The Accidental Houseguest

By Xlibris US

The Accidental Houseguest takes a satirical and mocking look at the IRS, FBI, DEA, gangsters, bouncers and the Miami fl amboyant lifestyle.

Gerald Owen is the former President of WarmBodyJobs.com, an Internet Job Board for the unemployable, whose slogan was Where Second Best Is Just Too Good. The company enjoys great success until Geralds partner, Marty, embezzles the companys tax money to enjoy a lavish retirement in a nonextraditable island. The IRS is less than pleased. They close down the company and prosecute the unwitting Gerald.

To avoid an inevitable long prison sentence, Gerald decides to commit suicide and spend his last three days as a fugitive in Miami. He boards an earlier plane by switching airline tickets with an undercover DEA agent, Arnold Puffin, whom he found lying unconscious in the mens restroom. Arriving at Miami International Airport, Gerald is mistaken for Arnold Puffin and chauffeured to the Golden Beach mansion of Vincent Campari, a reputed mafia chief. Puffin had been invited to stay as a guest of Vincents daughter, who, fortuitously, is stuck in Paris due to a silly airline strike.

Meanwhile, DEA agents, who have been staking out Vincents mansion from a rundown house across the street, are delighted in the belief that their secret agent has penetrated the Campari bastion.

Assuming his new identity, Gerald stays with the dysfunctional Campari family. With only three planned days to live, Gerald becomes invincible as he enjoys sexual favors while facing untold attempts on his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493186006

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Clive Quarmby.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014904895

   ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4931-8601-3

      Softcover   978-1-4931-8602-0

      eBook   978-1-4931-8600-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/07/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Chapter   1      A Really Bad Day

Chapter   2      Paradise For Some

Chapter   3      Suicide—The Final Solution

Chapter   4      On The Run

Chapter   5      Mr. Puffin, I Presume

Chapter   6      Flagrante Delicto, Like

Chapter   7      A Dinner To Die For

Chapter   8      Night Games

Chapter   9      A New Image

Chapter   10   To Kill A Puffin

Chapter   11   Roadkill

Chapter   12   Evening Encounters

Chapter   13   Club Testicles

Chapter   14   Suicide Reconsidered

Chapter   15   Showdown

Chapter   16   Aftermath

1

A REALLY BAD DAY

After a promising start, the day turned to rat shit. In fact, this became the worst day in Gerald Owen’s life. Worse days would follow in rapid succession, but the first really bad day is always the worst.

The morning began just fine. It was Gerald’s thirty-second birthday, and his devoted girlfriend, Valerie, woke him up early and made love to him. Traffic was light to work. Business was good. Sales were up. Profits were achieving a new high, and Gerald just received the green light to take his Park Avenue software company, WarmBodyJobs.com, public.

WarmBodyJobs.com was created as a spoof on the job board industry. Gerald and his partner, Marty, had dreamed up the idea while under the influence of alcohol to celebrate an eighth-year reunion. They had been roommates at NYU, and both progressed well in their career goals. Gerald had created leading-edge programs to assist Google’s rapid rise on the Internet, and Marty’s financial and marketing prowess had accelerated Hot Jobs to become the third leading job board until they were bought out by Monster.

Have you ever thought that all the job boards advertise that they provide the leading-edge talent? Marty lamented while downing his fifth margarita. Who’s looking out for the ninety percent of the population who have no talent?

Let’s start a job board for losers, Gerald proclaimed. We just need a catchy name, such as WarmBodyJobs.com.

Great name! We can promote it with such phrases as ‘Gotta pulse, we gotcha a job,’ Marty suggested, being the marketing genius.

Or, Gerald suggested after a few seconds’ thought, ‘Where second best is just too good.’

Better still. Of course, no company would admit that most of their employees are just warm bodies, Marty lamented. But let’s do it as a spoof.

Six months later, WarmBodyJobs.com was launched. It became a cult site. Within months, revenues were in the hundreds of thousands. Six years later, the company had grown to a staff of forty people with revenues of $20 million.

