Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 5
***
The interior of the folder included several photographs and multiple biographies of my target, each acquired from a range of sources. Wayland Bridgework, in his late forties, reigned as king of the international financial market.
Or did he? Time to color outside of the lines, old boy. I jogged the papers into a neat bundle and prepared to spend the next several hours reading Sondheim's complex and wordy analysis of the wealthiest man walking the face of the earth.
In a sort of perverse proctologic application, the role of global financier was thrust into the seat of his being without his permission. Bridgework could be perceived as the world's most influential banker or conceivably the mere front man for a silent, deep running ocean-spanning cabal. I was obligated to consider all angles at the outset, as my work required open-minded and multifaceted techniques, particularly when it involved someone as well-connected and wealthy as Mr. Bridgework.
Bridgework married Ethelene Cartier, the daughter of a renowned bilingual, illiterate Montreal furrier. The ship of their marital union hit rough shoals in a short amount of time after the issuing of I dos, sinking immediately into divorce. Without explanation, they married anew less than a year later and from that point on -- at an early age -- his career propelled straight upward into the complex stratosphere of high stakes arbitrage and its pecuniary recompense. That is to say, by age twenty-seven Bridgework was a multimillionaire several times over and a certified celebrity among the innermost circles of the celebrity crowd.
Serenaded by politicos the world over, Bridgework held open invitations to call upon the Kremlin, stroll the Great Wall of China, make snowmen on Mount Fuji, visit his good friends in the Majilis Al-Uma of Kuwait, drink tea at Number Ten Downing Street and use the hand towels during weeknight stays in the Lincoln Bedroom at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
He kept estates on all seven continents, with the most prominent being an Escher-esque version of Frank Lloyd Wright's Falling Water, constructed on the outskirts of Lourdes, France. This particular domicile befuddled structural engineers since the night of Bridgework's housewarming party, when several partygoers became terribly ill with a severe case of the grippe due to the dampness pervading all quarters of the structure.
Domestically, Bridgework thrived in a web of overexposure. Among his many interests, he held the strings to the purse which floated Hollywood's heavy hitters. Bridgework's signature on a production contract immediately elevated the most tentative script to blockbuster standing, and time and again he demonstrated his ability to artistically mold a cluster of refuse into a box office smash. As a result, he was courted, lauded and venerated by those in-the-know on both coasts -- and pursued by everyone else in-between.
Bridgework appeared on Oprah, wrote op-eds for the Washington Post and penned two self-help bestsellers: Ditzing That Moldy Cheese and Only Self-Conscious Musicians Get the Blues. Restaurants threw open their doors when Bridgework and his associates were in town, hoping to seat him and allow his vibrations of success to materialize into a perpetual buzz. "Wayland's in the house! It's gotta be good!" While most of the drachma-counting industry hibernated on or about the equator during the winter months, Bridgework's public visibility was heightened with courtside seats at Celtic, Knick and Laker home games. He was the ubiquitous basketball fanatic, offering his good-natured insight on regional television networks in which he held a controlling stake.
To the casual observer, Wayland Bridgework was likable and popular, a man of the people and lord of an omnipresent kingdom. His gilded existence was made possible through a tide of cash crashing ashore each morning from the investment firm he started two days after his remarriage to Ethelene: The Woolamaloo Gang Hedge Fund.
"The Loo", as it became known throughout the industry, was flush with return investors and prospective clients alike, to the point that the processing of newly-infused purchases would clog its system. Popularity proved no difficulty for the exuberant and energetic CEO. Bridgework simply plunged like a madman all the way to his membership-by-invitation Swiss bank.
So then, what problems could a man of his wealth, power and fame possibly have?
Pausing to consider the question, I lifted my head from the array of papers spread out before me and rubbed my eyes, staring out the window at the crystal blue Caribbean waters far below. It was during my cursory glance of the exterior world when I heard the inboard engines sputter and churn, catching a glimpse of the portside propeller blade as it hiccupped and feathered to a standstill.
