through the Mojave Desert, I rolled into the hotel valet parking in my new BMW sports car completely refreshed. It was the beginning of March and the air was warming nicely. Summer would arrive soon, as would the hellish temperatures, but spring was decent. With valet ticket and luggage in hand, I watched my car zoom off, proud of my new ride.

The four hundred horsepower engine roared each time I goosed the throttle, slamming me in my seat, and causing me to giggle at its enormous power. With only a stoppage outside the desert city of Barstow for a quick lunch, I was able to careen around other vehicles along the 15 Freeway with great ease, making up for lost time. I had traded in my seven-year-old, four-door Mercedes for my new two-seater toy the previous weekend and couldn’t wait to test it out on my first run to Las Vegas. The car easily surpassed my expectations and I couldn’t wait to drive it home.

A couple of days ago, Ginn called me with a very enticing offer and I decided that a trip was required. I was due for an office visit, anyway.

As I stood in line to check in at the hotel, my thoughts ran to a fight I had with my wife hours just before I drove out. She and a friend, Paula, went to San Diego for a girl’s night out but she got home late. I stayed home with the boys. We argued about the timing of her return.

You knew I had to leave for work, I said as she walked in the door with her luggage. What took you so long? San Diego is only one hour away.

What? No, how was your trip? Did you have fun?

I didn’t hear from you.

We decided to stop at the Outlets in Carlsbad. Get some clothes for the boys. I had to drop Paula off too, she stated.

You could have called.

I tried to, but you didn’t answer.

When I checked my phone, I saw no inbound calls from her. Just as I was about to protest, she said, What’s the big deal? You got to spend time with the boys. Whom you hardly ever see.

That’s not the point, I said. I just sat and waited. No word.

Oh, whatever, she said and rolled her eyes. It’s Sunday, for God’s sake. There’s no rush to get to Vegas.

She didn’t get it. I did have to work and due to the lateness, that meant a little snort of coke later. I have to prepare for a board meeting Monday morning.

So, you could have spent this time preparing in your office upstairs.

Working from home is difficult. Too many distractions.

So, we’re distractions now?

I didn’t mean it that way.

I think you just want to get into your little sports car and rev off into the sunset. You might not realize this, but you’ve changed.

Changed how?

She huffed. Ever since you became a big-shot CFO. We never see you. It’s all about your job. And all this money we have now. You aren’t the same.

You don’t have a problem spending it! I yelled.

"When’s the last