This is what I've been working on, this weekend: Chapter 3 of Underground Guy. More than 40 pages about this, but important to understanding Devlin.
But the bank wouldn't extend us credit for the remaining seventy-five thousand we needed, so we still would have done a crash and burn if I hadn't postponed grad school for a couple years and let the company use my half of dad's insurance to keep the cash-flowing. Money that was would’ve paid for grad school. It gave us space to work our way back up to solvency, and I made damn sure not only did some of our extra cash from then on go into Treasuries -- no return but good collateral on a loan -- we never took another job without enough of a deposit to cover our costs. I also shifted us out of that fucking bank and into a credit union.
Of course, Colin felt responsible, but I did not blame him for this. He'd enjoyed dad's slaps and fists two years longer than me, and they'd left their mark. Not just in emotional scars but physiological ones. He would get blinding headaches that put him on the floor and had trouble remembering things clients told him or appointments that had to be kept. On top of that his mood could do a one-eighty like you would not believe, sometimes even in mid-sentence. After a dozen doctors told him he was just overworked or too stressed out or eating the wrong food or just imagining it, Diana forced through an MRI. That showed lesions on part of his brain. Which gave them a clue as to how to treat it -- which was basically to leave it alone and suggest he see a therapist on how to control the symptoms better. Diana hooked him up with a guy who worked with people suffering from PTSD, and he was on the road to actually seeming recovered.
No, it was Griffin Faure I held responsible, because he either knew about Colin's issues or sensed it and used it to his advantage. Apparently, destroying my brother meant nothing to him. For years after the debacle, it took a lot of work by Diana and me to keep Colin from doing a dive off the GW Bridge, and I loathed every ounce of Faure's being for it.
But it didn't come to a head till about two years after. I'd just reworked one of Colin's pin orders for the factory when he came in and sat on the floor behind my desk, his back against the wall. He was weaving and breathing hard and his hands were clenching each other. I stopped work and let him take his time to speak.
"You'll need to call Ghadir," he said, his voice thin as tissue paper.
I nodded. "Okay."
"I -- I called him a fuckin' raghead. I can't believe I did that."
"Considering he's a Persian Jew..."
"Yeah. Yeah." He finally sighed and said, "I'm never gonna be whole, am I? I'll never be complete. I keep screwing things up. Like that thing with Faure -- I nearly killed us."
I took in a deep breath and said, "Colin, considering what you've been through, you're doing great," as I hit a button on the intercom -- my warning signal to Marci, our receptionist, to get hold of Diana. Then I sat on the floor with him. "We got robbed by a thief. Not your fault. Dad's the one who set us up with that prick, not you. Faure would've pulled the same shit with him."
"Don't bet on it. Remember what dad always said?"
"I try not to."
He almost smiled. "He said not to put your eggs into one basket, all your eggs in one basket, but that's what I did -- "
"Um, I don't think that's the right saying for this."
"Doesn't matter. I killed your school fund -- "
"Colin, I got four more years to finish my masters and no idea what I'm gonna do my thesis on, yet. Working here gives me real-world experience and a chance to think about it and -- "
"You sound like a fuckin' college brochure!" he snapped.
I put an arm across his shoulders. "Y'know, I wouldn't sound like anything if it wasn't for you."
"...You...you were always gonna do fine..."
"No, I'd probably be dead or in jail or a junkie. You got between me and Dad a few too many times for your own good, but it protected me, and I love you for it, bro’. Now look at what we know. Dad...he damaged you like...like a car's damaged when it's broadsided or a boat'll sink if it's got a hole that isn't fixed. Griffin fucking Faure used that against us. He belongs in jail, like any thief. Once you’re fixed up, you'll see that."
He didn't move for a few moments then he whispered, "What if we can't fix me? What if I'm always a drain on you?"
"You think Diana’ll let that happen?"
He looked at me, almost smiling, again. "I got lucky with her, didn't I?"
"No shit. If I wasn't all about dicks, I'd take her away from you."
"Shit, you gotta talk about that?!"
"I am what I am."
He nodded, fighting himself. "More'n I ever will be."
"Diana won't let that happen."
He looked at me, near tears. "Why does she put up with me?"