"This is Captain Cadieux from the flight deck," a tinny Cajun-accented voice came over the public address system, cutting off the cabin sing-along of Bob Marley's Buffalo Soldiers. "While you're enjoying the Slipstream Green flight and hospitality, please note we are now conserving half of our fuel usage by shutting down engines two and three. From here into Montego Bay, we'll make like a giant glider. When we're a few hundred feet off the frothy deck, by the grace of God almighty you'll hear these big boys fire to life again and deliver us a dry landing. Till then, enjoy!"
A knot expanded and rose in my stomach as the Carnaval Du Diminutif troupe broke into its trademark chant, a singsong expressing their plaintive desire to immediately escape a hot, stuffy, claustrophobic box in which they were crammed. Verse upon verse crossed the lips of their down-turned faces as they sang of freedom from their fellow entertainers' inadvertent finger-gouges, uninhibited groping and stale flatulence pervading such a tightly confined quarter. As the baleful tune progressed I struggled against being brainwashed into their cult, particularly when exposed to the requiem-like refrain:
So it's just a lark that we're in the dark,
Hey! Your knee is crushing my coccyx,
Move it now or risk starting a row,
By the way, your innards be toxic.
Try as I might, the words would not vacate my head during our gradual freefall earthward. "It wouldn't be possible to change that number, would it?" I asked the man sitting next to me. "Maybe something a bit more upbeat and forward thinking?" He looked me in the eye and continued singing as though I had not spoken, his corpulent little body wrapped inside a multicolored lederhosen which served as the group's distinctive uniform.
"Would you care for his peanuts?" The flight attendant hovered over our row, her smile spread thinly from ear to ear. Without warning she flung a bag of the salted seeds, striking me squarely in the forehead. "Enjoy, bookworm!"
I held the flimsy bag up in my left hand and tried to comprehend the shambolic behavior around me. The back of the airplane resembled a high school outing gone terribly awry and I sought reason -- even the slightest, most remote -- for God to keep us aloft. The song continued its pattering bleakness as the bag of peanuts was removed from my hand by my neighbor. Without missing a syllable, the little fellow devoured the complementary packet, foil wrapping and all, while holding my gaze. Raising the white flag I retreated to the manila folder once more, selecting the final piece of information Sondheim hand marked "Most Confidential". Beneath it was typed a personal note:
Perhaps I can interest you in an afternoon at Fenway one of these days. Why not fetch Stinky and we'll make an outing of it? What fun! Much like when we were kids. Remember the time Mulch Doonberry hit that foul pop and it came straight down, striking you square on top of your head? You babbled that the place was a 'melodic miniature of an accessorized athletic field'. Nice catch, Baron! Bravo!
My stomach heaved at the thought of that day -- specifically, Doonberry's inability to keep the ball in play coupled with my poor fielding skills -- but, with tremendous esophageal determination, I was able to keep all ingested content in place. Onward I continued, gleaning intelligence from the dossier's most sensitive passage, placing a querying toe into the deepest and coldest current of Wayland Bridgework's pool of intimate concerns. This was precisely where Sondheim desired me to swim.
Bridgework's complicated and redundant relationship with Ethelene was dutifully recorded amid and between the lines of m
edia gossip columnists the world over. Very publicly the twosome often morphed into an ephemeral threesome before, in good time, returning to their ostensible marital bliss. But what scars did such behavior inflict on them? They appeared happy and inseparable even when a third wheel temporarily attached itself to their bicycle built for two. Were they harnessed together as a team, slogging in unison through the fields of moral infidelity? Or was it a competitive sport where outdoing one's partner lit up a rueful scoreboard?
That Ethelene Cartier Bridgework was glamorously attractive served only as a partial explanation in her rise from Quebec's icy obscurity to wife of the world's foremost financier. From her multiple appearances on the covers of various tabloid publications, scanned while I waited in line to purchase a bottle of brown ale at Shadrack's Market in Faithful Hill Square, I also knew that Ethelene fancied herself as a world-class benefactress and fundraiser. There was not a cause in existence she ignored and afforded her opportunities to wear the latest evening gown from Paris and her best Winston diamonds before large contingencies of salivating paparazzi. Her extroverted persona meshed perfectly with her command of the nearest available speaker podium, which in turn emphasized her beauty and magnified her towering intellect. One could see where Wayland would be enticed by Ethelene's qualities and grace, particularly at a young and impressionable age.