Then the Internal Revenue Service turned up. Not in keeping with its newfound image as a kinder and gentler organization, a small army of IRS officials, with the help of two FBI agents, paid a visit to the WarmBodyJobs offices. They knocked down the front door, even though it wasn’t locked, and marched en masse into the lavish reception area. In IRS parlance, this was referred to as making an entrance.

Shirley, the receptionist, confronted them. She was an erotic-looking black woman who had come a long way since her career entry position as a stripper at the Black Pussycat nightclub in Jersey City. She had been working hard on her new image of respectability and was quite proud of her progress. She was WarmBodyJobs’ first line of defense. Nobody, but nobody entered the forbidden offices behind her without Shirley’s say-so.

Caught off guard by this unconventional arrival, she lost her composure and diction. Where d’ju think yo’re goin’? she asked with venom. And what de fuck’s wrong wit’ turnin’ de fuckin’ doe handle like any normal fuckin’ person?

The door was locked, ma’am, asserted a tall man who had cop written all over his closely cropped head and stamped on his shiny black lace-up shoes.

Did you turn de handle and pull? Shirley shouted at him.

I sure did, madam, the cop replied politely.

Well, next time turn de fuckin’ handle and push, you dim-witted moron, Shirley screamed.

At this point, the leader of the group stepped forward.

I’m Mr. Robinson from the Internal Revenue Service, he said firmly and with authority, in the hopes of calming down the close-to-hysterical Shirley. He was a middle-aged career accountant, complete with white shirt, boring tie, receding gray hair, glasses, and no apparent personality to speak of.

An’ I’m suppose’ to be impress’ or somethin’? said Shirley haughtily. You di’n’t have to break down de fuckin’ doe. Comin’ in here like you ain’t got no home trainin’. And look at dis damn mess you made all over mah office. I’m callin’ security!

We’ve got a warrant to enter these premises, explained Mr. Robinson as soon as he was able to get a word in edgewise.

Ex-cuuzze meee, not without ma say-so, you ain’t! Shirley replied angrily, her head now moving from side to side, a sure sign that she was less than pleased by this intrusion.

Read this warrant, ma’am, ordered the tall man. I’m Agent Perkins from the FBI. This is a search warrant.

I ain’t readin’ shit! An’ I don’ care if you from de FBI, de DEA, or de HMO. I ain’t lettin’ you in until I aks our President, Mr. Owen. With these words, Shirley sat back in her chair and began to file her nails, all the while staring defiantly and resolutely at her adversaries, who were now crowding out her office.

Now listen, young lady! hissed Agent Perkins, between his clenched teeth, displaying the darker side of his personality. We’re just walking right on in, with or without your permission.

Now don’ even go there, Shirley insisted, standing up and screaming right into his face. Don’ fuck wif me. Not today. Don’ you go threatenin’ me, you scumbag-don’-know-how-to-dress-or-tie-a-tie muthafucka. You wait right there until I aks Mr. Owen. She then muttered out loud, Knockin’ down de front doe! Shit! You people are gonna make me lose my professionalism. But don’ you even think about makin’ me lose my job. I work too hard and I need my job and you need some manners. Comin’ in here like—

All right, all right, already, Agent Perkins conceded, in an effort to shut her up. He was slightly taken aback by this onslaught and started fidgeting with his tie. Give your boss a call, but tell him we’re coming through, regardless. Deep down he preferred to shoot the door down. It would make his dreary life a little more exciting.

Shirley rang Gerald’s direct line.

Gerald was deep in thought. He had his feet up on the desk in his usual pondering position. As always, he was casually dressed in his customary sweater, Dockers, and boating shoes. A frown crossed his boyish yet handsome features as the phone interrupted his concentration. He pushed the unruly, longer-than-fashionable light-brown hair away from his deep blue eyes and lifted the phone on the third ring.

Hello! Gerald Owen speaking. Then glancing down at the ID number, he realized it was his faithful receptionist. Oh, hello, Shirley! What’s up?

Gerry, Shirley said calmly and politely, her composure and diction now almost intact. "I’ve got a bunch of people out here that say they’re from the IRS. They be here with a couple of plainclothes cops, and I do mean plain." She stared at Agent Perkins as she defiantly stressed the plain.