"I hear she loves you."
He rested his head against his knees and choked out, "God, I want be right for her. I want to be a man for her -- "
I pulled him tight to me and said, "Colin, you got another kid on the way. I think you've been a man with her."
He just started to sob. We sat like that till Diana arrived and guided him back to his feet and into his office.
He's the one telling the story and has been arrested by the Metropolitan Police. He's stuck in an interrogation room, and has just had his first back-and-forth with the head of the Met, who've already been in contact with the US Department of Justice to look into his background...and learned things about him that will be very problematic. His interrogators have just left.
-----
I peed, drank the whole bottle of water, and forced myself to sit back at the table. Finally, I had something to focus on besides my situation.
Griffin Faure.
Griffin fucking Faure. An Upper East Side, self-indulgent asshole who figured, Hey, life’s easy for me, so it must be for everybody. And daddy being worth billions, thanks to his sleazy real estate work, and having installed Griffin, his brother and his sister behind fine desks in a private office in his eighty-story headquarters in uptown Manhattan was beside the point. He honestly thought that was normal. Same for wearing ten-thousand dollar suits, working out with a personal trainer before he hit the office, going to all the right clubs and restaurants, and being lusted after by every avaricious bimbo there was -- half because he was divorced and they thought he was richer than Solomon, and...well, half because he wasn't really bad-looking. Dark hair, sharp eyes and kissable lips, but atop a weak chin. Still, if I'd run into him at some super-chic club, I might have tried my song-and-dance, maybe even done a roofie on him, just to get his ass.
Except I hated that fucking ass. Despised it. Loathed it. You name it.
He’d set up a huge conference in Dubai to trumpet daddy's move into oil; one of those Spare No Expense things meant to impress rich idiots into investing. Part of the package was a lapel pin of the company logo, two-hundred-and fifty of them, 18 karat gold (not plated) with a sapphire stone in a curling part of the F and each with its own silk-lined jewel box. Meaning, NOT cheap to make.
Dad had checked with Mr. Mihn to see if it was feasible -- he owns the factory in Thailand that we use to make the pins -- and he'd said, Yes. Dad also discussed it with Ghadir, who'd filled him in on the kind of jewelry people in the Middle East would go for, hence the sapphire stone. Our cost would be just over three-hundred thousand bucks, so our bid was five-hundred-thousand, with Dad making it clear we'd require fifty percent of the estimate up front. We got the order.
But Dad died before the deposit was arranged.
A couple of big dealers who were his buddies stopped using us, when that happened, so this job became make it or break it for the company. Then ten days after Dad was in the ground and a week after his Will had entered into probate, Griffin Faure met with Colin and said he'd pull the order if we insisted on the full deposit. The pins were already in the process of being made, in order to meet the deadline, so Colin caved and let him put up ten percent.
He didn't tell anyone, not even his wife, Diana; he figured once the pins came in, we'd hold onto them until the invoice was paid. He didn’t expect Faure to bribe our shipping manager to ship them soon as they arrived, before we'd even been able to do a quality check. By the time we realized what happened, Faure was saying they were bad quality but offered no proof of defect and ignored the contract he'd signed.
We sic’d Hamilton on him, and learned this was part of Faure's negotiation process -- Don't pay till they sue you, then make a settlement offer in exchange for not letting this drag on through the court system. The implication being, it would take years. Faure's offer? An additional fifty-thousand.
Mr. Mihn was holding back on our other orders because he needed to be paid, and US Customs wanted the duty due on the shipment or they were going to kill our bond, so Colin suggested we agree to the settlement, thinking it would tide us over till dad’s insurance paid up. But I was pissed as hell at what Faure had pulled, so even though I was still in college, I was also now half-owner of the business and I flat out refused.
Hamilton arranged for a meeting between him, me, Faure, and the little prick's five attorneys -- four male, one female. We met in their cheesy gold-plated conference room, and the second introductions were done -- and they’d stopped snickering at how some kid was there to negotiate with them -- I looked Faure straight in his black, condescending eyes, dove into my harshest Brooklyn and said, "Pay the contract in full, right now, or we go after you in court, plus damages."