But why, out of all the choices available to him, Ethelene? And why twice?
The answer was found pages later. According to Sondheim's sources, Bridgework journeyed through what was described as his "Pelt Stage", leading him to make several trips to the Beaver Club located in Montreal's Queen Elizabeth Hotel. One spring weekend adventure to the chilly city on the St. Lawrence, Bridgework by chance met and by nature fell in love with Ethelene over a dinner of poached salmon and terrine of duckling at the famed culinary establishment. All of his selections that night, including his dinner companion, proved of the highest order.
Their courtship was quick and painless, paced to the altar as like sprinters representing their respective genders at a nuptial track meet. Upon completion of their vows and a catching of their breath, they rejoined the race in the opposite direction, this time leading to the molded archways and appointed anterooms of well-established divorce attorneys. After the successful and hasty conclusion of this event, both parties enjoyed a brief respite in the locker room of mixed feelings before charging back onto the marriage field and hurdling themselves hand-in-hand over the threshold of bliss a second time. All accomplished in less than twelve months. This transitory tale of love required further exploration under a stronger illumination, yet I found my thought train derailed by the strains of my immediate company.
Across the equator and beyond to Peru,
Where Incan moon-orbiting cows learn to moo,
We study calculations at the feet of Archimedes,
All the whilst planting gardens of sugar diabetes.
Though growing fond of his strong baritone inflection with its vibrant melodic intonation, I ignored the little fellow next to me and plowed ahead into Bridgework's next pile of wash. The largest clump of soiled laundry involved Ethelene's passion for dancing and the inexplicable deaths of Bridgework's business associates, proving problematic on several levels.
Over the past year Ethelene took the floor with four different Loo employees and, in each case, a funeral for the latter was held soon after the music stopped. Neither the foxtrot, rumba nor tango was deemed a factor in the demise of Ethelene's rhythmic partners, as all were determined to have passed due to natural or accidental causes. I glanced out at the feathered prop as our flight path continued its descent and wondered how four individuals left the planet in such a common yet mysterious manner.
The first in line was Senior Daskines, Jr., who served for many years as Bridgework's right-hand stick in the Loo. Daskines was tasked with putting into play Bridgework's directives and executing them upon the corporate battlefield. He was a big time roller, one who accumulated an abundance of enemies as a result of bringing to life Bridgework's hammer and anvil tactics. Daskines had his finger on the pulse of both Bridgework and the Woolamaloo Gang, thoroughly submerged in every aspect of the financial conglomerate.
Might he also have spared one hand to clutch their collective throats and make inappropriate demands?
His final dance with Ethelene, it was noted, was the Cha-cha-cha at a ribbon cutting ceremony held at the corporation's new upscale spa.
The elder Daskines' demise was followed one month later by that of his nephew, Junior Daskine, Sr., the Loo's director of marketing. Junior's planetary orientation, according to Sondheim's inside sources, was closely and unsurprisingly aligned with Senior's objectives in the Loo corporate milieu. It was reported that whenever Senior uttered the word "jump", Junior inquired from which ledge and whether he should take the elevator or stairs upon his return. Junior and Ethelene had barely concluded a waltz at the memorial service for Senior when Junior reached for both his chest and back pocket, meekly requested the contents of his wallet and keeled over into a serving tray of fresh crème brûlée.
All forms of dancing, as well as any custard-based desserts, were tastefully omitted at the more lugubrious commemorative held for Junior days later.
Ethelene was distraught. A lover of music and dance, she raged at the nickname taking form behind her back: The Hipshaker Widowmaker. Eventually, such talk peaked and was on the decline by midsummer, when the Loo's annual barbeque popped up on the employee schedule. Bridgework was not one to spare when treating his troops to an outing. Held on the shores of Lake Tahotukmikash, the three-day weekend featured every variety of water sport and grilled food known in the western world. Loo workers were encouraged -- browbeaten, actually, during a series of departmental meetings leading up to the joyous occasion -- to bring family members in order to create an atmosphere of madcap fun. Ethelene, as the CEO's spouse, was expected to lead the charge into the wet and smoky good times.
To the profound miscalculation of one Al Ziemer, Ethelene took a bounding leap onto the dance floor, landing in his immediate proximity.