Tell them to see Marty, Gerald requested. He personally loathed the financial side of the business, which he left entirely to his trusted friend and partner, Marty. He’ll know how to handle them.

Marty ain’t here.

Then how about Margarita? Gerald asked. She knows all that accounting stuff. She can probably handle it.

Margarita ain’t, I mean isn’t, here neither. Mr. Gerry, these people have gotten me so worked up I can’t even talk right.

That’s OK, Shirley, calm down, said Gerald in his usual soft-spoken manner. Maybe you can do me a favor. Ask them to make an appointment to see Marty at a more convenient time.

Shirley covered the phone and addressed the IRS army. Do you guys want to come back at a more convenient time? She looked at the stone-wall expression on Mr. Robinson’s face and noticed that Agent Perkins was unstrapping his gun holster. She answered her own question. No! I guess not, eh? Didn’t think so. Then she said to Gerald, Mr. Gerry, I think you need to see them now. They been real rude to me. They already broken down the front door, and they eyeing the office door and security system with intent!

OK, beam them in, Shirley, Gerald replied reluctantly as he had better things to do with his time.

Shirley put the phone down, and turning to the impatient crowd, she said sweetly and professionally, Mr. Owen will see you now.

Twenty-five men and a very officious-looking lady made their way to Gerald’s expansive corner office. Although surprised at Gerald’s dressed-down appearance, they were, unlike most guests, less than impressed by the luxury of the office. It had been specially designed with opulence in mind. Customers liked to see that they were dealing with success and that their vendors were here to stay. The office decor featured smoked-glass cabinets and shelving units. The hand-stitched, imported calf leather chairs were displayed majestically around the oversize coordinating glass-topped desk.

As they stared out of the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling window, which prominently displayed the New York City skyline in close-up, the female of the group sneered, There goes your tax dollars at work!

Nice view, huh? Gerald said, ignoring the snide remark. Let’s go to the conference room, it’ll be a little less crowded.

He took them through the connecting door to the conference room, which had the same view and was even more extravagant than his office. He led them toward the solid long mahogany table surrounded by sixteen chairs. On the back wall, facing the panoramic view, were at least another dozen or so chairs, more than enough to seat the armada of tax people and their entourage.

Sit down, Gerald said pleasantly. Make yourselves at home.

The group shuffled into the room and dutifully sat down. The two almost identically featured, burly FBI agents remained standing by the hand-carved, solid mahogany double doors leading to the corridor.

When they were all positioned, the leader of the group started his introductory speech in a formal manner. My name is Mr. Robinson. I represent the Internal Revenue Service. These two gentlemen, he continued, gesturing to the centurions standing by the doors, are from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Hi, said the smaller of the two although he was still well over six feet tall. My name’s Agent Perkins.

And I’m Agent Simms, the other FBI agent added in an equally friendly manner.

Pleased to meet you, Gerald replied politely, nodding at each of them to acknowledge their presence.

Mr. Robinson continued with the introductions. These gentlemen, and lady, of course, are from the Internal Revenue Service. We’re here to…

As he was looking round the room, he stopped in midsentence. His attention suddenly centered on three rather thuggish-looking men, who, unlike the rest of his team, were not wearing standard white shirts and dull ties. Instead they were dressed in jeans and wore different shades of T-shirts, each with the wording Singleton’s Moving & Storage. They had seated themselves at the head of the table and were taking a keen interest in the proceedings albeit slouched in their plush leather seats.

Do you mind! Mr. Robinson addressed the apparent intruders abruptly. What are you doing in here?

The man said, ‘Come in and sit down,’ the more overweight of the trio responded indignantly. Didn’t he? he addressed his two colleagues, looking for confirmation and support.

That’s what I heard, the skinny, unshaven member of the trio replied, collaborating with his fellow Singleton man.

Me too, the third member chipped in. That’s what the man—

Would you mind waiting in the corridor? Mr. Robinson interrupted brusquely. This is private business. We’ll call you when we need you.