The little bitch didn't even have the balls to respond to me. The attack dog to his left did, saying, "That could take years to settle and -- "
"Fine," I shot back. "Choice is yours."
"Hamilton," said the smirky attack dog on Faure's right, "shouldn't you be handling these negotiations? Young Mr. Pope doesn't seem to understand the delicacy involved in this."
"Fuck you, bitch," shot out of me before Hamilton could even let a smile cross his face...and did that send a ripple around the room. Even the female attack dog got her back up. "I told you what your choices were -- you pay what you agreed to, or we go to court, and once that happens, no more negotiation. It'll be all or nothin’ at all, plus damages."
The female popped in with, "For substandard quality?"
"Fine, send 'em back. I can melt 'em down, sell the sapphire stones, and recoup some of our costs."
"But your company is not in a position to make a demand of that nature, Mr. -- "
I turned to Hamilton and asked, "When does that conference start?"
He smiled as he said, "Two weeks."
"Is it true the pins’re already couriered to all the participants?"
"That's my understanding."
I shifted my eyes straight to Faure's. "Then you really wanna use that tactic? We provided you with substandard items, but you sent them to potential partners, anyway? Really?"
I finally saw some human emotion in those soulless black pupils, and it wasn't love. "We had a real jeweler correct the issues."
I shook my head. "Those pins have our seven-fifty stamp on 'em, so no matter what, they're ours. You tell people we crapped it up, we go after you for libel."
"I think I may let your company shut down."
I shrugged in answer. "That'll help us, in court."
The dog to his left leaned in to whisper something. Faure nodded, in response. Then the mongrel straightened up and said, "Seventy-five thousand -- in your bank by tomorrow morning."
I shook my head. "You owe us four-hundred-and-fifty-thousand."
"Which we will not pay." And I could tell he meant it. They all did.
Hamilton leaned in at that point and said, "Make it two-fifty, so my client can at least recoup their costs."
The woman piped in with, "It's not our fault you spent too much to make the pins."
“Specs agreed to, lady,” I snapped back at her.
And the mongrel growled, "One-twenty-five."
"One-seventy-five," Hamilton shot back, and the look on his face screamed, Don’t push it.
Faure gave the slightest of nods and the mongrel said, "Deal."
That's when I jumped in with, "But if it's not in our bank account by 4:55 today, deal's off. Okay for that, Hamilton?"
He nodded. "Someone will be at the courthouse ready to file the papers."
They paid at 4:56, just as Hamilton was calling his clerk to tell him to go ahead.
-----
I peed, drank the whole bottle of water, and forced myself to sit back at the table. Finally, I had something to focus on besides my situation.
Griffin Faure.
Griffin fucking Faure. An Upper East Side, self-indulgent asshole who figured, Hey, life’s easy for me, so it must be for everybody. And daddy being worth billions, thanks to his sleazy real estate work, and having installed Griffin, his brother and his sister behind fine desks in a private office in his eighty-story headquarters in uptown Manhattan was beside the point. He honestly thought that was normal. Same for wearing ten-thousand dollar suits, working out with a personal trainer before he hit the office, going to all the right clubs and restaurants, and being lusted after by every avaricious bimbo there was -- half because he was divorced and they thought he was richer than Solomon, and...well, half because he wasn't really bad-looking. Dark hair, sharp eyes and kissable lips, but atop a weak chin. Still, if I'd run into him at some super-chic club, I might have tried my song-and-dance, maybe even done a roofie on him, just to get his ass.
Except I hated that fucking ass. Despised it. Loathed it. You name it.
He’d set up a huge conference in Dubai to trumpet daddy's move into oil; one of those Spare No Expense things meant to impress rich idiots into investing. Part of the package was a lapel pin of the company logo, two-hundred-and fifty of them, 18 karat gold (not plated) with a sapphire stone in a curling part of the F and each with its own silk-lined jewel box. Meaning, NOT cheap to make.
Dad had checked with Mr. Mihn to see if it was feasible -- he owns the factory in Thailand that we use to make the pins -- and he'd said, Yes. Dad also discussed it with Ghadir, who'd filled him in on the kind of jewelry people in the Middle East would go for, hence the sapphire stone. Our cost would be just over three-hundred thousand bucks, so our bid was five-hundred-thousand, with Dad making it clear we'd require fifty percent of the estimate up front. We got the order.