Ziemer was the Loo's IT expert, the company computer guru who made the show flicker and run from his magic bag of gigabytes, passwords, compressed data and defrag strategies. Reputed to be the leading free spirit of upper management, Ziemer stormed the halls of Loo headquarters with loose necktie and bushy red tousled hair, his hand wrapped around an ever-present recycled paper cup of steaming latte. A man hampered with tunnel vision after years of mouse-handling and virus-disposal, Ziemer thought nothing of taking on Ethelene as a partner while the band riffed off a medley of '60s surfing music. By all accounts, including a reference to a video recorded at the party, Ethelene and Al owned the parquet and were schooling their amazed compatriots with steps not seen in decades.
Their interpretation of the Topanga Banga Tango segued smoothly into a raucous rendition of the Idaho Mashed, Baked & Stuffed Potato and -- with a tip of the hat to rock 'n' roll pioneer Chubby Checker -- they slew the audience by twisting at double-time, gyrating on an eight beat to the band's four. The musicians then cut to an echoing guitar selection of Dick Dale and the Del-Tones, prompting Ethelene to convert her motions into the Hopi Rain Dance Hop [first seen on national television in 1957] while Al dropped to the floor to perform what everyone believed was his signature spasmodic finale, the Worm. Ziemer was indeed giving his last performance, convulsing to death as the crowd cheered and urged him to flail on.
The narrative had shaken me and I paused to wipe my brow on the inside of my shirt cuff. Oh, how the Worm turned on Ziemer. I continued to the next page of the report, containing the details of the final Loo victim of Ethelene's danse macabre.
In what was seemingly an innocuous encounter, Ethelene hastily entered the expansive lobby of Loo corporate headquarters several weeks after Ziemer's Worm concluded and was serenaded by the sultry tones of Muzak filling the marble-floored rotunda. Nearing the glittering and polished bank of elevators
along the opposite wall, she crossed paths with Jerzy Kracken, the company's estimable custodian. Kracken, pushing his service cart of mops, buckets, rags and cleaning supplies, did his best to avoid the onrushing twig of a woman. He moved left as she moved right. He reversed his step, leaning to his right, just as Ethelene swerved left. Blocking her once more, the perplexed janitor shuffled to his left once again only to be met with Ethelene's mirroring move. In a final attempt to break free of her orbit, Kracken double-stepped to the right precisely as Ethelene made her move into his space. They whirled about counterclockwise before the poor fellow, a heartily fit quinquagenarian dizzied by Ethelene's persistent blitzing, tumbled backwards striking his head upon a yellow "Caution: Wet Floor" sign tucked in the rear of his dolly. He lingered for three days in a hospital bed before succumbing to the forceful blow.
I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes. So there it was, the dilemma of Sondheim and his client. Four deaths in the realm of the Loo, all occurring in a public arena, each embroiling Bridgework's wife. With all due respect given to Jerzy Kracken's necessary profession, three of the mishaps bore a high profile in the financial world. International monetary institutions, investment firms and insurance companies were lathered in sweat over the run of wretched events involving the Loo. Markets and sub-markets teetered and swayed upon their very foundations, anxiously bearing witness to Bridgework's every move as their stability was pinned to the man's next action and proclamation. And his judgment and whim.
As went Bridgework, so followed the Loo. Should the Loo go down the drain with its multiple fiduciary tentacles entangled in the defining value of fiat money, the domino-toppling effect would be felt in even the most modest thatched-roof hut in central Africa. Indeed, Bridgework had to be tamed and brought aboard the ship of sanity.
All done under the radar and inconspicuously so, old boy! I reminded myself.
At this point our altitude was such that, upon glancing out the window past the inoperable prop, I spotted a pair of Coast Guard vessels giving chase northward in pursuit of a sleek looking pearl-colored yacht. The zig-zagging trail of their wake etched into the iridescent blue waters of the Caribbean brought to mind another case of mine, Le Bourgeon de la Folie [or The Bud of Folly], which I had cut my teeth on so many years past. That memory shattered when the idled engines spit and grumbled, issuing a roar of discontent along with a continuous posset of thick, black smoke. The plane began a disorienting pattern of violent bucking which caused several of the little people to grab their wee tummies and wretch upon the cabin's carpet-worn aisle. I grimaced and gritted my teeth, determined to finish the final page of Sondheim's brief.