The men from Singleton reluctantly, and ever so slowly, arose and left the room. The overweight member grumbled aloud, That’s what the man said. Just doin’ what we was asked. No need to cop an attitude abou’ it. This’s a good company.

They’s good people here, the Singleton’s fellow with the beard added. This’s a good company, I can give ’em my personal reference, if that ’elps. In fact, I got this job from their website, WarmBodyJobs.com.

Get out, now! Mr. Robinson shouted, having exceeded his normal high level of tolerance.

When the door closed behind them, Mr. Robinson was about to continue when he spotted an even more disreputable attendee seated next to Gerald. This individual had shoulder-length hair and sported a scruffy long beard. He was also dressed in jeans and had a turquoise T-shirt with the rather offensive slogan Fuck Authority!

Excuse me, Mr. Robinson addressed the unfortunate fellow. He was now getting exasperated, and his true people skills were coming out into the open. Get the hell out of this room and join your colleagues in the corridor, for Chrissake.

This happens to be, Gerald interrupted slowly, our Vice President of Software Development. He stays.

Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Robinson apologized, feeling a little foolish in front of his IRS subordinates. Yes, please stay. I thought that… oh, well, never mind. Now the reason we are here is to take a look at your books.

Sure. Is there a problem? Gerald asked apprehensively.

That is not for me to say, said Mr. Robinson. He had been trained in the IRS factory to remain noncommittal and nonconfrontational regardless of the evidence at hand.

But take a guess, buddy, Agent Perkins butted in cheerfully, his left hand wavering around his now-exposed gun handle. The training school for FBI taught different values. Insults and intimidation were strongly stressed.

Take a guess, huh, Gerald replied sarcastically. Oh, this could be a tough one. He stroked his chin pensively. His dislike for bureaucracy and government officials in general was coming to the surface. He continued, Correct me if I’m wrong, but could it be that the whole lot of you were out on a bus trip to the zoo, and you broke down outside our front door, so you decided to just drop in as a courtesy call?

Mr. Owen, Mr. Robinson said in a very somber tone, I do not appreciate your comments about bus trips or zoos. This is a serious matter, and I demand respect.

Gerald was seething. He had work to do, and here he was wasting time, dealing with a bunch of self-righteous government clowns. Nevertheless, he politely asked, Then may I ask what is the purpose of your visit here? Was the tax return a little late?

A little late—that’s a good one, snickered Agent Perkins, the talkative FBI agent.

Suddenly, more snickering occurred, and before long, the whole group was laughing helplessly. So the IRS had a sense of humor! Gerald looked at them, and with mirth being contagious, he too started laughing.

I guess my assumption was close, huh?

You might say that, Mr. Robinson responded politely.

The laughter continued.

How late is a little late? Gerald asked, still smiling as it was a pleasure to be with such a happy crowd. A week? A month maybe?

How does four years and still counting sound? Agent Perkins interjected.

The laughter reached a crescendo. Mr. Robinson, who had the training to keep a straight and serious face through all this, raised his right hand. The mirth stopped instantaneously, with the exception of Agent Perkins, whose loud guffaws filled the room solo for a few more seconds.

Oh, I’m sorry, Agent Perkins remarked, placing his hand over his mouth to hide his embarrassment.

No, seriously, how late are the returns? Gerald asked respectfully.

Agent Perkins is right, Mr. Robinson acknowledged sadly. Four years. Four long years.

Well, how could that be? Gerald asked, taken aback and quite perplexed.

That’s for you to know and for us to find out, Mr. Owen, Mr. Robinson said calmly. Now the purpose of our visit is to seize your books and your records for the past six years.

"You want to see our books, or did you say seize our books?" Gerald said, seeking clarification as to whether he heard what he thought he heard.

We’ve come to seeiizze your books, the officious-looking lady interjected sternly, emphasizing the eeiizze. In fact, to cut a long story short, we don’t appreciate tax evaders, and we have a court order to take all the records we want.

You’re joking! Gerald exclaimed.

Surprisingly enough, we never joke, she replied.

By now, this did not surprise Gerald. Do you mind if I call my partner and get him to come in to talk to you?

"No,