But Dad died before the deposit was arranged.
A couple of big dealers who were his buddies stopped using us, when that happened, so this job became make it or break it for the company. Then ten days after Dad was in the ground and a week after his Will had entered into probate, Griffin Faure met with Colin and said he'd pull the order if we insisted on the full deposit. The pins were already in the process of being made, in order to meet the deadline, so Colin caved and let him put up ten percent.
He didn't tell anyone, not even his wife, Diana; he figured once the pins came in, we'd hold onto them until the invoice was paid. He didn’t expect Faure to bribe our shipping manager to ship them soon as they arrived, before we'd even been able to do a quality check. By the time we realized what happened, Faure was saying they were bad quality but offered no proof of defect and ignored the contract he'd signed.
We sic’d Hamilton on him, and learned this was part of Faure's negotiation process -- Don't pay till they sue you, then make a settlement offer in exchange for not letting this drag on through the court system. The implication being, it would take years. Faure's offer? An additional fifty-thousand.
Mr. Mihn was holding back on our other orders because he needed to be paid, and US Customs wanted the duty due on the shipment or they were going to kill our bond, so Colin suggested we agree to the settlement, thinking it would tide us over till dad’s insurance paid up. But I was pissed as hell at what Faure had pulled, so even though I was still in college, I was also now half-owner of the business and I flat out refused.
Hamilton arranged for a meeting between him, me, Faure, and the little prick's five attorneys -- four male, one female. We met in their cheesy gold-plated conference room, and the second introductions were done -- and they’d stopped snickering at how some kid was there to negotiate with them -- I looked Faure straight in his black, condescending eyes, dove into my harshest Brooklyn and said, "Pay the contract in full, right now, or we go after you in court, plus damages."
The little bitch didn't even have the balls to respond to me. The attack dog to his left did, saying, "That could take years to settle and -- "
"Fine," I shot back. "Choice is yours."
"Hamilton," said the smirky attack dog on Faure's right, "shouldn't you be handling these negotiations? Young Mr. Pope doesn't seem to understand the delicacy involved in this."
"Fuck you, bitch," shot out of me before Hamilton could even let a smile cross his face...and did that send a ripple around the room. Even the female attack dog got her back up. "I told you what your choices were -- you pay what you agreed to, or we go to court, and once that happens, no more negotiation. It'll be all or nothin’ at all, plus damages."
The female popped in with, "For substandard quality?"
"Fine, send 'em back. I can melt 'em down, sell the sapphire stones, and recoup some of our costs."
"But your company is not in a position to make a demand of that nature, Mr. -- "
I turned to Hamilton and asked, "When does that conference start?"
He smiled as he said, "Two weeks."
"Is it true the pins’re already couriered to all the participants?"
"That's my understanding."
I shifted my eyes straight to Faure's. "Then you really wanna use that tactic? We provided you with substandard items, but you sent them to potential partners, anyway? Really?"
I finally saw some human emotion in those soulless black pupils, and it wasn't love. "We had a real jeweler correct the issues."
I shook my head. "Those pins have our seven-fifty stamp on 'em, so no matter what, they're ours. You tell people we crapped it up, we go after you for libel."
"I think I may let your company shut down."
I shrugged in answer. "That'll help us, in court."
The dog to his left leaned in to whisper something. Faure nodded, in response. Then the mongrel straightened up and said, "Seventy-five thousand -- in your bank by tomorrow morning."
I shook my head. "You owe us four-hundred-and-fifty-thousand."
"Which we will not pay." And I could tell he meant it. They all did.
Hamilton leaned in at that point and said, "Make it two-fifty, so my client can at least recoup their costs."
The woman piped in with, "It's not our fault you spent too much to make the pins."
“Specs agreed to, lady,” I snapped back at her.
And the mongrel growled, "One-twenty-five."
"One-seventy-five," Hamilton shot back, and the look on his face screamed, Don’t push it.
Faure gave the slightest of nods and the mongrel said, "Deal."