The ultimate complication to Bridgework's personal life arrived in two fast moving, kinetic, youthful forms: His daughter and son-in-law.
Angelina Formica de Corcoran Bridgework Shumway was in her mid-twenties and, though there was no photo available, I concocted a vision of her in my mind's eye: Flowing blond hair, tall and thin like her mother. Leggy, most likely. Blue eyes, fair complexion. Known as Angel, years after the family-forced nickname "Formula" fell by the wayside, she blossomed under the quintessential proper upbringing of the privileged elite. Nannies, private schooling, horses, stamp collecting, tutors, tennis, travel and skydiving lessons. Upon her graduation from Smith, where she majored in modern economic sociology, Angel entered the Loo and served in a nebulous role as general advisor to low-level corporate personnel. Her undefined function provided her with an open run of the company until Bridgework himself leveraged her into a forced marriage, aiming to see his daughter domesticated and with family as quickly as possible.
That would make for one less slice of pie to dole out. I silently complimented myself for so hastily identifying motivation.
One serving Bridgework was not required to dish out was to Angel's husband, Stockwell Silicon Shumway, heir to the Shumway silicon fortune. Predictably, as if I would not have guessed, Shumway was an alum of Yalemouth yet curiously never pursued furthering his education beyond his degree from that bloated institution. In fact, it appears he had not pursued much of anything in his young life, other than the contrived offer to marry Angel.
"Chip" to his family and "Silly" to his friends, Shumway doddered about SoCal for a few years prior to falling in what the metro L.A. papers labeled was "a cauldron of unspecified trouble". Sondheim's report indicated the tribulation involved one surfboard, a pillowcase of feathers and unauthorized access to the La Brea tar pits. After much fussing about in the juvenile court system -- Chip/Silly was twenty-three years of age at the time -- Shumway family connections arranged for the young man's employment at a federally funded think tank specializing in advanced cerebral connotations located in the remote foothills of eastern Virginia. It was from here Chip/Silly was plucked by Bridgework, hand selected to clip the wings of and marry the yet single Angel.
The post-matrimonial relationship between Bridgework and Shumway suffered rapidly due to -- according to an anonymous source -- Chip/Silly's inability to instantly impregnate Angel, coupled with his attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder affliction. Bridgework desired an heir and was frustrated by Chip/Silly's lack of concentration. Certainly the attached photo of Chip/Silly, a mug shot from the La Brea incident, did not manufacture a confidence in the lad's intellectual or social development. Beneath a webbing of haphazardly attached feathers, the curly-topped think-tanker was crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. This added credence to the theory Chip/Silly's behavior was a key factor in driving Bridgework to extremes, in attempting to both deal directly with Chip/Silly and avoid him at all costs.
Note to myself: Is ADHD contagious?
The realization I had my hands full landed upon me at the precise moment the rubber tires of Slipstream Green caught their squealing purchase on the Sangster International runway. There was no looking back now.
"Pershing Cantilever."
"What went wrong?" I asked over the growl of the props as the pilot fought to avoid overshooting the end of the runway.
"Pershing Cantilever's the name," the squat man next to me repeated, handing me a calling card while curling a smile within his blockish facial features. His title identified him as the director of the Carnaval Du Diminutif. "One never knows if we'll meet again or under what circumstances such an occurrence might take place."
"Indeed." I foraged for a card of my own and passed it along to his waiting hand. "Good luck with all your performances here in the tropics, Mr. Cantilever."
In due time the plane emptied its human cargo. I was amazed to behold the sight of the troupe exiting the aircraft in an intricate series of cartwheels, rolls, tumbles and seat-jumps perfectly executed. I hoisted my travel stricken body from the seat well and hunched my way to the now deserted aisle.
"And don't muck about in the vomit!" A sharp crack to my lower spine accompanied the surly flight attendant's final instruction. It was then, with great hope and much humility, that I looked forward to being processed in-country through the stifling heat of the sweltering concrete customs building.
Welcome back to Jamaica indeed, von dek Horn.