That's when I jumped in with, "But if it's not in our bank account by 4:55 today, deal's off. Okay for that, Hamilton?"
He nodded. "Someone will be at the courthouse ready to file the papers."
They paid at 4:56, just as Hamilton was calling his clerk to tell him to go ahead.
Of course, Colin felt responsible, but I did not blame him for this. He'd enjoyed dad's slaps and fists two years longer than me, and they'd left their mark. Not just in emotional scars but physiological ones. He would get blinding headaches that put him on the floor and had trouble remembering things clients told him or appointments that had to be kept. On top of that his mood could do a one-eighty like you would not believe, sometimes even in mid-sentence. After a dozen doctors told him he was just overworked or too stressed out or eating the wrong food or just imagining it, Diana forced through an MRI. That showed lesions on part of his brain. Which gave them a clue as to how to treat it -- which was basically to leave it alone and suggest he see a therapist on how to control the symptoms better. Diana hooked him up with a guy who worked with people suffering from PTSD, and he was on the road to actually seeming recovered.
No, it was Griffin Faure I held responsible, because he either knew about Colin's issues or sensed it and used it to his advantage. Apparently, destroying my brother meant nothing to him. For years after the debacle, it took a lot of work by Diana and me to keep Colin from doing a dive off the GW Bridge, and I loathed every ounce of Faure's being for it.
But it didn't come to a head till about two years after. I'd just reworked one of Colin's pin orders for the factory when he came in and sat on the floor behind my desk, his back against the wall. He was weaving and breathing hard and his hands were clenching each other. I stopped work and let him take his time to speak.
"You'll need to call Ghadir," he said, his voice thin as tissue paper.
I nodded. "Okay."
"I -- I called him a fuckin' raghead. I can't believe I did that."
"Considering he's a Persian Jew..."
"Yeah. Yeah." He finally sighed and said, "I'm never gonna be whole, am I? I'll never be complete. I keep screwing things up. Like that thing with Faure -- I nearly killed us."
I took in a deep breath and said, "Colin, considering what you've been through, you're doing great," as I hit a button on the intercom -- my warning signal to Marci, our receptionist, to get hold of Diana. Then I sat on the floor with him. "We got robbed by a thief. Not your fault. Dad's the one who set us up with that prick, not you. Faure would've pulled the same shit with him."
"Don't bet on it. Remember what dad always said?"
"I try not to."
He almost smiled. "He said not to put your eggs into one basket, all your eggs in one basket, but that's what I did -- "
"Um, I don't think that's the right saying for this."
"Doesn't matter. I killed your school fund -- "
"Colin, I got four more years to finish my masters and no idea what I'm gonna do my thesis on, yet. Working here gives me real-world experience and a chance to think about it and -- "
"You sound like a fuckin' college brochure!" he snapped.
I put an arm across his shoulders. "Y'know, I wouldn't sound like anything if it wasn't for you."
"...You...you were always gonna do fine..."
"No, I'd probably be dead or in jail or a junkie. You got between me and Dad a few too many times for your own good, but it protected me, and I love you for it, bro’. Now look at what we know. Dad...he damaged you like...like a car's damaged when it's broadsided or a boat'll sink if it's got a hole that isn't fixed. Griffin fucking Faure used that against us. He belongs in jail, like any thief. Once you’re fixed up, you'll see that."
He didn't move for a few moments then he whispered, "What if we can't fix me? What if I'm always a drain on you?"
"You think Diana’ll let that happen?"
He looked at me, almost smiling, again. "I got lucky with her, didn't I?"
"No shit. If I wasn't all about dicks, I'd take her away from you."
"Shit, you gotta talk about that?!"
"I am what I am."
He nodded, fighting himself. "More'n I ever will be."
"Diana won't let that happen."
He looked at me, near tears. "Why does she put up with me?"
"I hear she loves you."
He rested his head against his knees and choked out, "God, I want be right for her. I want to be a man for her -- "
I pulled him tight to me and said, "Colin, you got another kid on the way. I think you've been a man with her."
He just started to sob. We sat like that till Diana arrived and guided him back to his feet and into his office.
I didn't get up. If I had, I'd have stormed out, tracked that motherfucker down and broken his fucking neck.
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